The Rule

by David Jackson

  He started to reach into the bag. Barrington was only a couple of feet away, but it was the best he was going to get.

  ‘Wait,’ Barrington said.

  Scott froze, his hand partway into the bag.

  ‘The guy below me,’ Barrington continued. ‘You said the leak was in his ceiling.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘His bathroom ceiling.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So how come you didn’t know which door to go through to get to my bathroom?’

  Scott’s brain stalled, exhausted by the effort of the charade. He knew he should have an answer ready on his lips, but it wasn’t there. Panic mounting, his eyes darted in search of an answer . . .

  And alighted on the Adidas sports bag.

  He slid his gaze away again as quickly as he could, praying that Barrington hadn’t noticed.

  ‘Well, see . . . the flat downstairs . . . I got confused with—’

  But it was clear that Barrington had caught wind of something awry. His eyes narrowed.

  Do it now!

  His fingers dived into the backpack. Barrington dived at him. Scott produced the semi-automatic just as Barrington cannoned into his solar plexus. He back-pedalled, slammed into a glass-fronted cabinet. One of its doors smashed, showering him with a cloud of shards. The pain in his ribs intensified a thousandfold. He shoved back, tried to bring his gun up, but Barrington was gripping his arm with one hand while throwing wild punches at him with the other. Desperate to bring an end to his battering, Scott wrapped his free arm around his opponent, and they waltzed around the room in a deadly embrace, toppling chairs and sending the contents of shelves cascading to the floor. Scott brought his knee up into Barrington’s groin, then fired a kick into the man’s midriff to tear him away, but Barrington came straight back at him with a head-butt that smacked into his cheek and sent flashes of light across his vision. Scott let out a roar and wrenched himself out of the clinch, but his gun snagged on Barrington’s parka and dropped to the floor. Before he could reach down for it, Barrington sailed into him again, and then they were both rolling on the carpet, both aware that the weapon would bestow on its possessor instant superiority.

  Barrington managed to get on top for a brief moment. He threw two punches into Scott’s face, then launched himself towards the gun. Scott grabbed Barrington’s ankles and dragged him back, an instant before his opponent’s fingers touched the butt of the weapon. He clambered over Barrington’s spine, digging in heavily with his knees, then threw himself forwards. As his outstretched hand slapped against cold metal, he felt a sudden sharp pain in his leg. He twisted his body, saw that Barrington had sunk his teeth into his calf. Using the gun as a club, he swung it into Barrington’s head. Barrington released his grip and tried to spin away, but Scott was already on him, snarling and yelling and swearing, and feeling how good it was, after all the fights he had lost since he was a kid, after the beatings and humiliation he had taken recently, how exhilarating it was to emerge victorious. Bringing the gun to the temple of his snivelling, shrunken opposition, he felt all his pent-up anger and frustration surging down his arm and into his trigger finger, and he emitted a cathartic roar that drowned out all else.

  Afterwards, sitting in his car outside the building, he wanted to cry.

  He hadn’t dared to believe he could get this far. Never thought he had the strength, the guts, to accomplish what he had. Truth be told, he’d been convinced he’d be dead by now.

  He turned to look at what sat in the passenger seat. It was all the proof he needed that he had finally stopped being a loser.

  The white Adidas bag. He had taken a peek inside. Had marvelled at the jumble of fat cash bundles. He had no idea how much was in there; it was beyond his imagining.

  He was nearly home and dry. One more errand to make.

  So hold back those tears, he thought. Just for a short while.

  48

  ‘What time is it?’ Ronan asked.

  The barman pointed emphatically at the clock behind him in a way that suggested he was always being asked this unnecessary question. ‘Five to seven.’

  ‘Really? Where does the time go, eh? Is there a match on at seven?’

  ‘Not tonight, far as I know.’

  Ronan didn’t care if there was a match on or not. His only objective was fixing in the memory of the bartender that he was here in the pub at this time.

  Ronan handed his debit card across. ‘Can you a print off a receipt, please?’

  Card rather than cash. A time-stamped receipt. Further evidence that he was many miles away from Barrington Daley. Whatever had taken place at the flats, it had probably resulted in a dead body, and since there would be obvious connections between that corpse and the killing of Joey Cobb, Ronan wanted to be able to demonstrate that it had nothing to do with him, Your Honour.

  He was conveniently ignoring the fact that establishing this alibi wasn’t his own idea. It was his mother’s, who had surprised him yet again that her knack for criminality was still as sharp as a razor blade.

  As he walked back to her with the drinks – a gin and tonic for her and an orange juice for himself as the designated driver – he realised that this was the first time in months that he’d seen her beyond the boundaries of her farmhouse. Come to think of it, it was that long since he’d seen her out of her kitchen.

  Not that she’d made much of an effort to mark the occasion. She’d thrown on a clean-looking cardigan, but that was about it. Hadn’t even brushed her teeth.

  He realised that she had become the butt of the joke among three girls at a nearby table. They kept glancing her way and giggling. She didn’t seem to have noticed; or, if she had, she didn’t care. It both saddened and angered Ronan, and at any other time he would have said something, but right now he didn’t want to embarrass his mother, and he didn’t want to kick up a fuss that might result in their being thrown out. At least the girls would remember her presence here if asked.

  In the farmhouse earlier, he had pondered on her degeneration since his father had died. Before that, she’d been strong, assertive. Sober, too. If she had ever taken a drink back then, it was either on special occasions or else done out of his sight. He certainly couldn’t recall her being so inebriated that she pissed herself where she sat.

  And her looks – where had they gone?

  Back at the house, his eyes had strayed to the old photographs on the dresser behind his mother. She had never been glamorous, but there had been a charming and fresh-faced quirkiness to her appearance. A hint of dizziness, impulsiveness and hunger for fun.

  And now look at her, he thought as he set the drinks down and watched her immediately pick hers up and begin guzzling. Compare and contrast.

  ‘What time is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Getting on for seven.’

  She nodded. ‘Pick-up’s about now, and we’ve heard nothing. Bastard’s dead. Good riddance.’

  And what difference has it made? Ronan thought. Scott Timpson is dead, but Joey’s still dead too. How has this helped anyone?

  Ronan’s mobile chirruped. He glanced at the screen.

  Well, well, well.

  He tried not to smile as he answered the call.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me. Scott Timpson. I did what you asked.’

  It took Ronan a while to find words. His mother was staring at him.

  ‘You . . . you did it? You got what you went for?’

  ‘Yes. I’m looking at it now.’

  ‘And what about our mutual friend?’

  ‘He’s no longer a problem.’

  Shit, Ronan thought. He’s talking like someone out of a fucking spy movie. Suddenly he’s a professional.

  ‘And you’re in one piece?’

  ‘I’ll survive. I just need to get this off my hands.’

  ‘So let’s meet. Usual place?’

  ‘I’m leaving now.’

  The line went dead. Ronan looked at his screen again, his eyeb
rows still raised in surprise. Scott Timpson was all business now. No time for idle chit-chat.

  ‘What?’ his mother asked.

  ‘He did it. He got the money.’

  ‘What? He’s having you on.’

  ‘Mam, this isn’t something he’d joke about. I think we underestimated him.’

  She didn’t look convinced, but then her phone pinged. She opened its cover and squinted at its screen.

  ‘Well, fuck me,’ she said.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Pick-up never happened. Barrington Daley isn’t coming to his door or answering his phone.’ She looked up again. ‘Seems like your boy was telling the truth.’

  Scott allowed his smile to surface. ‘You get your money plus interest. Timpson and his family get their lives back. We’re in the clear. Happy days.’

  He raised his glass, but his mother didn’t join in the celebration.

  ‘What’s happening about the money?’ she asked.

  ‘He’s on his way to our meeting point. I’ll need to leave in a minute. Want me to take you home first or come back for you?’

  She licked her lips. ‘You do know what this means, don’t you?’

  He didn’t like the sound of this. ‘What? What does it mean?’

  ‘Timpson is the only thing connecting us to the money and to whatever’s happened to Barrington.’

  ‘Mam . . .’

  ‘I don’t have to spell it out for you, do I?’

  ‘Mam . . .’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder how you get through life, Ronan. You’re not very quick off the mark, are you?’

  But he knew exactly what she was getting at, and it poked at something deep in his chest.

  ‘He’s done everything we asked him to do, Mam. There aren’t many people who could take on the likes of Barrington Daley and come out a winner.’

  ‘You sound like you want to give him a medal.’

  ‘Not a medal, no. But I made a deal with him.’

  ‘Well, now you can unmake it.’

  ‘He’s got a family.’

  His mother slapped her bicep, where her black armband was hiding beneath her cardigan. ‘I had a fucking family until he came along.’

  You’ve still got a family, Ronan thought. Or don’t I count?

  He lapsed into a morose silence. Words failed him.

  ‘You know there’s no alternative,’ she said. ‘If the police get to Timpson, they get to us. With him out of the picture, we’re safe.’

  Ronan suspected that she’d had this in her head all along. It was all part of her Plan B. Grand strategist that she was, she left nothing to chance.

  ‘I don’t like this, Mam.’

  She leaned forward and patted his arm. ‘Sometimes we all have to do things we don’t like.’

  But not you, he thought. You like this. You love it. And you’re not the one who has to do the dirty work.

  ‘So you’ll do what’s right,’ she said. ‘Won’t you, lad?’

  Ronan took a final swig of his orange juice. Not exactly the Dutch courage an executioner needed.

  49

  This was turning into a bit of a routine.

  Standing here at the top of the hill, watching the other man trudge towards him. Each time, Scott Timpson looked more weary than before. More broken.

  The sky was clear now, but it had rained solidly for hours earlier, and the field was sodden and slippery. Ronan could see that Scott kept stopping to free his feet from the clinging mud. The effort seemed to drain him a little more each time.

  Ronan could also see that Scott was carrying a weighty sports bag.

  How the hell did he manage that? Ronan wondered.

  But, as he’d told his mother, Scott had a family. It was amazing what strength you could find when you needed to protect the ones you love.

  He wondered if his own mother would kill to save him. She was certainly capable of killing, but he thought of her as more of a reaction killer – murder committed in revenge. Would she kill to save him if it meant putting herself at risk? Say, for example, she had the choice of taking a million pounds and flying off to Mexico, or killing a man to save the life of her son, knowing that she’d go to prison for it.

  He suspected her choice would involve a sombrero and a hammock.

  He looked down again at the approaching figure. The poor guy was probably feeling pretty relieved that he’d almost reached the end of his ordeal. Of course, he had no idea what that ending would involve.

  Ronan reached around his waist and touched his fingers to the Colt tucked under his belt. It saddened him that he would have to put it to use. It also irritated him that he hadn’t seen this coming. Once again, his mother had been one step ahead of him.

  Still, he thought, we are where we are.

  He stepped out from beneath the canopy of the old tree, switched on his torch. Ahead, Scott halted.

  ‘Come a bit closer,’ Ronan commanded.

  He watched the man continue his struggle up the hill.

  ‘That’s enough. So, you got the money.’

  Scott looked at the bag in his hand, then back again. ‘I got it.’

  ‘I’m proud of you. To be honest, I didn’t think you could do it.’

  ‘Neither did I.’

  ‘How’d you manage to pull it off ?’

  ‘A bit of desperation, mixed with some ingenuity.’

  Ronan smiled. ‘A side order of violence?’

  ‘Some of that, too.’

  ‘How does it feel? Barrington Daley was a tough opponent for a first match.’

  Scott shrugged. ‘It’s always nice when the underdog wins.’

  ‘You cover your tracks?’ Ronan asked. The answer didn’t matter. What mattered was that Scott believed he’d be going home.

  ‘I think so. I’ll take my chances.’

  Ronan nodded. ‘Toss the bag over.’

  Scott heaved the sports bag into the air. It thudded onto the grass just a couple of feet away from Ronan. It was a good throw, but Ronan saw how the effort sent Scott into a spasm of pain. Scott clutched at his sides, then thrust his hands into his coat pockets and shivered against the cold.

  This will be like putting down a sick dog, Ronan thought. A mercy killing.

  ‘You looked inside?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Take any out for yourself?’

  ‘No. It’s all there.’

  ‘I believe you. How much?’

  ‘I didn’t count. A lot. It’s all yours. I’m not interested in the money.’

  It wasn’t often that Ronan heard people say such things. In his world, wealth and power were everything.

  He stepped forward and unzipped the bag. Shone his torch inside. Whistled.

  ‘You’re right. That’s a lot of money.’

  ‘So my debt’s paid, right?’

  Ronan pulled the gun from his waistband. He heard Scott’s sharp intake of breath.

  ‘Almost.’

  ‘Almost? What do you mean, almost? We had a deal.’

  ‘And I’m sticking to the deal. I’m a man of my word, Scott.’

  ‘So why the gun?’

  ‘The deal was that if you got the money, I wouldn’t hurt your family. I didn’t say anything about what would happen to you.’

  ‘That’s just playing with words. Why do you need to kill me? I did everything you asked.’

  ‘That’s your answer. Only you know the request came from me. Unless, of course, you told your wife what you’ve been up to.’

  ‘No! She knows nothing about this. Nothing. You promised you wouldn’t hurt her.’

  ‘And I’ll keep that promise. But as for you, Scott . . .’

  Ronan racked a round into the Colt’s chamber. He raised the gun.

  The explosion split the night. Ronan saw the spear of flame that jumped between them.

  And then he felt the pain. He wondered why something had just punched him in the abdomen, and then he realised that the gunshot wasn’t his, that the flash of lig
ht had torn out of Scott’s coat pocket and then jumped across to rip through his guts, and then the pain suddenly increased an order of magnitude and he knew he had to do something to rescue the situation, but even as he brought his own gun up again, he saw Scott advancing on him with new-found energy in his step, and then there was another explosion, another intensely bright spike that found his chest this time, smashing through his breastbone and carving a tunnel through his lung. He dropped to his knees, forgetting about his gun, thinking only about the rapidly increasing possibility of his death right now. He realised that Scott had closed the gap, was standing right over him, and he accepted that yet again he had not planned for all eventualities, and that he must be such a disappointment to his mother.

  ‘We had a deal,’ Scott said to him.

  Such a disappointment.

  He didn’t hear the third gunshot – the one that hollowed out his left eye and expelled much of his brain through the back of his skull.

  Scott watched as Ronan’s head kicked back, and for a second it was a toss-up as to whether the momentum would fold him backwards or the incline of the hill would topple him forwards. Gravity won out, and the body pitched towards Scott and planted its face wetly in the mud. Scott stood over it, his rapid breathing creating a mist that added a surreal aura to this view of a man with a glistening black hole in the back of his head.

  He knew he shouldn’t have left it so late. He had taken too much of a risk in waiting until Ronan was pointing a gun at him. He should have begun blasting away as soon as he was in range.

  But he had wanted to allow Ronan the opportunity to do the right thing. Perhaps if he had just taken the money and told Scott that they were all square . . .

  But no. That wouldn’t have helped. Scott had already made his assessment. He had come here knowing that Ronan had to die. He couldn’t trust the man to leave him and his family alone.

  Waiting until he had no choice but to shoot just made it easier.

  I’ve gone from a man who hides dead bodies to one who creates them.

  He jumped at the sound of an engine roaring into life. From beneath the huge tree, a pair of dazzling white headlights lit him up. He narrowed his eyes, tried to understand what was happening.