It was after nine on Friday morning and Eddie, stinking of brandypuke and piss, sank into a cool bath, cigarette dangling from his mouth. This was Eddie’s existence: going to work, coming home, and getting slaughtered.
Actually, that was a rather simplistic résumé. “Home” was about five miles from this yellow-stained bathtub. He looked around the grey room, at the mould in the corner by the window, at the torn linoleum that always seemed to squelch underfoot, and listened to the cistern’s overflow dripping water into a bed of moss in the yard around the back. This flat over a carpet shop in Wakefield city centre was just a stopgap. It was ninety quid a week and it was somewhere to get pissed and ignore the x-axis.
Yes, Jilly was five miles away, and their son, Sammy, would have spent last term at school sharing disaster stories with other kids whose folks had split up. Eddie smiled at the thought of his boy. Another couple of sleeps and they could spend the day together, pretending none of this had ever happened, pretending to be a real father and son.
He had never felt so alone. “Have you told me I’m wonderful today, Sammy?” Eddie’s voice echoed.
Sammy’s eyes would roll upward and he would tut before saying, ‘Daddy, you’re wonderful’. They would laugh and roll around on the floor tickling each other.
His smile spilled off the side of his face as his thoughts turned to Jilly. She was a wonderful woman, a superb mother and actually quite an artisan in the bedroom. Another tiny smile ruptured Eddie’s lips and then vanished as though it was an absurdity it ever having been there. She was a bitch too. It wasn’t her fault, though. It was his.
The next part of the résumé, the going to work part, was reasonably accurate. He was a CSI for West Yorkshire Police. It was a civilian role, a good job that was sometimes exciting and sometimes so infuriating he would reach for the job paper – and then put it back. He couldn’t do anything else. Didn’t really want to either.
The only truly accurate piece of the résumé was the getting slaughtered part. He did it on a regular basis. He liked to be regular, did Eddie. Though last night’s effort was a little more extreme a slaughtering than normal.
A knock came at the door, forcing Eddie back into his own private existence. The bath water was cold. “Bollocks!”
The knock came again.
He climbed from the tub, winced at the pain coming from the scar on his leg, slung a towel around his waist, and squelched across the lino and out into the lounge again, heading for the door. “Who’s there?” The smell of puke lingered large and loud.
“Me.”
Eddie turned the key and went to the kitchen. “Cuppa?”
“Phew! Jesus, Eddie.” Ros stepped in and dropped a parcel on Eddie’s crumpled sofa. “You are disgusting.”
“Yeah, sorry.” He grabbed the kettle. “Heavy night.”
“Really?” Ros grimaced. “Oh God. Now I can smell piss.”
“Yeah, sorry. Like I said–”
“I know, I know.” She stepped into the kitchen, and cringed at the greasy hob hiding beneath frying pans, at the crusty plates in the sink and stickiness on the floor. “You have to sort your life out.”
Eddie nodded solemnly and sprinkled coffee in two mismatched mugs.
“Don’t patronise me when I’m trying to lecture you.”
How come the stress levels always curved upwards against the y-axis whenever there was a female around?
“You’d better do something radical, Eddie, or else grow wings and a halo.”
He shrugged, and sat on the sofa. “I’m sick of it.” He raised his eyebrows, tried to smile. “I want to be back with Sammy…”
She paused before saying, “I sounded like Jilly just then, didn’t I?” She perched on the edge of her seat, elbows on knees. “I’m sorry, I didn’t–”
“You coming over tonight?” Eddie changed the subject as easily as turning the page of a newspaper.
“Is Mick?”
Eddie shrugged.
“He is, isn’t he?”
“No. I don’t know. Maybe. Yes. He’ll be here at six.”
Ros giggled, sipped the coffee. “Count me in.”
“Thought you didn’t like him.”
“But I do like you. He’s an alky and you need all the protection you can get.”
“Protection? From what?”
“He’s a bad influence. He’s on his own and he wants to see you on your own too, so you can be on your own together.” She reclined in the seat. “He’s jealous of you.”
“Who, Mick? Naw.”
“He messed up his own life, Eddie; and all he can see in you is another sap like him. And what’s worse than going through life as a sap? Going through life as a sap on your own. He’s happy to see you wreck any chance of getting back with Jilly.”
“He’s not smart enough to think like that.”
Ros shook her head, “Your only hope of getting together again rests with you quitting the booze. I’ve seen how she looks at you when she smells alcohol on your breath. Her eyes turn to hatred.”
Eddie stared at the curtains.
“I’m sorry I said that.” She cleared her throat, “But if you ever want to be Sammy’s dad again,” Eddie flinched, “then you’ve gotta pull your head out of your arse and take a break from drunken sleepovers with Mick.”
“Stop beating around the bush and say what you mean.”
“You remembered why I’m here yet?”
It didn’t take Eddie’s eyes long to fill with dread. “Sammy!”
Ros smiled and slapped her leg. “Got there in the end.”
“Oh fuck me.”
“Appreciate the offer, but if you’re late again–”
“Oh bollocks.”
“And you owe me 200 quid.” She pointed to the parcel.
“What would I do without you?”
“Drown in your own vomit, I suspect.” She wasn’t smiling now.
“And you wrapped it too. Thanks, Ros.”
“I got a card. You’ll need to write it though; you ought to do that bit yourself.”
2
Friday 29th May
Henry was late. He didn’t even know where Beaumont Drive was, for Christ’s sake! He looked at the satellite navigation screen in the Jaguar’s dashboard, at the cracks running through a rainbow of crushed liquid crystal, and regretted not being calm enough last month to stop the car and turn around when the friendly female voice told him to.
It was Friday morning and the traffic into Wakefield along Leeds Road was heavy and slow moving. Strangely, the traffic coming out of Wakefield was light and fast. Henry groped around the leather passenger seat for the phone; his eyes sharing their time between the road, the search for the phone and a chance encounter with a pen.
His morning schedule was busy; he had five appointments booked, and there was no way of servicing more than four without appearing hurried–
“Shit!” Henry stabbed the brakes. Everything on the passenger seat slid into the footwell, and the nose of the Jaguar stopped but an inch or two from the Fiesta in front. The driver shook his head. Henry screamed, “Tosser!” All that for a phone.
And then the phone rang.
Henry grew increasingly agitated. The phone continued to ring. Where the hell was Beaumont Drive? It was now ten o’clock and the need to relieve himself had developed from nowhere. The phone still rang and Henry, foot on brake, leaned into the passenger footwell and fished about under paperwork, pulling cross books, colour brochures and letterheads aside in his haste to answer the damned phone – the damned phone he needed in order to find Beaumont Drive. The traffic moved on. The need to pee grew. And then, just as he saw the phone, just as he reached that little bit further, a cramp grabbed his left side just below the ribcage.
Behind him, a horn sounded. He peeked up over the dashboard, and noticed the Fiesta was a good forty yards away. He released the brake and the Jag rolled. The phone still rang and he lunged for it, caught it, sat upright – teeth bared against th
e cramp, and nearly slammed into the Fiesta for the second time in only two minutes.
“Fuck!” he shouted. It was 10:05, precisely 300 seconds late for his appointment. He pressed okay, held the phone to his ear, and listened to the sound of an empty piece of plastic. “Bastard!” Why did that happen? Why did they always ring off when…
Henry grew hotter. He pressed the AC switch, and though the light in the centre of the dial illuminated, nothing happened. He breathed deeply of the fumes coming through the vents and called the office. The traffic moved again slowly, more horns, more heat, a growing concern in Henry’s bladder section, and nobody answering the phone in the office. What was wrong with–
“Smith, Pryce, and Deacon, how may I help?”
“At last,” Henry said. “Listen, Julie, it’s me–”
“Henry, is that you? Henry?”
“Yes, it’s me, Julie.”
“I can barely hear you. You’ll have to–”
“Can you hear me?” He couldn’t remember booking the day from hell, surely that was yesterday, wasn’t it, when dear old Daddy laid down some new rules. That was the day from hell; today, it seemed, was the sequel. “Julie, how do I get to Beaumont Drive? I’m lost.”
“What’s wrong with the satnav?”
He stared at the cracked screen. “Just fucking tell me, Julie, I’m not in the mood.”
There was a long silence.
“Julie?”
More silence.
Henry sighed, rubbed his face. A horn sounded from behind him, and almost absently, he flipped the bird as a response. “Julie, I–”
“It’s Beauford Drive. And I want a word when you get back.” The line died.
“Whoa, hold on! Julie don’t you fucking hang up on me!” Spittle flew from his mouth and his face glowed a mellow crimson. The bladder situation had grown painful, and sweat popped out on his forehead and under his nose. “I own the fucking company,” he shouted at the phone, “I’m your boss!” He threw it into the footwell with enough force to shatter its screen and spill its innards across the carpet.
Someone banged on the window.
Henry jumped. The car behind was minus a driver, and he guessed that the tramp standing by the Jaguar gesticulating angrily was the man on the receiving end of the bird.
Henry stared at him, and as he did so he bit his bottom lip. His nostrils flared and he could feel the heat in his chest growing ever more intense. The tramp ranted, and the pressure in Henry’s mind was reaching a critical point.
The tramp seemed appalled at the lack of physical or verbal response and banged on the window.
Henry waited.
Henry stared at him, and finally his teeth sank into his lower lip. Blood trickled into the crease of his chin and dripped onto his suit, but he didn’t notice, didn’t take his eyes off the tramp. The world was silent, his field of vision shrunk to a circle few inches across, encompassing the slitted eyes of the man, with hatred leaking from them.
Henry waited.
The tramp banged on the window again, spitting on the glass as he shouted. Horns sounded from behind, onlookers laughed at them.
The world crowded in on Henry. Fury shredded all trace of common decency. He saw the bus coming, and shouldered the door open as hard as he could into the man’s face and chest. The tramp staggered backwards into the path of a bus. The bus locked its massive tyres as the tramp folded and then disappeared beneath the smoking rubber. The passengers lurched forward alarmingly. Onlookers screamed. Car horns ceased to blow.
The Fiesta disappeared around the corner, and Henry realised he had wet himself.
From his mind’s trivia department, a friendly female voice, sounding very much like the dead satnav lady, said T-plus 600 seconds and counting. Henry turned forward and closed the door, engaged gear and planted his shaking right foot hard on the throttle.
Henry saw the driver step off the bus as a thousand people swarmed the road, several of them with mobile phones to their ears. He was shaking as the scene disappeared into his rear-view mirror.
The sign for Beauford Drive sailed up toward him. He turned the Jaguar and swept up the narrow street as three police cars sped by the junction. Henry didn’t like the police; he always managed to fall foul of them. Okay, he’d been guilty, he conceded, but that was beside the point. Other guilty people got away with things.
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 replayed on the Technicolor screen inside his head. He stopped the car, unclipped the seat belt, and laughed so hard that it turned into a coughing fit.
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 Richardson 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 pressure in his mind 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 getting the hell out of there 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 took his foot off the brake and dropped it on the throttle.
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.
3
Friday 29th May
– One –
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 she’d had new locks fitted. Did she think he wouldn’t respect their agreement, that he would creep back in the dead of night 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 paused, then stood aside as 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.”
Maybe Ros had been right. “I brought him this.” He held out the parcel.
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She took it, put in the corner by the others. “I said he could open them. 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.
“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 rejection 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, leaving an uncomfortable silence hanging between them. “Well, let’s just see, huh?”
“I am trying,” he said. “I haven’t had a–”
She looked out of the window, not listening anymore. “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.
[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule Page 2