“I couldn’t live with myself.”
He signalled to the small door. “Show me what else he has.”
— Three —
“Okay, Mr Ledger,” Tom said. “Sign there on this form and,” he slid another two across to him, “also there and there on the other two.”
“What are these for?”
“The first is an application for an ID card; you’ll still be fined for not having one, but at least we’ve tried to put that right. It’ll look good for you in court. And the second one is your conditions of bail, and the bail slip itself. It states on there that you will appear before a magistrate at the time and date shown, and this,” he handed Christian a leaflet, “explains about your visit to court, about who may represent you and about the costs you’re likely to incur.
“It also sets out the possible consequences of your crime, and tells you all about the Offenders’ Charter, which is designed to help you not to re-offend. The last form is your copy of a Rule One proposal. It sets out the crime you have committed, the case the police have against you, your agreement with the charge, and the consequences of re-offending.”
Christian looked up, a frown across his face.
Tom sighed and looked at the solicitor, who typed more notes on his laptop. “It’s all to do with the Criminal Justice Reform Act. Basically, you’re already on a Rule One because of the shoplifting. If the judge finds you guilty of the burglary last Saturday, you’ll go to a Rule Two. So you’re walking on very thin ice. I strongly suggest you do nothing illegal before your court date, Mr Ledger. If you commit any offence deemed more serious than offences against property, you could inadvertently find yourself on a Rule Three.” He stared at Christian with solemn eyes. “You know what that means, don’t you?”
“Death?”
“In one, my friend, in one.”
Christian swallowed.
“If you find yourself on a Rule Three, you’ll be given a brief trial, then the Independent Review Panel breeze over all the evidence for and against and make recommendations to the judge. Then it’s curtains,” he sliced a finger across his neck. “But, I don’t expect we’ll see you back here again, will we Mr Ledger?”
“Definitely not.”
“So what’s the damage?” Tom asked the solicitor.
The solicitor punched numbers on his laptop’s calculator. “One-hundred thirty-seven pounds. Including VAT.”
Tom said, “Give me five minutes. I’ll get your stuff out the locker, be right back with your change and a receipt, okay?”
* * *
Christian stepped outside and the door swung shut after him. Over in the distance, he heard the demos finally coming together outside the Town Hall and the Courts buildings a couple of blocks along. He heard the screams and the shouts and the sirens. And then it all went strangely quiet, where the only sound he could hear clearly was the flag flapping in the wind. There was a loud crack like a circus master lashing a whip. It made Christian jump.
There was a roar from the pro crowd and jeers from the objectors; the furore resumed at a quieter volume, electronic voices massaging the crowds on megaphones, sirens screamed down the roads and undecipherable chants bounced off each building.
Full of dejection, Christian headed home.
— Four —
Mick didn’t notice Mr Rochester behind him. He carried on punching the computer keyboard with his two index fingers, looking up every now and then, searching the ceiling for inspiration. It was only after a sustained pause where his finger resisted the urge to type and instead meandered its way in and out of his right nostril that Rochester coughed and made his presence known. Mick swivelled, “Ah, Mr Rochester.”
“Any further forward with the copy for tomorrow’s edition?”
“I have some new info. And it’s in the gel stage.” He smiled, “sort of anyway.”
“So it’ll make my hair stand on end, will it?”
“As a matter of fact, it’ll make your cock stand on end. Sir.”
Tuesday 23rd June
Chapter Twenty Seven
— One —
She took the light away from him and he sighed when the dustsheet fluttered back over the painting. “Come on,” she said, “they’re over here.”
“Of course, my dear.”
“We don’t have time for you to have a good look at them. Just take a couple, pay me and go.”
He followed her towards the curious black hole, and laughed, “You can hardly expect me to hand over good money without inspecting the merchandise first, can you?”
“Inspection is fine; just don’t spend all day wanking over them and asking what they’re called.”
“Your choice of words is, as always, no surprise.”
* * *
She held up the candle, and pointed to the plastic-wrapped treasure. “Don’t you ever come here again. I will not be forced into selling in my own house.”
“My dear—”
“Is that clear? Come here again, and I’ll find another buyer.”
“You make yourself understood. I have no intention of distressing you again.”
And then she heard a noise. Her eyes widened, looked up towards the ceiling, and froze. She held her breath and when Max opened his mouth to speak, she hushed him immediately.
“I didn’t hear anything,” Max said.
He’s back! Christian’s home! Her heart pummelled against her ribcage and she stood rigid with fear. What the fuck is he going to do when he finds him here?
Should ‘ave thought about all this before you let him in. You should never have brought him down here, girl; now you in all kinds of pain. Or you soon will be.
“Shut up.”
“I didn’t speak,” Max said.
“Ssshh!”
He’s gonna look in the lounge first, might even be tempted to call your name, girl. Then he’s gonna get awful suspicious; you know how protective he can be of his work. He’s gonna come down them stairs, feeling his way in the dark, and he’s gonna see the candle light—
“Will you shut—”
he gonna see the little fat man there. And then hell itself will erupt, girl. Oh, you done it now.
“What’s going on, Alice?”
Alice caught her breath. Stared at Max. Listened. There were no more noises. Maybe it was… “Just Spencer waking up. He needs feeding.”
“Spencer?” Max looked around as if he expected to see someone standing next to him.
“My son.”
Agitated, Max said, “Look, can we just get this over with and I’ll be out of your way.”
“Take a couple. Peel back the bags and have a quick look.”
“I need more than a quick look. Please, I—”
“Take the candle. I’ll wait upstairs; at least if he comes in, he won’t catch me down here.”
Max’s smile widened. Greed leaked out. “What a splendid idea.” He took the candle and then asked, “He’s a bit violent is he, this chap of yours?”
“I don’t know what he’d do if he found out I was doing this.”
“Bet he’d be none too pleased.” There was a sparkle in Max’s eyes.
“If you pull a fast one on me, I know where your little empire is, and believe me, I know how to throw a petrol bomb.”
He took a nervous step back, “Right you are, my dear. I’ll not let you down.”
“Just remember which side of the bread your butter’s on.” In a swift movement Alice was past him, engulfed by the darkness, only the sound of her shuffling feet giving any indication of her presence.
She rounded the stone stairs and daylight illuminated her way to the top. Once there, she checked the lounge, peered into Spencer’s cot, relieved again that still he slept soundly. She sighed hard, took another cigarette from the packet and breathed the smoke. Of course, her heart still hammered in her chest—
“Alice?”
Alice screamed. She dropped the cigarette.
“Why’s the front door open?�
�
“You frightened the shit out of me; don’t ever do that again.”
He walked in towards her, feet scuffing the bare floorboards, and an ashen look on his face. “You okay, babe?”
“With a shaking hand, she picked up the cigarette, “Spencer’s being playing me up.”
“I’ve had a shit day, too.” He peered in to the cot. “Only mine was real.”
She puffed on the cigarette and fidgeted with her hair.
“Got arrested for nicking paint. You’re looking at a Rule One criminal, now.” He waited for a response, but she was too busy sucking on the cigarette, too engulfed by tension to respond. And then he saw the table. “A lottery ticket?” When she said nothing, he picked it up and studied it as though he’d never seen anything like it before. She didn’t volunteer an explanation. “How did you get hold of this? And the fags, it’s a new packet, isn’t it?” Then he had her by the arm. “Where did you get the money from?” His voice was almost seductively smooth.
“Money?”
“For the ticket and the cigs.”
She laughed. “I found a fucking twenty!”
There was a rustling. He turned his head away from her and towards the open front door. “Wait there.”
Alice squeezed the bridge of her nose and prayed for it to be over.
A whole minute went by before she heard his slam the corrugated front. Trouble with that door was when you slammed it as hard as he just did, it bounced open again. Dust rose into the lounge and through it walked Christian. He looked very unhappy, but too engrossed to be bothered slamming the door shut again.
“Where did you get the money from?” He stopped in the doorway, arms folded tightly across his chest.
She edged closer to the hammer on the floor by the cot. And what sprang into her mind was a hell of a lot safer to tell than the truth. “You know them kids at the end of the block, always hanging around, leering?”
“Go on.”
“They said they’d give me twenty quid if I flashed my tits at them.”
Christian’s mouth fell open. “You are kidding me.”
She said nothing.
He dragged his feet into the lounge and snarled, “So you’re a whore now?”
“I am not a whore.”
“Jesus, I can’t believe you. You’re hooked on some drug that makes you feel ill if you don’t take it, you’ve got delusions of being a good mother – no wait, you’ve got delusions of being a mother, full-stop! And now you show your tits for twenty fucking quid! What next, eh? You going to show your fanny when you run out of cigs?”
“You shouldn’t keep me on such a tight rein.”
“The next time I burgle a house for cash to keep you from going under, to keep food in your belly, will you be going down for the price of a cigarette, I wonder. Or will you be going horizontal for a wrap of brown?”
“I would never…” This is when he hits me, she thought. Her foot nudged the hammer.
“You disgust me.” He turned his back on her.
She felt like crying. He wasn’t going to hit her; she ought have realised he would never do that. Whereas she was above nothing. Tears sprang into the corners of her eyes and she recalled telling Max that she couldn’t live with herself if she sold the big painting. Now she wasn’t sure she could live with herself anyway.
Like flicking a switch, the tears dried up. He was a high and mighty man, a proud man, a pious man – and she was fucking sick of it!
She looked at Christian’s back, his arms folded, head down. Nervously she reached for the hammer.
Don’t you be stupid, girlie!
Her fingers touched the hammer shaft; she watched him constantly.
Christian turned around and faced her. She stood quickly, brushing the hair from her face. Meekly she smiled at him. The hammer lay at her feet.
“You know, I’d rather you took everything I held dear than spoil yourself for cash.” He spoke barely above a whisper, “You mean more to me than…”
Her eyes were so wide they almost fell out of her stunned face.
“Alice?” he stared at her. “What have you done?”
— Two —
Down in the cellar, Max paid for his purchases. He propped the paintings against a wall, pulled out the two hundred and wondered where to put it, where only Alice would find it. He slid the bundle up into the rotten old doorframe that was the spider’s home. He patted it, and sincerely hoped she found it – the safety of his shop could depend on it.
His purchases duly paid for, Max licked his lips and returned to the easel where he lifted the sheet up enough to get the candle and his head beneath, to gaze at the beauty on canvas. She was naked. She stood in the dawn light of a thinly wooded area. Mist enshrouded her dainty feet and she leaned against a tree, an alder, it looked like. Her hands were together, laced over her pubis, and her face was angled skyward; bright, watery eyes gazing up at some unseen deity, or simply lost inside a daydream. She wore a faint smile on her perfect face and her light golden hair fell in tiny rivulets down across the pale skin of her shoulders, cascading unseen down her back, falling majestically between a pair of large gossamer wings that stroked the damp, dewy grass.
He fell in love with it all over again and wondered, as he did the moment she gave him the candle, if he could make it out of here with the masterpiece as well. He didn’t think he could. Then come back later when he’s not here. She’d break if I wafted a thousand before her greedy eyes, I’m sure of it.
Reluctantly, Max let the dustsheet go and turned away from the dryadic nymph, hooked his new acquisitions and shuffled along the dusty floor to the stairs. Half way up he stopped dead, heart thudding like someone tapping a brick against a dustbin.
He could see the silhouette of a tall man with hair draped around his shoulders. He peered outside for a long time before grunting, slamming the old metal door and storming off back into the lounge.
A wave of dust blew into his face and blew the flame out. It went dark for a moment. Then the door rippled, wobbled back open, and Max chewed grit as the daylight crept back into the cellar stairs.
The open door was only a few yards away. The lounge doorway opened out into the kitchen, right out to where the corrugated door was, and if Christian was looking this way… He crept along the kitchen floor and squeezed between the metal door and its rotten frame, out into the open at last.
Behind him, Alice screamed.
* * *
She bent and her hand curled around the shaft.
Spencer screamed.
Alice could cope no more; she grappled with Spencer’s incessant noise while Christian’s words tore into her.
That’s how much he cared for you—
She blocked the voice, gritted her teeth and screamed.
* * *
He raced down the steps, Alice’s scream still in his ears as his footfalls echoed around the cellar. He stopped, sniffed the air, and his eyes closed down to a cynical squint. Candle smoke.
When he was level with the old desk, he bent and flicked a switch. The lamp blinked on and while his eyes grew accustomed to the light, he thought of Alice and thought of the misery she had caused him. Why did he feel it necessary to burden himself with her any longer?
He yanked the dustsheet aside, and then ran a finger across the nymph’s face, grateful it was still there and undamaged. But then he noticed the rotten door across the small chamber where he stored his finished works was wide open. Christian never left the door open. He saw the resident spider, and gently lifted him aside, crouched down and inspected the stock.
His fingertips glanced along the line of bags. There were at least four missing. He slumped to the ground, and pulled at his hair. What was she doing to him? She was turning herself into a whore for drugs money, and she was letting people take his paintings, or was she selling them as well?
He screamed in fury and leapt the cellar steps. His eyes were wild, they were insane as he strode into the lounge. “You bitch!”
* * *
Alice stiffened; hammer knocking at the side of her leg. Tap. Tap. Tap. Spencer howled. Shut up! Shut the fuck up, boy!
She licked her lips, and her eyes flicked to the cot. Tap.
Christian closed down the gap, eyes narrow slits of hatred.
Spencer screamed at the top of his lungs, his arms and legs writhed beneath his crude blanket. Christian advanced towards her. She squeezed the shaft. Tap.
“I fucking detest you.”
Teeth bared, fingernails white, she lunged and brought the hammer down.
“Nooo!”
* * *
Christian walked towards her, gritting his teeth; misunderstanding eyes never leaving the madness in hers. He glanced to the cot he’d rigged up for her. Build a cot for my baby, she’d said, smiling at him, while she stroked its hair and while she forced a bottle into its mouth, and while it farted and filled its nappy.
The girl was mad.
The room was silent except for their own heavy breathing.
By her leg, her hand twitched; it briefly caught his attention but couldn’t hold it, and his gaze drifted back up to her unblinking eyes, wide, reddened.
“I fucking detest you.”
It took him a moment to work out what she had in her hand but by then it was too late.
“Nooo!” The hammer glanced down the side of his face, ripped into his ear and smashed his collar bone. That’s when the world erupted into an explosive white mass of pain that engulfed him, and he sank to his knees.
He scrabbled quickly backwards as she advanced, and then he was on his feet and made it clear just as she swung the hammer again.
Everything happened so quickly. The pain in his shoulder was almost more than he could bear, and when she swung wildly again, he moved left, banged into the cot. Alice paused, and Christian reached inside.
“No!” she screamed. “You leave him alone, you bastard.”
The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Page 26