The Rule

by David Jackson

  Maybe it was all a dream, he told himself at his front door. It’s too weird to be real, so maybe I’ll go in and he won’t be there. There won’t be a dead body lying on my couch, because that would be crazy.

  But the body was there, all right. Scott stood looking at it for a good two minutes while he tried to convince himself otherwise, but his brain was having none of it. This was reality, and it wasn’t about to go away without some assistance.

  He went to Daniel’s bedroom. Eased the door open and sneaked across to the bed. Daniel was fast asleep, the earmuffs he was wearing cutting off all outside noise. He had worn earmuffs in bed ever since he was a child, when every sound had made him fearful of monsters.

  They were something to be especially grateful for tonight.

  Back in the hallway, Scott opened the cupboard. The boiler was in here, along with the gas and electric meters, the vacuum cleaner, tools, paint and decorating equipment and a whole host of other items. That was another problem with living in a tiny flat: there was hardly any room to store anything.

  He tried to keep his noise to a minimum while he searched the boxes and shelves. Eventually he found what he was looking for.

  A set of plastic decorating sheets.

  Some masking tape.

  And a saw.

  He stared for some time at the saw. It was a little rusty, but its teeth looked sharp. He touched his finger to them and felt their bite. They could still cut well.

  Yes, they could cut. They could sever.

  He gulped.

  He closed the cupboard, then grabbed some other things from the kitchen before going into the bathroom. There, he began to spread out the plastic sheets. He covered everything with them. He even taped them to the walls. He stood and surveyed his handiwork. There was one other thing he needed.

  The body.

  He returned to the living area. Stood over the man called Joseph Cobb and tried to tell himself that what he was looking at was no longer a man. He was meat. Just meat.

  I’m wasting time, he thought. Let’s get this over with.

  He reached for the sheet and pulled it away from Cobb’s face.

  And then he yelped and leapt backwards.

  Cobb was staring at him. His eyes had been closed – Scott was certain of it – but now they were wide open, accusatory.

  Scott felt suddenly terrified. He knew nothing about death and what could happen afterwards. Could the dead open their eyes? Was it possible that Cobb wasn’t properly dead when they brought him in here?

  He approached the body again, watching the eyes. They didn’t follow him.

  The sheet. When the sheet was pulled across his face, that’s when it must have happened. The cloth must have tugged his eyelids up. It was the only explanation.

  Scott could feel his heart pounding again. This was getting too stressful.

  Calm down, he told himself. It’ll be over soon. Just do what you have to.

  He placed his index finger and thumb on the eyelids. Tried to lower them.

  They wouldn’t move.

  ‘Fucking close, will you?’ he rasped.

  But it was as if Cobb’s eyelids had been sewn open. And the more Scott tried, the more his fingers slid across the cold eyeballs. The sensation made him want to retch.

  ‘Shit!’

  Just do it. Forget the eyes. He’s not looking at you. He can’t look at anything now. Shift him!

  Scott took the sheet away completely, then grabbed one of Cobb’s arms. It didn’t want to move away from his body. Scott pulled harder, dragging the body from the sofa and onto the floor. He had expected it to flop onto the carpet like an octopus out of water, but instead it remained rigid like a mannequin.

  They do that, he thought. I read about it somewhere. Rigorous mortem or something.

  Scott grabbed the man’s ankles and slid him across the floor, out into the hallway (Daniel and Gemma, do not come out now!), and then into the bathroom. He closed the door and locked it.

  He was breathing heavily, and had to take a minute to recover.

  Enough time-wasting. It’ll be daylight soon. Get on with it.

  He kneeled down next to the body. Picked up the saw. Took a deep breath. Touched the saw to the point where Cobb’s right arm joined his shoulder.

  There’ll be blood, he thought. Lots of it, probably. But it doesn’t shoot out as quickly when the heart’s not working, does it? And it’s probably gone all gooey by now. Maybe it’ll just ooze out.

  He looked at the bath and thought about manhandling Cobb into it. But the bath was in an alcove, and he didn’t think he could properly manipulate the saw in that cramped space. Chances were he’d end up sawing through the bath.

  He had brought plenty of cloths and a bucket. He would mop up as he went. It would be fine.

  But still . . .

  Scott undressed, then tied up his clothes in a bin-bag and put it on top of the cistern. He didn’t feel comfortable standing naked under the gaze of another man, even a dead one, but needs must.

  He positioned the saw again. Took another deep breath.

  Cobb’s jacket. It was made of thick leather, and wasn’t going to make this job any easier.

  Scott put down the saw, then spent the next few minutes struggling to divest Cobb of his jacket. No simple task when the man’s arms refused to bend.

  Panting, Scott picked up his saw and leant over the body again.

  The eyes. Cobb was staring at him. How can you dismember someone who insists on glaring at you while you do it?

  He picked up the jacket and wrapped it around Cobb’s face. And then another thought occurred to him.

  Get the worst of it over with first.

  Do that, and the rest will be a walk in the park.

  He’s not looking at you now. You can do this.

  Can I? Can I do it?

  Scott brought the saw to Cobb’s neck. He took long deep breaths – in through the nose, out through the mouth.

  And then he closed his eyes and began to saw.

  He sat on the lavatory, staring at his handiwork and finding it difficult to believe he had managed to get through it.

  He had puked during the process. He wasn’t sure when, exactly. He just remembered a sudden dive to the toilet. Everything was a blur, as though he had somehow disassociated himself from the abominable act.

  But it was done. All the pieces tied up in neat black plastic bundles. The room scoured and bleached, gleaming innocently.

  He had showered and dressed, and now he was exhausted.

  He checked his watch. Four in the morning. Plenty of time to finish what he’d started.

  He carried several of the bags out of the flat, then summoned the lift. When it arrived, he put most of the bags into the lift, leaving one to jam the doors open. Then he went back to the flat for the remaining bags. When he had everything in the lift, he took it down to the ground floor, praying that it wouldn’t be stopped on its descent.

  The doors opened to silence.

  He unloaded the bags, then lugged them out to the Toyota as quick as he could. Only when he had locked the vehicle and returned to the flat did he breathe a sigh of relief.

  He hadn’t been seen – he was sure of it.

  That meant he was almost home and dry.

  He sneaked into the bedroom, undressed and climbed into bed. He thought at first that he had done so without disturbing Gemma, but she spoke to him with a clarity that suggested she hadn’t slept a wink.

  ‘I thought you were never coming to bed,’ she said.

  ‘There was a lot to do,’ he answered.

  ‘But it’s finished now, right? We’re in the clear?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then promise me something.’

  ‘Anything. What is it?’

  ‘Never tell me what you did tonight. Can you do that?’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘It’s not that I don’t want to be there for you. It’s just that . . . I can’t cope with hearing the
details, Scott. I can’t.’

  He slipped his arm around her. ‘You don’t have to. I promise.’

  He pulled her close to him and tried to absorb her warmth. Tried to force out the chill that seemed to have settled in his core.

  9

  Ronan Cobb’s heart sank when he pulled up at the old sandstone farmhouse. It looked worse every time he turned up here. His mother’s dilapidated Land Rover was parked on what used to be a lawn and was now just churned-up mud. It stood in front of a line of other rusting vehicles that his now-deceased father had bought to renovate and never bothered with. Hedges were overgrown. Paint was peeling. Roof slates were missing. A length of guttering had broken away and was angled downwards, so that when it rained it would channel water onto the roof of the dog kennel, sadly no longer inhabited. This place had been picture-postcard beautiful once, and his mother had sparkled. Now, both were wretched shadows of their former selves. His father, a man who had demanded and received respect, would have been horrified to see how his legacy had been allowed to perish.

  Myra Cobb was where Ronan expected her to be: at the kitchen table, watching one of the shopping channels on television and swigging gin. It was early on a Sunday morning, and already she had downed much of a bottle. He wondered if she had even been to bed last night.

  She accompanied the gin with plenty of tonic and bowlfuls of dry-roasted peanuts. The combination had the most unfortunate effect on her digestive system, and the room stank.

  Ronan studied the labels on some of the numerous unopened boxes dotted around the kitchen. One contained a fondue set; others contained a brass oil lamp, a pair of bookends shaped like horse’s heads, a year’s supply of bird food, a beer-making kit, a set of Disney character pastry cutters . . . His mother had a habit of ordering stuff when she was drunk and then not doing anything with it when it arrived. It was a complete waste of money, but Ronan guessed she wasn’t running short of that. She had paid outright for his flat and Joey’s, and he imagined that one day her two sons would come into a decent inheritance. Sooner rather than later if her appearance was anything to go by. Ronan had often been tempted to suggest that she spend some of it on a new house for herself, but what was the point? She was not yet fifty, but she was already knocking on death’s door, and any place she bought would simply be turned into another shit-heap.

  He gave her a peck on the cheek and made the mistake of breathing in her alcohol fumes. He liked a drink as much as the next man – the occasional bit of weed, too – but not at this hour of the day.

  ‘What’s for breakfast, Mam?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you mean, breakfast? Doesn’t she feed you, that tart of yours?’

  ‘Donna’s not a tart, Mam. She’s a good lass.’

  ‘Then tell her to get off her fat arse and rustle up some breakfast for you. I’m not having my lads starting the day without a decent meal inside them.’

  Ronan bit his tongue. The last time she had prepared a proper meal for either of her children was long before they had left home.

  ‘I’ll make us a cuppa, shall I?’

  ‘You have one, if you want,’ she said, raising a tumbler covered in greasy fingerprints. ‘I’ve got this.’

  Ronan glanced at the kettle and saw a white stain running all the way down its side. He decided not to bother with tea.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘What’s got you dragging me out here so early on a Sunday?’

  ‘It’s not that early. Besides, I shouldn’t have to drag you. If you came here more often . . .’

  Here we go, Ronan thought.

  ‘. . . instead of spending all your time with that tart of yours—’

  ‘I’ve told you, Mam. Don’t call her a tart.’

  ‘I’ll call her what I bloody well like. Anyway . . . what was the question?’

  ‘I was asking about the fire.’

  ‘What fire?’

  ‘Exactly. What’s the big emergency?’

  She went silent for a few seconds while her brain caught up. ‘I had a call this morning.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Was the vicar missing you at Sunday service?’

  ‘Don’t get funny with me, lad. You’re never too old for a smack. For your information, the call was from Mental Micky.’

  Ronan’s face dropped. A call from Mental himself, rather than one of his subordinates, was never something to gladden the heart.

  ‘What did he want?’

  ‘Ah, now that’s wiped the smile off your face, hasn’t it?’

  ‘Mam, what did he want?’

  ‘He wants your brother. Says that Joey didn’t turn up for an important meeting last night, and that he’s got some things that don’t belong to him. Things that Mental wants back.’

  Ronan could guess the nature of those things. What he couldn’t guess at was why on earth Joey would do anything that might upset Mental.

  ‘Well, have you tried phoning Joey?’

  Myra slammed down her tumbler, slopping some of her precious gin over the sides. ‘Do I look like I’m bloody thick? Of course I’ve tried phoning him. I’ve called him a dozen times today. He’s not answering.’

  ‘Do you think something’s happened to him?’

  ‘Something will happen to him when I get hold of him, I can tell you that much. I’m not having him put me in Mental’s bad books. I’ve got enough on my plate without that bloody lunatic giving me grief.’

  Ronan took out his own phone and speed-dialled his brother. It went straight to voicemail.

  ‘His phone must be off.’

  ‘Joey’s phone is never off. He always answers my calls.’

  This was true. Life wouldn’t be living for Ronan or Joey if either of them avoided their mother for too long. Besides, there was the little matter of their inheritance.

  ‘All right, Mam. What do you want me to do about it?’

  ‘Find him.’

  ‘How am I supposed to—’

  ‘I don’t care! Go to his flat. Ask around. If he’s left the country with Mental’s property, it’ll be your hide that gets tanned.’

  ‘What do you mean, my hide? What’s it got to do with me?’

  ‘Tweedledum or Tweedledee. Makes no difference to Mental.’

  Ronan recoiled at the insult. There was no need for that comparison.

  Even though he and Joey were identical twins.

  10

  Scott was awakened by a knock on the bedroom door. He glanced at the alarm clock, saw that it had gone ten o’clock.

  Shit.

  ‘Come in,’ he called. Next to him, Gemma grunted and her eyes flickered open.

  Daniel came into the room. He seemed uncertain, as if expecting something to jump out of the wardrobe.

  ‘Nobody’s getting up,’ he said. ‘Is something the matter?’

  ‘No,’ Scott answered. ‘Nothing’s wrong. Is everything okay with you?’

  Daniel nodded. ‘The man. In the other room.’

  Scott’s heart was suddenly at full speed. Was his night-time activity all a dream – had he not disposed of the body? Gemma turned to look at him, fear in her eyes.

  ‘What about him?’ Scott asked.

  ‘He’s gone.’

  Phew.

  ‘Uhm, yes. He went home after you’d gone to bed.’

  ‘Is he all right now?’

  ‘Yes, he’s fine. Like I said, he was just knocked out for a while.’

  ‘Will he tell on me? Will he tell the police?’

  ‘No. I don’t think he’ll be doing that.’

  Daniel nodded again, although he didn’t seem entirely satisfied.

  ‘Can we have breakfast now? I’m starving.’

  ‘Yes,’ Gemma said. ‘Of course. We’re getting up now. Go and put the kettle on.’

  Daniel left the room and closed the door. Gemma and Scott looked at each other.

  ‘You weren’t lying to me, were you?’ Gemma asked. ‘We can stop worrying?’

  ‘I wasn’t lying. Go and see for yourself. Make some
breakfast. I need to go out.’

  ‘Out? Out where?’

  ‘Just out. Some things I need to tidy up.’

  ‘Scott, you said it was over. You told me—’

  ‘It is! It’s over. I’m just tying up some loose ends, that’s all.’

  ‘What kind of loose ends?’

  Scott chopped the air in front of him. ‘Gem! Stop, okay? It’s all in hand. Trust me.’

  There was a heavy silence, and then Gemma swung her legs out of bed.

  ‘I need the bathroom,’ she said.

  ‘Oookaay.’

  ‘What I mean is . . . is it safe to go in there?’

  Scott realised she must have heard some of what went on in that room last night. The walls were hardly soundproof. It made him wonder if Daniel had heard any of it too, even through his earmuffs.

  ‘It’s perfectly safe. I’m sure Daniel’s already been in there.’

  Gemma stood up. Put on a dressing gown and slippers. Shuffled off to the bathroom. Scott remained seated on the bed for a while. She had sneaked doubt into his mind: doubt that he had been thorough enough, and that any second now he would hear her scream at the sight of a blood stain or a gobbet of flesh.

  He relaxed a little when he heard the shower come on.

  He dressed swiftly and went into the living area. Daniel was seated at the dining table, his eyes turned towards the sofa. Scott looked too, and was reassured that there was nothing to see. He had even disposed of the sheet and plumped up the cushions. But still Daniel stared.

  A line from a movie flashed through Scott’s mind: I see dead people.

  ‘So,’ he said, too loudly, ‘where’s that cup of tea?’

  Daniel dragged his gaze towards the kettle. ‘Oh. I forgot.’

  Scott smiled. ‘Doesn’t matter.’ When he saw Daniel returning his attention to the sofa, he went and sat on it, hoping to crush whatever image Daniel might be seeing. He bent to retrieve a pair of trainers from alongside the sofa and began to pull them on.

  ‘Are you going out?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Just for a few minutes.’

  ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘Er, I left something at the garage. I need to go back for it.’