The Rule

by David Jackson

  He drank water from the tap, then washed a couple of handfuls over his face.

  He needed Gavin to go home now. Only two hours left until some unknown third party collected the money from Barrington’s flat. That couldn’t be allowed to happen. To be on the safe side, Scott intended to turn up at six. He didn’t want to take the risk of someone else knocking on the door while he was there. One drug dealer at a time was plenty, thank you.

  He had preparations to make. But to carry them out, he needed Gavin to go home. Gavin was usually anxious to make a quick getaway on Friday afternoons, but there was no sign of him packing up yet.

  Please don’t let this be an exception, Scott thought. Not today of all days.

  He left the washroom. Gavin was typing something on the computer.

  ‘Not off to the pub tonight, Gav?’

  ‘Yeah, in a minute. I just need to run off an invoice for the VW job, but I can’t get the damn printer to connect.’

  ‘I’ll sort it out if you like. You get going. I’ll lock up.’

  Gavin raised his head and smiled. ‘Don’t go putting an extra couple of hours on your timesheet. I know you owe me, but this is five minutes’ work we’re talking about.’

  Scott laughed, and hoped it sounded genuine. ‘I’m sure you’ll get it out of me one way or another.’

  Gavin left his chair and started collecting his things. Scott took his place and pretended to look busy. He’d encountered this problem before and knew it was a simple Wi-Fi issue that could be resolved in seconds, but he wasn’t going to let his boss know that.

  ‘Right,’ Gavin said. ‘See you Monday.’

  ‘See you, Gav.’

  Scott tapped a few random keys, stopping when Gavin exited the garage. He waited until he heard Gavin’s car rev up and zoom away.

  He checked the clock again. Quarter past five. Time was being swallowed up.

  Quickly restoring the printer connection, he printed the invoice and placed it on the desk. He left the computer running for now. He was going to need it.

  He went to the double doors at the front of the garage, swung them closed and bolted them. Then he locked up the door to the reception area.

  He went back to the office, past the computer. Halted in front of the steel filing cabinet – the one that Daniel had moved in here without even emptying it. Kneeling down on the floor, he slid open the bottom drawer. It was full of customer records, but he wasn’t interested in those. He reached underneath the drawer, found what he wanted. He stripped the duct tape away and brought out the plastic bag and its contents.

  He opened up the bag and took out the single item. Hefted its weight in his hand. Considered its power.

  The gun.

  Joey Cobb’s gun.

  He still wasn’t entirely sure why he’d held onto it. He’d thrown away all the money, the drugs, but he’d kept the one thing he thought he’d never need.

  His memory was that it was a just-in-case impulse. At the time, he’d been ninety-nine per cent certain that his crimes would never be discovered. But there was still that other one per cent. He’d known what Joey Cobb was, and therefore what dark forces his sudden disappearance might attract. The gun was insurance, nothing more. He’d hoped that, when everything died down, he could retrieve it and dispose of it.

  But all that had changed. This gun might be the only thing that could enable him to get out of this mess.

  There was just one problem. He didn’t know how to use it.

  He had never in his life handled a real gun, let alone fired one. He believed he could figure out what to do with a revolver, but this wasn’t one of those. It had buttons and catches on the side, and he didn’t know what any of them did. He had watched plenty of action movies and seen how characters often pulled back the top part of the gun before firing, but he didn’t know why they did that. Would he have to do the same with this one, or would that completely mess it up? Was the gun even loaded?

  Scott carried the weapon across to the computer, then opened up a private web page so that his search history wouldn’t be recorded. He typed in the text inscribed on both sides of the gun and started reading through the results. He discovered that the gun was manufactured by Smith and Wesson, and that the model was a 9mm M&P Shield, the M&P standing for ‘Military and Police’.

  Delving deeper, he watched various YouTube videos and read the user manual carefully. He found out that the gun was a semi-automatic, meaning that each pull of the trigger would fire a bullet, eject the used cartridge, and load the next round into the chamber. It also had a double-action trigger, meaning that the hammer did not have to be cocked initially to enable firing.

  With the manual open on the screen in front of him, he investigated the buttons on the pistol. He worked out how to use the safety catch and operate the magazine release. Removing the magazine revealed to him that it held eight rounds. Operating the slide mechanism like they did in the movies ejected another.

  He put it all back together again. Nine rounds in total. Such lethal, destructive force in his hand.

  He was almost ready.

  He took a key down from the board on the wall and left the office. From a recycling bin in the garage he took out a handful of outdated vehicle manuals, then lined them up face-out on a shelf, like a column of soldiers. He went over to a souped-up Audi hatchback fitted with an after-market sports exhaust that kept backfiring. He climbed in, started it up, and lowered the driver’s window.

  He cycled his foot on the accelerator, heard the explosions it generated.

  He took the gun from his lap, aimed it at the books on the shelf, squeezed the trigger slowly, just like the videos had taught him.

  The kick took him by surprise. The roar of the weapon was intense. He watched a book fly into the air, scattering fragments of paper. He sat there for a minute, just staring at the devastation.

  When he turned off the car engine, he found himself panting with exhilaration. He understood now why gun owners could become so intoxicated with their prized possessions.

  He got out of the car and went to the books. When he finally located the slug, he was amazed at how deep it had burrowed. He dug it out and slipped it into his pocket. Then he found the spent cartridge on the floor and pocketed that too. The books went back into the bin, buried much deeper than before.

  Scott stared again at the gun in his hand. He knew what to expect of it now, what it was capable of. Death in an instant.

  Yes, an instant. Not even a second of pain.

  He sat down in the driver’s seat of the Audi again, sideways on, his feet on the garage floor. His eyes were still on the gun. He raised it, pressed the muzzle into the hollow beneath his chin.

  A little bit of pressure on the trigger, he thought. That’s all it will take, and all my troubles will be over. No more sleepless nights. No more worrying about killing or being killed. I’ll be out of it forever.

  So do it, then. Go on. Stop thinking about it and do it.

  But then other voices intruded. Gemma and Daniel.

  What about us? they asked. Why would you run away and leave us to deal with your mess?

  He lowered the gun again.

  Someone else would have to die.

  46

  Familiarising himself with the gun had taken far too long. By the time Scott had driven home through the rush-hour traffic, it was quarter past six. He was already fifteen minutes behind schedule.

  There was no sign of Biggo and his mates, but he had to share the lift with a woman who looked to be about a hundred. He had to keep the doors open for her while she wheeled in her tartan shopping basket at the pace of a snail on tranquilisers.

  ‘Which floor?’ he asked when she had finally conveyed her bones across the threshold. He was aware how terse it sounded, but he had no time for pleasantries.

  ‘One, please, dearie.’

  One fucking floor.

  He jabbed the buttons for the first and the eighth floors.

  ‘I got stuck in t
his lift last week,’ she said as the lift rose.

  Scott grimaced. Please don’t break down again, he prayed. Not now, of all times.

  He willed the doors to open. When they finally consented, he had to wait another age for the woman to get herself out of the lift again. As she shuffled through the doorway, he wanted to launch a foot into her back to speed things up. Finally the doors closed behind her.

  Focus now, he told himself. You’ll only get one shot at this. No pun intended.

  Shit, this isn’t funny. It’s insane. Who do I think I am? Al Capone? I have a fucking gun in my backpack. How did I let it get to this?

  He began to pace in the lift, felt it rock with his movement.

  Go ahead, he thought. Drop like a stone. Smash me to bits in the basement. It would be so much easier. Take the decision out of my hands. I don’t know if I can do this.

  You can do it. You have to do it. Think about Daniel. Think about Gemma. You can’t let them down.

  And then the lift slowed and jerked to a halt. The doors opened, and he was looking at that number again.

  801.

  Scott stepped out of the lift and stood in front of flat 801, just staring at the digits. Behind him, the lift closed itself up and abandoned him, as though it wanted nothing more to do with this.

  He moved closer to the door. A part of him hoped there was nobody home, but he could hear the sound of a video game from inside.

  Last chance to consider alternatives. Final opportunity to call it a day. But you’ll need another plan if you do.

  Time’s up.

  MOVE!

  He rang the doorbell.

  The computerised noises from within ceased. The inside of Scott’s mouth turned to dry, dusty cement. His heart felt as though it was in spasm.

  The door opened, but it was on a chain. Scott could just about see a man on the other side. Looked like . . . looked like he was wearing a parka with the hood up.

  ‘Whassup?’ Barrington asked.

  Scott cleared his throat. ‘Sorry to bother you, mate. I’m a plumber, working in the flat directly below yours. They’ve got a leak in their bathroom ceiling. I’ve checked it out, and it looks like it’s coming from your place.’

  To add weight to his story, Scott shifted his backpack. It jangled with the spanners and wrenches he’d tossed in there.

  ‘My place?’ Barrington said. ‘I haven’t seen no leak. How’s it coming from here?’

  ‘You got a bath or a shower?’

  ‘A bath. Shower over it.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s common in these flats. The sealant along the edge of the bath shrinks and pulls away after a while. Only takes the tiniest gap for the shower water to run down the side of the bath and into the flat below. You wouldn’t even notice it, but it’s a big problem for the people downstairs.’

  Open the door. Just open the door and let me in.

  ‘I get it, man, but now’s not a good time, you understand? I’m expecting company.’

  Yeah, company. So you can offload your drugs money.

  ‘All I need to do is replace the line of sealant. It’s a two-minute job.’

  ‘Sorry and all that, man, but it’s not, like, convenient, you know what I’m saying?’

  Scott shrugged, the tools clinking again. ‘All right, but I’ll have to go back down and tell your neighbour, and I can’t get back out here again for a couple of days.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘Between you and me, he’s a pain in the arse. You’re going to have a fight on your hands, so good luck with it.’

  Barrington considered it. ‘Two minutes?’

  ‘Max.’

  Let me in, let me in.

  ‘Okay. Don’t want to upset the neighbours, right?’

  Barrington took off the chain, opened the door wide. Scott stepped inside.

  The first thing that struck him was that the layout of this corner flat was very different from his own. Instead of a hallway, he had walked straight into the living area. Two doors to his left led, presumably, to a bathroom and a bedroom, whereas his own flat also had a second bedroom.

  ‘Your heating okay?’ Scott asked.

  ‘Yeah. Why d’you ask?’

  ‘The coat. Plus, it feels pretty chilly in here. You want me to take a look at your boiler some time?’

  He wondered if he was going too far with the act, but Barrington didn’t seem concerned. As if only just made aware of how he appeared, Barrington pulled back his hood. Scott was relieved to see that he didn’t look as menacing as he’d anticipated. In fact, there were marks on his face that suggested he’d taken something of a beating recently.

  ‘Heating costs money,’ Barrington said. ‘Speaking of which, you’re not gonna charge me for this, right? I mean, I’m not the one asking you to do this.’

  ‘No, don’t worry. No charge.’

  He started moving to his left.

  And then he saw it.

  The white Adidas bag. Just sitting there on the glass coffee table. Pregnant with cash.

  Keep going. Don’t stop, don’t react.

  ‘Hold up, bro.’

  Scott halted, his heart leaping into his mouth.

  ‘That’s my bedroom,’ Barrington said. ‘You want the other door.’

  ‘Right,’ Scott said. He adjusted his path, thinking to himself, Don’t look at the bag, don’t look at the bag.

  He entered the bathroom. It looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in months. Thick tide marks on the sink and bath. White splashes of what looked like toothpaste on the tiles. A mirror so clouded with dust and grime it was barely usable.

  ‘Excuse the mess,’ Barrington said, closing the toilet lid and picking up a pair of boxer shorts from the floor, as if that fixed the problem.

  ‘I’ve seen worse.’ Scott went across to the bath and flicked at the sealant along one edge. It came away easily, as he’d expected it would. He’d had the same problem in his own flat.

  ‘See?’ he said. ‘This is the problem. It’s not blocking the water. Every time you put the shower on, some of the water escapes down here.’

  ‘So, like, what do you need to do?’

  ‘I take this out, put in some new stuff, that’s it.’

  Barrington moved closer. ‘Go for it.’

  Scott nodded, but he was thinking, Move back so I can get my gun out.

  He smiled. ‘I work better with a cup of tea.’

  Barrington narrowed his eyes. ‘Two minutes, you said.’

  Scott shrugged. No tea.

  He slipped his backpack from his shoulder, opened it up, felt around inside. Barrington wasn’t moving, wasn’t giving him any space. Scott found what he wanted. His fingers curled around the handle. He pressed his index finger lightly on the trigger.

  Barrington didn’t budge.

  Scott was left with no choice.

  He yanked out the gun.

  47

  ‘Wait,’ Barrington said. ‘That’s the same colour, right?’

  Scott held up the sealant gun so that Barrington could get a better look. ‘Yep. Bright white. With an anti-fungal agent, too.’

  Barrington nodded in approval, and Scott reached across the bath to begin pulling away the old sealant. The sudden movement sent what felt like a red-hot poker through his ribcage.

  ‘You okay?’ Barrington asked.

  ‘Yeah. Fell off a ladder last week. Bruised my ribs.’

  ‘Right. Only, I saw the way you were walking in here, too. I never knew plumbing could be so, like, dangerous.’

  ‘You’d be surprised. We go into lofts, under floors. It’s not all as simple as this.’

  ‘Guess not.’

  Scott turned away again and continued stripping out the sealant, but thoughts were burning in his head: What if Barrington knows the scum downstairs? They’re all into drugs, right, so what if they talk to each other? What if the lads told him about a guy from this building who they beat up and robbed recently?

  No. Don’t think that way.

  He
picked up the sealant gun. ‘Out with the old, in with the new,’ he said cheerily, but got no response from Barrington. The proper way to do this was to clean the area thoroughly, mask off the edges with tape, and put water in the bath to weigh it down, but he was relying on Barrington having little or no knowledge of DIY.

  He began squirting the gunk along the edge of the bath. The combination of pain and Barrington’s intense scrutiny made it probably the worst job he’d ever done. The line of sealant was wiggly and uneven, bulging in some places and stringy in others, but it suddenly occurred to him that he might be able to use it to his advantage.

  ‘I just need to neaten this up. Have you got a damp cloth I could use?’

  He said it as casually as he could, wondering how such an innocent request could be refused.

  Just turn your back and start walking. A little bit of space and time – that’s all I need.

  But Barrington simply reached to a shelf next to him, grabbed a blue cloth and tossed it into the bath.

  Scott picked up the cloth. ‘It needs to be damp.’

  Barrington pointed at the bath taps. ‘You’re a plumber, right? You know what they do?’

  Scott turned on a tap and wet the cloth. He started to run a plastic scraper along the line of silicone, wiping the excess away on the cloth. When he was done, it didn’t look half bad.

  ‘That it?’ Barrington asked.

  ‘All there is to it,’ Scott answered as he dropped his tools back in his bag. ‘Told you I wouldn’t be long. If you can, give it a few hours to cure before you get water on it again.’

  Barrington nodded, but stayed within touching distance.

  Jesus. Is he ever going to allow me room to breathe?

  He stood up, waited for Barrington to lead the way out.

  ‘Go ahead,’ Barrington said.

  Scott wanted to sigh in frustration. He started walking, his unfastened backpack still in his hands. In the living area he saw the Adidas bag again – a stark reminder of why he came here.

  It’s now or never.

  He stopped, turned. Started to open up his backpack again.

  ‘You mind if I leave you my card?’ he asked. ‘You know, in case you need any plumbing work done in the future?’