The Rule of Fear

by Luke Delaney

‘We went too far,’ Brown fought back.

  ‘Jesus,’ King reprimanded him. ‘Listen to yourself. Right from the beginning you’ve been saying we need to take the gloves off – fuck the rules. The slags don’t have rules, remember? Well now we are. There was no guarantee Butler would have gone down for what he did to Renita. Now he’s had justice. We didn’t leave it to chance. Didn’t leave it to some wanker in the CPS playing God.’ None of them spoke for a long time as they looked everywhere but at each other.

  ‘Now what?’ Williams finally asked.

  King took a few steps before returning with a sports bag. He unzipped it and tossed them each a white police shirt. ‘Wear these for now,’ he told them. ‘Get back to the nick and grab whatever you need, then head straight home. Try not to stop to talk to anyone.’

  ‘What you going to do with our shirts and gloves?’ Brown asked.

  ‘Burn them,’ King answered abruptly, ‘and any forensic evidence along with them.’

  ‘What about our trousers?’ Williams asked. ‘What about our shoes?’

  ‘They’re passable for now,’ King explained. ‘Blood’s hard to see on a black background. But take them home and wash the shit out of them and wash the shit out of these new shirts too and scrub your shoes. Then take a very long, very hot shower. Use all the soap you’ve got, then take all the clothing and shoes to a charity clothes bin far from your homes and dump everything in it.’

  ‘That’s why you told us not to wear our body armour and kitbelts,’ Brown caught on. ‘Because we couldn’t just chuck ’em. Not to mention it’d be impossible to completely destroy any forensics.’

  ‘Got to be one step ahead all the time,’ King answered. ‘If the shit ever hits the fan, first thing CID will do is seize and examine our kit and it’ll come up clean and so will we. Now split up and get home. I’ll wait here to give you a few minutes’ head start.’ Williams and Brown finished pulling on their clean shirts and started to make for the exit until King stopped them with his words. ‘And remember,’ he told them. ‘We’re all in this together now. There’s no turning back. Together they can’t touch us, but if one of us talks we’ll all go down. Butler’s not worth going to prison for. He got what he deserved. No one’s going to cry for him. Butler won’t talk to the CID, but he’ll talk to people on the estate and once he does – no one will fuck with us.’

  King stood for a long time in the shower, the steaming hot water almost more than he could bear as he scrubbed his skin and nails over and over again, washed his hair over and over again to remove any last, lingering traces of Butler. He’d already put his clothes through the most intensive cycle in the washing machine and had thoroughly cleaned his shoes too before placing them in separate bin liners and driving to a supermarket car park miles away where he dumped the lot in different clothes for charity containers. When he returned home he sprayed and wiped the driver’s area of his car with disinfectant spray – burning the paper towels he used in his sink before heading to the shower to finish the process of destroying any forensic evidence that could link him to the crime. Even if they were able to find some minute traces of Butler’s DNA or something belonging to Butler on him, it could easily be explained. He’d been in physical contact with Renita at the hospital and she would undoubtedly have traces of her attackers on her body – they must have been transferred from her to him. No forensic evidence against him would stand up under scrutiny.

  After the shower he wrapped a towel around his waist and headed for the kitchen, hoping his mood would change, but the familiar sight of another pile of unpaid bills on the table only darkened his outlook.

  ‘That’s all I need,’ he complained, pushing the unopened letters to one side, feeling disgusted by their mere presence. He had thought taking revenge on Butler would feel good – exhilarating – but he just felt numb and a little sick. He felt remorse and guilt, even fear, although he was confident he’d never be linked to the crime, but still he wanted the images of him and the others beating Butler out of his head, especially since they’d started mixing with older, more painful memories of the slaughtered family and the girl he’d managed to save from her own marauding father – all the beatings and the blood combining in one ugly kaleidoscope in his haunted mind.

  ‘Christ,’ he told himself before his head sank into his open hands. Instantly the memories of assaulting Butler intensified, making him sit bolt upright as he stared down at his reddened knuckles where the bruising was beginning to develop. ‘Christ,’ he pleaded again. ‘What have I done? What the fuck have I done?’ He leapt up from the table and began to pace around the room, unable to settle. ‘Never again,’ he promised himself. ‘Never again. Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with me?’

  He waited for an answer, but when none came he took a beer from the fridge and drank it quickly. It had little to no effect, so he grabbed another, but while he was drinking it he remembered the cannabis resin he’d taken from Tyrone Mooney and hidden in one of the kitchen drawers with some of the tobacco and cigarette papers he and Renita had taken from the children in the basement. He was sure that Sara wasn’t due home for a few hours yet so went to retrieve it – and found to his consternation it had all gone. He knew he’d used some of it before, but couldn’t for the life of him remember using it all.

  As the realization dawned on him that he wouldn’t be able to use cannabis to numb his mind and body, the pain in his head and back seemed to intensify. He needed something. For a moment he considered using stronger drink before suddenly remembering something far more potentially powerful and effective. He headed for the cupboard under the sink, opened the door and dropped to his knees, fishing behind the outlet pipe until he touched what he was looking for. He carefully peeled away the Sellotape holding the plastic bag to the pipe. Back at the kitchen table, he examined the contents of the small clip-seal bag, touching them with his index finger as if they were alive. Eventually he took one of the rocks of crack from the bag, removed it from its tiny clingfilm jacket and held it up to the light between his fingers.

  How could such a small, innocuous-looking thing cause so much misery, and yet also give much untamed joy to those who chose to use it? He remembered O’Neil’s words – how he’d said it was the best thing in the world. Better than anything. ‘Really?’ he asked, as if O’Neil could answer. Best thing in the world. Better than anything. If he ever needed something like that it was now. He was no scumbag crack-head. He could handle it – just once. Just to find out for himself.

  Getting to his feet, he began to search the kitchen as he tried to remember what O’Neil had told him about building a homemade crack bong. He found a small plastic water bottle easily enough in the shopping bag they used for recycling. He removed the innards from a cheap plastic pen, testing he could inhale through it well enough, which he could. What else did he need? He remembered and took some tinfoil from one cupboard, an elastic band and pin from another. He took a small sharp knife and cut two holes high in the bottle just as O’Neil had described, putting the pen through one and sealing it with Blu-tack, leaving the other unobstructed. He stared at the foil, pin and elastic band until O’Neil’s words came back to him and he carefully poked a small piece of the foil into the top of the bottle, making a cradle for the crack, and secured it with the band before using the pin to punch a dozen tiny holes into it to allow the smoke to be drawn into the bottle. Too late he realized he should have put some water in the bottle before covering the top with foil, but he managed to carefully pour a couple of inches in through the blow-hole.

  Once he was happy with his construction he almost ceremoniously placed the small crack rock into its tinfoil cradle and prepared to light it – stalling a few seconds to calm his breathing and to consider O’Neil’s words one more time. It’s the best thing in the world. Better than anything. Suddenly fear began to replace the excitement. What if it really was the best thing in the world? Would his life become nothing more than the never-ending search for the next hit?
Would he stop washing – eating? Would he start wearing the same filthy clothes day after day as his hair became a tangled mess and his fingernails filthy talons, his lips like cracked, bleeding reptilian scales, his teeth rotting black as they fell from pulped gums as he abandoned everything he once loved to worship at the altar of crack cocaine? Would he even become a common criminal, stealing from anybody and everybody in search of enough petty cash to buy a rock big enough to blow away reality and return him to crack-head paradise – even if it was only for a couple of hours?

  He looked at the lighter in his hand and the bong on the table and came close to dismantling it, before memories of Butler’s beating again swarmed into his mind and mixed with the image of the girls in white. The pain returned to his back and shoulder mercilessly and without warning.

  ‘Fuck it,’ he told the world. He placed his lips around the hollow pen and carefully lit the crack. Almost instantly he saw thick grey-white smoke drifting from the melting rock – its sweet, acrid smell filling the air around him and making him feel immediately dizzy, reminding him to inhale through the pen-pipe.

  As he took the cool smoke, the water having done its job, deeply and smoothly into his lungs, the effect was immediate. Firstly he felt more lightheaded than he’d ever done in his life, before the stronger feeling took over: a feeling of almost weightlessness and excruciating relief as all his mental anguish left him along with all physical pain and the warm blanket of nothingness washed over his mind and body. All he could hear was the peaceful, soft beat of his own heart as he was surrounded by a calmness and safety he’d not felt since he’d been a small child. He could never have imagined it was possible to feel this good. But it wasn’t like drunkenness or dreaming; it was real. Everything he was feeling and seeing was real. He wasn’t on some kind of hallucinating acid trip. He knew exactly who he was and where he was – even what he was – but suddenly everything was perfect beyond imagination.

  Through the haze of paradise he remembered the still smoking bong and took another hit on the pen turned pipe, flooding his lungs with more ecstasy-bringing toxins that flew around his body and into his brain. He sighed with the absolute pleasure of the effects and closed his eyes so he could more quickly sink into this new painless, stress-free world of delights. For the first time since the incident he felt free from agony and anguish. He felt good. Without realizing it he began to hum O’Neil’s words like a mantra. ‘Best thing in the world. Best thing ever.’

  11

  Sara weaved her way through the corridors of Newham Police Station heading for the canteen, lost in her own world. She was wondering how she could teach shiny new probationary constables to survive the streets of the East End borough, when she was still learning to survive them herself, when a voice she barely recognized broke through to her.

  ‘Sara,’ Marino spoke as he drew level with her.

  She looked at him a little suspiciously – it was unusual for a detective sergeant to seek out a relatively inexperienced constable. ‘Sarge.’

  ‘Just call me Frank. Where you heading?’ Marino asked with a friendly smile.

  ‘Canteen,’ she told him as she kept walking. ‘Can I help you with something?’

  ‘Canteen?’ He ignored her question.

  ‘I need a coffee,’ she told him. ‘Before I take a new probationer out for the first time. Caffeine’s the only way I can keep up with them.’

  ‘That’s a lot of responsibility,’ he replied. ‘I was heading that way myself. Do you mind if I buy?’

  ‘No,’ she answered a bit nervously. ‘On my wage you never look a gift horse in the mouth.’

  ‘It gets better,’ Marino assured her.

  ‘If you get promoted,’ she smiled, ‘or join the CID.’

  ‘Well,’ he told her, ‘you’re getting a decent reputation as a thief-taker. Why not put in for the Crime Squad? Guaranteed overtime and plenty of it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she shrugged.

  They walked in silence for a few seconds before Marino spoke again. ‘You and Jack still together?’

  She gave him a sideways glance. ‘You’re not hitting on me, are you?’

  ‘What?’ Marino answered, the surprise thick in his voice. ‘No. No.’

  ‘What then?’ Sara asked. ‘Why you talking to me? Why do you want to know if I’m still with Jack?’

  Marino sighed a little before continuing. ‘OK. Fair enough. Jack’s a good man, we both know that, but I’m a little worried about him, you know.’

  ‘In what way?’ she asked without breaking stride or looking at him.

  ‘Just a little concerned he went back to full duties too soon,’ he told her. ‘Was wondering what he’s been like away from work.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she accidentally admitted. ‘I mean he’s been fine … sort of. To be honest, I haven’t seen much of him. We’ve both been putting in a lot of hours, you know.’

  They pushed through the double doors that led into the canteen and joined the small line for service. ‘Christ,’ Sara complained. ‘Why’s there always a bloody queue?’

  ‘But you think he’s OK?’ Marino persisted.

  ‘Look,’ she told him. ‘I love Jack, but I’ve got my own life. My own career and my own worries. It can’t always just be about Jack. I’m trying to make it work – help him, but he’s got to let me. He’s got to help himself too. I can’t do it all. I don’t know. This Unit seems to be taking him over. That bloody estate’s all that seems to matter to him. He’s becoming obsessed.’

  ‘And home? How’s his behaviour at home?’ Marino asked.

  ‘He’s fine,’ Sara answered, unaware she was shaking her head at the same time.

  ‘Really?’ Marino continued. ‘I’m surprised. So this … change in him is only at work then?’

  Sara sighed before speaking, betraying herself. ‘He’s still Jack,’ she insisted, ‘but he’s just not quite the same Jack. He’s so anxious all the time. He never used to get anxious. Never.’

  ‘He went through a lot,’ Marino reminded her.

  ‘I know,’ she said sadly, ‘but funnily enough I’m not sure it was what happened that changed him. When he came out of hospital he was OK. Quiet, but OK. But since he’s been on this Unit he’s been … different.’

  ‘A delayed reaction perhaps,’ Marino suggested. ‘The pressure of being back on the streets might have triggered something.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Sara partly agreed. ‘Or the drugs.’

  ‘Drugs?’ Marino seized on it.

  ‘He’s still on the same prescription drugs for the pain,’ she explained. ‘He should have come off them months ago, but he just keeps picking up repeat prescriptions from the chemist.’

  ‘You talked to him about it?’

  ‘Of course,’ she assured him. ‘He just says he’ll make an appointment with the GP, but he never does. I’ve tried to get him to see someone, you know. Someone to talk to, but he insists he’s fine.’

  ‘Two pounds fifty,’ the woman behind the counter interrupted them. Marino scrambled in his pocket and handed over the change before taking both cups and heading for an empty table where he set them down and waited for Sara to sit before he followed suit. He sipped his drink and grimaced.

  ‘It’s better than the instant rubbish,’ he told her, ‘but it still ain’t good.’

  ‘I won’t live my life through Jack,’ she told him, ignoring the small talk. ‘I got a career of my own to think about. So long as he helps himself, I’ll be there to help him. But not if he shuts me out. I can’t help him from the outside.’

  ‘I understand,’ Marino assured her. ‘Just do what you can and I’ll keep an eye on him at work. He’s a good man, Sara. Just maybe lost his way a little.’

  ‘I know,’ she answered. ‘Why do you think I’m still there?’

  King entered their office at Canning Town Police Station the next morning to find Brown and Williams sitting around looking subdued and thoughtful. He guessed they must have felt largely as he did. The
beating of Butler hadn’t made him feel as satisfied and justified as he’d hoped. It had just left a sick, empty feeling. Brown was the first to look up.

  ‘You look like shit,’ was all he said.

  ‘Feel like it too,’ he admitted before turning to Williams. ‘Go get us some coffees, will you,’ he told him, pulling five pounds from pocket. ‘Here – get the decent stuff. Not that instant shit.’

  ‘If you’re paying, I’m going,’ Williams attempted to be cheerful, but failed. He took the cash and headed out the office, leaving King and Brown alone.

  ‘You all right?’ King asked.

  ‘Yeah,’ Brown told him and looked away – getting back to cleaning his kit. ‘Fine.’

  ‘I mean about what happened,’ King continued.

  ‘I know what you mean,’ Brown snapped at him.

  ‘Because you know what happens to cops who grass on their own,’ King reminded him. ‘They don’t stay long in this job. No one will work with a cop they can’t trust.’

  ‘Like I said,’ Brown now looked deep into his eyes, ‘I’m fine. I’m solid. You don’t have to worry about me.’

  Good,’ King nodded with satisfaction before Brown added something.

  ‘It’s just … It’s just …’ he tried to explain.

  ‘Just what?’ King pressed.

  ‘Just we went too far,’ he answered, lowering his voice. ‘What we did to Butler went too far.’

  King slumped in his chair and let out a heavy sigh. ‘You’re right,’ he admitted, unsure if he believed it or not. ‘Butler got to me. He’s such scum he just got to me. What he did to Renita it threw me, you know. He broke all the rules of the game. Trying to rape and probably murder an on-duty police officer … fuck … I just wanted to make him pay. But perhaps we went too far.’

  ‘We should have just given him a few choice digs to let him know and handed him over to the CID,’ Brown argued. ‘We could have said he resisted arrest. No one would have questioned a black eye, bloody nose and split lip. But after what we did to him … Burning clothes, dumping stuff in charity bins – fuck. I felt like a criminal. What we did was criminal.’