In the cot above the stash, Spencer began to fidget, and before she could finish dressing he had woken completely and was crying for his breakfast, so busy with his own needs that he cared not a jot for those of his poor mother. “Hey, Spencer,” she said softly, “come on, Mummy’s here.” Spencer ignored her and cried louder than ever. “Shut up!” Alice put her t-shirt and denim jacket on and lit a roach. Before she had even pulled on her jeans and boots, Spencer had hit the high notes. “Shut up! Fucking kid!”
The cellar was as dark as ever but she got to work quickly, blocking from her hazy mind any thought of right or wrong, and any thought of Christian. Even Spencer’s pained screams couldn’t pierce the barrier she had constructed inside her mind. Better get it done and quick, better just get the gear and get the fuck out of here.
Bravely, she opened the door to the annex and swept a hand through the new web that stretched across the doorway. She bent and grabbed two this time, feeling the texture of paint through the thin bag. She pushed the annex door closed and left the cellar in darkness again, throwing the candle aside as soon as she reached the kitchen.
She slammed the corrugated door behind her and stood on the step, taking deep relaxing breaths. Spencer had reached orbit, but even when she tried to hear him, there was nothing more than the faintest sound. Almost undetectable. Tolerable now.
— Three —
Christian chose a window table and set to work on his Big Mac with gusto. He watched the huge crowd grow larger as it thundered along Boar Lane, turning left up Briggate in a convoluted path towards the Town Hall. There was another demo, probably of a similar size and probably making a similar racket, already congregating outside the Crown Court building, having arrived via Park Lane. Several hundred police officers and several blocks of Leeds City centre kept both groups apart.
As with all the demos, the police filmed them; and trotting alongside the fringes of the crowd were news cameras. Outside broadcast crews took in the sun and recorded the growing madness about to erupt on the streets between the Crown Court and the Town Hall; something of a focal point for marches concerning justice.
Christian slurped black coffee and watched the large Vidiscreen on the Corn Exchange’s wall flicker the Crimestoppers hotline number. Then, in ten second intervals, faces appeared, names beneath them in large red letters and then the words that made the crowd shout louder, that made the bullhorns belch into a frenzy of electronic noise, the words wanted. Rule 3 violation. Reward for information.
Christian studied the faces; half hoping he knew one of them. They were offering 10,000 pounds for information that led to a prosecution. These days, it meant 10,000 pounds for information leading to a prosecution and sudden death. He knew none of the faces; most of them looked familiar, just regular men, not one of them had murderer or rapist tattooed on their foreheads. But even if he had known any of them he doubted he could turn them in for the state to kill them.
The number in the corner of the screen said 3/256. The state wanted to kill 256 people. That was a lot of lives, but he wondered how many people had they killed or made suffer? And then he almost spat his burger across the floor – wasn’t he of their brigade? Wasn’t he a criminal too? But he was no murderer, and he definitely was no rapist. He burgled, honourably, to keep his woman and his dream alive. That was all.
Alongside the protestors, marched mounted police, and plenty more on foot, all armed. The protestors’ banners indicated they didn’t wholeheartedly agree with the state. Killing is still killing said one. Two wrongs don’t make a right, said another. And then there were the personal attacks on the guy who masterminded the whole policy. Death Deacon, they called him. It seemed there was a great number of ordinary people who despised the new Act, despite it being introduced to protect them and discourage the current wave of murder that hopped, skipped and jumped around the nation in sporadic bursts of semi-automatic gunfire.
Christian craned his neck, and could make out the last of the protesters as they marched in less flamboyant mood up Boar Lane, and that’s when he slurped the dregs of his coffee, mopped his goatee and walked briskly from the shop, turning left, and heading up Briggate to where all the fancy shops were.
— Four —
“Sirius?”
Deacon’s door swung wide and Sirius stepped inside, closed the door and stood with his hands folded tidily across his groin. “Sir?”
“Get hold of Henry, will you? We have to get this car business sorted out once and for all.”
“Sir,” Sirius held out a hand, stared at Deacon.
It was so unusual for him to interrupt, that Deacon stopped immediately and looked at his man. “What’s wrong?”
“May I speak candidly, sir?”
Deacon nodded solemnly.
“Sir, is it necessary for Henry to accompany me? I can—”
“Yes it is. For one thing, it’ll keep him out of harm’s way, and for another, and this is the main reason I want him along for the ride, it will show him just how ruthlessly efficient you can be, Sirius.” He raised his eyebrows. “Do I make myself clear?”
Sirius nodded.
“I also want him to witness that I have kept to my part of the bargain.” He looked away, lower teeth bared as though expressing regret. “I should have killed him at birth,” and then he noticed Sirius’s smile and shook his head, “No. Let’s keep to our word. I’ll give him his final chance.”
Tuesday 23rd June
Chapter Twenty Three
— One —
The bus hadn’t even stopped before Alice bounded onto the pavement, buzzing with life. The bus pulled away and followed a bright yellow diversion sign that took it away from Park Lane and onto the Loop Road. And after it left she could see the reason for the diversion. There was a huge crowd, maybe two or three thousand, outside the Crown Court, spilling onto the roads and the steps around the Town Hall. A warm breeze rippled banners that proclaimed how wonderful it was to finally kill the dross of society: Deacon For PM, Don’t Shoot ‘em, Hang ‘em!, An Eye for an Eye, God is on Our Side, and Bravo the Rules. Bullhorns screamed.
Mounted police, sidearms tucked neatly into sexy thigh holsters, kept the demonstrators in line, enough for her to walk straight past them without her feeling the slightest bit nervous. The crowd was a blur as she carried two precious paintings wrapped in dirty black plastic bags that trailed twisted cobwebs; nothing could detract from her goal.
She hurried up The Headrow and past the entrance to Park Lane, watching the faces on the Vidiscreens, along with the legend beneath them: ‘Wanted. Rule 3 violation. Reward for information’. “Wonder how much they’re offering,” she asked no one, almost tripping over a kerb in her haste to see Max. “I’d sell my mother for 500 quid.”
Well, why not, hon. You’re selling your man out for fifty!
She passed another three Vidiscreens before she reached the summit of The Headrow and then took a quick detour into a tobacconist’s. A bedraggled drunken man staggered past her with a four-pack of Foster’s under his arm, almost knocking the paintings from her grasp. The man behind the double-glazed laminated screen smiled her. “Did you see that?”
“Don’t worry, love, he’ll be in a cell before today’s out. I don’t know why they do it; they know we’re filming them, and the fucking sign,” he pointed, “says we always prosecute. And there’s more cameras outside than anywhere else in the country. Reassuring, isn’t it?”
“Damned right.”
“Anyway, what’ll it be?”
“Twenty Superkings…” She stared at the lottery display, and for a moment let her mind wander. It had been years since she’d bought a lottery ticket. Never did win, but they said you gotta be in it to win it. And pretty soon she would be. It was another hope string to her hope bow. Alice paid for the cigarettes and left.
She stood outside the shop, letting its canopy shade her from the sun as lit the cigarette, paintings held between her knees as she shielded the flame. To her right was mor
e noise, the sound of bullhorns that bounced from building to building, ricocheting its way up to The Headrow.
She walked away, blending into the bustling crowd of shoppers. People stared at her as though she had a third tit growing from the crown of her head; they scowled at her, the way British people do when annoyed. And then she stopped. The PCSO standing directly in front of her, blocking her path, scowled at her too. “What’s up?”
“Please extinguish that cigarette. You are in a public place and smoking in public is forbidden.”
“What?” She saw the smirks replace the scowls and dropped the cigarette. “When did that law come in?”
“’Bout four years ago,” he said. “I ought to fine you, really.” He must have felt sorry for the bags she carried under her eyes, for the scuffed boots and the torn jeans she wore, for the dirty fingernails and the scruffy hair. “I’ll let you off this time if you promise to be more considerate in future.”
Alice ignored those around her who sniggered. “Okay, great, I will.”
He nodded and wandered off into the crowd, his black helmet bobbing up and down through the river of heads like a kid’s boat floating on a stream. Over the natural low roar of a crowd of shoppers and commuters hurrying around, there was another sound that grew as though someone were steadily turning up the volume; the sound of a gathering that chanted in unison. It had an electric quality; a false, crackly quality.
She lit another cigarette, in awe at the rabble and the police escorting them, at the TV cameras surrounding them, running alongside as though their viewers had never seen a demonstration before, and at the banners. Killing is still killing said one. Two wrongs don’t make a right, said another. And then Death Deacon, said yet another.
Like those old screens in Leicester Square that advertised Coca Cola, and in the films that she’d seen of Las Vegas, there was a huge Vidiscreen on the corner of Boots right across the road. It flashed up the Crimestoppers number, and then showed the face of a con, scowling as the crowd had scowled at her for smoking in their space. “What the hell is happening to the fucking world? What’s all these bastard demos for anyway?”
Alice tightened her grip on her treasure and headed down Eastgate, looking out for the discreet sign held out from the wall by a golden wrought iron hand. Bookman Antiques it said. Her own private money fountain.
The bell tinkled, and although she didn’t think she would feel nervous - Max had made her feel very welcome the last time she came here - still a little trepidation trickled down her throat and made her gag
No, hon, that ain’t no trepidation, that’s guilt.
but she shook it off, swallowed it and bid it good riddance, and waited for Max to show his little rotund self. It was quiet, the sounds of the demos, soon to be on top of each other, surely, soon to erupt into another riot, faded into a backdrop that was so slight, it was easily forgotten,
like you easily forgot little Spencer
and easily hidden beneath the ticking of Max’s Grandfather clock to her right.
“And what have you brought today, my dear?”
The cigarette fell and bounced on Max’s shiny floor.
“If you could spit it outside,” he said, picking it up by the filter as though picking a rat up by its tail, “that would be better for the fire regulations.”
“You made me jump, I—”
“Did I?” He bolted the door. “Come, show me what we have today.”
She followed him through the bead curtain and into the back room. “Did you manage to sell the first one I brought you?”
At first, Max’s voice was sparked by energy, and then quickly, as though he’d checked himself, became tentative. “Oh yes… Well, you know, these things take time. I’m sure I’ll have a buyer for it sooner or later.” And then he stopped by a table, brought a lamp across and plugged it in nearby. “I don’t think I can command as much for it as I had hoped.” He took out his round rimmed glasses, and peered up at Alice over their tops. “I did try, my dear, but the market these days is saturated.”
“Stop talking bollocks. I’m not asking for thousands, and I know you’re making a handsome profit. So don’t come the poor old man routine, and definitely don’t come the ‘I’m doing you a favour’ routine.”
Max simply rolled up his sleeves. “Come on, I haven’t got all day.”
She pulled away the plastic bag from the first painting and propped the second against the wall.
He brought the light over and studied it, giving little away, but he couldn’t hide the delight in his eyes. “I have to admit, Alice, this boyfriend of yours paints exquisitely.”
“Yes, he does.”
“So my dear, what is this one called?”
She shrugged. “Fuck knows.”
Max was aghast. “You literally are in this just for the money, aren’t you? You care nothing at all for the image, the painting, or the artist.”
See, even a complete stranger thinks your heart is a cesspit, even he wonders how you came to be such a hard bitch that could sell her man’s blood and tears for a pittance, just enough to fill her arm a coupla times. You a waste of space, girl.
“How much are you going to pay me, Max?”
“Don’t you have any idea what its title is? I really would like to know.”
“Well, let’s see,” she snatched the painting from his hands, and he yelped, almost grabbing it back, but afraid to damage it. He hovered over it, and held his breath as she continued. “What’s it of?” She held it at an angle towards the lamp’s soft light.
It was summer. A glowing sunset soaked a meadow in deep orange and burgundy. The shadows it cast fell long across the castle walls that glinted as brightly as a diamond, and there were smaller diamonds dancing on the surrounding water. The grass by the golden river seemed to sway to and fro, and…
“Sunset Meadow,” she said at last. She ignored the smiling face that appeared like a hologram inside the painting. It was Christian’s face.
“What?”
“Meadow, see? And the sun’s setting. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing,” he concentrated on the painting. “It’s fine.”
“I want a hundred for this one.”
“Nonsense.” Max stared sharply at her. “What do you think this is, madam, a pawn shop? I do not bow down to pressure from people like you. I appreciate the work that’s gone into paintings like these; I appreciate the talent and the skills—”
“Then you’ll be willing to pay for it.”
Max was lost for words, but his old dealer’s tongue soon found first gear. “And indeed I will. Fifty pounds. It’s a fair price, Alice, I assure you.”
“Listen, Max; I may be a junkie, I may understand as much about art as you understand what it’s like to give birth, but I understand this much: you’ve already sold the last one I brought.” Max’s mouth fell open. “Haven’t you?”
His wide eyes showed a flicker of fear under the rims of his golden eyeglasses. “I told you,” he stuttered, “I’m struggling—”
“I can spot a lie at forty paces.” Her eyes pierced into his, and he looked away. “How much did you make off the last one?”
“That, my dear, is privileged—”
“How much, dammit?”
Max pouted, his cheeks flushed a light crimson, breathing heavily. He was definitely not used to customers like Alice, and it looked as though it would go one of two ways for her right then: he would either throw a tantrum like a kid, and he would pay the hundred she asked for; or he would regain his former composure and he would lie to her some more – and then he would hand over the hundred. Either way she got what she wanted.
“Very well, my dear,” he said quietly. “I will pay you one hundred for it, but I must stress that you have dented our business relationship.”
“Super. Now do you want the other one or not?”
Max appeared to mull it over, taking his time. “I think,” he whispered, “I could help you out, yes. How many more
do you have?”
She shrugged. “Don’t know; maybe ten, maybe twenty. I don’t know really. Never counted them.”
“And when could I expect you to visit me again?” he smiled like an old friend who’d surely miss her if she were away for long.
“I’ll try and get in again tomorrow, but who knows. Might be next week. We’ll have to see.”
“Yes.” A note of dejection tinged his words. “We’ll have to see.”
— Two —
Eddie was showered, shaved and ready for Ros this morning. He could manage the ten o’clock starts, no problemo – as Mick would say.
And she smiled at him this morning when she came to pick him up. “Wow, I needn’t have brought the Domestos this morning.”
“You saying I live like a slob?”
“That about sums it up.” She studied his face. “You’ve even shaved. Your public will be flattered.”
“Any more complainants like yesterday and my public will be flattened.”
“Fingers crossed,” she chuckled. “Mick come around last night?”
“Why? You my part-time mummy now?”
“I just think he’s a bad—”
“I’m a big boy now, Mummy. I can shave myself without getting blood over the bathroom and I even managed to put my shoes on the right feet this morning.”
“No need to take the pee.” She turned, ready to leave.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’ve made up my mind to try and sort this lump of shit they call life out at last.”
“Really? You’re going to quit the booze?”
“I’m going to cut down.”
“So you know it’s becoming a problem then?”
“It’s only a problem when I can’t get up for work because my head’s stuck to the pillow.”
“You are gross.”
He laughed, and her wrinkled-up face made him laugh more. She was cute, was Ros; a slim, small woman but with a Matron’s ferocity. And she had quite a disarming smile. Put that together with her deep brown eyes, and there was an attractive combination there.
The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Page 22