The Rule of Fear

by Luke Delaney

  ‘Don’t play dumb with me now,’ King warned her. ‘You know what the fuck about – about Rosie and the fact you’ve been blabbing to the CID. I told you I’d take care of it and I did.’

  ‘You took care of the wrong man,’ she reminded him without mentioning her own part in Swinton’s wrongful identification.

  ‘Only because you pointed the finger at him,’ he accused her.

  ‘Never said it was him for sure,’ she argued. ‘Never said Rosie said it was him.’

  ‘Shut the fuck up, you stupid bitch,’ King’s temper snapped – tired of the pointless conversation. ‘You came to me wanting things done your way, remember? No courts. No … police. I took care of it like I take care of everything on this estate. Now you need to keep your fat, ugly mouth shut and do whatever I tell you to do.’

  Bickley stood in silence for a few seconds with her mouth hanging open. Few people had ever dared speak to her like that before. Like most women on the estate she could hold her own in a fistfight against all but the hardest of men.

  ‘Too late,’ she finally recovered her ability to speak. ‘I’ve already reported it to the CID.’

  ‘I know that, you fucking idiot,’ he snarled at her. ‘Why d’you think I’m here? The question is what else have you told them?’

  ‘Like what?’ she asked – confused.

  ‘About me,’ he growled. ‘What else have you told them about me?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she reassured him, shaking her head.

  ‘You didn’t tell anyone about our … arrangement?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure. I never said nothing to nobody about it,’ she pleaded.

  ‘But you did report Chris O’Connell?’ he checked – paranoid thoughts of some sort of undercover set-up swirling in his mind. ‘It was you who reported him to the police?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she answered. ‘Of course it was me. Who else would?’

  ‘Nobody,’ he dismissed it, ‘although it still doesn’t explain why you went behind my back. You should have told me it was O’Connell. I would have taken care of it.’

  ‘You already got the wrong man once,’ she told him, enjoying some payback, ‘and he don’t live on the estate. How you gonna get to him if he don’t live on the estate?’

  ‘You should have left that to me,’ he replied. ‘It would have been my problem to solve – not yours.’

  ‘Yeah, well,’ she shrugged. ‘Too late now.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘You need to undo the damage you’ve done before other Old Bill come sneaking around the estate asking questions that could lead them back to me. People round here like the way I run things. No one wants that to change.’

  ‘Maybe they used to,’ she told him before immediately regretting it.

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he seized on it.

  ‘You’ve changed,’ she tentatively explained. ‘People liked it because you brought a bit of order without the need for people to have to give witness statements and waste their time going to court. It don’t go well for you round here if you’re seen to be cooperating with the Old Bill and the law. Just the way it’s always been, I suppose. But we still needed someone to bring a bit of order and you did that – in your own way. But now you just bring fear and trouble. What you gonna bring next, eh, with what you been up to? What you gonna bring next?’

  ‘What the fuck you talking about?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ she told him, sounding like an old witch warning of the fulfilling of an ancient prophecy. ‘Just keep going the way you’re going and you’ll see.’

  ‘What?’ he sneered. ‘You think some half-arsed local wannabe gangster’s got the balls to fuck with me? I don’t think so. All you need to do is keep your mouth shut and say nothing. Fine – you’ve fucked up and reported the allegation. Now you need to tell the CID it was a mistake. Your attention-seeking daughter made it all up and you, being a dumb bitch, believed it. No need for anyone to ask any more questions that could lead back to the Unit.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ she stabbed him in the chest with her words. ‘They already suspect you’ve been up to something. Only asked me a few questions about my Rosie, then it was Sergeant King this and Sergeant King that. What did I tell you and what did you say you were gonna do? They know. They know.’

  ‘Who asked?’ King almost shouted as his blood began to freeze in his veins – numbing his brain and palpating his heart. ‘Who was asking the questions?’

  ‘The fella from the CID investigating it,’ she told him, trying to remember his name. ‘DS Marino, yeah – DS Marino.’

  ‘Fuck,’ King exploded, spinning away from her before turning back on her like a wolf about to pounce. ‘Marino was here? Already?’

  ‘First thing,’ she confirmed. ‘I was still fast asleep when he starts banging on my door. Him, then you – makes me wish I hadn’t told any of you lot. Should have gone to the Campbells straight off.’

  King grabbed hold of her by the collar of her t-shirt and pulled her close. ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘Nothing,’ she tried to convince him – panic rising in her eyes as she recognized the hate and anger in his. ‘I swear I told him nothing, but …’

  ‘What was he asking about?’ he pushed her.

  ‘I told you,’ she pleaded. ‘Questions about you.’

  ‘What questions?’ he demanded. ‘Be specific.’

  ‘Whether I’d told you about Rosie being assaulted,’ she explained.

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘Nothing. I mean I told him you knew nothing about it. I told him Rosie had only just told me and he was the first Old Bill I’d talked to.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘He was asking about Swinton. What I knew about Swinton getting a beating.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And I said nothing. I knew nothing. That I’d heard it was local men who’d taken care of him like the police should have.’

  ‘Did he buy it?’

  She shrugged her shoulders and shook her head. ‘I suppose he may have believed I didn’t have anything to do with it,’ she told him, pulling his hands from her t-shirt. ‘But none of that matters to you, does it – because he knows, doesn’t he? He knows you’re up to something – otherwise why all the questions?’

  King didn’t answer as all his suspicions about what Marino did and didn’t know became near certainties, although he still couldn’t guess Marino’s end game. Was he out to gather evidence and fuck him properly or was he, for some reason, still trying to cover his back in the hope of bringing him back into the fold?

  ‘Maybe it’s time you got off the estate,’ she told him.

  ‘What?’ he asked, drifting back from his thoughts.

  ‘I said maybe it’s time you left the estate.’

  ‘No,’ he insisted. ‘I can’t do that. Not yet. Too much unfinished business.’

  ‘Well,’ she said, a trace of empathy creeping into her voice, ‘don’t say I didn’t warn you if it all comes on top. If the Campbells get hold of you it’ll be you who’s finished business.’

  ‘What the fuck have the Campbells got to do with anything?’

  ‘There’s rumours,’ she told him conspiratorially. ‘I hear things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘That they’re not happy with what you’re up to,’ she explained. ‘That you’re costing them money and making them look bad.’ She paused as if to emphasize the importance of what she was to say next. ‘You know who they’re connected to, don’t you?’

  ‘No doubt you’re about to tell me.’

  ‘They work for the Balcan family,’ she almost whispered, ‘and the Balcans own the East End. You make the Campbells look bad, you make the Balcans look bad, and they won’t tolerate that. Why don’t you get out while you still can? Go back to your own kind.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ he told her – some regret and sadness seeping into his words before he steeled himse
lf. ‘Like I said, I have unfinished business here and if that means dealing with the Campbells as well, then so be it. They’re all just cheap criminals. I’m not afraid of them or the Balcans.’

  ‘You should be,’ Bickley warned him – her voice quiet and foreboding. ‘You should be.’

  A few minutes later and King had escaped from the confines of the flat to patrol the walkways of the Grove Wood, trying to clear his mind and form some sort of plan that would ensure he maintained control of the estate and the Swinton situation. But his ever increasing use of crack, cocaine and cannabis dulled his mind, robbing him of the sharpness he’d once taken for granted. Ideas came to him only in sporadic, unformed, broken pieces. He would have to rely on other people’s fear to keep things manageable until he could focus his thoughts properly. Thoughts that were continually interrupted by images of Kelly – semi-naked as she gracefully floated around the small council maisonette that had become the centre of his world.

  As he was trying to shake her from his mind, at least until he’d worked out what to do about Marino, he suddenly saw Dougie O’Neil scuttling around the corner and into a stairwell, as if he was trying to avoid him – the side-effects of his drug use making him paranoid enough to believe that was exactly what O’Neil must be trying to do. He quickly doubled back and sprinted down a parallel stairwell that led to the back of the housing block and a rat-run alley he knew O’Neil wouldn’t be able to resist taking. He listened intently to the sound of O’Neil’s rapidly approaching footsteps and jumped out just as he was about to pass – making O’Neil rear up as his mouth dropped open with fright.

  ‘Going somewhere, Dougie?’ King asked.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ O’Neil complained, trying to catch his breath. ‘You scared the shit out of me.’

  ‘You’ll survive,’ King ignored his distress. ‘Question is – what you doing out the flat? Brown or Williams covering for you? And don’t lie.’

  ‘No,’ O’Neil admitted sheepishly, ‘but it’s cool. The flat’s all locked up safe and sound.’

  ‘With no one in it?’ King asked – his anger and frustration growing by the second. He didn’t have time to deal with O’Neil’s mistakes, not now.

  ‘Like I said,’ O’Neil pleaded nervously, ‘it’s all good.’

  ‘And my gear?’ King said. ‘My money?’

  ‘In the flat,’ O’Neil answered. ‘Secure and safe.’

  ‘And the key to the grid?’ King snarled. ‘Where exactly would that be?’

  ‘Here,’ O’Neil admitted, pulling a small set of keys from his trouser pocket.

  ‘You fucking idiot,’ King reprimanded him and slapped him across the face.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ O’Neil moaned. ‘What was that for?’

  King snatched the keys from him and dangled them in front of his face. ‘What if someone’s been watching you, you moron – waiting for the chance to rob you? Now you’re walking round with the keys to our entire fucking security system in your damn pocket. All anyone’s got to do is turn you over out here and they could help themselves to everything that’s mine out the flat.’ King looked deep into O’Neil’s pale and shaking face. ‘You’re fucking stoned, aren’t you? You’re not thinking straight because you’re fucking stoned.’

  ‘I just had a little taste,’ O’Neil pleaded his case. ‘Just enough to keep me right.’

  ‘I told you,’ King reminded him, ‘one rock a day and you do it inside the flat.’

  ‘Sorry,’ O’Neil apologized pathetically.

  ‘You’re a sad fucking loser, O’Neil,’ King told him, shaking his head. ‘Now answer my question – where you off to in such a hurry?’

  ‘To see a friend,’ O’Neil tried to convince him.

  ‘Don’t lie to me, Dougie,’ King warned him. ‘You don’t have any friends. So I’ll ask you again – where were you going?’

  O’Neil sighed before answering. ‘Just to do a bit of business.’

  ‘Business?’

  ‘A geezer,’ O’Neil said, looking around to make sure they were still alone. ‘Reckons he’s got some proper top A-grade horse. Just thought I’d score a bit – see if it’s as good as he reckons.’

  ‘You left the flat empty to score some heroin?’ King accused him. O’Neil just shrugged. ‘With my money?’

  ‘I’d only use my cut,’ O’Neil assured him.

  ‘Your cut?’ King laughed. ‘And what exactly is your cut, Dougie?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ O’Neil admitted.

  ‘No,’ King mocked him. ‘You don’t know. Your cut is whatever fucking bone I choose to throw you and until I say differently that’s a rock a day. You don’t have my permission to spend my money.’ The paranoia swirled in his mind. ‘You sure you aren’t trying to fuck with me, Dougie?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ O’Neil answered, looking and sounding confused.

  ‘You sure you aren’t using my money to start dealing smack behind my back – cutting me out of the profit? You fucking me over, Dougie?’

  ‘No,’ O’Neil shook his head desperately. ‘I ain’t fucking you over. I just wanted to chase a bit of brown.’

  ‘Not with my money you ain’t,’ King told him. ‘Thought you could skim off a little from the top and I’d never notice, eh? Let me pay for that shit you want to pump into yourself.’

  ‘Looks like I ain’t the only one who likes a little taste of something heavy,’ O’Neil fought back before immediately regretting his fleeting bravery.

  ‘What you talking about?’ King asked, his paranoia growing by the second – his eyes seemingly vibrating in their sockets as he tried to guess what O’Neil had seen in him.

  ‘Your lip,’ O’Neil answered nervously. ‘Looks like the first signs of crack-lip.’ King’s hand involuntarily shot to his mouth – his fingers quickly finding the sore, burnt area of his bottom lip where his homemade glass crack-pipe had overheated and left its mark. The homemade bong had worked well – cooling the smoke and the pipe used to draw it through the water and into his mouth, but it wasn’t easy to conceal if he needed a hit on the move and it took precious seconds to prepare. Lately he’d abandoned it altogether in favour of a small glass tube fashioned from some meat-basting contraption someone with little money or imagination had bought him and Sara for Christmas. The crack went on one end and his lips around the other. He simply had to burn the crack and inhale the hot smoke through the short pipe – the pain of his burning lips instantly obliterated by the effects of the drug.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, O’Neil,’ he tried to dismiss him. ‘It’s just a cold sore – from the stress of having to deal with morons like you.’

  ‘Really?’ O’Neil risked asking, his fear of King fading as the realization that he was as flawed as anyone swept over him. ‘Crack can bring anyone to their knees. Maybe even you?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up,’ King demanded. ‘You think I could ever be a crack-head like you? I’m the fucking police. You remember that. Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking I’m like you. Now empty your pockets.’

  ‘What?’ O’Neil asked, scared and confused.

  ‘Empty your pockets. I want to see what you’re really up to behind my back.’

  ‘I ain’t up to nothing,’ O’Neil pleaded as King pushed him against the wall and started patting down his pockets.

  ‘What we got here then?’ King asked as he felt something square and padded in O’Neil’s trouser pocket – pulling it out to reveal a small wad of notes folded in two. ‘Just going to make a small score of smack, eh? Fuck you, Dougie. There’s enough here to buy quarter of an ounce. Enough to start dealing for yourself.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to cut you out, honest,’ O’Neil pleaded his case. ‘I was gonna tell you about it once I’d shifted the gear.’

  ‘What?’ King barked in his face. ‘You think I’m some sort of idiot. You lying little fuck. What else of mine have you got on you?’ O’Neil said nothing as King continued to search him, but found no more
– although he wasn’t finished yet. ‘Drop your trousers,’ he ordered, ‘and your underwear.’

  ‘You fucking serious?’ O’Neil asked. King slapped him hard enough across the face to momentarily stun him.

  ‘What’s the matter, Dougie? Don’t I look serious?’

  ‘Jesus,’ O’Neil complained.

  ‘Do it,’ King demanded. ‘Do it now.’

  Slowly O’Neil began to undo the button and zip of his filthy jeans, constantly looking around, as much in hope of salvation as wishing to avoid an embarrassing interruption, but no one appeared. He stood meekly in front of King with his trousers around his knees, arms held out to his side to show his innocence.

  ‘See,’ he declared. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘And the boxer shorts,’ King reminded him. Reluctantly O’Neil carefully slid the shorts down to his knees – standing in a crucifix position with his pathetic-looking genitalia hanging vulnerably – his humiliation almost complete. ‘You know the drill,’ King told him. ‘Turn round and touch your toes.’

  O’Neil’s eyes closed for a second before he did as he was ordered. Even though he knew it would condemn him, he had no choice but to dig his own grave. As soon as he was fully bent a small package wrapped in clingfilm fell to the ground.

  ‘You lying little bastard,’ King accused him, stepping forward and kicking him hard in the crotch from behind – sending O’Neil to the floor in a crumpled heap. He stuffed the wad of cash into his pockets and pulled a latex glove and a small evidence bag from his utility belt as he bent to recover the package. A quick look confirmed what he already suspected − he could clearly make out the dozen or so rocks of crack wrapped inside.

  ‘Oh, this is just beautiful,’ he told O’Neil sarcastically as he dropped the package into the evidence bag, tossing the now soiled glove before slipping the bag into his pocket. He stepped forward and kicked the still prostrate O’Neil in the stomach, forcing an ugly whimpering sound from his victim who rolled over to try and protect himself. ‘What were you going to do with these, eh? Trade them in for more smack for you to destroy yourself with?’

  ‘No,’ O’Neil begged – panting for breath. ‘I … I just thought it was safer to keep some of the gear on me. Just in case.’