The Rules

by KERRY BARNES

  The Governor looked over at Jackie again and turned his head as if he recognized her. ‘Straight up, yeah? Look at the fucking state of the skanky bitch.’

  ‘Nah, she ain’t like that. I made her sample the gear.’

  The Governor shook his head in disgust. ‘Where’s my money? You were supposed to fetch it to the drop-off point.’

  Leon hurried over to the desk and opened the bottom drawer and pulled out a white cotton bag, ‘It’s all there.’

  With a quick movement, the Governor grabbed the corner of the bag and tipped out the notes. ‘I want you to fucking count them in front of me. Now!’

  Leon gathered up the money and began counting it. Each hundred bundle was carefully separated and put into piles until it totalled a thousand. Then, he placed every one in the bag. ‘Fifteen grand.’

  ‘Right, tomorrow, I want the next fifty grand dropped off at the Swan and Mitre, at noon. Not a fucking minute later. And if I ever have to come here in person again, I swear to God, you won’t have a fucking hand to count out the money.’

  ‘Look, I was gonna drop it off today. I swear to ya.’

  With his fingers turning and tapping the metal bar, the Governor’s anger reached a pitch. ‘You’re a fucking idiot. Those drop-off points are timed, you mug. When I say a place and a time, then you get your skinny fucking arse there on the dot. Do I make myself clear?’

  Leon nodded furiously. ‘No worries, Governor. It’ll be there, no question.’

  ‘It’d better be. Oh, and one more thing. The Daylight Inn is getting a bit hot. You make sure that drippy bog attendant has a lookout, even if it means it’s you. That’s a good earner, and I don’t want it fucked up, or . . . well, I don’t need to tell you, do I?’

  With that, the Governor snatched the bag and left.

  As soon as he was out of sight, Leon let out a large lungful of air; small beads of sweat gathered on his brow, and he felt his heart beating wildly. He thought for a moment about jacking it all in, but the money was too good; besides, fixing cars at ten pounds an hour was a distant memory.

  Jackie stirred, and his annoyance caused him to kick her leg harder than was necessary to wake her up. ‘Get up!’

  Her eyes flicked open, and a huge smile spread across her face, showing the chipped and blackened back teeth.

  ‘Come on! Get up and get out!’

  Jackie’s euphoria was slowly descending. For a moment, she wanted to be back in that place of comfort where nothing else mattered. Getting to her feet, her eyes were heavy, and her muscles felt relaxed. ‘Wow, that’s good shit.’ She laughed, totally unaware of the scowl on Leon’s face.

  ‘Yeah, and ya fat gob nearly got me killed!’

  Jackie, still detached from the real world, waved her hand. ‘Aw, don’t be like that, babe. I’ll tell ya what. You sort me out with that stuff and I’ll make you a fortune.’ She giggled like a child. ‘And, of course, meself.’

  Leon nodded, not in the least interested. Ensuring he could come up with the fifty grand and in time for the drop-off tomorrow weighed heavily on his mind. He robotically walked back to his desk and retrieved ten packets of the powder. ‘’Ere, take this lot, and by Friday, I want five hundred quid on my desk. If ya fuck up, I know where ya live, and trust me, woman, you won’t have a caravan left. Got it?’

  Jackie looked down at the carefully wrapped parcels. ‘That’s cheap for cocaine, ain’t it?’

  With a caustic tone, Leon snapped, ‘You thick prat, it ain’t cocaine.’

  Oblivious to his evident annoyance, Jackie looked up with her silly grin. ‘What is it, then?’

  ‘Flakka.’

  ‘What’s that? Some kinda heroin?’

  He gave her a dismissive blink and let out a jaded sigh. ‘No, it’s a new drug . . . Never mind. Five hundred quid on my desk by Friday, and if you do well, then I’ll up the amount.’

  ‘How much do I sell it for?’ she asked naively.

  ‘Whatever the fuck you like. Now fuck off!’

  By the time Jackie reached home, narrowly missing three parked cars and an old dear crossing the pedestrian lights, she was still high. The soft pillows on her bed were so inviting that she lay spreadeagled and soaked up the fuzzy, warm comfortable feeling. With serenity carved on her face, she drifted back into that other heavenly world, far removed from reality.

  Three hours later, she was wide awake and feeling like shit – worse, in fact, than a significant hangover. Her body ached as if she’d been in a fight and her head was a mess. She struggled to fight off her inner demons, the two voices battling each other – one telling her to pull herself together and the other pressuring her to give in. Through blurry eyes, she stared at the packets on the bedside cabinet, knowing that she had to sell the gear or face the consequences. Her addictive personality had her by the throat, and she had to bite her nails to stop herself from touching any of it. It was as though the powder was calling her.

  She jumped up from the bed to distract her weak thoughts but almost fell over. The dizziness knocked her sideways. As she steadied herself, waves of the sweats engulfed her body and violent hot rushes made her feel sick. A second later, in contrast, she started to shiver, and her mind begged for relief in the form of euphoria – the escape to another dimension. With a bathrobe around her shoulders, she rushed from the bedroom to escape the calling packet. Switching the small electric fire on, she huddled up to keep warm. Yet, outside, it was sweltering. The hot and freezing cold changes in her body temperature were making her desperate to have another line of the new drug. When her eyes shot towards the bedroom door and then back at the red glow from the fire, she saw herself in the mirror on the wall. What with a runny nose, her nails that were bitten down to the quick, and her sallow skin, she knew that she was probably now on the path to becoming a fully fledged junkie. But it was no use: it was impossible to rid her mind of that craving.

  Another wave of sickness caused her to jump to her feet, and instead of rushing to the bathroom, she headed back to the bedroom. Nervously fingering the parcel, she told herself that just one small line would hopefully perk her up. Or was it that other voice that constantly nagged: Go on, Jackie, it won’t hurt? Without another thought, she rolled up her last tenner and snorted the flaky white powder.

  She found herself back in the land of Disney.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Kendall tossed her rucksack over her bare shoulder and trundled off towards the station. It was approaching ten o’clock and the next train to Orpington was in three minutes. If she wasn’t outside the station in half an hour, her father wouldn’t wait; he’d made that crystal clear.

  A surge of commuters barged past her, leaving little room to swerve in and out to make the train. The whistle blew, and just as the doors began to close, Kendall managed to slip sideways and squeeze in. Her exposed arms and neck were coated in a sheen of sweat. Removing her rucksack, she flopped onto the only empty seat. With her head down, she plugged her earphones in and took a few deep breaths.

  The packed carriage sent her into a panic attack. She hated closed spaces, yet she detested people more, especially strangers. Her music stopped: the battery on her phone had just died. Reluctantly, removing the plugs from her ears, she heard two women whispering to each other. It was clear from the way they were glancing her way that she was the focus of their attention. ‘Yeah, she’s probably one of those Goth people,’ one said. ‘Ya know, all into the Devil.’

  Kendall looked up, and her eyes narrowed. Two chubby women were standing, while holding on to the bar above to maintain their balance. One of them, wearing a lemon cotton dress, was exposing a hairy armpit. The sweat stains darkened the fabric and it turned Kendall’s stomach. She was about to retaliate with a smart comment, but she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Instead, she offered an enchanting smile and hid her petulance like an invisible veil. Both the women reddened and looked away in embarrassment.

  Kendall inwardly sighed. Why did people assume she was a Got
h or was even into devil worshipping? She couldn’t help that she was naturally pale or the fact that her hair was overly dark. Black was her favourite colour, and she felt most comfortable wearing it. The black boots she wore improved her high instep and the faded dark-grey T-shirt with the skull and crossbones was just to piss her mother off; other than that, she wasn’t a Goth at all. She could have slipped on a floral dress and some pretty kitten heels and had her hair in a neat plait, but why should she? Rebecca had her little dolly in the form of her younger sister, Brooke. One doll-like girl was quite enough in the family.

  A sudden thought had Kendall gently feeling her cheek. The slap from her mother had actually hurt quite a bit, and she hadn’t checked to see if it had caused any swelling. She didn’t think it had, but, in some ways, she wished it had. At least when she met her father, she could show him, in the hope that he would feel guilty.

  Her father was a no-nonsense man with a tough exterior. She admired him even though she wasn’t sure if she actually liked him. Perhaps it was because they were so much alike, and the complete opposite of her mother. She mused over the idea of her parents ever being together again, let alone getting married. They really were like chalk and cheese. Her mother, with her particular ways, bordering on OCD and ensuring everything was perfect, even down to the way she spoke, really grated on Kendall. She would cringe and almost squint her eyes when her mother made the most ridiculous demands like ‘Make sure you greet my guests politely.’ Then there was the other one: ‘Sit up like a lady.’ She wondered if at any age her mother would consider her a woman. Yet Rebecca spoke to everyone as if they were children. Her campaigners, her housekeeper, her personal assistant, yes – but not Alastair. Never him – he was the vocal one, the head of the family who dished out the orders when Rebecca wasn’t around. How ironic was that? she thought. Would her constituency supporters and those who voted for her still have faith in her, their local MP, if they could really see how feeble she was under Alastair’s watchful eye?

  The little respect she did have for her mother went out of the window the day she had arrived to take her out of her father’s care. She’d heard the whispers and the undertones. Rebecca’s career was flying, and there must be no dirty laundry aired, no matter what.

  The train came to a stop, and the bleeping as the doors opened brought Kendall out of her thoughts. She joined the queue of departing passengers. In flinging her rucksack over her shoulder, she deliberately managed to catch the woman with the sweaty armpits in the face.

  ‘Careful, young lady!’ she hissed, to which Kendall turned and smiled – devilishly.

  Opposite the taxi rank and through the hordes of people, Kendall could just make out a black BMW. She hurried over with a genuine smile; it was the first one in a long time.

  The blacked-out window slowly opened and there with mirrored sunglasses and a dazzling smile was her father. ‘Quick, Kenny!’

  She had no sooner sat on the cool leather seat than he pulled away. ‘Ease up, Dad, will you? I haven’t even shut the bleeding door!’

  ‘Shut ya whining and buckle up. I can’t get pulled over by the Ol’ Bill.’

  Kendall threw her rucksack behind her and put her seatbelt on.

  ‘Right, I just need to pop in the pub. It’s not far from here. I’ll only be two minutes, and then we can have a chat.’

  Kendall felt her heart sink. Typical. Why could he never drop everything just once for her? She wondered who was best at being indifferent to her. Was it her mother or her father? She noticed him look her way and shake his head in disapproval. She wasn’t sure if that look of disdain was because of what she looked like or whether he was into telepathy. He had an uncanny ability of getting inside her mind.

  ‘What?’ she snapped as she sensed her father’s dismay.

  ‘How old are you now? What? Twenty-one?’ The smoky edge to his voice, implying he was annoyed, left an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of her stomach. She hated the tension when he was moody. And he had a knack of being unpredictable with his temperament.

  ‘Twenty, but shouldn’t you know that? I thought you were there at the birth?’

  ‘Oi, don’t get fucking lippy!’ he growled. ‘What’s with the fucking rebel T-shirt and studs in ya ears? Are you some kinda biker, or are you still acting like a kid? What’s that fucking Meat Loaf bollocks spread across ya chest?’

  Kendall laughed. ‘Aw, this? This little number? I only wear it just to get right up Mother’s nose.’

  She sensed his mood lift.

  ‘Still got her big bugle stuck in the air or up her arse, has she?’

  ‘She slapped me one today.’ Her voice was a mere whisper.

  ‘No doubt you deserved it, Kendall. Anyway, what was it for?’

  ‘I told her Alastair was a creep!’

  With a sudden raucous laugh, her father started to cough, tears now filling his eyes, as he tried to clear his throat. ‘Fuck me. I would’ve loved to ’ave been a fly on the wall. I can just see her snooty face, like a bulldog chewing a wasp, eh?’

  ‘Well, yeah, something like that. She wasn’t a happy bunny, that’s for sure.’

  Ten minutes into their drive, they turned into a residential side street and arrived outside a small pub that nestled in between a row of two-up two-down houses.

  ‘Wait here!’ he demanded, as he leaped from the car that was still ticking over and carelessly parked in the middle of the road.

  The street was narrow. Kendall looked behind her, hoping that no other vehicle wanted to pass, as there was no room. Left alone, she idly popped open the glove compartment and pulled out three CDs and looked at the covers: Madness, The Specials, and Bad Manners. She smiled to herself. The titles spoke volumes about her dad’s taste in music and perhaps his warped sense of humour. As she opened the Madness case to play one of the titles, she found to her shock and horror that there was no disc at all; instead, she was looking at transparent bags of white powder. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. Quickly, she opened the Bad Manners case; again, she found a similar quantity of what she could only guess were drugs. Her eyes shot back to the pub door. She shoved the CD cases back into the glove compartment and slammed the lid shut; yet it sprung open. It took three attempts before it would shut properly, and by this time, her heart was almost beating outside her chest. Christ, my dad’s a dealer, she said to herself.

  Her inquisitive nature pushed her to look down in the footwell of the driver’s side, and there, just like in the gangster films, she saw a metal cosh. The centre console was another temptation, and her hands trembled; if she opened the lid, would she find a gun too? Just as she was about to go for it, she was distracted by the pub door opening. And there, taking up the doorframe, stood her father. Suddenly, she was seeing him in a different light. As if she was a gangster herself, she, like her father, scanned the surroundings. Was anyone watching?

  He hurried over, opened the door, and threw a white cotton bag onto the back seat and pulled away. Kendall, still in gangster style, looked behind her at the building from which her father had just left. There, standing half in and half out of the doorway, scribbling something on a piece of paper, was a man almost the same size as her father.

  ‘Dad, a bloke back there is taking down your number plate, I think.’

  Without a word, he looked in the rear-view mirror and came to a halt. Ramming the gear into reverse, he put his foot down and tore all the way back. He didn’t even close the door behind him after he’d jumped out, and before she knew it, he had pushed his way through some customers entering the pub. Within no time at all, he was dragging the man out and onto the pavement.

  Kendall watched in horror as her father had the man in a headlock, clearly intending to smash the granny out of him. A mist of blood sprayed the wall. Her father didn’t stop, even after the man was out cold on the pavement; he continued to kick him deliberately and methodically. It sent Kendall’s blood cold, just watching her dad acting so mercilessly in full view of an
y residents who might be watching what was going on.

  Kendall shook from head to toe; never in her life had she seen such a violent fight. No. Wrong. It wasn’t a fight. The guy had stood no chance whatsoever. Unsure whether to get out and run or just stay put, her indecision was halted when two other men came hurtling along the road, both of them wielding metal tools. Her father didn’t see them behind him. Kendall knew she would have to act quickly or watch her father being beaten to death. Making a spur-of-the-moment decision, she opened the centre console compartment, thinking that maybe there was a gun. What she would have done with it though was another matter. Her eyes tried to focus on a metal canister. She snatched it, popped the lid, and jumped from the car, hoping that the pepper spray was as effective as it was claimed to be.

  One of the men who was tooled up managed to whack her father on the back, but just as the other one went to follow suit, she appeared like a whippet on speed and used all her strength to push down on the nozzle of the can and spray it directly into the two guys’ faces. Her father, who had been knocked to the side by the heavy blow, turned to see his daughter. In her Goth outfit and brandishing his can of pepper spray, she looked wild and fearsome as she went for his attackers in a rage. Suddenly, with their hands over their eyes, they backed off, coughing and spluttering. Doubled over, they gasped for breath as saliva ran from their mouths and snot poured from their nostrils.

  He pulled her arm down and removed the can. She stumbled back in total shock and looked at the devastation. The two men were almost choking to death, and the man on the ground was bloodied and lifeless. Her father dragged her away. ‘Get in the car!’

  Numbed by the event, she hurriedly did as he told her. He wasted no time in pulling away. Once again, Kendall looked behind her and this time there were a few customers peering out from inside the pub. She guessed they had stayed there while the fight ensued; it was none of their business. She knew then her father was a very dangerous man. Controlling her breathing, she wanted to appear unfazed; really, though, the experience had left her traumatized. She could have laughed out loud with hysteria, but, again, her veil of silence was her best form of protection. Like her, her father said nothing; instead, he drove like a bat out of hell until, finally, they were on a main road, heading for God knows where.