[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule

by Andrew Barrett

  He scrabbled quickly backwards as she advanced, and then he was on his feet and made it clear just as she swung the hammer again.

  Everything happened so quickly. The pain in his shoulder was almost more than he could bear, and when she swung again, he moved left, banged into the cot. Alice paused, and Christian reached inside.

  “No!” she screamed. “You leave him alone, you bastard.”

  He grasped the thing by its neck, and circled around her. “You’re fucking crazy!”

  Her mad eyes followed him, then focused on the doll. They appeared to be pleading to it, almost pained as though it was screaming at her. She held her hand out, fingers trembling, “…and promise to look after you, and Daddy won’t hurt you.”

  A shiver ran up Christian’s back. Just how mad was she? He raised the doll with its nappy hanging in tatters from its plastic hips. He saw its blue eyes swing open and then swing shut. He squeezed.

  “You’re frightening him!”

  “I’m frightening him? You mad bitch!” Christian threw the doll to her right.

  She dropped the hammer and made a grab for it. Her fingers brushed its dirty plastic feet and it landed on the floor between them. Christian twisted and smacked her hard in the face with the back of his hand. Her hair whipped around. She staggered back a few paces and then stood still, panting. Blood dripped from her nose.

  Despite his left arm hanging limply by his side, and a deafening buzzing in his ear, Christian was happy he’d made her stop the craziness. He picked up the doll with his right hand, passed it to the tingling fingers of his left.

  Alice snarled.

  He reached for the hammer.

  “No, Christian,” she screamed. “He’s only a baby… He’s your son!”

  He let the doll fall to the floorboards and brought the hammer down.

  Eventually, Christian dropped the hammer, stood straight and punched her in the face. Alice hit the floor in a crumpled mess.

  He stood there panting, engulfed by a physical pain and a mental torment. He looked at the cash, at the lottery ticket and the cigarettes.

  And then he left the house.

  Max slammed the tailgate shut and rested against it, gasping, looking around to make sure he was safe. This was the worst neighbourhood he had ever dared venture into.

  He felt well out of his depth, and his busy eyes saw everyone and everything as a potential threat. He had been brave coming here at all, especially dressed in his working garb: gold waistcoat, smart trousers and neat cravat. They created the image, and helped to promote his wealth of knowledge. But here, he stood out like a dot-to-dot at a Rembrandt auction.

  Inside the car, he tapped the wheel, thinking about the dryad nymph. And how to get it.

  His eyes were drawn across to the terrace of old houses again. The corrugated door opened and a bedraggled creature stumbled out into the yard. Was that him? Was that Christian? He walked in a crooked line up the cobbled street, heading straight for him. Max held his breath and, with pummelling heart, slowly sank into his seat.

  He’s coming for me; he knows I have his paintings, he’s going to demand them back, he’s going to fight me for them, and he’s going to hurt me.

  Max leaned across the car and delved into the glove box, readying himself for an assault. Only a minute passed before Christian walked within twenty yards of him. There was blood down the left side of his head, it tangled in his long wavy hair, and his right hand was never away from his forehead, where it massaged a headache, maybe. His left hand hung limply by his side. Max watched him stagger away up the street, sighed, and slid the knife inside his waistcoat.

  Alice was alone, she was vulnerable again.

  He approached the open corrugated door and listened carefully before entering. Creeping forward, he peered into the gloom of the lounge, and saw her lying prone on the filthy floorboards. She was completely still. Next to her lay the crushed remains of what looked like a plastic doll, batteries by its side, head caved in. He wondered if she was dead. Should he go and… no, no; get the nymph and get out. He might come back.

  41

  Tuesday 23rd June

  Though he could see almost nothing, Max could feel its beauty. He could almost feel his wallet bulge in anticipation. He licked his lips and then slid the home-made tethers away. He took its weight and felt the tension in his stomach, felt the sweat tickle the crack of his backside, felt more running down the sides of his face and arms. He turned and then he froze.

  From above he heard a noise.

  Afraid, he peered through the darkness and up the stairs towards a tinge of daylight.

  “What now?” he whispered.

  He had no choice: he had to climb the stairs, he had to get away and if that meant facing Christian, then face Christian he would. He had to have this art, and if it meant paying the lad off and promising to keep quiet about Alice’s death, then he’d do that too. Anything to get the nymph into his shop.

  With sweat dripping from his face, he reached the summit and peered out into the kitchen. No one was there, and whatever the noise had been, it didn’t bother him now. He stepped out of the shade and into the brightness of the kitchen and stifled a scream.

  Alice grinned at him.

  At her side a hammer tapped against her leg. The hammer had blood and hair on it. Max stared at it, then at the blood oozing from her nose and at the tears making her cheeks glisten. “Alice, my dear.” His voice was shaky, and he knew she detected the fear in it. “I was going to wake you,” he forced a smile. “But I thought I’d just leave the cash for you to find; didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “Fuck off, Max.”

  “Alice, please… Are you okay? You look terrible, my dear.”

  She sobbed, but stared coldly at him. Tap.

  “Did he hurt you, my dear?”

  “Put that back!”

  “I have a thousand pounds here. You could have a nice flat; I could arrange that for you. You could be out of here within the hour. We could get you fresh clothes, help you start over–”

  “My baby,” she whispered. “He killed my baby.” Tap.

  “We can get you another.” The beginnings of a frown turned her eyes dark, “No, we could,” he refreshed the smile, “we could make everything better. How would you like that, Alice?” Max put the nymph down. “I have the money right here,” he said, reaching inside his waistcoat. “And I already left you 200…”

  Alice lifted the hammer.

  Max didn’t wait for it to come at him. He stepped closer and thrust the knife forward, pulling her onto the blade, feeling her slight weight collapse against him. The hammer fell to the floor and Max opened his eyes.

  She stared right at him, and he watched her sad eyes slide shut.

  He had a dead body leaning against him. And for a moment, he was horrified. He glanced down at the nymph making sure the falling hammer hadn’t damaged it. It was safe.

  In one slick movement, Max spun on his heels and pushed. Alice tumbled down into the darkness, her head cracking against the cold stone steps, her pale hand disappearing into the shadows as it scraped a swath of blood down the whitewashed walls. The knife was smeared with redness and faint traces of creamy white fat, and he shuddered. His hand had her blood on it too; his waistcoat had smears of redness melded into the fine golden thread. None of it mattered; he had the nymph, and it was even more glorious by the light of day.

  He folded the blade away and dropped it back into his waistcoat pocket. As the sweat cooled on his face, he grabbed the painting and then slid through the open corrugated door, shaking with fear and exhilaration.

  42

  Tuesday 23rd June

  With rainwater still dripping from his hair, Eddie rounded the stairwell, looked up towards his door and he wished he hadn’t. “How come every time I come home, you’re here?”

  “Hey,” Mick smiled, “Good to see you too!”

  “You wanna move in?”

  “And live with a slob? No thanks.
”

  “Look, Mick, I’ve had the day from hell, do you mind if we–”

  “Tell me about it.” They swapped glances. “No, I mean it; tell me about it. I’ll try and help if I can.”

  Eddie groped in his pocket for the keys and swung the door open. “You never come round to help. You come round to get me drunk and elicit information.”

  Mick nodded. “Yep, you’re right. But I can still listen to you whine a bit first if you’d like.”

  “I’d have hit the bastard.” Mick slurped coffee, flicked ash towards an ashtray and missed by three feet.

  “Hey, at least make the effort.”

  “Sorry.” He rubbed it into the carpet. “I don’t know how you showed such restraint, I really don’t.”

  “Because my boss was peering through his window at the time, and I’m in enough shit without digging myself in further.”

  “You allowed him to walk away after saying those things? He needs dealing with, and permanently.”

  Eddie shrugged. “I have to accept there are arseholes in the world; it’s just unfortunate that I encounter them all in the space of a week.”

  “So you could end up on a disciplinary and a Rule One?”

  “Could lose my job.”

  “But you know that damned job inside out–”

  “I’m thinking of seeing Jilly this afternoon, it’s why I came home early.”

  Mick raised his eyebrows. “After your last meeting?”

  “We have something in common. I can’t just–”

  “Go bollocks.” He sat up straight, pointed a finger. “Sod what you have in common! You two know each other inside out, as much as you know your job inside out, and it would be just as criminal for you to let your marriage go as it would be for them to sack you. You go to her with some honesty in your heart for a change and you might stand a chance. You don’t fool me, Eddie Collins, so how the hell are you gonna fool your wife?”

  Eddie’s fingers tugging at a frayed seam. “I think I should go to one of her crazy clubs.” He looked for a reaction, and was angered by the head shaking. “What now?”

  “What now? Okay, I grant you that it’s probably a load of bollocks, this psychic stuff; but come on, cut her a little slack, she lost her son and she wants to keep hold of his memory. Is that such a bad thing?”

  “You’ve changed your tune; said it was–”

  “I know what I said. And I was wrong. If she needs a little support, then give it to her; see things from her point of view. Help the lady along until she’s ready to stand on her own two feet.”

  “Should I go and see her, or should I just meet her there? There’s a meeting this afternoon.”

  “Meeting her there shows a little more spontaneity, you know, it shows you’re trying to get involved without spouting your good intentions first. Show her you care, don’t just tell her.”

  Eddie sat forward, clasped his hands together. “I will.” He looked up. “More coffee?”

  “Thought you’d never ask; we agony aunts get thirsty quickly.”

  “Anyway, what have you come around for?”

  “Thought you’d never ask that as well.” He followed Eddie into the kitchen. “Hey, you’ve tidied up a bit.” He laughed, “Is that a cooker over there?”

  “Almost funny, Mick; don’t give up the day job.”

  “I don’t intend to. I’m onto something larger than life, my cock-eyed friend. You remember Lincoln Farrier? I found out all the places he went to on the day he died.” He counted on his fingers. “He went to the local grocery store for some milk. He went to the post office where he posted the letter to the paper and where he collected the letter from his son.”

  “Keep this up, and you might need to use your other hand.”

  “I found out he went to a third place.”

  “The local brothel?”

  “As good as. He went into town to see Mr George Deacon.”

  Eddie bit into the back of his hand and screeched. “Oh no; you don’t think Deacon killed him, do you?” He laughed and poured the water.

  Mick was silent, arms folded.

  “Aw, come on. You don’t really think that do you?”

  “I happen to believe that Lincoln didn’t piss anyone off at the grocery store or the post office.”

  “He might have pissed someone off a week ago, or a month ago. Doesn’t have to be someone he pissed off on that day, Christ.” He handed Mick his coffee. “What about the burglar his son stabbed?”

  “Far too elaborate a killing for a burglar,” he said. “Anyway, Deacon can be a nasty piece of work when he wants to be.”

  “I’m surprised one head is enough for all the fucking faces you have. Last week he was a wonderful guy, and he deserved a medal for The Rules.”

  “Different things entirely. The Rules are a stunning piece of legislation, but the man himself stinks.”

  “Really?”

  “I saw an interview from a few years back when he was accosted by some television colleagues of mine. They asked him a few pretty awkward questions when he thought they had stopped filming. He said, ‘You wait till I take office, and I’ll show you real power!’”

  “I repeat: really?”

  “He’s evil. I think he’s behind Lincoln’s death.”

  “Why would Deacon want to kill an old guy?”

  “Haven’t worked that bit out yet.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “But he did it, definitely.”

  “And how you going to prove it?” Eddie walked back to the lounge.

  Mick followed. “I need the results from Lincoln’s PM.”

  “At last. That’s why you’re here.”

  “Come on, I did my best agony aunt for you, the least you could do–”

  “And how do you expect me to get PM results?”

  “Maybe not the results themselves, just what the findings were.”

  “Okay, pop round tomorrow about noon.”

  “Really?”

  “No. Dickhead.”

  “This old man was shot with his own antique; it’s murder!”

  “I know! CID knows that too. But if we have no evidence, then it goes in the unsolved file.”

  “Big, is it,” Mick sat down again, “this file?”

  “Murders happen all the damned time, even premeditated murders. Not all of them are solvable; some crimes are perfect. And even if the crimes aren’t perfect, then the means to find the criminal are still imperfect. Sorry to shatter your illusions.” Eddie sipped his coffee and lit a cigarette. “And sulking with me won’t help, either.”

  Mick sulked anyway.

  “Okay, I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great! That’s all I want.”

  “No promises, though.”

  “Absolutely, mate.”

  “Why do you want this so badly? You never cared so much about a murder before.”

  “I found him, remember.” He paused. “And he seemed like a nice old fellow; reminded me of my dad.”

  “You’re so full of shit.”

  Mick looked up quickly. “It’s true! And anyway, he wrote to me, asked me to help him with something I feel strongly about: British injustice.”

  “Now are you going to tell me the truth?”

  Mick sipped more coffee. “I need to save my job.”

  Eddie laughed.

  “I kind of said that I thought this murder was linked to someone big, that it had something to do with The Rules.”

  “You really are a dickhead. And what if it doesn’t? Thought of that?”

  “No. I daren’t.” He squinted through the strata of smoke floating around the room. “It is kind of personal. That’s why I care. When I found the old man with his brains dripping down the wall, when I saw his old wrinkled face splashed with his own blood… I don’t know. It made it personal, finding him, I mean, rather than being shown photos or just being told about it.” He took a breath. “Have
you any idea what I’m talking about?”

  Eddie only nodded. He did.

  43

  Tuesday 23rd June

  Rain thrummed against the large, curtained windows, and that might have been a slender skitter of thunder, but he wasn’t sure. Eddie shook his hand, sat down behind the battered old desk, and appraised him as discreetly as he could. The man wore no black cape, and there were no golden stars or pentagrams sewn into his jersey. He had the eyes of a man, not a cat, and his teeth and nails were… regular teeth and nails. Eddie was a little disappointed.

  “Could I have your watch?”

  Eddie looked at him through the corner of his eye and smiled. “I thought you took cash these days?”

  The man smiled out of politeness.

  Maybe this wasn’t the place for Eddie Collins. “Sorry.” He handed the watch over and looked around the community hall with its scratched parquet floor and stack of chairs up by the stage. All the curtains were drawn against the early evening light; the eight or so tables just like this one, each manned by its own psychic freak, were arranged evenly across that floor. Very intimate. Very becoming. Very production-line. They should have banners around the hall, adverts in the local press: “Come along and meet the dead! Roll up, roll up, Psychic Freaks Inc brings you close to your stiff!”

  The bums of the needy and hopeful, mostly women, who all seemed to know each other, who all gabbled incessantly and sipped cheap coffee from Styrofoam cups, filled a row of chairs at the edge of the hall. They were the type that came here week in, week out, hoping for some juicy revelation that would keep them going for seven days until their next spiritual top-up; they came for the entertainment, the gossip; they came to fulfil the need; they came to find Grandpappy’s lost treasure and they came to see people in tears. Whatever, thought Eddie, they didn’t come for the fucking coffee!