The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t be more positive about it, Jilly.”

  She said nothing, looked at the wall, tears falling from her trembling chin in a silence that was almost scary.

  “I wish I could believe the way you do; but they’re out to make money out of you, and to bring you nothing but false hope so you’ll keep going back for more.” Still she said nothing. “Will you go again?”

  She blinked and more tears fell, though at least now she looked across at him. “Yes, I will,” she sniffled. “Because I believe them; they say things that aren’t generalisations. They say things that are spot on. And I think Sam’s communicating with me through them.”

  Eddie plucked up the courage to get off his arse and go and cuddle his wife. He made it almost to her shoulder before she looked up at him.

  “What?”

  “Nothing,” he said, “just thought you could do with a hug, that’s all.”

  “Leave me alone.” And then the venom came back, the claws came out and the eyes turned a deep shade of crimson again. “I never want you to touch me again. I want your sorry fucking arse out of my house and I never want to see your drunken, bag o’ shit body again until it’s in a fucking coffin! Now get out!”

  Eddie retracted his hand and stood still as though stapled to the floor. “Hey, Jilly—”

  “I said get out.”

  “But—”

  She looked up at him with such pure hatred in her eyes that he thought she could kill him in an instant.

  Through clenched teeth she said, “Get out now while you still can.”

  — Two —

  He threw the keys onto the coffee table and reached for the bottle and drank greedily, staring at the baseball cap.

  Maybe I should try the vacuum cleaner flex again. So much for keeping sober, mate, until tomorrow. “What the fuck,” and then he threw the bottle at the wall. The glass shattered and brandy sprayed into the air, dripped down the wallpaper and formed a puddle on the carpet.

  The Yorkshire Echo. 22nd June

  Margy Bolton Takes a Bullet

  Are we Ready for This?

  The Termination Building at Leeds saw the first Rule Three killing yesterday.

  Margy Bolton (28) from East Sussex, has the unenviable notoriety of being the first person put to death in England since 1964.

  In record time, the Crown Prosecution Service passed Bolton’s file across to the newly formed Independent Review Panel who took a single day to establish that all evidence against her was true and accurate. That means that the Court’s decision to impose the death penalty stood as correct and the ‘slaughterhouse’ was put on standby.

  Bolton appeared behind a glass screen briefly in court 5 at the Old Bailey where, through shouting and jeering from the public gallery, she confirmed her name. The Hon. Mr Justice Shaw adjourned the hearing for four hours while Bolton was moved to a video interview room where the rest of the case was heard.

  Police arrested Bolton on the 16th June, just hours after the commencement of The Rules, enabling her to be tried under the new legislation. She was charged with the murder of 18 children and four adults in an arson attack on the Chantry House Church of England Primary School.

  Calls for The Rules to deal only with cases that happened after 15th June this year have been dismissed by the Justice Ministry, who reiterated that their stance is to try people arrested after midnight on the 15th using the new system, irrespective of when the crime with which they have been charged took place.

  It comes as no surprise to learn that Sunday 15th June was a busy day for the police, with over 950 offenders handing themselves in to be tried under the old system.

  Conversely, say opponents, it can be shown that arrests prior to the date slumped as police officers waited for the deadline to pass so the new tougher laws would apply to those they arrested.

  By Michael Lyndon

  The Yorkshire Echo. 22nd June

  The Bloody Code

  Facts of English Execution

  Margy Bolton is the first citizen of this country to be put to death since 8am 13th August 1964, when Gwynne Evans and Peter Allen were hanged in Manchester and Liverpool respectively for the murder of John West.

  All those years later, we see the beginning again perhaps of the Bloody Code, but using different techniques.

  Now we use a special nylon bullet fired under pressure from a source of compressed air in to the brain stem. There are two sizes of bullet and various pressure settings available depending upon the subject’s build and density.

  The idea, suggests a government document, is to sever the spinal column and the brain stem in the quickest way possible without unnecessary distortion or disturbance of the body.

  Currently, there are three Termination Buildings in England: Leeds, Birmingham, and London (within the grounds of The Old Bailey). Ironically, the ‘slaughterhouse’, as it’s become known in Leeds, was only completed 2 days prior to its first use, and several technicians worked through the night to overcome a reliability issue only recently discovered.

  The problem occurred when the projectile misfired repeatedly in tests, causing damage to the apparatus by jamming in the ‘muzzle’.

  Its first proper use, however, went without a hitch. Harry Allen and Robert Stewart, the last two Chief Executioners, calculated weight and rope length in their days whereas their modern-day equivalent is 54 year-old Edward Donaldson, a grandfather who lives in Derbyshire, who determines structure and density using x-rays.

  Two further candidates are expected to be confirmed in role within two weeks.

  By Michael Lyndon

  Monday 22nd June

  Chapter Eighteen

  — One —

  Eddie was confused. She beat him, and they all looked on, her parents and the electrician with a fuse box under his arm; everyone stood by and watched her attack him. The vicar, who wasn’t a vicar at all, but a man with shining stars sewn into his black gown, a man who cradled a crystal ball and hugged to his breast a cauldron filled to the brim with money, overflowing with cheques in Jilly’s handwriting, with jewellery he had bought her in a previous life, shook his disgusted head at Eddie and then turned away.

  Jilly pounced on him, and Eddie’s face hit the gravel. She kicked him in the back and he rolled over, grunting.

  Eddie woke up and stared at the ceiling, listening to his heart booming. It took almost fifteen minutes to calm down, a slight improvement over the last time he had this nightmare.

  * * *

  “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Ros.” Eddie shaved three days’ of stubble away, wondering if this is how it felt being on fire.

  “We have to leave in ten minutes.” Ros called from the lounge.

  The smell of coffee wafted into the bathroom, and Eddie stared at himself in the cracked mirror over the sink. Is this it? Is this all I have until I curl my toes up? He sniffed the coffee. Ros. What does she do this for? What does she get out of supporting a no-hoper like me? “She should be out catching herself some young hunk with pecs and a dick to die for.” A thin smile showed itself. “Maybe she is a dyke.” That’s what they said down at the nick.

  Ros was a twenty-nine year old woman who wasn’t exactly blessed with stunning looks, but was a thousand miles away from having fallen out of any ugly tree too. She was nicely shaped, he thought, and she had a devil’s wit and was good with people, especially those who needed a little TLC. He winked at himself.

  But she’s not after me; she’s all for helping me and Jilly to get back together. And then a weird thought struck him: maybe she knows there’s no chance of reconciliation between us, and so she’s displaying her sympathetic side, hoping to win me over and then—

  “Here’s your coffee, you tosser.”

  He watched her in the mirror. She put the pot on the side of the bath, looked at him standing there in his towel, the cream towel that showed all the stains, the one with the fucking big hole, right about the place his arse is now, and she
smiled, looked up into his eyes.

  “You’re so good with words.”

  “It’s easy where you’re concerned. Now get a move on, don’t wanna be late today, kiddo.”

  “Almost done.” She turned and left, and he watched her as she walked into the darkness of the hallway. Nice arse.

  Eddie breathed deeply and wiped away the remaining foam with the corner of his towel. From the shelf, he took down a plastic bottle of shampoo. The label was faded, worn away as though it had taken a lot of use in its time in Eddie’s bathroom. He drank from the bottle and it tasted good. Brandy warmed through him, sent him a little dizzy, a little light-headed and he could feel the liquid singe away the taste of toothpaste lingering in his mouth. He took another swig and screwed the cap back on, and with a little twist of a smile, hoped nobody ever wanted to wash their hair in his bathroom.

  * * *

  The uniform felt foreign to him. The dark blue polo shirt felt tighter than he remembered it. The West Yorkshire Police badge over his left breast looked faded and the trousers shiny. He looked the part, but he felt abstract, as though no amount of police blue could persuade him that he truly belonged. He drank the cool dregs of the coffee.

  — Two —

  He slammed the door and sat looking through the windscreen, feeling nervous and wondering how they’d be with him after such a long absence. Would they all talk about him behind their hands; would their whispering cease abruptly the moment he entered the room? He hated the thought of going back. But what choice did he have?

  “All set?”

  He looked across, shrugged, and looked ahead again.

  “That good? I thought you’d be raring to go.”

  “You’d be wrong.”

  She handed the cigarettes and the newspaper across.

  “Cheers. How much—”

  “My treat.” Ros engaged gear and set off.

  He scanned the headlines. ‘Dignity, Purity, and Hope’, it said. It was the slogan for PAC; he admired their fighting spirit. One of their big-wigs, the one who was involved in the meetings with Deacon to bring about The Rules, had been slaughtered in an attack on a fucking school of all things – he shuddered at the thought of all the youngsters’ bodies – and still they kept to their guns and marched on towards their ultimate goal. And that was another thing he thought often of, the marches, and how people were caught by the debate.

  You were for The Rules or against them.

  But even in the ‘for’ camp there were divisions; yes they should be killed, but it should in a humane way, such as by lethal injection, or by gas, not shot. And then there were the radical opposition who said shooting the bastards was too good for them, and that they should be hacked to bits by the victims’ relatives, or they should be starved to death in full view of the public. Either way, Eddie guessed shooting someone behind closed doors wasn’t what life in the twenty-first century called for. But if they’d made their minds up to despatch a habitual or serious offender, then on balance the gun was probably the best and quickest of methods.

  Beneath the banner headline was another proclaiming ‘Why The Church Backed Down’. According to the paper, the Church had been brought into line by three events. One was a siege in a small parish church in Cumbria eight months ago where an escaped paedophile sought sanctuary from a group of ‘vicious’ vigilantes.

  It had ended in a frenzied bloodbath. Probably induced by the fear of being cornered by a mob, the paedophile had killed the vicar and a parishioner who had become caught up in it all somehow. The paedophile had died too; it seemed the armed police were a little slow in reacting to the situation.

  The second thing to bring about the change of collective heart was the invocation of an Independent Review Panel, now in place and functioning. It had been promised for a long time, and indeed was supposed to have been instrumental in negotiating the fine detail associated with The Rules; but as they often said, better late than never.

  The IRP’s task was to scrutinise all evidence relating to a conviction leading to a Rule Three death. It was a group of professional people from a forensic background, or a law background, and were conversant with police procedures. Yeah, like hell, Eddie thought. Their first case had been Margy Bolton. It took them a single day to check things out and sign the paperwork. They were new, they wanted to be liked.

  And the third factor that convinced the Church to accept The Rules, was a certain Rt Revd Steven Chapman, whose speeches on several levels – at the General Synod, the Diocesan Synod, and also at the House of Bishops, finally convinced them that an eye for an eye may be the way forward in this unholy century of ours after the abhorrent loss of his daughter and grandson.

  A picture of the Justice Minister, crying as he gave a speech introducing The Rules had its own headline: Deacon, a man of integrity.

  They drove in silence for almost ten minutes, and Eddie became more nervous and increasingly twitchy as their destination grew closer.

  I could murder a drink.

  “What you thinking about, Eddie?”

  Eddie jumped. Could she see inside his mind?

  “You look pale.”

  “Why are you doing this, Ros?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Taking me to work.”

  “So I know you’ll get there. It can’t be easy, your first day back after… after a long time away.”

  “You can say it, you know. I won’t bite you or curl up in a corner crying. You can say ‘after Sammy died’.”

  “Well, that’s why I’m doing it.” She cleared her throat. “What’s the headline,” she nodded at the paper in Eddie’s lap, changing the subject swiftly, aiming for subtlety but failing quite dramatically.

  “Talk about The Rules.”

  “Good,” she said.

  “You agree with them?”

  “Damned right. How many times have you dealt with aggro from some complainant saying the courts never do anything with burglars even if we catch ‘em? They say it all the time, Eddie. I’m sick of hearing it, and I’m sick of saying yeah, yeah to them, pretending it’s the first time I’ve heard it. I’m glad they’re finally doing something.”

  “Yeah, but don’t you think killing someone’s a bit extreme?”

  “They have three chances.”

  “So why are you really helping me?”

  Ros tightened her grip on the wheel, and Eddie noticed her cheeks flush slightly. But she wasn’t so easily intimidated, and came right back with, “How did the meeting with Jilly go?”

  Touché, he thought. That was like a poke in the eye with a pencil. “She kicked me out again.” He didn’t look at her, felt too embarrassed. “She went to see a psychic, and she claimed to have received a message from Sammy, from Sam, and I…”

  “You forgot to take your tact pills, didn’t you?”

  “Er, yep.”

  “Didn’t nip in to the diplomacy school on your way over?”

  “Slipped my mind.”

  “Ah. So you told her they were charlatans?”

  “Something like that.”

  “You told her she was stupid for falling for their trash.” She turned to him, a slow shake of the head, “You silly boy.”

  “I’m not the sharpest knife in the drawer am I?”

  “More like a spoon.” And when she looked around this time, her eyes had warmed, and her smile was friendly. “Give her time, Eddie. I’m sure she’ll call again.” She patted his knee as though knowing he had switched off, and when he turned to look, she asked, “How’s the drinking? Do you think you can control it while you’re at work?”

  He shrugged. “I’ll have to.” He knew the spiel and didn’t need lessons in perseverance versus resignation. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked without even realising he’d said it.

  “Yes, I do. Wait till we’re at work.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Welcome.”

  He’d wondered whether she would remember the dual carriageway as they travelled to work this
morning, and avoid it. But she didn’t. They drove along it now, and Eddie’s eyes were drawn to the right, to the fence and the little patch of land over by the other carriageway where a sleek gymnasium and office complex used to be a building site. Without knowing, he massaged his leg, and Ros looked across and saw him.

  “Oh God, Eddie. I’m sorry, I didn’t think—”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Why didn’t you say something? I could have gone a different way.”

  “I have to drive this road some time or another. Might as well get rid of all that’s bad in my life in one day.”

  Her raised eyebrows asked him, ‘How can you get rid of that much badness in just one day?’

  His hands were clasped in his lap, knuckles white.

  “I’ll help you.”

  Hadn’t she come round to soothe away the grief when Jilly kicked him out, and hadn’t she been there when Sammy died? She saw him crying and she didn’t leave, she didn’t coo at him, didn’t fuss with him, didn’t sit in judgement and blame him, and she didn’t laugh. She was just there to catch the vulgarities and mop up the puke. Ros was a stayer and she was a good friend.

  But why?

  “How’s Stuck-up Stuart, these days?”

  “Still a tosser.”

  “Great.”

  “Actually he’s worse now. He failed his CRFP, has to do it all again.”

  “Stuart? Failed? How come?”

  Ros shrugged. “He won’t give out details, in fact he thinks only a few people know about it, but we all do. No one says anything to him though, it’s more than their lives are worth.”

  Eddie grinned, rubbed his hands together. “Not so perfect, is he?”

  “Not a word. Right?”

  They arrived at the office five minutes before eight.

  He climbed from the car, felt the twinge in his leg and felt the need in his mind.