[Eddie Collins 01.0] The Third Rule

by Andrew Barrett

  “I hope she’s got enough money for a spray job.”

  Eddie glanced at Mick. “Don’t. I feel bad enough as it is.”

  “What did she say to you? If you don’t mind my asking.”

  Eddie kept driving, and half a minute or so passed before the scraping and scratching receded, before he needed the wipers again, and they broke through into what appeared to be a wide featureless access lane.

  “She said we’re gonna die.” Eddie felt the wheels slip, felt the car being pulled along by deep ruts before it found a potholed lane.

  “You two optimists were made for each other.”

  They were travelling a slight incline and it wasn’t long before the headlights picked out a building up ahead. Eddie stopped the car twenty yards before it and together they climbed out.

  All this tumult and danger, this fight against a murderous government was the source of a new-found enhancement of Eddie’s squalid life. The image of Ros nestling into his neck, the smell of her hair and the warmth he shared with her, it was all thanks to the Third Rule, and however short his life had become since Henry Deacon killed his son, then at least he was grateful that it now had a little colour around the monotone edges – Imminent Death had forced her hand, and even if they never saw each other again… well, maybe that was a thought not worth thinking.

  “We’re never going to find his bleeding lookout tower in this.” The rain came heavier as if listening to Eddie.

  Mick pulled out a torch from his jacket, and then pulled his jacket collar up.

  “Didn’t pack any sandwiches when you packed the torch, did you?”

  “No.”

  “Coffee?”

  “No.”

  “Bugger.”

  They walked over the dirt, past the dilapidated building and towards what they hoped would be a summit, somewhere high that could give them a clue as to where Henry’s tower may be.

  “Why couldn’t he have played in a fucking tree house like a normal kid?”

  It turned out there was a summit of sorts, and luckily for them, Mick happened to be shining his torch at the grey earth, marvelling at how it was turning from dusty dirt to slick mud before their eyes. And then the earth disappeared.

  Both men stood on the edge of the great opencast mine, and when Mick shone the torch straight down, the beam just disappeared.

  “Okay, we’re not high enough. I can’t see anything.”

  They scanned all around but the only thing coming back at them in the torchlight was the steadily falling rain. Mick turned it off, and surprisingly things improved; they could make out the dark valley they had just walked up, black embankments either side receding into various tones of dark grey. With their backs to the opencast, either side was different; to their left was the sheer face of a slag mound that travelled upwards almost forever until the slightly lighter sky showed them its silhouette. To their right however, was a lane that gave way to one of the valley sides and, without speaking, they elected to travel this way.

  “You know you’re on a Rule Three?”

  “I had forgotten, but appreciate the reminder, cheers.”

  “I could stop it,” Mick said.

  Eddie stood still for a moment. “How?”

  “I ask Rochester to bring forward the publishing schedule for the juicy bits that Henry gave me.”

  “Have it transcribed so the entire country will read that he fired the CSI building?”

  Mick nodded through the rain.

  “I can see two problems with that.”

  “You really are a pessimistic bastard. I thought you’d be grateful.”

  Eddie walked on, his limp growing more pronounced.

  “So go on then, what problems? We already did a forensic match on the voice, it’s definitely Henry Deacon. We have independent corroboration that the recording hasn’t been tampered with–”

  “First,” Eddie shouted back over his shoulder, “it’s big of Henry to admit firing the building, but that doesn’t prove he killed Stuart.”

  “And they can’t prove that you killed him either.”

  “Seems to me that’s where convenient justice comes to life… they already got me on a Rule Three so I’m betting they’ll want proof not that I did it, but proof that I didn’t. I’m on a public death list, mate, won’t be easy to get me off it.”

  “But he said–”

  “I know what he said, Mick, but they reckon they already have the killer.”

  “You’re full of shit.”

  Eddie staggered down the lane.

  “And what’s the second good reason I shouldn’t go public now?”

  Eddie stopped again and waited for Mick to catch up. “Having a headline claiming that Henry killed Archer and Sam is one thing, but if you claim he tried to evade justice by altering evidence, with government help, I guarantee you free admission to a very private death list.”

  – Two –

  The phone on Deacon’s desk buzzed. He picked up. “Yes?”

  “Sir,” Justine said, “I have Thomas Gordon on the phone.”

  “I wanted him here–”

  “He’s in Scotland, sir.”

  Deacon closed his eyes for a moment, made an effort to take a deep breath and failed half way through. “Put him on.” The line clicked. “Thomas?” he said.

  “Sir George. How can I help you?”

  “I want an injunction taking out against a local newspaper in Yorkshire and its affiliated national edition.”

  “When?”

  “When? Now!”

  There was a pause on the other end of the phone long enough for Deacon to wonder if the line had been cut.

  “Three days. Minimum. Depending on–”

  “Don’t give me three days, Thomas, I want it doing before the morning edition hits the streets.”

  “Impossible! The morning editions will be printed by now, probably already in transit.”

  “You’re a lawyer, dammit, stop them.”

  “Cannot be done. And the online versions will be available soon anyway. You may be able to get one in time for tomorrow’s edition, but no chance for today’s. Sorry.”

  “Put the wheels in motion. And use as much grease as you need.”

  “What’s it about? And what newspaper is it?”

  “It’s The Yorkshire Echo–”

  “We’re off to a bad start already then; Alan Rochester is the editor, and he’s an old bulldog–”

  “Then get a wolf on the job–”

  “Who has access to Media Corporation’s lawyers… they play rough and can delay–”

  “Thomas. Stop there.” Deacon leaned back against the cold leather of his chair and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I want the stories they’re about to run killed. Dead.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “National security.”

  “You’ll need to be more specific, that’s a huge umbrella.”

  “Specific. Right. We have a drunken journalist and a drunken police employee running around the fucking country making stories up about my family and about the policies concerning the new Criminal Justice Act, which may bring it into disrepute, and which may damage my reputation and the government’s reputation beyond repair.”

  “Don’t worry about reputation, we have tough libel laws.”

  “Fuck the libel laws, Thomas; I don’t want it even reaching the courts! Once it’s in the public domain it will never go away; even when I’m vindicated, my career and The Rules will be in tatters.”

  There was another considerable silence before, “I’ll get someone to visit Rochester in a few hours; maybe we can lean on him a little.”

  “Make it happen, Thomas. I can cover this morning’s headlines if I must, but God knows what’s coming my way tomorrow.”

  Deacon put down the phone, clasped his hands before him, and finished off the deep breath he’d promised himself.

  – Three –

  With the smell of freshly rained upon dust in the air, the
y walked in silence, slipping and tripping along the treacherous lane with feet made twice as wide and twice as heavy with clinging grey mud. Eventually, a compound came into view, blocked by metal gates that had perished over time. Mick took out his torch, and with ease they forced aside the corroded chain link fence at the gates’ side and climbed through, a gusting wind at their backs. Soon they were walking not on slippery grey muddy earth, but on slippery concrete. Ahead, the carcasses of abandoned machinery stood open to the elements like rows of slain giants and all they could hear was wind whistling among them, and incessant rain beating them.

  “Up there.” Eddie pointed into the near distance. Silhouetted against the lighter sky was what looked like a Second World War aircraft control tower. It was a cold concrete structure high enough to have a pretty good view of the compound, and probably most of the opencast too. A plethora of other eerily dark buildings seemed to spread out to one side of the tower. Eddie rammed his wet hands deep into his wet pockets and trudged on towards the tower of dreams.

  The door banged shut after them, and even Mick’s torchlight seemed reluctant to be here, its light as meagre as a candle flame. Wind rushed along the concrete staircase beside them, adding to the chill in their wet clothes. Outside in the dark yard, a door banged incessantly.

  Mick’s torchlight picked out the stairs and the debris crowded onto them, and then they were on a landing of sorts with doors left and right, all open, all willing to give up their innards to a curious eye. But none of them contained anything of note, just bare floors, massive spiders’ webs, smashed windows, and utter darkness.

  Their footfalls echoed in this chasm that had stood abandoned perhaps thirty years. In one or two of the rooms, they found very old empty lager cans, discarded porn magazines, cigarette ends, even a couple of uninviting blankets complete with rat droppings. But nothing pertaining as yet to any kind of stick.

  “How are we going to find a stick in here?” Eddie pushed open the door to a small toilet block. “It could be anywhere.”

  “I know. But what else can we do? Keep looking.”

  “I have no idea what we’re looking for though. Why send us out here for a fucking–”

  “Stick. Yes, I know. But maybe it’s a hollow stick, contains some important documents, maybe the stick is pointing to something, I don’t know, mate, just keep looking.”

  And keep looking they did. Through a warped wooden door, with the remnants of smashed glass inside a rotten frame, they entered the main part of the tower. Glassless windows peered out into a mess of turbulent clouds, and the rain flew in, propelled by a chill wind directly into Eddie’s eyes as he stood squinting out into the night, observing the black hole of the opencast some 200 yards away, and closer, the dead diesel and water tanks on a light grey concrete hard-standing. The door out there continued to bang.

  “He’s been here, alright.” Mick shone his torch at the narrow strip of wall between the windows and the door they’d just entered through. Scratched into the remains of the damp plaster were the words Henry Deacon and a date below them read: 24/8/94. “Scruffy little bastard.”

  “I’m not seeing a stick.”

  And then they both turned, almost simultaneously, towards each other, as though an idea had at last shared itself with them, and both said, “Memory stick!”

  “But that’s even worse,” Eddie said, “They’re tiny. I was imagining a two-foot length of wood, dammit. But a memory stick, Jesus, we could be here all night.”

  “Think about it though, what other clues has he given us?”

  Eddie folded his arms. “Well, this could be interesting.”

  “I’m thinking aloud here. Feel free to join in at any time.”

  “What a prick that guy was. I mean, we’re looking for something the size a of a fucking matchbox in a–”

  “Where would you hide it?”

  “Me?”

  “We’ve got to think like him.”

  “You mean go back to the car and run some people down?”

  “If you were him, where would you hide it?”

  “Behind a picture in the kitchen! I don’t know, but I wouldn’t–”

  “If you had to hide it here, where would you hide it? It would need to be out of sight of any kids who came here–”

  “It’d need to be waterproof,” Eddie said.

  “Right.”

  “Maybe higher than your average kid to keep it out of reach.”

  Mick shone the torch slowly around the room, shoulder high and above, looking for loose plaster, missing bricks or the like. Almost imperceptibly, the beam had grown fainter, yellower.

  “There.” Eddie pointed to the electrical conduit running between the light switch and a scattering of five or six ceiling lights. “Run the torch along its length.”

  Mick approached the switch, looked doubtfully at Eddie.

  “Seriously; it’s metal, it’s big enough… wait, shine your torch up there.” Eddie pointed to the dark stain of a junction box on the ceiling. Mick brought his light up, and they could see it was a shallow metal circular box attached to the ceiling. It had three tubular conduits leading away from it; its cover was a flat circular disc, rusty as hell and screwed to the box very loosely. And although the screw heads were also rusty, their threads were still a shiny silver, as though they had been recently unscrewed. Mick looked at Eddie; raised eyebrows said he could be on to something.

  Eddie reached up but the rusty screws were just out of reach.

  70

  Friday 26th June

  – One –

  Under the cover of darkness, Christian decided to go south after all. There were moments during his four-hour stretch at the wheel where he almost felt happy, where his injured shoulder had settled to a tolerable throb. There were moments when he forgot about Alice, and even the loss of his paintings temporarily left him alone too.

  The hum of the tyres on the road made him drowsy. The stereo didn’t work, and the window didn’t open. So his tiredness grew, amplified until he was only seeing glimpses of the road between bouts of eye-rolling drowsiness.

  Up ahead on the M5 was Sedgemoor services. His dream of getting all the way to the remotest part of Cornwall in one journey was proving too much. Almost without thinking, he slid his right hand across the steering wheel and flicked the indicator stalk down. Moments later he shut off the engine in the darkest corner of the car park he could find. Through the screen, and over the top of a hedge, he could see the silhouette of black trees against the mid-blue of the night sky. He took a long drink of water, climbed into the back seat, and was asleep in less than a minute.

  – Two –

  “Hurry up,” Mick said, “the fucking torch is dying.”

  They scavenged around the room for something screwdriver-shaped, and came up empty. And then Eddie stood up, wiped grimy fingers down his trousers and looked at the window. “Here, bring your candle over.”

  Eddie tiptoed to the rotten window frame and when Mick arrived with the torch, he saw the perfect tool. He grasped the wood, and shards of glass broke free; the larger pieces fell outside, but the wind hurled the sharp, powdery bits into their faces.

  “Nice,” Mick said, spitting glass. “I’m no mechanical genius here, but I suspect the window frame may be a tad too large to fit into the screw’s slot. Just an observation.”

  Squinting, Eddie yanked the frame, twisting it top and bottom until the spongy wood released the top hinge. He grabbed the frame at the top, eyes fully shut now, and twisted it out and down until the window broke free of its frame. Eddie hauled it inside and got upwind.

  “Okay, shine your light, need to see if we can get the hinges off.”

  Mick played the light at both hinges just as it faded and went out.

  “Fuck.”

  “Timing is just wonderful.”

  The room ceased to exist; all that did exist to them now was the noise of the wind and the stinging of the rain. “Well, at least we can get to work now.”
/>   “Using a fucking window frame?”

  “Watch and learn, watch and learn.” Eddie shuffled into the centre of the room. “Get your lighter out, up near the junction box.”

  “This I have to see.”

  “Me too, or else we’ll be here all night.”

  With wet fingers, Mick fumbled his lighter from his pocket, thumbed the flint. Nothing happened. No spark. “It’s wet through.”

  “You’re taking the piss.”

  “Yes I’m taking the piss, Eddie. I thought it would be fun to spend the night in a wind tunnel, freezing cold, starving, needing a shit, needing a drink, striking a dead lighter so you could work your magic on a junction box with a fucking window frame!”

  “You’re upset, aren’t you? Don’t deny it, I can read the signs.”

  “Stop it, Eddie, I’m not in the mood.”

  “Reach into my left jacket pocket, there’s a push-button lighter in there. No flint, just piezoelectric quartz. Modern technology, it’s called.”

  Mick held the tiny light as high as he could, shielding the flame from the gusting wind long enough for Eddie to locate the edge of one of the seized hinges into the slot of a screw in the junction box lid.

  The flame blew out several times, the hinge parted company with the slot just as many times, with progress being tediously slow. They had managed maybe two full turns of one of the screws. And then the flame blew out and no amount of furious button-pressing could coax it back into the life, the wind was too strong, the rain too persistent.

  Eddie screamed and threw the window frame aside, the remaining glass broke and joined the rest of the debris somewhere in the corner. “My arms are killing me.”

  “Why’s it so tight to unscrew? The threads look brand new.”

  “Stupid tosser got it cross-threaded. And instead of taking the screw out and starting again, he just tightened it and tightened it.”