“Some, maybe. But not all.”
“Hey, I’ll accept some, that’s a good enough start for me. Crime will drop, overcrowding in prison won’t be a problem anymore, and Britain will be more prosperous for it in the end.”
“I don’t agree with killing someone.”
Mick sipped the brandy, peering over the rim at Eddie as if wondering whether to pursue the matter. He decided he would. “If you found the green Jag man, would you still say that?”
Fair question. Christ, it was a good question. Eddie thought about it, drank his drink, and lit a cigarette before he could even formulate a response. “Yes. I don’t agree with killing someone. I admit that finding that bastard would probably test my principles.”
“Good enough answer for me, Eddie.” Mick topped their glasses up. “I’ve written a good piece about her forthcoming demise; Rochester liked it, and it’s rolling on page two on Monday if things don’t change.”
“Who’s Rochester?”
“Editor.”
“And what could change?”
“You are far behind, aren’t you? They haven’t even finished the London and Birmingham slaughterhouses yet. Or should I say, the ‘Termination Buildings’. The one in Leeds is done apart from carpets and paint, and some final testing; it’s where the kiddie-killer bites the bullet, literally. And then, I hear this is true, but the source isn’t so hot, but I hear they haven’t even finished selecting the executioner yet. Shit, can you believe it; I mean I know they probably don’t have any apprentice trained candidates to choose from, but Christ, come on!”
Eddie shook his head, laughed. “I think Deacon is full of shit. He gives off this air of supremacy; he’s a baby-hugger, but I bet behind the scenes he’s a bastard, and I further bet he gets his way on most issues.”
“Who cares what he’s like when he’s out of the public gaze, so long as he doesn’t smother the babies when he hugs them, he’s fine by me.”
“I’m surprised there haven’t been more objections to it. I mean how can you put a gun to someone’s head in this day and age and get away with it?”
“Happens all the time, Eddie. But you never hear of it.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, if the government is under threat, either by terrorists or by infiltrators, the heavy mob gets involved, and they just disappear.” Mick clicked his fingers, “In a cloud of dust.”
“Who’s the ‘heavy mob’?”
Mick shrugged. “I don’t know; they keep it to themselves, don’t they? But I guess there are men with big guns, like your MI5 or your NCIS crews. They’re the clean-up brigade; they’re the ones who make all the nasty things go away so the government and the public can make believe everything’s okay.”
“Who was it said ‘keep taking an eye for an eye and the world would go blind’?”
“Huh?”
“If you live by the gun, you die by the gun.”
“Are you pissed already? You’re making zero sense to me, Eddie.”
“I’m talking about killing, legally killing. If you kill people who have done wrong, there’ll be no bugger left before long, and I think the eye for an eye thing means that no progress is ever made if you just solve your problems by killing them.”
“Bollocks. Kill your problems and you have no problems. Anyway, you speak to most decent citizens and you’ll realise that they’re sick of being treated as the chaff while the wheat – the criminal – is afforded all the powers and rights he could wish for. They want tougher sentences, they want—”
“Retribution. Whatever happened to reform; now you’re saying everyone is out for punishment.”
“Hoorah,” Mick put down his drink and applauded, “you got that one right. Did you know that it costs you and me nearly £30,000 a year to keep a man in prison? And did you know there are currently 889 lifers in prison under the age of thirty? And since life actually means life now – not like it used to when life meant fifteen years before being let out to kill again – that means that each one has on average another thirty years to do. Do the maths on that, Eddie, and you end up paying a bill of around a billion pounds. That’s a mighty fine wad, wouldn’t you say? How many hospitals could you build for that?”
“That’s Deacon talking. But you’re missing the point. There’s a host of reasons why it’s wrong to kill someone.”
“Oh, go on then, wise one, let’s hear it; should be good for a laugh.”
“I’m not laughing. And I’m the one directly affected by someone who would now be on - what, a Rule Three? - for killing Sam.”
Mick nodded. “If he’s found guilty of murder, and it’s proved beyond all doubt – hear that, Eddie, beyond all doubt – that he killed your boy, he faces the gun.”
“I would like him to spend the rest of his life in a cell.”
“A lot o’ money going to waste.”
“It’s not wasteful; it’s punishing him, month after month, year in year out. He has nothing to look forward to except death. Why give him what he wants on a fucking platter?”
“Fair point. So you’re in favour of long sentences for punishment, but not for reform.”
Eddie drained his glass, tossed the dead cigarette into the ashtray and lit another, sighing the smoke out in a long stream. “Couldn’t give a monkey’s toss about reform; what has he got to reform about, he can’t bring Sam back by reforming his character, can he? I want him punished. Anyway, what should worry the public is the police.”
“Why?”
“Well, what happens when the evidence they have inadvertently puts some innocent man in the slaughterhouse? It’s happened, sometimes not even on purpose.”
“Oh come on, corruption is dead.”
“For a journalist, Mick, you’re fucking naïve. Coppers have been doing it for centuries. And they’ll be under more pressure to bring in the results now, so they’ll be inclined to cut so many corners it’ll be round when they’ve finished.”
“Won’t work. All evidence for Rule Three cases gets sifted by the Independent Review Panel; they’re forensics people, law people—”
“And coppers?”
“So what, they’re independent.”
“Okay, so what happens to the poor schmuck in the wrong place at the wrong time, whose evidence fits if you look at it in a certain light, but is actually innocent? At least if he’s banged up for a few years, there is the opportunity to set him free.”
“It’ll never happen, Eddie. Mark my words; it’ll never happen.”
Saturday 20th June
Chapter Twelve
— One —
Christian looked back at the open window, checking that the escape route was still there, just in case. You never knew what surprise the golfer might have in store. “You give me no trouble, and I’ll give you none.”
“Get out of my fucking house. Now.”
Christian silently climbed down onto his front, feeling the coolness of the floor on his hands and on his belly where his t-shirt had pulled up a little. This was the time when normal burglars would have slid back out the window, thankful to have gotten away with their life and their arse intact. But Christian was different; he felt different, almost felt as though he had a God-given right to be there, because what he was doing was right, dammit! He had selected the target and the target was his until he’d milked it, and no one, not Mr Golfer, Mrs Golfer or even the fucking police would sway him until he was finished.
It was a shame that it had come down to this, a confrontation that neither man wanted. But he had a woman at home and both of them could use a little fattening up, and one of them could use a little escapism. Escapism wasn’t cheap. The man in there, the golfer, seemed wealthy enough, and Christian didn’t think that donating a couple of hundred quid would force him to sell one of his cars.
“I said get out now else I’m calling the police.”
He crawled further forward, past the refrigerator – one of those large American jobs, and closer to the archway g
iving onto the lounge. He watched Mr Golfer’s shadow grow nervous. Christian’s mouth watered. And he would be lying if he said he wasn’t nervous himself; of course he was, but the nerves were tempered by the challenge and they were calmed by the goal.
The threshold with the lounge was inches away from his face. He could see Mr Golfer’s bare foot around the corner of the archway, could see the shadows beneath the moonlit window and could make out half of the leather chair Mr Golfer had presumably sat in before he took up his stance. All the man with the club had to do was look down and take another small step forward, and he could stroke that full head of free-living hair with a five iron, and then be patted on the back for it later. But he didn’t move.
From his breast pocket, Christian took the coin and the small black box. Without making a sound, he flicked the ‘on’ button, listened to the tiny whine as the capacitor charged up, and waited patiently for the LED light to glow. And then he tossed the coin across the lounge. Heads or tails? It tinked into the glass door of the DVD cabinet and moments later, he lunged.
Christian leapt, closed his eyes in readiness and tripped the flashgun with the thumb of his right hand. Mr Golfer shrieked again as his world turned instantly white, overexposed, and then sank into a land of green shadows punctuated by a bright orange dot. And that’s when he screamed.
Christian opened his eyes and punched the man in the balls. The golfer folded, gasping for air, retching, his free hand groping wildly in the air between them. And then he stood.
Why don’t you be a good victim and hand over the cash and let me walk away with it, huh? Why make things so damned difficult?
He watched the shock on the golfer’s face turn to anger. Christian swung his right fist, but Mr Golfer was surprisingly quick as he drunkenly stepped aside, and in the same movement, swung the club around his back. Christian tried to move, he could see what was about to happen – how the club would smash into his skull, how the blood would spray across the lounge walls and then the police would arrive, pin a medal to Mr Golfer’s chest, arrest Christian and throw away the key.
The club was already on its arc down towards his head. He saw it – heard it whoosh before it crashed into the ceiling lamps. Glass shattered, plaster fell like snow from the ceiling, and the club’s arc changed, deflected like a car bouncing off another car in a road accident. Unluckily for him, the light didn’t deflect it much and it still travelled toward him. He could do nothing but stand and watch as though he were the wall the errant car was about to collide with, thinking, ouch, this is gonna hurt.
The club smashed into Christian’s thigh and he went down screaming. For a second he wondered if his leg was broken, since all the sensation had evaporated apart from a throbbing tingle at the edges of the numbness. And then he thought he’d better shut the fuck up and stop screaming before the club found him again and came back for a second go. But it was too late. The scream gave away his position and there was another loud whooshing sound. Christian closed his eyes.
The club smacked into the skirting board, and Mr Golfer screeched furiously at him. Christian grabbed the man’s pyjama bottoms and yanked. He could think of nothing else to do; for the time being, he was paralysed and lay on the lounge carpet like he was a tee on a fucking practice green. The pyjamas slid down but Christian kept on pulling, yanking hard until the golfer lost his balance and banged to the floor on his bare arse. Face to face.
In the near darkness, both men grunted and screamed. Christian leapt at him, knocked him backwards and sank a punch into the golfer’s belly. The man’s breath rushed out and his face crumpled. His hands went to his stomach and he dropped the club. He rolled over and glass crunched beneath him, the breath streamed in through clenched teeth hissing like a punctured tyre. Christian got to his feet, ran a hand quickly down the side of his leg, and felt light-headed as the real pain bypassed the numbness and seized his mind. There was damage there; he didn’t know how bad but when he tried to put weight on it, it ignited a fire that burned furiously.
“I’ll fucking have you, you bastard!” The golfer coughed, and Christian let his knees fold so his weight fell onto the golfer’s balls again. More rushing air, bulging eyes, and groans.
“Where’s your money?” He ignored the pain in his leg, pulled his mind back to the job and back to the predicament he found himself in. He could still be caught, and so he’d better focus on getting money and getting out of here. He held his right fist a foot above the man’s squinting eyes. “Tell me where, or you’ll have a broken nose to go with your flat balls.”
“Fuck you,” the golfer spat through clenched teeth.
Christian didn’t hesitate. This was for his family, it was for his way of life, and now it was for his freedom too. The nose cracked and the man screamed again, hands smearing the blood across his face. In this light it looked like black sludge. “Next time it’ll be your teeth. Tell me where you keep your money.”
“I haven’t got any.”
The fist mashed the golfer’s mouth, and more blood trickled down the side of his face. His hands fell to his sides and Christian wondered if he’d gone too far and knocked the fucker out. But his eyes were still open, their moistness shone in the moonlight; his breathing still shallow and fast, and he stared at Christian without malice, without feeling, and then he whispered, “It’s over there in the bureau, right hand side.”
“You’d better not be pissing me about.”
“I’m not.” And then his eyes closed in a long blink that scared Christian a little; made him wonder if he’d caused the man some real harm, something he didn’t want on his conscience. He shook his head and almost felt like kicking the silly bastard for making him go so far. There was no need for all this, and he felt the anger swell up in his chest again, because it was for nothing, all this, it was pointless – the man could and would claim this back on the insurance.
He grabbed the flash unit off the floor and then stood and limped across the lounge. He opened the bureau and saw nothing.
“In the tin,” said the man. “In the tin on the right.”
And there it was. In a Cinderella tin, no doubt bright and colourful during the day, but only various shades of grey now. “This your holiday money?” he pulled out a wad wrapped in a plastic bag.
And then Christian was blinded.
— Two —
Henry sat in the chair and massaged his bandaged hand. He felt like shit and he looked pretty much the same. He waited in the drawing room like some guest at a hotel rather than being allowed to see the old fart right away. His father, the revered George Deacon – Sir George Deacon, champion of the common man, if you don’t mind – was busy polishing his golden letter opener in the study, by God; but he was the one who summoned Henry, not the other way round. Henry tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair. It was a mixture of nerves and anger.
He was cold and he was hungry, and these sensations, coupled with the anger, meant he shook uncontrollably. His hand throbbed beneath the bandage and if it had been just a little tighter, he could imagine the skin popping out between the wraps like an inner tube through a hole in a tyre.
It had started three weeks ago at the very end of May; a day that could only have been hotter if you were sitting on a furnace, and he was angry that day too. But his anger then was caused by being stuck in traffic while his sale walked out the front gate and drove away.
“Henry.”
Henry jumped and almost fell off the Chippendale.
“Henry, where have you been?”
“What, what do you mean?” Henry stood, put his bandaged hand behind him and took a step away from his advancing father.
“I invited you to my after-speech party. And what’s more, boy, I expected you to be there!”
Didn’t invite me to the fucking speech itself though, did you? “I couldn’t make it, I’m afraid. I had—”
“What? What did you have? Stomach ache, a sore head, or perhaps another appointment in the syph clinic?”
Henry ground his teeth. “I had things to attend to, father.”
Deacon spun and began walking back to his study, and Henry followed him down the dimly lit hallway with deep red carpet underfoot, and carved wood flanking the walls. Over his father’s shoulder, he saw a man sitting in a chair at the end of the hall, a discreet wall lamp cast its glow onto the newspaper he read. As they approached, the man looked up, nodded at Deacon and became engrossed again. Sirius, the lapdog; Henry recognised the big man even from that one small glance, and he too was on the hate list, the slimy bastard. Henry followed Deacon into the study.
Deacon closed the door and silence seemed to cloak them
Henry looked around the room, this sanctum he had visited once before without his father’s knowledge. For a study, it was a large room, easily big enough to accommodate a snooker table and a bar. Thousands of books lined its walls, all neatly stacked on mahogany shelves, and they gave off a musty, almost comforting smell. And then there was the desk, a thing so large it probably had its own Ordnance Survey reference. It had two flat screen monitors and two phones on it – one of them bright red, the Bat Phone, Henry immediately christened it. He sat in the chair facing the enormous desk and Deacon busied himself at the drinks cabinet. Lead crystal decanters tinkled against handcrafted tumblers.
“Tonic?”
Henry looked over. Shook his head. “Neat.” He already felt intimidated, not only by his surroundings, but by his father. Politics had turned him from the one man to whom he could tell anything into the one man from whom he kept everything. He’d become a scaly businessman whose cronies included ministers and lords, whose name was not on the Prime Minister’s ‘printed’ Christmas card list, but on the ‘hand-written’ list instead.
It was intimidating. He breathed deeply, said thanks for the drink, and downed it in one.
The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Page 11