The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

  — Two —

  Robin McHue whipped the covers back and sat up in bed furiously cursing his inability to sleep. It was the meeting that did it. The important meeting he had tomorrow with that fucking pillow-biter of a boss of his. It was the pressure, the goddammed pressure that stopped him sleeping. But that wasn’t wholly true; he had trouble sleeping most nights lately, and even the heat had nothing to do with it. Christ he was fucking annoyed!

  “What’s up, love?” his wife slurred the words, still half asleep.

  “Never mind.”

  He thudded across the bedroom floor, yanked his dressing gown on and tramped down the stairs, colliding with his golf clubs stacked in a corner of the hall. Still cursing, he poured himself a large glass of whisky and sat in the dark lounge listening to the frigging clock ticking and watching a band of moonlight creep across the carpet towards the kitchen. He dug his nails into the leather suite and grunted his anger into the silent room. Fucking fudge-nudger! That’s it, he’d had enough, and tomorrow after the meeting, he vowed to make an appointment with the doctor and get this insomnia shit sorted once and for all. It was responsible for dropping his performance at work; he’d missed three targets this year already, and the fucking lack of sleep was as certainly to blame for it as sodomy was for his boss’s high-pitched voice.

  He sighed and then noticed the light in the kitchen. He turned his head and watched it. At first it made him jump. But as he watched he realised it was the beam of a very small torch jittering around the walls.

  Robin McHue climbed slowly to his feet and rested the glass back on the counter.

  — Three —

  He was a fair burglar. He stole from the rich – and only from the rich – to feed the poor, and he did it with no violence, if possible, and with no mess. He left behind anything sentimental, and took cash, and maybe credit cards if they were the old ones that had a PIN number, and if that PIN was to hand.

  Forty minutes from home, on a good street up in Meanwood, he walked by a suitable target. The house was a large detached job with a double garage and two cars on the drive, and a good view of the local Waitrose. He had walked the walk several times, got the feeling of the surroundings. He couldn’t see an alarm, and the upvc window around the back was open!

  No need for the tools with this one. But he still needed the latex gloves and before snapping them on, he changed his shoes. It was Christian’s habit. From each house he burgled, he always tried to take a pair of shoes, trainers preferably, and he wore them at his next job, abandoning them later, keeping his own shoes for living in. It prevented the police getting a picture of his working habits through footwear identification. Christian was thorough, and he thought about things before he did them, like he thought about his ideals and the way he conducted his travels through life. This was all part of the big picture.

  He placed his own shoes under the hedge at the front of the house and then strolled around to the rear, getting inside the gloves as he went. He shone his small torch through the open kitchen window, scanning its corners for PIRs. There were none, and Christian hauled himself silently up onto the window ledge and took a last look behind him. He put the torch away, relying on the moonlight and his night vision to get him the riches.

  Nothing else in the house moved. He stood at the edges of the polished wooden floor, lessening the chances of it groaning, and listened to the house.

  Christian’s eyes sprang wide. He held his breath. Silently he glided forward and crouched, peering around the corner and into the doorless archway that led into the lounge. His eyes were drawn to a slat of bright moonlight lying like a neatly folded sheet on the lounge floor, spreading out and getting wider as it approached the kitchen area. A shadow spoiled the sheet. It moved slowly, and it held a golf club.

  He had a choice: He could turn and quietly clamber back out through the window with his tail between his legs or he could confront the man, and consider Alice’s needs. This was an excellent opportunity, he reminded himself. How many houses of this standard did you come across, and further, how many houses of this standard did you come across with the window wide open! Precisely none.

  Christian gulped and approached the threshold as silently as a fog creeping over a graveyard. He looked at the elongated shadow. The golf club lifted.

  Am I brave, or am I stupid? More to the point, he thought, which is he?

  The club wavered, looked as though the guy was preparing to take his shot, waggling his big arse, adjusting his grip, waiting for the ball to show itself. Oh, yes, he was a hit first, fuck the questions, kinda guy. Christian ran the tips of his fingers over the rough stubble of his cheeks. He watched the golf club, saw the shadow fingers tighten his grip, flexing, waiting… waiting. He pulled in a long silent breath through an open mouth, considering his options.

  “Who’s there?”

  Christian blinked and held his breath. It was always the question asked by people who weren’t expecting visitors. And let’s face it, if you were a burglar or a murderer creeping around someone’s house in the dead of night, and they said ‘Who’s there’, would you answer them? Would you actually tell them your name?

  The man with the golf club cleared his throat and the shadow fingers moved up the shaft a little. “I said who’s there?”

  “I heard you the first fucking time.” Christian heard the shriek, a small surprised little thing that a squeezed diaphragm forced through a clenched mouth. “It’s me,” he said in a friendly, soothing voice, “Mr Nobody.”

  — Four —

  Alice stared at the ceiling, found the absence of smoothness quite disturbing. It was dark, the moonlight had receded now and clouds dimmed its remaining brilliance further. It had ribs, the ceiling. They were hairy and they frightened her. She swallowed and forced her eyes away from them and away from the hordes of spiders living up there, staring at her, licking their lips and waiting until she finally gave in and fell asleep before attacking. Well, she wouldn’t. She blinked and large tears escaped their big black pools and trickled into the stained quilt in which she buried herself. Her nose ran, and maddeningly, her head ached so much that moving her eyes to the extremes of their travel in their sockets, hurt like a bitch.

  And now she had a notion that she could hear them, the spiders, as their little legs, covered with coarse black shiny hairs brushed together, could hear their collective rustling and a shiver curled up Alice’s naked back. She was afraid.

  She sat up and whispered Christian’s name. But he didn’t respond. Had he gone out? Was he in the cellar? Where was he, he never usually left her alone without telling her he was going and when he’d be back; he never did, it wasn’t like him, he shouldn’t… she slapped wildly at her face, pulled her hair and screamed as they scurried over her flesh and gnawed, nipped and bit her upper body. They were everywhere; they were all around, unstoppable, hundreds of them, teeming over her body like a black viscous fluid that stung as it crawled. She screamed and they ran into her mouth, trickled down her throat and chomped at her guts.

  Alice fell off the mattress and onto the floor.

  The tears were real, though. And for an age she rested on her knees, head tucked under cradled by her arms, with goose pimples exploding across her naked flesh. And she sobbed. She ached all over and even though she shivered, she refused to put any clothes on. The cold made it more bearable somehow. Clothes promoted warmth, and warmth nudged along the feeling of nausea. No, she kept herself cold on purpose.

  Wearily, Alice stood; arms folded over her chest, and dared to look into the dark ribs of the spider-encrusted ceiling. Nothing. She sighed and rubbed the back of her neck, trying to sooth the hairs there, to flatten the goose pimples. It wouldn’t be long and she was going to need a top-up. She looked around and saw that Christian wasn’t there after all; and she hoped he was out doing the business, getting her some gear, otherwise… well, otherwise she’d go fucking berserk! Simple as that.

  “Hurry, babe,” she whispered; and with arms a
gain folded around her breasts, she walked over to the bed and looked down at Spencer. She smiled, and touched his hair, stroked it with a mother’s gentle fingertips, felt the softness of his skin and…

  the hammer smashed into his skull and shattered a spray of blood and warm brains across her face

  …heard the tiniest of snores coming from his puckered lips. Alice shuddered and shook her head, trying to throw the vision out. It made her jump. Spencer’s eyes flickered but stayed closed. She breathed hard and walked away, eyes squinting, squeezing the bridge of her nose. “Fuckin help me,” she whispered. The sugar had all but gone, the soft drink, the Pepsi and the Lucozade were gone, and she needed something fast before she shrank into a fucking black ball of spiky hatred in a corner, before she became dangerous to be around.

  Why wouldn’t he give her the fucking cash? She could go out and make her own deals, she could…what, exactly? You could get ripped off again, you could come back with no stuff and no cash and probably with your fanny on fire because you got raped by a dealer just before he robbed you. Fuck! Why did he always leave it until she’d run dry before he went for more? Just what was his damned game? He had no right to… why not keep a little on standby in case something shitty happened? Was that too—

  Hold on. Maybe Christian had hidden some.

  The blackness of her eye sockets creased a little as she squinted.

  He brought Spencer into the world, Alice. He did that and he cared for you both like a decent man. Don’t mock him, girl; that, out of all the things you’ve thought tonight, is the lowest you’ve got.

  * * *

  She swung the cellar door open. The smell of linseed molested her in a thick, almost glutinous way that sank through the pores as well as through the nostrils.

  The candle flickered as she descended the cold stone steps and into the bowels of the rotting old house. Her hand cast flitting shadows on the whitewashed walls and she shuddered as the temperature dropped another five degrees.

  You know he’d be furious if he caught you down here, dontcha? He’s told you before to stay out, hasn’t he? And why did he tell you, huh?

  If he had nothing to hide from me, why would he ban me from coming down here? The smell grew stronger.

  She swallowed and straightened. “I have a right to see it, whatever it is. I have a right to it, half of it’s mine.”

  Hey, come on, leave the guy alone; it’s his only privacy from you. Come on, look what he done for you, how he stood by you. The least you can do is respect his wishes—

  “Fuck his wishes,” she snarled. The candle wavered and Alice’s heart flickered too. What’s he ever done for me, eh? Got me fucking pregnant is what he did, the bastard and that made me depressed and, and…

  Alice began to cry.

  He gave you a family, Alice. You think on that, girl. He gave you stability.

  “You call this stability?”

  Oh, yes, it is. In his own way; you ain’t got a mortgage and you ain’t got no rent to pay, but you have a roof of sorts over your head, you’re safe and you are free, and that’s what you both need more’n anything.

  “I need a fucking hit more than anything.” She held the candle out in front of her at arm’s length and shuffled into the blackness of Christian’s realm.

  Saturday 20th June

  Chapter Eleven

  The knock came. “Who is it?”

  “It’s me.”

  Eddie put his coffee – coffee! – down on the table and answered the door. He hadn’t seen Mick in over a week. Of course, he was at the funeral, sort of, but that was three weeks ago and it was the place Mick had chosen to rekindle their friendship, to apologise for printing the story of Eddie and the robber when Eddie had specifically requested he didn’t want to appear in any newspaper at all. But Mick had gone ahead and done it after all, and that had angered Eddie to the point where he punched Mick in the face and told him to ‘fuck off and die’.

  Eddie conceded that it was a little harsh, because Mick hadn’t meant any harm; he thought it would have been a nice surprise, but in the end it wasn’t nice, and indeed for Mick, it had been painful. But his mistrust in Mick had grown; he was unreliable, and he was not the kind of man to share a confidence with. Mick was more a drinking partner, and maybe Ros had been right when she said he wanted to sink into the gutter with some company, and his chosen company was Eddie.

  “Come in, Mick.”

  Mick closed the door behind him. “Hey,” he pointed at the coffee. “What the hell’s that?”

  “I’m back at work Monday. Thought I should try and be—”

  “Fuck that. Grab the glasses; I bought us some Metaxa.”

  “Honest, Mick, I—”

  “Now, now. I don’t wanna hear any bollocks, Eddie. Sit ya bum, Mick’s here now.”

  “I ought to go to bed, really.” He looked into Mick’s bloodshot eyes; his mouth curled up at the ends, and then he burst out laughing.

  Mick looked a little surprised and then he joined the laughter. “Bed? Do me a favour. Come on, where’s your spirit? Oh, silly me, I’m holding it!” Mick grabbed the glasses off the wonky sideboard and perched in his usual chair by the window. “I have news, Eddie.”

  “Hi Eddie, how’re you feeling?”

  Mick’s smile died. “Hey, I’m sorry; I forgot my manners there for a minute.” Fake concern smeared itself over Mick’s whiskers and even the crow’s feet smoothed out a little. “How are you; no I mean it, Eddie, how are you doing these days? Things any easier?”

  As if you care. “No, things are not any easier. I wake up every morning – if I’m lucky enough to fall asleep, and I realise my kid is still dead. How’s that? I feel like slitting my throat. Next?”

  Mick ignored him, eager to feel the burning sensation of brandy flowing into his gut. “Speaking of throats,” he said, smile growing back all the time, “come on, get some of this down it; it’ll fade the blues until they’re almost tolerable.” He handed Eddie half a tumbler of brandy, chinked glasses and slumped in his chair, leg cocked over one arm in his usual fashion. He lit a cigarette and exhaled as though he were in his own lounge.

  “I doubt it.” Despite his earlier good intentions, Eddie took the glass, as the justifications began to pop into his head. The little voice inside put up a fair fight, but in the end, addiction always won over reason. Hell, he was celebrating his last weekend before returning to the job; and hell, Sam was still dead! Both of them were top drawer reasons to enjoy that glass of Metaxa. He nodded the glass at Mick and drank with a free conscience.

  “Guess what.”

  “Me and guessing games are not the best of friends.”

  “Christ, you are touchy tonight, aren’t you? Job freaking you out; going back after a long time off can—”

  “Get on with it.”

  Mick took his leg off the arm of the chair and sat forward, cigarette in one hand and glass in the other, and waved both at Eddie as he told his tale, smile right back on his face as though it were glad to be home. “The first Rule Three death is next week!”

  Eddie shook his head. “Rule Three?”

  “Oh come on,” he said, “you had your head up your arse all year?”

  “I’ve had one or two distractions, yes.”

  “Fair point. Margy Bolton is due to go before the gun tomorrow. You remember her? She’s going to be famous.”

  “That bitch is already famous.”

  “True.”

  “But can you get her autograph?”

  “Well, I…”

  Eddie laughed, and then Mick joined in, pointing a pair of smoking fingers, “Hey, you got me then. One nil, big boy, one nil.” He stabbed out the cigarette and continued, spouting a stream of smoke up towards the bare light bulb. “She’s going to be in all the papers and on all the stations. She’s more famous than the fucking PM, is Margy.”

  “They’re not televising it, though? Tell me they’re not.”

  “No, no. Christ, that would go against the
decency legislation.” And then he winked, “But there is a loophole. They can broadcast the sound of her dying, of her being shot. No visual, but plenty of audio. The fucking ratings will soar, I promise you.”

  “You’re looking forward to it, aren’t you?”

  “Damned right. I tell you, Deacon has risen in my estimations, no end since he brought this Rules thing in. They’re calling him the new hero of the twenty-first century.”

  “Who’s ‘they’?”

  “Most of the people I’ve interviewed think it’s about time we got tough on the killing culture, as they call it. And it spreads wider afield than good ol’ Blighty. The Yanks are applauding us big style; they think it’s wonderful, and those States that already employ the death penalty feel vindicated.”

  “What about those that don’t?”

  Mick shrugged. “Dunno, really. Like always, they’re saying it’s wrong to kill people, but there are more in favour of capital punishment than against it. I mean, most of Europe nearly had a frigging coronary when The Rules came in; no way Deacon could’ve got it through European legislation – The Sixth Protocol, Article 1, abolition of the death penalty – had we not pulled out of Europe altogether.

  “But who gives a shit about Europe anyway? I certainly don’t. And I’ll tell you something else, Eddie, when The Rules kick in, the crime rate will drop through the fucking floor.” He stared into thin air, and with arms outstretched, drew out an invisible banner, “I’m writing it up as this: people will be able to leave their doors unlocked as they did back in the 1940s; Britain will once again be Great.” His eyebrows rose. “Well? What do you think?”

  “Do you think that’ll ever happen? Because I don’t.”

  “Well, maybe people won’t leave their doors unlocked, but once criminals see their brethren die – or hear them die, should I say – they’ll think twice before burgling, robbing and murdering, won’t they.”