The man held the watch and closed his eyes. For a reason he could not understand, Eddie’s heart kicked up a gear as he waited for some kind of response.
“You’re a sceptic, Eddie.” The man smiled triumphantly.
He looked back towards the collection of women, hoping to see her.
“You’ve suffered a loss recently, haven’t you?”
“Yes.” He looked at the freak.
“It was a boy.”
A prickle ran down Eddie’s neck, and suddenly the psychic freak had Eddie’s full attention. “Yes.” He watched him, waiting for the next tasty instalment.
The man turned the watch this way and that, feeling its texture, yet taking something from it maybe. He smiled, closed his eyes momentarily and then opened them again quickly. “He’s here, you know.”
“Who? Who’s here?” Eddie nervously looked around.
“Sam.”
He went cold. The colour seeped from his face and sweat glowed on his forehead. Swallowing, he tried and failed to regain some composure. And in the pause, he collected himself, made himself not believe – the way he had always not believed, reminded himself of the ridicule he threw at Jilly, and of all the good reasons not to believe these freaks.
What newspaper have you been reading, he wondered, what obituary column have you memorised? Yeah, but he seems to know… that’s just it, he seems to know. But he doesn’t. Remember that. Put your barriers up.
“He thanks you for his shrine.”
“Sorry?” No one, only Ros, and maybe Mick if he took the blindest bit of interest, could know about the shrine.
“The baseball cap? The one with NY stitched on it. He said thanks for keeping hold of it and putting it on the mantelpiece.” The man didn’t seem particularly interested in scoring points, in converting a sceptic.
Eddie swallowed again, and was that – no, surely not – a prickle of tears behind the eyes? It’s bollocks, Eddie, he told himself. You remember that, dammit, it’s all brainwashing shit! He’s reading your mind! Block it, man, block thoughts of it.
I don’t know how to.
Think about… think about Stuck-up Stuart.
He thought about how good it would feel to hear Stuart’s jaw cracking under the weight of his booted foot. And he did it because he could just about grasp the possibility of someone being able to read his mind; it was an easier concept to grasp, a safer concept to grasp than the dead coming through a medium on some short-wave receiver that no one but Psychic Freaks Inc could decode.
“And he says he’s glad you’ve started to think of him as Sam instead of Sammy. He says it’s okay that you were late picking him up, and he forgives you.”
Eddie opened his dry mouth, but absolutely nothing came out.
“He says you should work on forgiving yourself now.”
“I… I can’t, I…” Eddie stood, grabbed the watch and in a blur, he began to walk away, oblivious now to the chatting ladies.
“Eddie,” the voice echoed.
He stopped, didn’t look around. How’s he know my name?
“You have got to stop the booze.”
He walked quickly across the wide-open floor, wiping his eyes, listening to the silence that just crushed the hall. He was just trying to put distance between himself and the psychic freak and the monkey’s tea party.
His eyes were a blur, his heart hammered in a chest that had begun to heal the misery of loss and had tried to put things into pigeonholes, locked away for the safety of his mind. The pigeonholes had been plundered by a medium who could read minds.
Eddie was in bits. His mind reeled. For the revelation that Sam liked the shrine and had an expanse of love deep enough to forgive the unforgivable. It was like sucking on a live mains cable.
He ran out into the rain, into oblivion in his haste to get out of there, and wouldn’t have noticed if a herd of bulls was about to cross his path, let alone the scrabbling, clutching hands of his estranged wife. He didn’t see her; tears spilled across his face and all he thought of was running; there was nothing else, nothing else existed. Eddie was frightened half to death, but even the numbness in his legs couldn’t stop him running from the ghosts that followed at the speed of thought. And it took a mighty slap to bring him round and allow his eyes to see again.
She was here. He saw her. His breathing was laboured, his face hollow and pale, but at least his eyes could focus now. And they focused on Jilly. He saw the horror on her face, the shock at meeting him, and then the understanding in them. It wasn’t such a massive jump for her to conclude what had happened in there.
His numb legs let go and Eddie collapsed onto the wet tarmac. She knelt beside him, pulled his chin up and forced him to gaze at her. His hair clung to his forehead, his flimsy jacket already shiny with water. His lips trembled, and then Eddie shrieked and cried, folding his head into Jilly’s neck.
A crowd gathered at the doors. They clasped Styrofoam cups in their hands, exchanged glances and hushed words. But none stepped outside the dryness of the community hall. The rain came heavier, bouncing off the tarmac; he could hear it battering the roofs of nearby cars and could even see it cascading across the car park, a shallow river going downhill – a little like himself.
44
Tuesday 23rd June
– One –
Christian spent hours crying in the corner by the dustbins, trying to keep out of the rain. He mourned two deaths: Alice’s and his own. For when the police caught up with him they would kill him too. He wondered if the protestors would hold a demonstration in Leeds for him.
His mind shuffled the day’s events, trying to make sense of them. But there was no sense. Who would want to kill her? And why? She had become too brave for her own good over the last few days, mixing with the wrong kinds of people; the kind who would take advantage. She was naïve, and crazy, literally insane, and she had been since the day they met – well, no, that’s not right; she’d been crazy since the day she miscarried. Spencer, they were going to call him. If he’d lived.
Christian let the tears fall and hoped the police caught her killer before they took the easy option – him.
He thought of the paintings – and of course he couldn’t go back for them because the place would be crawling with coppers by now, and even if it wasn’t, how would he carry so many without a car – and to where?
There was only one objective now: survival. And to survive he needed to get away from the city, needed to head for solitude in the hills or somewhere out in the country away from vidiscreens and bounty hunters and bureaucracy. Away from the police.
He coughed, pulled his shirt tight around his shoulders and stood, wincing at the pain in his left arm. The light was poor, and now would be the right time to head off into town to find some transport.
– Two –
“Your father has instructed me to collect you.”
Henry held the phone away from his face, stared at it as though he wasn’t sure what it was. “He has? Why?”
Sirius made a point of ensuring Henry heard him tut. “Because it’s time to kill the cat.”
“What? Will you speak English, man?” And then it hit him: kill the cat, meant destroy the Jaguar – of course; it was code-speak. “Ah, you mean torch–”
“Be ready at two.”
Henry listened to the hum of a dead line and rocked his head side to side, “Be ready at two,” he mocked, and slammed the phone down. Henry sat in his leather armchair, sipped his coffee and turned the TV off. Why did he have to go along? What could he possibly contribute?
He stood, knocked the coffee over and didn’t even notice. “It’s a set-up. It’s dear old Daddy’s way of getting me permanently out of the way.” And it was a way of preventing disclosure of Henry’s secret. “Bastard,” he whispered. “Bastard!” he shouted. Whatever happened to giving him the one chance they’d agreed on?
Henry walked into his bedroom, pulled open the divan drawer and reached up inside the bed frame. It was good to
feel the reassurance the handgun gave him. Henry slid it into his belt, patted it and smiled. And now for the paperwork that needed attending to.
– Three –
The rain pounded mercilessly, and Christian wandered through the deserted city centre streets. Thunderclouds gathered, and the storm rolling into town from the west promised all kinds of magic and fireworks. The light had receded into a kind of opaque greyness tinged with a rich ochre.
Fear tiptoed alongside, making him snatch his breath as he remembered seeing her lying on the stairs with blood all over the place. Her face stared accusingly at him, and he remembered standing there feeling guilty at what he’d done, but feeling totally vindicated at the same time. But the guilt was worse – he almost felt as though he had killed her.
His cold legs, to which his wet jeans clung like a second skin, brought him into Burley and the land of the Victorian terrace; back-to-back prisons that crushed families within their confines as effectively as a razor wire fence, where each window looked out onto more bricks and where gutters tipped the rainwater down the walls. His shoulder throbbed, his ear stung like a burn, and when he discarded the sodden bandage he felt the warm trickle as blood flowed again.
There were few people about, and those he saw paid him no attention. The light dimmed so much so that the street lamps came on, bathing the weeds and the rusting cars in a disgusting orange glow that saddened him further.
Old cars lined both sides of the street. They were rust-spotted, had cracked windscreens, smashed door mirrors and damaged door locks – this was the car thieves’ training ground. He turned right onto a road called Turner Avenue, and was only a third of the way along it before his hand came away holding an open door. Quickly he ducked inside, heard the rain drumming on the roof and looked at the damaged ignition, hanging down into the footwell by its wires.
Church bells, three chimes, cracked into the sodden air, and then disappeared without so much as an echo.
He rifled the glovebox, looking for a screwdriver, something to stick in the ignition and get the motor going, but came out with nothing more than CDs and a can of de-icer. The ceiling lamp poured its light over him, and in the darkness outside, he stood out like a lighthouse. He pulled the diffuser away and flicked the festoon bulb out from its holder. A quick glance up and down the street told him he was still okay, and so he snapped the diffuser in two.
– Four –
The windscreen wipers grated intermittently across the screen. The hire car headed north into Leeds, and into a looming black cloud so big it was like a tidal wave in mid-air. The sunlight shrank away from it and an eerie calm fell upon the crowds they drove through.
“All I need from you is an address,” he mocked. And then Henry looked across at Sirius. He could see a bulge beneath the flimsy summer jacket he wore, just in front of his left bicep. Gun? “You don’t like me much, do you, Sirius?”
“I don’t like you at all.”
“And why’s that, then?”
“Just shut it.”
“Frightened I’ll run and tell my dad if you upset me?”
Sirius stared forward. “Your father knows how I feel about you.”
“Really?” He knew they both hated him in equal amounts; he wasn’t stupid.
“Bailed you out more times than you’ll ever know.”
This was going to be a fun afternoon. “Where’re we going?”
“We’re going to get someone to help bail you out – again.”
“So long as I’m keeping you amused.”
“You’re not keeping me amused, Henry, you’re just pissing me off.”
Henry smiled wide; as long as the money kept appearing in nondescript brown envelopes, Sirius would keep on bailing. Men like him were ten-a-penny. “So if all you need me for is an address, why am I here?”
“Ask Sir George.”
He sneaked another glance. He had a neck that came out at the ears and blended into the cliffs of his shoulders. Henry grew worried. Who are we going to meet? Am I going to help Sirius dig my grave? Does he do things like that? Kill people? Bet he does. Anything to keep politics running smoothly. This made Henry edgy. As they headed for the less respectable part of town, the daylight shrank away from the dark clouds even further, and the rain came down so heavily that the wipers struggled to keep the screen clear.
Out of the side window, Henry noticed a road sign. “Burley? Why are we going to Burley, of all places?”
“We’re meeting someone there.”
“Who?”
Sirius smiled. “Don’t know yet.”
“You make no sense at all.” Henry shifted in his seat. “You know this is where all the dross hangs out don’t you? This is about as bad as it gets.”
“Don’t you ever shut up?”
“If all you needed from me was an address–”
“Shut up.”
Henry did shut up. For the rest of their journey – another ten minutes spent easing the hire car through narrow streets. The rain was a muffled roar on their roof. “Are we heading somewhere in particular?” he asked, “only I think we’ve passed that burnt-out car before.”
“We have been here before, and you need to keep quiet.”
There he was. Out on his own.
Sirius glided in for a closer look. He went by a few minutes ago, and this kid was just rounding the corner onto Turner Avenue, and now he was trying his hand at vehicle recovery. He drove past the kid and stopped in the street fifty yards away and killed the engine. He reached over the seat for his GoreTex and noticed Henry looking at his chest – or more precisely, at the bulge of steel on his chest. Henry looked away. “Yes, it is.”
“What?”
“A gun. A legal gun. Now stay here, and don’t do anything stupid. While you’re out with me, you abide by my rules – your father’s words – and if I have to, I’ll keep you in line by force.” He did not smile.
Sirius climbed from the car, closed the door with a push rather than a slam, pulled his GoreTex on and then he crouched. The weather provided excellent cover; no noise, few people around, perfect for creeping up on some unsuspecting car thief. Sirius wasn’t fussy – this kid would do; a burglar would do, a shoplifter would do, anyone really, anyone who had that look of “bad” about them.
He ran across the road, crouched behind a car and assessed his prey. Church bells announced 3pm, and Sirius never twitched.
– Five –
The diffuser snapped cleanly, leaving a sharp plastic triangle that only just fitted into the little slot in the black plastic ignition barrel. He was indeed lucky, not only was the door unlocked, but the ignition had been previously attacked and exposed. He hadn’t even started the car before he was planning a drive-by of his old house. If there were no police around, he meant to retrieve some or all of his work, beginning with the woodland fairy. The thought of striding over Alice made him shudder.
After that, he’d head to Scotland, as far north as you could get, where the vidiscreens were infrequent and the friendships stronger. And who knows, he thought, maybe one day I’ll come back and I’ll find who killed her.
As he turned the plastic diffuser in the ignition barrel, a violet flash of lightning ripped through the air above him, electrifying it, searing it. He screamed but the shatter of thunder, a crisp cleaving of the air around him, deafened him. He stared at the sky, marvelling at the rain.
Sirius watched from three cars back. The kid was fannying about with the ignition after having successfully blinded the interior light. The driver’s door was open, giving out onto the footpath, an escape for the would-be car thief if the owner happened to show up. He crept closer, could see the kid’s sneakered foot and soaked jeans, could make out his damp elbow as his arm worked away at something inside the car.
Directly overhead a spear of violet lightning, followed by a clap of thunder the volume of which he had never heard before, leapt through the air, sizzling raindrops, forming wisps of steam that melted quickly away.
/> Closer. He was at the back of the car now, creeping silently nearer. The curtains to his right twitched and a smudged face appeared at the misted-up window. Then a hand cleared a circle and distinctive eyes peered directly at him.
Sirius put one dead straight finger in front of his lips and blew a shush at the onlooker. Whether the onlooker thought Sirius was part of the crew about to nick his car or not, he didn’t know, but he banged on the window, rattled it, and he was shouting, screaming at the kid in the car.
Henry sat alone in the hire car wondering what would happen next. Was a gang of miscreants about to rip him from the car and beat him to death? What was going on?
Sirius was between two parked cars a little further down the street, and envy tickled Henry Deacon as he peered through the back window. Watching a man crouched like that, pursuing his prey silently in difficult conditions took Henry into a daydream of donning webbing and camouflage, shouldering his M18a and going out to hunt the enemy.
The lightning and the thunder wrenched Henry back into the car, misted-up windows preventing him seeing clearly. He started the car, switched on the AC and the rear screen demister and gently, reassuringly, patted his own gun. Just a little insurance, daddy-o.
And then he saw a little way down the hill, smoke spewed from the exhaust as a car started up.
He turned the plastic shard and the engine coughed but eventually started, registering its apparent wear by the noise from the valve train – a rattle like someone shaking a tin of nuts and bolts. At the house window, a man banged on the glass.
As Christian reached out to close the door…
…and Sirius smacked the cuffs over the kid’s right wrist. The kid yelped like a girl and fell backwards into the car. Sirius growled and tried to haul the kid free, reached further in and when he did so, the kid tried to kick him off, his shouts muffled by the noise of the rain bouncing on the car’s roof. Sirius yanked the cuffs, almost pulling the kid out into the wetness. Then he drew his fist back and punched at the kid’s face, but he moved aside unbelievably fast, replacing his whiskered face with a piece of sharp white plastic.
[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule Page 24