Dear old daddy’s going to love this.
Somehow, a smile emerged, and then a small laugh fell out of his mouth as an image of Mr Tramp-the-road-sweeper replayed on the Technicolor screen inside his head. Henry pulled the car over with a jerk. He stopped and ejected the seat belt, and then howled with laughter.
And then it subsided, the laughter. The ache in his belly left him alone and the smell of urine in his lap killed the last of the giggling. He was approximately twenty minutes late in showing the good Mr and Mrs Walker around what could have been their new house.
“What am I doing?”
There would be plenty of witnesses to say that a green Jag was involved in pushing the tramp under the bus. Yes, yes, of course, the tramp had started it, they’d say, but the fat bastard in the green Jag pushed him under the bus; oh, yes, I saw it all officer, I did, honest.
Henry had dug himself into a hole so deep they didn’t make a rope long enough. The heat under his collar billowed again, the fire in his nose pulsed, and the thought of losing business filled him with an anger equalled only by the thought of his father’s threat. All he could think of was driving, was getting the hell out of here as fast as he could; that, and his father’s words: ‘Any smear you bring to yourself, Henry, rubs off on me, and if anything like this happens again, I’ll smear you across the fucking wall. Does that make sense?’
Henry put his right foot a little further towards the carpet.
Less than half a mile away, Henry’s fear of his father’s threat grew to the point where nothing else mattered. The tramp was dead and consequently Henry would be smeared ‘across the fucking wall’. He was way beyond fraught.
The sun was high and hot and it turned the road ahead into a bright orange glare. The AC still refused to work, no matter how hard he beat the damned switch. Terrified, Henry just wanted out.
— Three —
Sammy took the ball full in the nose and then fell over crying. When he was brave enough to remove his cupped hands from his face there was the tiniest smear of blood on his fingertips. His favourite cap, the New York Yankees cap that dad bought for him, lay in the dust by his feet.
“Sammy, are you okay?” Mrs Potter came running out of the porch, wiping her hands on a dishcloth.
Sam glared at Josh, who toed dirt nonchalantly. It wasn’t fair, and Sam burst into fresh wails of tears.
“Supposed to use your fuckin hands,” Josh whispered, “not your face!”
Josh’s mother bent to see. “Hey, come on, Sammy. You’ll be fine; let’s have a look, eh?”
“I’m wounded, Mrs Potter,” he said. “Look at the blood.” His eyes searched Mrs Potter’s for the sympathy he undoubtedly deserved, and was relieved when it came in the form of a hug. Sam showed Josh the blood as proof that he was in pain and it was Josh’s fault, and the very least he could do was stand next to his mother and protest his innocence!
He didn’t; he shrugged and picked up the ball. “Come on, Sam; it’s only a scratch. Get back in goal and try to use your hands next time.”
“Josh,” Mrs Potter said, “you could at least apologise.”
Josh’s face turned sour, and Sam held his breath. “Sorry, Sammy.”
“It’s Sam, okay. Not Sammy, and you know it is.”
“Mum called you Sammy,” he said.
“I…” Sam looked up at Mrs Potter’s kind face and was lost for words.
“What time’s your dad due, Sam?”
Sam had four days left of being eleven years old. Not far behind Josh, who was at least two inches shorter than he was. Sam had matured – even his mum said so, and so with maturity came a new handle. Out with Sammy – a kid’s name if ever there was one – and in with Sam.
He stood and wiped away the tears and realised that instead of Mrs Potter comforting him, it should have been his old man. ‘Have you told me I’m wonderful today?’ he would ask, and Sam would make a big deal of telling him he was, and…
And then it all went wrong. Dad ended up in hospital for some reason, something wrong with his leg – he had a scar that made Sam hiss with pride. Mum and Dad started to argue. On the wall was a press cutting that proclaimed Dad as a hero, but it didn’t stop them arguing, and eventually the roof caved in and it began raining shit. Dad moved out a week later.
“Is he very late?” she asked in a dreamy smooth voice, a voice he wished his mum had. His mum’s voice was ragged and shrill, and these days it was always on full volume.
He looked at his watch, another present from you know who, “Only an hour.” An hour ago he’d been excited, now it had worn thin, heading towards will-he-even-show territory; now there was no excitement, only a kind of wishing, with a smudge of wondering mixed in.
“Poor thing,” Mrs Potter smiled and she looked embarrassed for him. “You don’t think he’s forgotten, do you? I mean, he’s a busy—”
“He wouldn’t forget, wouldn’t my dad.”
“No, no.”
“He’s just busy, like you said. He’ll be here.” After all, he is wonderful.
— Four —
The parcel crinkled under his arm.
Wobbling only slightly now, he turned back to his own front door and knocked again. “Come on, Jilly, for Christ’s sake.”
The key turned and Jilly’s cold face peered around the door at him. “You need a new watch.”
“Sorry.” He noticed the new locks she’d had fitted, and that made him even sadder that she thought he wouldn’t respect their agreement, that she was afraid he would creep back in the dead of night and kill her and steal all her Richard Clayderman and Barry Manifold CDs.
“Why should you be sorry? If you need extra time to sober up, Eddie, why did you make it a morning appointment? Why not make it evening instead?” She had spiteful eyes. “He was so giddy an hour ago…”
“Can I come in?”
She stood aside and he entered. The door slammed, semi-darkness came between them, and she stared at Eddie and his parcel. “Well?” She sniffed the air. Eddie thought he might have over done the aftershave and the breath fresheners a bit.
On the hallway wall was the framed cutting from The Yorkshire Echo showing him as a hero receiving a commendation from the Chief Constable. And below it was the commendation itself. He turned away from the picture and the ultimate cause of him feeling like a stranger in his own house. “Where is he?” Patting the parcel, Eddie stepped into his old lounge and looked around, and then turned back to Jilly whose arms were folded beneath her bosom.
“He got fed up of waiting. He’s gone round to Josh’s.”
“Ah.”
“Why can’t you arrive on time just once, eh? He’d be thrilled. And I’d be amazed.”
“I know, I—”
“You’re three-quarters of an hour late, Eddie. And that’s a lot to a young kid.” She despised him.
Maybe Ros had been right. “I brought him this,” he held out the parcel.
She took it, put in the corner by the others. “I said he could open them today, rather than wait for your next visit. But he wanted to open yours first,” her eyebrows rose, “said the others could wait.”
“It’s a PlayStation,” he said. “I heard Josh had one, you know, and that Sammy—”
“You’ve let him down.”
“I know I have, and I’m sorry.” He fidgeted with his keys, and glanced at her only occasionally. He had let Sammy down.
“Save it for him.”
“I will. But I’m saying sorry to you too. You probably have things you could be getting on with and I’ve—”
“I’m fine with it. I had nothing planned but a lazy day in front of the TV.” Her eyes were cold; it was as if he were a stranger selling double-glazing at the door. It was as if the last fifteen years counted for nothing.
“Don’t have time for a cuppa, really, do we?”
“He’s waiting for you.”
“Yeah.” Eddie looked at the floor. “Do you think…” he waited for the rejecti
on first so he wouldn’t be embarrassed by asking. “Do you think we could have a cuppa sometime; just you an’ me?”
“I know you want to move back in, but it’s not the same, and it never could be.” Stepping aside, she encouraged him to leave. “It sounds like I’m rubbing salt in, but you’ve ruined things. You, all by yourself have ruined things, and I can’t even think of trying again until you’re dry. And even then,” she stalled and there was an uncomfortable silence as though they were complete strangers. “And even then,” she whispered, “well, let’s just see, huh?”
“I am trying,” he said. “I haven’t had a—”
She looked out of the window not listening any more. “You know if you get caught driving with alcohol—”
“I know.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, “I won’t say anything. But be careful how you drive when Sam’s in the car.”
No, she wouldn’t say anything, because if she did, he would lose his job and she would lose his money and she would lose the house.
God she had gorgeous eyes. And he missed her.
She turned away. “Better go now, before he gets really upset.”
“Yeah,” he said quickly. “On my way.”
* * *
Drink was the most ruthless mistress imaginable. She too had gorgeous eyes, always changing colour, depending on your poison, and always seductive. She was a hard bitch as well; once she had her claws in your back it was game over.
Even if he could ditch the booze, it didn’t follow that Jilly would take him back anyway. And even if she did, he’d be on permanent probation. How could he live like that; afraid to have a row in case she revoked his licence? Life was shite.
Driving across the estate to Josh’s, he had the windows down, letting the breeze rip away at the mess in his head. And through the window came a sound so familiar to him that he was inclined to ignore it: that of a siren.
— Five —
Sam crouched, elbows hovering above his knees like a tennis player about to receive a serve. Josh placed the ball, wiped sweat from his forehead and then stepped back three paces. He ran and kicked the ball. Sam dived to his right, got a finger on the leather and knocked it between two conifers and clear over the wall more than twenty feet away. Sam hit the dust smiling because he got to the damned thing, he made contact – God he was good!
“Shit!” Josh shouted.
“Josh!” shouted Mrs Potter.
“Sorry, Mum.” He strode over to Sam. “You knocked it over the wall, dummy.”
Sam smiled, patting the dust from his tracksuit bottoms. “I saved it, Josh. I saved a penalty.”
“As a reward, you can go and get the bloody thing, I went last time.”
“You shouldn’t have kicked it so hard.” Sam put his hands defiantly on his hips. “You go.”
“Think of it as a compliment, Sam; I have to kick it hard to get it past you these days.”
Sam’s chest puffed out. “Okay,” he said, “but it’s your turn next time.”
“Absolutely.”
“Okay, go get some more drinks. I’m gagging.” Sam picked his way through Mrs Potter’s flowerbeds and leapt over the brick wall.
— Six —
Henry sped down Westbury Avenue, thinking of nothing other than getting home and lying low for a few years. “What’s the sentence for manslaughter now?” His father was working on something big, spending a lot of time in Whitehall with policy-makers on this committee or that committee. It was something big, he’d say, but wouldn’t go into detail, other than saying crime would be cut drastically for the first time in modern British history.
“Shit!” Henry swerved the Jaguar. The tyres squealed as he slewed to the left. A ball flew across the front of his car, and Henry almost had a heart attack. His eyes were wide, searching for the youth who invariably would follow the ball. None did. It was okay to kill a tramp, he thought, but not so good to cream a fucking kid!
He dragged a sleeve across his face and noted the stench of warm urine drifting up from his lap, and then noticed the smear of red on his sleeve. “Oh God, I wish I could wake up at seven o’clock this morning and start again.”
The Jaguar roared past the bouncing ball and was only a hundred yards away from the tee-junction and freedom when a police car cruised past. It stopped. Its reverse lights came on.
Henry’s heart boomed. His flabby jowls tightened. He brought the Jaguar to a swift halt, turned quickly in the road and set off back the way he had come. He studied the rear view mirror, and saw the police car turn up Westbury Avenue, saw the blue lights flash. Henry pressed the throttle harder.
— Seven —
Sam saw the car speed past.
He trotted across the road and headed after the ball, catching hold of it when he heard a car skidding a little further up towards the junction.
Sam bounced the ball as he walked back, checked his watch, and discovered his dad was well over an hour late. And that was bad; it was an hour less time they had to spend together.
He looked across the road, saw the conifers, and did a Harlem Globetrotters towards them.
God, he hated his dad! He breathed out, like a sigh but with the force of a sob propelling it. Hell, no, he didn’t hate his dad, it’s just that…
His dad was a fucking drunk! He’d heard Mum say so, so it must be true, and why do you think he’s late? He’s always late because he’s always drunk. He could see it in his mum’s eyes, and he even saw it Mrs Potter’s eyes, and what did she know?
Sam was only a couple of yards away from the other kerb when the roar of an engine pulled him free of thoughts of his dad. For the briefest of times he saw the green car and he saw the windscreen, the ever-bright sun of a summer’s day glancing off it, and through it he saw a fat man with blood smeared across his face.
Then he saw no more.
— Eight —
Henry sped back up Westbury Avenue, arse still slipping in a puddle of piss, and somewhere not too far behind, a police car screaming after him. He rounded the gentle bend and smacked the AC knob again with his fist, desperate to cool down. And then he stared into the rear view mirror. How far behind were they, how much of a lead did he have? And then he glanced into the frightened eyes of a boy who was no more than twelve, a boy who bounced a football in front of him like a basketball player.
The kid met the Jaguar in the very centre of the bonnet. There was a hideous crack as his legs snapped and then a dull thud as his head hit the bonnet. And then there was an awful moment, as the brakes squealed, when the floppy body bounced up the windscreen and silently over the back of the car.
Henry screamed as the car slewed to a halt against the kerb. He waited for the briefest of times, looking in his mirrors, panting. The ball bounced away out of sight. A New York Yankees baseball cap fluttered to the kerb. The kid didn’t move. Henry closed his eyes and then took his foot off the brake and applied lots of throttle.
* * *
He stopped at home just long enough to change his clothes and to mop up the foul-smelling liquid on the seat. He didn’t think of anything else. His mind grasped the enormity of what had just happened and it flew away from reason just as quickly as it plunged into a desperate panic, and all he could think of was driving away from here and reality as fast as he could.
They would already be looking for him, well, looking for the car, and here was the first place they’d check, assuming they had the car’s registration number. And if they didn’t have it… well, that was just too optimistic to consider right now. How long would it take them to run all the British Racing Green Jaguars in Yorkshire through the system and begin checking their addresses?
Henry dried the seat as much as he could, and set off on his last journey behind the wheel of his beautiful green Jaguar.
— Nine —
In a tiny village called Great Preston, near Leeds, there’s a place that is as abandoned as it’s possible to get in West Yorkshire. At one time it was part of a thriving m
ining community, great open cast mines with machines as big as a block of flats dragging the coal out for power stations. It’s quiet now. Dead, deserted.
Acre upon acre of slag mounds covered in a sea of thin, unhealthy weeds swaying in a warm breeze. Meandering between the slag mounds was a track that led to the old site office, a wooden hut with smashed windows, something nature was busy reclaiming. In places, the track was almost green right over; soft brome and Yorkshire fog and the like grew in harmony, hidden from the gentle hum of everyday life that goes on in Great Preston half a mile away.
Henry thought about the track, and what an ideal place it would be. He’d played there as a kid, only a few years after the coalmine shut down and the cobwebs grew freely on the great iron gates into the compound. Rusting machinery stood by the flat-top where the coal was stacked, and the small concrete admin offices and weigh-bridge looked like something from a WWII aircraft base complete with its own lookout tower.
It was a great place to play, a wonderful place to be whoever you wanted to be. SAS; that’s what Henry wanted to be, and he’d stormed that old fortress where the encryption device was, or where the terrorists were holding a British ambassador, or where the missile battery was, more times than he could remember. His childhood was wonderful, what little of it he could remember, and what little of he was allowed to have.
Things began to get ugly for Henry not long after his first visit to the track as one half of a newly formed courting couple. He remembered it being dark, but his nose and his erection had pulled him along the twisting track as though equipped with night vision. The anticipation was overwhelming. Launa Wrigglesworth was his first conquest and he still recalled the way she squirmed and groaned beneath him, and by the time they’d finished losing their virginity, his jacket, laid out on the long grass of a slag mound, was a crumpled testimony to how well it had turned out; and his knees, covered in the grey muck of years-old clay, and scratched and torn and bloody, were testimony to how one emotion – ecstasy – could easily blot out another – pain. Pity that particular talent faded as you accrued the years and the knocks, he thought.
The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Page 3
