The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

  He watched in horror as it bounced again and again, banging, banging, banging on the lid of the coffin, and still he was trapped and still he screamed, tried to move to cover himself but they had him, and her parents held him tight, and Eddie disappeared into a black hole of panic.

  But the brandy bottle spilling the golden liquid onto his dead son’s coffin banged on the lid like someone rapping on a door. And then the lid squeaked. It squealed as though it were being opened from inside and that’s when Eddie could take no more and he covered his eyes and

  * * *

  screamed.

  “Eddie! Wake up.” She slapped him across the face.

  His eyes snapped open. He panted, sweat rolled down his neck and he panicked for a moment because he couldn’t move. He was trapped between the settee and the coffee table. And then he looked up, saw a face over his, and gradually brought it into focus.

  “You are one screwed up fella, Eddie Collins.”

  “Ros.” Eddie closed his eyes and sobbed.

  * * *

  “You are one screwed up fella, Eddie Collins.” She looked down into his wet face. Tears glistened in the whiskers on his cheeks, and formed small pools in the recesses of his ears. His hair was wet with sweat and his skin was pale, and it reminded her of a body awaiting an autopsy. Ros tutted.

  “Ros.” He cried like a kid having a nightmare.

  “Oh, Eddie.”

  He put his arm over his eyes, trying to cover the tears, embarrassed by them, and continued sobbing. His chin quivered and his bottom lip folded out between each gasp. It was horrible to see him cry like this, and it somehow felt even worse, embarrassing for her, to see him trying to cover his emotions up. “Come on, Eddie, get up, eh?” She tapped his arm, folded her hand into his and eased him into a sitting position.

  She crouched before him, watching his chest spasm, but noticed the sobbing grow lighter, and then he took away his arm and through water-filled eyes, looked at her. Their tears rolled away into the stubble and the eyes became clearer. “Same one?”

  He nodded. “It always ends there though; I never seem to get to the part where he—”

  In the corner, folded up like an old duvet, was Mick; and he coughed himself awake, stretched hard enough to cause the ashtray sitting in his lap to spill onto the floor.

  Ros let Eddie’s hand go, and then stood. “Fancy seeing you here.”

  “Huh?”

  “Did you need him to prop up your ego again last night?”

  “Ros,” Mick rubbed his face and looked around as though orientating himself, “you should have joined us.” He smiled, “we had a good ol’ time, didn’t we Eddie?”

  A length of drool fell out of Eddie’s mouth.

  “Hey,” Mick unfolded his skinny legs, and gawped at Eddie and his tears. “What’s up with you?”

  Eddie shook his head slowly and then looked away.

  “Get your stuff and then get out, Mick.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “You deaf?”

  “I’m only concerned for his welfare.”

  “Welfare, my arse. You’re despicable! You found him when he was low and you propagated him, turning him into—”

  “Hey, hey!” They looked at Eddie. “I’m here, you know. I haven’t left the room.”

  Ros stared at him as he stood.

  “And I can fight my own battles, Ros,” he said. “He didn’t force me to drink. I wanted to drink.” He looked from Ros to Mick. “And it’s way past the time you weren’t here, Mick; I have things to do.”

  “Message received, Eddie.” Mick stood, arched his back and searched for his cigarettes.

  Friday 19th June

  Chapter Nine

  — One —

  The auditorium was easily the size of an indoor football stadium. It had fold-away padded seats arranged in rows at the front and around the sides, but leaving space by the stage for the Press. Around the periphery, lighting gantries trained on the large D-shaped stage jutting out from the back wall like a giant bubble caught on the side of a bathtub, immersed the glass podium and the discreet row of plush chairs off to the left, with dazzling white light.

  During rehearsals early this morning, their voices had ricocheted off the walls and ceiling, echoing as though they stood in the Grand Canyon. But things had changed considerably in only a few hours. There wasn’t a square inch of floor space left. A constant low chatter droned as people took up their seats, jostling for the best view of the stage, while sound engineers and cameramen made the final adjustments, where photographers sat cross-legged down at the foot of the stage, plugging in flash units, and checking white balance.

  The Prime Minister, the Justice Minister, and several other senior politicians filed in and took up the positions in the plush seats, staring at the gathering of hundreds. After the National Anthem, the introductions and schedule commenced, the lights dimmed slightly and Sterling Young strode onto the stage, waving to the party faithful, beaming at his audience as though this were a pop concert and he was the main attraction. The cameras caught it all, their flashes bouncing off the glass screens behind Sterling like a dogfight in a Star Wars movie.

  The crowd hushed, Sterling cleared his throat and rested his hands either side of the rostrum. And then he began to speak of the progress his party had made in all spheres of government in the last two years, and each category of improvement, each broad-grinned pause won him praise from the fans. But this wasn’t intended as a Party Political speech.

  This was the launch of something the country had not experienced in living memory outside a battlefield. Legalised killing.

  It was big, and it commanded the attention of the British public, and it sparked interest and derision from Europe, interest and admiration from America. Wherever you lived in the world, Britain’s reinvigorated capital punishment program was big news.

  Journalists scribbled furiously as Sterling boomed out his speech in his deep commanding voice, watching his audience with a sombre face that almost dared those gathered not to take notice. Stills cameras flashed, and Deacon counted seventeen television cameras recording every word and every expression for later dissection in the studio with a ‘panel of distinguished guests’. Yes, this was the launch of something big, and the world wanted to be there to catch it.

  Sterling paused to let a powerfully delivered point sink into the atmosphere; ten thousand eyes were upon him, and the room was silent. Deacon felt the hairs on his neck stand to attention, and felt the sweat on his palms knowing the time for him to speak approached quickly.

  “This year is the dawning of a new age in Britain,” Sterling yelled. “People will wonder how we managed without this new legislation. It is a show of defiance against those who would betray their fellow Britons and deny them what they have strived for. It is a crackdown on criminals the like of which has never been seen before.” He paused, head turning left to right, promoting the tension. “I am proud to have worked alongside the man at its helm, the man with the vision for a truly just society where decent people are once again cherished, and where those who make life a misery for others are punished. I am proud, ladies and gentlemen, to introduce the Minister of Justice,” Sterling turned to Deacon, beckoned him with a wave of his arm, “George, come on up here.”

  Deacon stood, grinned widely as the crowd erupted into deafening applause, and felt the makeup they made him wear, crease and stiffen. The cameras belched into a frenzy as he approached the glass rostrum and shook Sterling by the hand. Sterling returned to his seat, applauding as he went.

  Deacon waited. Thousands of people peered at him. He checked his autocue on the tilted glass platens arranged in a fan of three in front and at the sides, arranged so that he may turn to the whole audience and deliver his speech in a flawless manner.

  The crowd quietened, the whistling stopped, the clapping dribbled to a halt and those with seats retook them, notepads and recorders poised. But he did not speak for a long time; instead, he
gathered their attention and then almost ceremoniously turned his back on them. On the wall at the back of the stage was the new Great British Independence Party emblem; a depiction of a flaming torch held aloft by two lions overlaid across the British Isles. ‘The new Great Britain’, it proclaimed. Gone were the fluffy flowers of the departed Labour party, and the crudely drawn trees of the old Conservatives – now it was about teeth, and it was about claws and the depiction of fairness – at last – fairness protected by a lion. The Press loved it.

  The background began to change. The lions remained, the torch remained, but the picture grew smaller and from the deep blue background emerged a title that grew clearer and bolder. Deacon applauded the title and turned around to face his enraptured audience. A wave of approval began in the middle rows where the party faithful gathered, but with a warm smile, he raised a hand and hushed it.

  Power.

  “Like all of us, our Prime Minister was deeply saddened by the death of the late Justice Minister, Roger King, and our hearts still go out to his widow and his children. Two years ago he was taken from us. Even now he is dearly missed.” Deacon looked down, remembering what the PR team had said about projection, and about timing He bit down on his lip, and then looked up, eyes narrowed as though preparing for a fight. “And we were all sickened by his murder!” The applause came again, amid murmurs of agreement. “From that day, Our Prime Minister decided that this country was fighting a war on crime. The country had had enough!” He brought a fist down hard onto the rostrum. He stared around the auditorium, eyes wide now as though genuinely angry.

  “This party came to power in the wake of the terrible events caused by Terence Bowman, when he slaughtered twenty-three innocent people for no other reason than he was bored. We built a memorial to his victims. How much better if those innocent people were commemorated not by stone, but by a change in society so far-reaching, so radical that no memorials would ever need be built again? Being in government gave us the opportunity to introduce a justice system that this country has long cried out for, the justice system it deserves.”

  He gazed out over the crowd, lost in memories of that dreadful day.

  Eventually he said, “I had a speech prepared for today but I’m not going to use it.” There were mumblings, and from the plush chairs, Sterling Young looked at him anxiously. “I care deeply enough about this subject that I don’t need any prepared words. I feel passionately about my job and duty to this great country of ours.” He moved away from the rostrum, strode around the stage, the blue of the diamond screen behind him like a sunlit sky. Cameras tracked his every move. “You know,” he began, “I was asked to fight that war; I was asked to take away the privileges of the few who think they can disregard the lives and safety and property of others, and I was asked to ensure those privileges went to the people who were made victims by the criminals. I felt honoured to accept.

  “For too long the victims suffered and the criminals laughed at us. For too long, under the old regime, the words ‘reform’ and ‘understanding’ went hand in hand with tax hikes and misery. They took masses of money from law-abiding citizens to fund illogical, unworkable programmes to reform the character of criminals who were beyond reform; who sapped the country’s wealth, and went back out into the community to commit crime all over again. And what did the victim get from the old regime?” Deacon gazed around at the silent faces. “Nothing.”

  He turned around to the huge blue screen behind him. The words ‘Fairness in Punishment’ glowed in bright red. Beneath them, ‘Criminal Justice Reform Act’.

  “If the victims had items of value stolen from them, their insurance premiums went up. If they had been attacked, they had hospital bills to pay. The list,” he said, “goes on. And the old regime shrugged its shoulders and gave away their money to pay for a criminal’s lifestyle and their Legal Aid.” He raised his finger to the ceiling, brought it slowly down and said, “It stops here. It stops here!” The crowd applauded again and the cameras snapped. In the corner, Sterling Young rose to his feet and applauded too.

  “Last year the Criminal Justice Reform Bill went through parliament at an astonishing speed, and it was wholeheartedly backed by many diverse groups of people, not least among them, People Against Crime. And if I may just take this opportunity to express my gratitude to Josephine Tower who so tragically died earlier this month in the most horrific of ways along with eighteen of our wonderful young people.” He spoke over a ripple of polite applause. “She and her colleague, Emily Cooper, have accomplished so much in their work on this new Act, and of course, we miss her very much, and the tireless way in which she sought solutions to what appeared insurmountable problems.”

  They applauded again, and Deacon paused.

  “Together we ensured that The Rules, as they have become known, are indisputably fair, that they cannot lead to the death of an innocent person, and the safeguards within the Act have ensured the approval even of religious and humanitarian organisations. The level of public support is unprecedented. And four days ago, The Rules came into being.

  “The underlying message is simple: if you commit crime you will be punished!” Deacon thrust his head forward with such force to emphasise the words that his hair swung onto his forehead. Nonchalantly, he swept it back, and continued. “Since we took office, we have come a long way. We have seen the introduction of routinely armed police to guard against the more violent offenders, to protect themselves and the public. We are proposing vasectomy for persistent criminals because it is proven that criminals breed criminals – and why provide for them when in later life when they will steal from you or kill you. We have outlawed certain kinds of pornography; we are cracking down hard on drug offenders and prostitutes; all things that taint a good, clean society and all things that attract crime.”

  He waited for the appreciation to settle, strolled around to a new part of the stage and then continued his performance. “I was visited only yesterday by an elderly gentleman from my constituency in Yorkshire. He was a proud man.” And he held a fucking gun to my head. “And do you know what his request was? His request was for politeness to return, his request was that decency and manners and safety should return to the country. Victorian values, he called them. And he was right! Why should we put up with people whose sole intention is not to contribute to society’s wealth, but to ruin the lives of those who do contribute? People are fed up with them, claiming the police don’t do their job, claiming the judicial process is weak and cannot cope. Until now, they were absolutely right. But, it stops here.

  “The judiciary…”

  Deacon paused for the unscheduled applause to settle down.

  “The judiciary have teeth now and they are instructed to use them. We have undertaken a massive prison building programme, because we thoroughly expect there to be a bigger prison population,” he held up a finger, “only for the time being. When those criminals experience life behind the bars of a new reformed penitentiary where there are no entertainment facilities except a pack of cards and a communal television, when their DVD players and private TVs are removed, when they work for nothing except their board and lodgings; and more importantly, when they see that The Rules do work, and that the guilty are punished by paying the ultimate price, that swollen prison population will shrink very quickly!

  “And another thing that the criminal will not like: any costs incurred by victims, that includes items stolen, that includes increased insurance premiums or time taken off work to aid the investigation, will come out of the criminal’s bank account. He literally will pay for his crime!”

  The cheering had begun before the last words pounded out of the loud speakers. There were whistles and boisterous applause. Stamping feet became the bass accompaniment to raucous shouts of agreement, row upon row of people stood to lend their weight to the speech. The cameras spewed flashing light into the arena, turning Deacon into a strobe-lit figure walking the boards.

  He looked at them; they were like a hun
gry mob. They are sheep. “Of course,” he began again, quietly, ready to build to a climax, “reform and rehabilitation are offered. We all would prefer those who slip for one reason or another into criminality, to come back into our community as decent citizens, and we congratulate those people. However, hardened criminals who are determined to test the teeth of the Justice Ministry, will be sent to jail for a long time… but will receive help so as they may reintegrate into society. And then, when they re-offend, if they re-offend, they will be given an even longer sentence, but still offered further help, they will be offered treatment, and most importantly of all, they will be given a warning: offend again and you will be put to death!”

  He continued to speak over the cheers and whistles, but inside he grinned as wide as his imagination would allow. Deacon loved the adulation and could almost fool himself into thinking that they loved him too. He briefly allowed himself to wonder if anyone would want his autograph as he left the arena.

  “Murderers,” he continued calmly, “go straight to Rule Three where it is at the discretion of the court and the Independent Review Panel to confer the death penalty or send them to labour camps for a life sentence. But the courts are under strict guidelines to punish by death unless it is against the public interest to do so, unless there are overriding mitigating circumstances.

  “And it is with regret that I have to inform you that murderers already serving their sentences cannot be retried under The Rules, but those murderers who evaded capture, who are still at large in our communities, can be routed through the new Criminal Justice system, and they will receive the full weight of the law.

  “You know, it costs us 30,000 pounds each and every year to keep a prisoner for life. It costs 58 pence for a bullet and 140 pounds for a pine casket. Money well spent, I believe.” He smiled at the giggling audience.