[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule

by Andrew Barrett

  “Well,” he said, “I can’t deny it, young lady, you have me at a disadvantage.” He appraised her again now instead of the picture, and she could see the figure he had in mind dip by around ten per cent. She wasn’t his usual kind of customer; a little more rough and ready, and clearly a little more desperate. He smiled, almost friendly. “Who painted this?”

  Alice played it cool, which for someone who was as desperate as she, was a risk. “You like it?”

  “Take a look around my emporium, dear.” He waved an arm across his fine treasures like a magician about to say voilà! “I like paintings, all different kinds,” and then his smile faded, “except abstract expressionism – I hate that shit.” He looked to see if she was offended by the word – she hadn’t even noticed it. “I have lots of paintings, and I can tell that you have no experience of trying to sell them. Let me be honest, what I’m trying to say is that I don’t need the picture as much as you need to offload it. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Erm, no, not really.”

  “Where did you get this?”

  “My boyfriend.”

  “Ah, now we’re getting somewhere.” He stepped closer. “And er, where did he get it from?” He winked at her.

  Alice narrowed the gap even further, aware now that he thought it was stolen and okay, yeah she was walking around inside a skin that shouted JUNKIE. And so he thought she’d be glad to settle for next to nothing; just enough for the next fix, just enough for the boyfriend to “find” more of these pictures and build some kind of underworld relationship, a mutualistic parasite-host bond. “Do you like it?”

  “Of course I like it. And if I like it, I know others who will like it. I won’t ask if you have come by this art legally or not.” He held up a hand, looked away and closed his eyes. “That is none of my business. But what I will ask is that–”

  “That’s enough.”

  He looked at her through the corner of his eye.

  “I can see you think this is stolen so forget the whole thing!” Alice snatched at the bin bag, pulling it over the painting.

  “Now wait a minute, dear; let’s not be so hasty.”

  She stopped trying to get the torn bag around the rough edges of the canvas and looked him straight in the eye, jaw pronounced, eyes half closed. “The picture is not stolen. My boyfriend painted it.”

  The man stopped as though slapped by an invisible hand. “He did?”

  Alice nodded.

  “What’s your name, my dear?”

  “Why? Do I need to fill in a form or something?”

  The man laughed. “No, no. I just wondered. My name is Max; and I own this fine emporium.” He smiled the smile of an old friend.

  “Alice.”

  “It’s funny,” he said, “I always imagine girls called Alice to wear a bright blue hairband and an old-fashioned blue dress with white stockings.” His eyes slipped to her bare arms and the track marks in the crook of her elbow. A far cry from Carroll’s novel. “Is it yours to sell, Alice, is all I want to know?”

  “Yes it is. And what if it wasn’t?”

  “If it’s yours to sell, then we don’t need to consider that question, do we? Now, let me see it again.”

  31

  Tuesday 23rd June

  – One –

  Rochester’s nostrils twitched and flared, and he looked up from the scattering of papers on his desk. “Michael, that smell…”

  “Ah yes, sir; that would be my tie, I’m afraid.”

  “Why can’t you take up chess for a hobby instead of drinking and seeing how far you can throw up?”

  “I threw up on it after seeing a dead body!” He stood there feeling the air turn slightly noxious – nothing to do with the tie – and feeling ever so slightly embarrassed that he stepped on Rochester with such ferocity. “It’s nothing to do with the drink. I saw a body yesterday, the old man? And well, I smelt him too, and it kind of… well, you know, it upset my delicate constitution.”

  “Can’t you afford a new tie?”

  Mick stepped forward, placed a slim wad of printed paper on Rochester’s desk. “That sir, depends on you.”

  Rochester took his time in looking at the story and then paused. “Would you please throw that tie away; it stinks to high hell and I can’t concentrate. God knows how you’ve managed to work with it dangling right under your nose.”

  “Oh, yes sir, no problem.” Mick slipped the tie off, crept around the desk and dropped it cleanly into Rochester’s big stainless steel bin.

  “I was thinking of a bin in another room.”

  “How long have I known you, Mick?”

  He shrugged. “Ten years?”

  “And would you say I have a reasonably keen eye for a good story?”

  “Without question, sir, yes.”

  Rochester leaned back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his thinning mop of grey hair. “Ergo, I have a flair for picking out the odd dud story. And let’s be honest, Mick, since your career rests on it, more than a few of those duds belong to you.”

  Mick’s shoulders slumped. He imagined himself walking from this big old building, the door grating closed after him for the last time, the slot reserved in his wallet for his press card, now empty.

  “Is this a dud, Mick?”

  “No.”

  “Do the police think this old man was murdered?”

  “Yes.”

  “By whom?”

  “I don’t think they know, sir.”

  Rochester’s eyes narrowed into their customary slits – the lie detector slits. “Do you?”

  “Well… no, not really.”

  “You sound as though you do, but for some reason are reluctant to share it with me.”

  This was the moment of truth, as they said. This was the time when he would either hand the press card over and sign the security book for the last time, or crack open a fresh crate of the good stuff. He whispered, “Do I buy myself a new tie, sir? Or not?”

  At last Rochester smiled. “It’s well written. Does it have anything to do with The Rules, this old man’s killing?”

  “I have an idea that it might, sir.”

  “Is this actually leading somewhere?”

  “Somewhere very big, I think. Exclusively too.”

  Rochester tapped the wad of paper. “I always preferred silk ties, myself. Paisley.”

  – Two –

  She watched him dress and then she watched him leave. The corrugated door squeaked across the kitchen floor. Christian couldn’t abide being cooped up in there all day with just a whinging woman to annoy him; it turned his thoughts rancid and nothing good came of rancid thoughts, nothing good ever appeared on canvas when he was cooped up.

  Alice threw back the duvet, wincing at the throb in the crook of her left arm. It had bruised; the whole inside of her arm. Max had paid her handsomely for the painting yesterday. Fifty quid. She patted her jeans pocket and pulled out the change. Just over ten left. “Shit.”

  She stood and stretched, then reached under the table in the corner, her long hair tickling her thighs as she bent and retrieved the small black box from underneath a scrunch of newspaper. Just to get her into the swing of the day, she injected roughly a quarter of Christian’s painting back through the bruise in her left arm. The world swam and Alice rolled over backwards, feeling the warmth flow through her, feeling her own kind of inspiration come to the surface like a fisherman’s float. She lay there naked on the dirty floorboards, arms outstretched, gazing in wonder at the black ribcage of the ceiling.

  In the cot above the stash, Spencer began to fidget, and before she could finish dressing he had woken completely and was crying for his breakfast, so busy with his own needs that he cared not a jot for those of his poor mother. “Spencer,” she said softly, “come on, Mummy’s here.” Spencer ignored her and cried louder than ever. “Shut up!” Alice put her T-shirt and denim jacket on and lit a roach. Before she had even pulled on her jeans and boots, Spencer had hit the high notes. “S
hut up! Fucking kid!”

  The cellar was as dark as ever but she got to work quickly, blocking from her hazy mind any thought of right or wrong, and any thought of Christian. Even Spencer’s pained screams couldn’t pierce the barrier she had constructed inside her mind. Better get it done and quick, better just get the gear and get the fuck out of here.

  Bravely, she opened the door to the annex and swept a hand through the new web that stretched across the doorway. She bent and grabbed two this time, feeling the texture of paint through the thin bag. She pushed the door closed and left the cellar, throwing the candle aside as soon as she reached the kitchen.

  She slammed the corrugated door behind her and stood on the step, taking deep relaxing breaths. Spencer had reached orbit, but even when she tried to hear him, there was nothing more than the faintest sound. Almost undetectable. Tolerable now.

  – Three –

  Christian chose a window table and set to work on his Big Mac with gusto. He watched the huge crowd grow larger as it thundered along Boar Lane, turning left up Briggate in a convoluted path towards the Town Hall. There was another demo, probably of a similar size and probably making a similar racket, already congregating outside the Crown Court building, having arrived via Park Lane. Several hundred police officers and several blocks of Leeds city centre kept both groups apart.

  As with all the demos, the police filmed them; and trotting alongside the fringes of the crowd were news cameras. Outside broadcast crews took in the sun and recorded the growing madness about to erupt on the streets between the Crown Court and the Town Hall; something of a focal point for marches concerning justice.

  Christian slurped black coffee and watched the large vidiscreen on the Corn Exchange’s wall flicker the Crimestoppers hotline number. Then, in ten-second intervals, faces appeared, names beneath them in large red letters and then the words that made the crowd shout louder, that made the bullhorns belch into a frenzy of electronic noise, the words “wanted. Rule Three violation. Reward for conviction”.

  Christian studied the faces; half hoping he knew one of them. They were offering £10,000 for information that led to a prosecution and conviction. These days, it meant £10,000 for information leading to a sudden death. The number in the corner of the screen said 3/256. The state wanted to kill 256 people. That was a lot of lives, but he wondered how many people had they killed or made suffer?

  Alongside the protestors marched mounted police, and plenty more on foot, all armed. The protestors’ banners indicated they didn’t wholeheartedly agree with the state. “Killing is still killing,” said one. “Two wrongs don’t make a right,” said another. And then there were the personal attacks on the guy who masterminded the whole policy. Death Deacon, they called him. It seemed that a great number of ordinary people despised the new act, despite it being introduced to protect them and discourage the current wave of murder that hopped, skipped and jumped around the nation in sporadic bursts of semi-automatic gunfire.

  Christian craned his neck, and could make out the last of the protestors as they marched in less flamboyant mood up Boar Lane, and that’s when he slurped the dregs of his coffee, mopped his goatee and walked briskly from the shop, turning left, and heading up Briggate to where all the fancy shops were.

  – Four –

  “Sirius?”

  Deacon’s door opened and Sirius stepped inside. “Sir?”

  “Get hold of Henry. We have to get this car business sorted out once and for all.”

  “Sir.” Sirius held out a hand, stared at Deacon.

  It was so unusual for him to interrupt, that Deacon stopped immediately and looked at his man. “What’s wrong?”

  “May I speak candidly, sir?”

  Deacon nodded.

  “Is it necessary for Henry to accompany me? I can–”

  “Yes it is. For one thing, it’ll keep him out of harm’s way, and I want him to witness how ruthlessly efficient you can be.” He raised his eyebrows. “Do I make myself clear?”

  Sirius nodded.

  “I also want him to see that I have kept to my part of the bargain.” He looked away, lower teeth bared as though expressing regret. “I should have killed him at birth,” he said, and then he noticed Sirius’s smile and shook his head. “No. Let’s keep to our word. I’ll give him his final chance.”

  32

  Tuesday 23rd June

  – One –

  The bus hadn’t even stopped before Alice bounded onto the pavement, buzzing with life. From the bus she’d seen a huge crowd, maybe two or three thousand, outside the Crown Court, spilling onto the roads and the steps around the Town Hall. A warm breeze rippled banners that proclaimed how wonderful it was to finally kill the dross of society: “Deacon for PM” and “Don’t Shoot ’em, Hang ’em!” and “An Eye for an Eye, God is on Our Side” and “Bravo The Rules”. Bullhorns screamed.

  Mounted police, side-arms tucked neatly into sexy thigh holsters, kept the demonstrators in line, enough for her to walk straight past them without feeling the slightest bit nervous. The crowd was a blur as she carried two precious paintings wrapped in dirty black plastic bags that trailed twisted cobwebs; nothing could detract from her goal.

  She hurried up The Headrow and past the entrance to Park Lane, watching the faces on the vidiscreens, along with the legend beneath them: “Wanted. Rule Three violation. Reward for Conviction”. Wonder how much they’re offering.

  She passed another three vidiscreens before she reached the summit of The Headrow and then took a quick detour into a tobacconist’s.

  Once back outside the shop, letting its canopy shade her from the sun, she lit the cigarette, paintings held between her knees as she shielded the flame. To her right was more noise, the sound of bullhorns that bounced from building to building, ricocheting its way up to The Headrow.

  She walked away, blending into the bustling crowd. Over the natural low roar of a crowd of shoppers and commuters, there was another sound that grew as though someone were steadily turning up the volume; the sound of a gathering that chanted in unison. It had an electric quality; a false, crackly quality.

  Alice stood and stared in awe at the rabble and the police escorting them, at the TV cameras surrounding them, running alongside as though their viewers had never seen a demonstration before, and at the banners. “Killing is still killing,” said one. “Two wrongs don’t make a right,” said another. And then “Death Deacon,” said yet another.

  “What the hell is happening to the fucking world? What’s all these demos for anyway?”

  Alice tightened her grip on her treasure and headed down Eastgate, looking out for the discreet sign held out from the wall by a golden hand. “Bookman Antiques” it said. Her own private money fountain.

  The bell tinkled, and although she didn’t think she would feel nervous, a little trepidation trickled down her throat and made her gag

  no, hon, that ain’t no trepidation, that’s guilt.

  but she shook it off, swallowed it and bid it good riddance, and waited for Max to show his little rotund self. It was quiet, the sounds of the demos, soon to be on top of each other, surely, soon to erupt into another riot, faded into a backdrop that was so slight, it was easily forgotten,

  like you easily forgot little Spencer

  and easily hidden beneath the ticking of Max’s grandfather clock to her right.

  “And what have you brought today, my dear?”

  The cigarette fell and bounced on Max’s shiny floor.

  “If you could spit it outside,” he said, picking it up by the filter as though picking a rat up by its tail, “that would be better for the fire regulations.”

  “You made me jump, I–”

  “Did I?” He bolted the door. “Come, show me what we have today.”

  She followed him through the bead curtain and into the back room. “Did you manage to sell the first one I brought you?”

  “These things take time. I’m sure I’ll have a buyer for it sooner or later.” A
nd then he stopped by a table, brought a lamp across and plugged it in nearby. “I don’t think I can command as much for it as I had hoped.” He took out his round-rimmed glasses, and peered up at Alice over their tops. “I did try, my dear, but the market these days is saturated.”

  “Stop talking bollocks. I’m not asking for thousands, and I know you’re making a handsome profit. So don’t come the poor old man routine, and definitely don’t come the ‘I’m doing you a favour’ routine.”

  Max simply rolled up his sleeves. “Come on, I haven’t got all day.”

  She pulled away the plastic bag from the first painting and propped the second against the wall.

  He brought the light over and studied it, giving little away, but he couldn’t hide the delight in his eyes. “I have to admit, Alice, this boyfriend of yours paints exquisitely.”

  “Yes, he does.”

  “So my dear, what is this one called?”

  She shrugged. “Fuck knows.”

  Max was aghast. “You literally are in this just for the money, aren’t you? You care nothing at all for the image, the painting, or the artist.”

  See, even a complete stranger wonders how you came to be such a hard bitch that could sell her man’s blood and tears for a pittance, just enough to fill her arm a coupla times. You a waste of space, girl.

  “How much are you going to pay me, Max?”

  “Don’t you have any idea what its title is? I really would like to know.”

  “Well, let’s see.” She snatched the painting from his hands, and he yelped, hovering over it. “What’s it of?” She held it at an angle towards the lamp’s soft light.

  It was summer. A glowing sunset soaked a meadow in deep orange and burgundy. The shadows it cast fell long across the castle walls that glinted as brightly as a diamond, and there were smaller diamonds dancing on the surrounding water. The grass by the golden river seemed to sway to and fro, and…