The Rule

by David Jackson

‘It was an accident,’ said the lad. ‘Come on, then, Dumbo. Show us your picture.’

  Daniel contemplated the request. He wasn’t very good at working out whether people were being sincere or not. He liked to be honest at all times, but experience had taught him that the words of others didn’t always match their thoughts.

  ‘It’s for my mum,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah, well, if it’s good enough for your mum, it’s good enough for us. Don’t you agree, lads?’

  There was a chorus of assent. Another voice said, ‘Get on with it, Dildo. We haven’t got all day,’ and when they all laughed and Daniel turned, the ball once again smacked the back of his skull.

  ‘Nice header,’ said the leader as he caught the ball. ‘Keep that up and you’ll be playing in the World Cup soon.’

  ‘I don’t want to play in the World Cup. I want to go home. My mum’s waiting for me.’

  ‘Well, we don’t want to stop you going home now, do we? All you’ve got to do is show us your picture, and then you can go home to Mummy.’

  It sounded a fair enough deal to Daniel. Not such a great hardship to let them see his drawing if it meant he could go. And besides, it was a drawing to be proud of, to be appreciated by an audience.

  He unclasped his briefcase, pulled out the piece of paper.

  The lad whipped it out of his hand. He wasn’t being the least bit careful with it, and Daniel worried that it might get creased.

  ‘What’s this, then?’

  ‘It’s . . . it’s Adam-9. He’s blowing up a rocket.’

  ‘Adam-9, eh? Off the telly? Wow. What do you think, boys?’

  The other lads nodded, whistled, uttered words of appreciation. Daniel began to think he had finally made a good impression, and that this might convince the gang to be a bit more friendly towards him.

  ‘Yeah,’ said the leader. ‘This is really . . . shit.’

  And then he ripped it up. Tore it in half and then into quarters and then let the pieces be snatched away by the wind.

  ‘Oops,’ he said. ‘Butterfingers again.’

  Daniel felt a sudden stab of pain behind his eyes and in his heart, and without knowing what he planned to do next he took a step towards the boy, and yet again the ball was fired in his direction, but this time from the front, and it hit him with full force in the face, and he felt the hurt, the sting, and he halted in shock and looked into the eyes of the boy and saw that they no longer carried amusement but instead a fierce aggression.

  The lad sneered. ‘What are you going to do about it, Danny boy?’

  What Daniel wanted to do was cry, but crying was for babies and he wasn’t a baby. He wanted to run, but running away was for cowards. He wanted to fight, but if there was one thing his parents had told him time and time again, it was that violence was never a solution, that it always made things worse rather than better. And yet his fists were bunching, the leather-bound handle of his briefcase squeaking in complaint against the tightness of his grasp.

  Yes, the briefcase . . .

  ‘Well, Duh-Duh? What’s your answer?’

  It was an Adam-9 briefcase, wasn’t it? What would Adam do in a situation like this?

  And then his thumb was flipping open the secret compartment on the handle, manipulating the controls only he understood, selecting the gas jet, which was now spurting forth a dense white plume from the end of the case. Daniel closed his eyes and held out the briefcase and began to twirl on the spot, spinning and spinning while the gas created an impenetrable cloud all around him. He could hear the insults and the laughter, but he kept on revolving, keeping the attackers at bay while his special briefcase did its job of enveloping him in its protective smokescreen.

  And then the voices were gone, and Daniel stopped spinning. He felt a little sick and dizzy, and so he opened his eyes.

  The boys had disappeared.

  Daniel looked down at his trusty briefcase. It had rescued him, but he was still saddened by what had happened.

  He started for home again, trying to ignore the blood trickling from his nose and across his swollen lip, trying to avoid thinking about the drawing that had been destroyed.

  Think about nice things, he told himself. Happy things.

  And so he thought about his upcoming birthday. His chippy meal. His Colin the Caterpillar cake. His mother would put candles on it.

  She would need a lot of candles.

  In a couple of weeks, Daniel would be twenty-three years old.

  2

  Scott Timpson was glad to get home. For the most part, he loved his job at the garage, but sometimes it could be a pain in the arse. It wasn’t the cars; it was their owners. Most were friendly enough, but some were never satisfied. One guy today was convinced that he’d been charged for an oil change that had never actually taken place. It was nonsense, of course, but to keep him happy Scott had had to do it all over again for free while the man watched. Then there was the idiot who claimed that someone had been on a joyride in his car while it had been in for a service, putting hundreds of extra miles on the clock. Other than deny it, there was nothing that Scott could do about that one.

  So he was glad to be home, even though home wasn’t exactly a mansion, and this neighbourhood of Stockford wasn’t exactly well-to-do. He hoped one day to save enough money to put a deposit on a nice little house somewhere, but his job didn’t pay a lot, and their finances always seemed tight. Bills had an annoying habit of cropping up at the most inconvenient times. For now, Erskine Court would have to do.

  The structure itself was a depressing sight. A drab grey column with no redeeming architectural features. It was the residential equivalent of the coffee cream at the bottom of the chocolate box. It had two entrances: one on the street at the front of the building, and the other here facing onto the car park. Scott felt the familiar stab of irritation as soon as he reached the door.

  It was supposed to be secure. It was supposed to be protected by a lock that required a magnetic key card. It was supposed to keep out intruders.

  The problem was that there was a certain local element that didn’t believe in doing what they were supposed to do. Instead, they would wait for a resident to open the door and sneak in behind, which they could usually get away with because there were so many people in this building that nobody knew who lived here and who didn’t. Another trick was to keep buzzing individual flats in turn until someone surrendered and unlocked the door remotely. It only took one undesirable to gain entry; they would then act as gatekeeper for their mates.

  Or they would simply do what Scott was looking at now.

  He bent forwards and picked up the half-brick that was jamming the door open, then went inside.

  They were here, in the cavernous foyer. About half a dozen of them this time. The numbers varied. They were in their late teens, early twenties. All wearing hoodies, the uniform of their generation. Supping from cheap cans of lager and smoking roll-ups. Usually, Scott would ignore them and head straight for the lift, knowing that to challenge them would be to take his life in his hands, especially now that everyone and his dog seemed to carry a knife.

  Today, he was feeling either particularly brave or particularly foolhardy.

  He wandered over to the gang. He had never spoken to any of them before, but he had noticed the way they always paid deference to one particular member. He had heard them call him ‘Biggo’, even though he was the shortest there. Or perhaps because of it. Slightly older than the others, his shaven red hair and round pale face made Scott think of a matchstick.

  The youths turned as one to face Scott. They were young and fit and confident in their superiority.

  ‘What you going to do with that?’ Biggo asked with a smile.

  Scott looked down at the brick still in his hand. Yes, he thought, what am I going to do with it?

  ‘You’re not supposed to prop open the door,’ he answered.

  ‘Wouldn’t dream of it, mate.’

  Scott knew he had to be careful. He couldn’t
just come right out and call Biggo a liar. That would be suicide.

  ‘The door is supposed to remain shut. Somebody used this to keep it open.’

  ‘Well, it wouldn’t be us, would it? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re already inside. We wouldn’t want any riff-raff coming in here and giving us grief, would we?’

  ‘You don’t live here.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. We were invited in.’

  ‘Who by?’

  Biggo took a drag on his cigarette and blew smoke in Scott’s direction.

  ‘What’s it got to do with you?’

  ‘You’re not supposed to smoke or drink here. There are signs up.’

  Biggo looked around. His eyes alighted on a notice taped to the wall near the front door. He nodded to one of his friends, who then strolled across to the notice, tore it down, and stuffed it into the pocket of his hoodie.

  Biggo turned to Scott again. ‘What signs?’

  Scott felt his anger mounting, but it was directed more at himself than these scum in front of him. He felt utterly powerless and insignificant. His legs were actually beginning to shake.

  ‘Just . . . just stop coming here,’ was the best he could do, and then he walked away, wishing that he had ignored them as he did every other day, because to act otherwise was to invite in this overwhelming sense of humiliation.

  ‘Have you adopted that brick?’ Biggo called after him. ‘You should get a pram for it. What’s its name?’

  The raucous laughter crushed him even further. In the lift, he jabbed the button frantically, desperate to get away.

  As the lift moved, he took deep breaths in an effort to calm himself. The acrid odour of urine made him cough. It invariably smelled of piss in here, and the lift seemed determined to keep its occupants confined for as long as possible, freeing them only when they were at the point of vomiting. Scott guessed that it was probably the yobs downstairs who emptied their bladders here for amusement.

  I’ll raise that issue with them tomorrow, he thought sarcastically. See if that goes down as well as tonight’s little chat.

  What an idiot.

  He felt more in control when the metal doors eventually whined open. This was the twelfth storey. His domain. He told himself that if he ever came across any of those fuckwits on this floor, he’d really show them what he could do. It would be a long time before they found anything funny again.

  That’s what he told himself. It helped for now.

  He turned left and through the fire door, then along the corridor to his flat. He pulled out his keys, opened the front door and entered. The hallway stretched ahead of him. To his left were doors to the two bedrooms and the bathroom. A door to his right took him into an open-plan area comprising the living room, dining area and kitchenette. Scott hung up his jacket and went in search of his family, to put his shit day behind him.

  Gemma’s face warned him to think again.

  She was directly in front of him as he came through the door. Usually a fizzing bundle of energy, this evening she was wearing an expression that said, You’re not going to like this, but . . .

  ‘What’s up?’ he asked.

  She opened her mouth, but then her eyes flicked downwards.

  ‘Why are you carrying a brick?’

  Scott looked around for a surface that wouldn’t be scratched or soiled. Eventually, he lowered the brick to the carpet.

  ‘Long story,’ he said. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s Daniel. He’s . . . he’s been in a fight.’

  Something rolled over in Scott’s stomach. He looked back to the hallway, at Daniel’s closed bedroom door.

  ‘Oh, shit,’ he said. ‘Not again.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ Gemma said, coming towards him. ‘It’s not what you’re thinking.’

  ‘He didn’t—?’

  ‘No. He was good. A gang of schoolkids came up to him on his way home. He’s got a bloody nose to show for it, but he didn’t fight back. He’s really upset, though.’

  Scott looked imploringly at the ceiling. ‘Fucking hell. I hate this place. Isn’t life difficult enough for him already?’

  Gemma came closer and folded her arms around him. She had a knack for calming him down when things became too much.

  ‘Daniel was as good as gold,’ she said. ‘You need to go and tell him. It’ll make him feel better.’

  Scott nodded, then kissed his wife and headed towards Daniel’s bedroom. He knocked, opened the door.

  Daniel was sitting on his bed, staring at a book. Scott often wished that Daniel’s books didn’t all have pictures in them, that at least one of them could be a textbook on maths or physics, or even just a novel for grown-ups.

  He should be a university graduate by now, Scott thought. Maybe training to be a lawyer or a doctor or a dentist. Maybe engaged or married. Just having a girlfriend would be a start. Or—

  No.

  Stop it. You’re not being fair. You’re letting one crap day ruin everything.

  ‘Hi, Daniel,’ he said cheerily.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ Daniel said. But he didn’t look up from his book.

  Scott sat down on the bed next to Daniel. It could still surprise him that he was dwarfed by his own son. Scott was tall and broad. Gemma was also tall. Their ancestors were no Lilliputians. But as for Daniel . . .

  He had been born by Caesarean section. No other option for a baby that size. And when he was hauled into the world, it was as if he was determined to continue expanding into his more spacious environment, the way goldfish grow in proportion to their bowls. With his increasing size came mounting strength, which, alas, was not matched by his intellect. In that regard, Daniel was, and always would be, a young child.

  ‘What are you reading?’ Scott asked.

  ‘The Gruffalo. I like the story, but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Somebody once said I looked like the Gruffalo.’

  Scott sighed. It was just the latest in a string of insults. Some called him Lennie, or Desperate Dan, or Tank, or the Hulk, or Shrek, or Bigfoot, or . . . the list went on.

  He put his arm around Daniel’s shoulders. He could sense the raw power beneath. ‘People sometimes say and do cruel things. I think you got a taste of that tonight, didn’t you?’

  Daniel nodded dolefully. ‘I wasn’t doing anything. I was just walking home. Some boys started saying things. One of them hit me in the face with a football.’

  He started crying. Scott rubbed his back. ‘Don’t cry. They’re not worth it.’ He hesitated. He didn’t want to ask this, especially as Gemma had already tried to reassure him, but he felt he had to. ‘You didn’t . . . you didn’t hit any of them, did you?’

  Daniel looked him straight in the eye. ‘No, Dad. I promised, didn’t I? I said I would never do that.’

  ‘Yes, son, you did. I just need you to be careful, that’s all. You remember what happened to Perry, don’t you? And to Ewan?’

  ‘Yes, Dad. I remember.’

  Daniel lowered his head again, and Scott hated himself for dredging up the past. But it was the only way to keep the need to remain in control lodged in his son’s consciousness.

  ‘Tell you what,’ he said. ‘How about helping me out at the garage tomorrow?’

  Daniel brightened. ‘Can I?’

  ‘Absolutely. And after that we’ll have lunch, and then we’ll do something in the afternoon.’

  ‘Ooh, ooh, what about ten-pin bowling?’

  Scott recalled the havoc that Daniel had wreaked the last time he got his hands on a bowling ball. They’d had to close down two of the lanes.

  ‘Er, I was thinking the cinema. That new Disney film starts today – the one about the professor who uses science to pretend he’s a wizard.’

  ‘Kupp and Sorcery? Yes! Can we go? Can we?’

  Scott briefly considered how much it would cost – the tickets, the petrol, the popcorn, the hot dogs, the drinks – but then he looked again at his son’s face and his mind was made up.

/>   ‘Course we can. It’ll do us both good.’ He stood up, buoyed by the sight of Daniel’s beaming smile. ‘Dinner will be ready soon. I’ll give you a call.’

  ‘Thanks, Dad,’ Daniel said. And then: ‘I love you.’

  Something splintered in Scott’s chest. ‘I love you too.’ He started to turn away, then halted. He opened his arms for an embrace. ‘Come here, son.’

  Daniel looked back at him with uncertainty. ‘Dad . . . The Rule.’

  Scott beckoned. ‘It’s okay. Come on. Just be careful.’

  The Rule was that Daniel should avoid physical contact with others as much as possible. It was a tough decree to enforce, but it was the safest option. The problem lay not so much in Daniel’s sheer strength, but in his inability to control how much of it he was applying, especially when his emotions were running high. Right now, though, Scott felt compelled to take a risk.

  The hug was brief, and Daniel’s touch mercifully light.

  ‘Good lad,’ Scott said.

  As he left the room, he decided not to tell Gemma about breaking The Rule. The last time Daniel had hugged his mother, he had fractured one of her ribs.

  When he was alone, Daniel opened a drawer and took out a fistful of socks. He carried them across to the bed and lined them up.

  For as long as he could remember, he had employed his socks as puppets. He would hold each one vertically, the toe end jutting upwards between his fingers and forming the head of a character. He would make them walk or run by bobbing them along the bed or carpet at the appropriate speed. Usually, he would have one in each hand and they would converse, Daniel speaking all their lines out loud. Sometimes he would make them fight, the bottom end of one sock being whipped into the ‘face’ of the other.

  His parents had bought him all kinds of alternative puppets and action figures, but he always returned to his socks. Their stories gave him the comfort he struggled to find elsewhere, and acted as a vehicle for him to explore the confusing worlds of his imagination.

  Right now, most of his puppets were naughty young lads. The sock in Daniel’s right hand – bigger and thicker than the others – was Adam-9, and he was standing for no nonsense from the cheap cotton scallywags confronting him. Within seconds he had laid several of them out flat and made the rest run away like the chickens they were.