The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1)

by Andrew Barrett

Eddie lay fully clothed and wide-awake on Mick’s bed. Until an hour ago he’d been the most tired human being on the planet. But the tiredness had gone now, like hunger will go if you ignore it long enough. He watched the rain on the window, listened to the wind screeching through the gap at the bottom of the ill-fitting sash.

  The rain grew an edge as though it wasn’t rain at all, but something more like sleet. The pane of glass didn’t so much hum anymore; it sounded like a hundred people drumming their fingernails against it. It was almost hypnotic.

  And then the snow came, and suddenly Eddie felt cold. And the dampness in his hair didn’t feel comfortably cool anymore, in fact it felt very uncomfortable and he shivered. His breath burst out of his ever-open mouth as he ran along the wet grass. And the howl of vehicles on the motorway a hundred yards away was deafening as their tyres screamed along the tarmac; plumes of misty white water hung in the air, capturing the falling snow.

  The figure stopped by the fence and turned abruptly, and Eddie felt huge and powerful, felt utterly in control of the situation. He was gonna nail this fucker for what he just did.

  Eddie’s run became a jog and then a fast walk, and then, in the snowy mud, became a slow walk. Twenty yards away from the black-clad youth, he took his final step, breath exhausting hot over his cheek. He resisted the urge to lean forward, palms on knees as he regained his composure. That would be a sign of weakness, but he was Eddie Collins and by God, he was not weak. “Gimme the fucking bag.”

  The kid, instead of appearing a little afraid, seemed to smile at Eddie. And Eddie couldn’t quite grasp the reason why. In fact, instead of feeling afraid, the kid should have appeared somewhere in the region of desperate, trying to think of a way to negotiate his way out. But no, there was no fear at all.

  He wasn’t smiling.

  Eddie blinked rapidly, tried to clear away the snow from his eyes He shook his head, nonchalantly wiped his wet face with his wet hands. His hands were freezing cold.

  But no, the kid was not afraid. He was laughing. The noise of the traffic disappeared as if by magic and the air was still. He had a clear image of the kid’s face, laughing like crazy at him. Why? Why? Why, damn it?

  * * *

  “Fucking weather!” Benson screamed. “Can’t this thing go any quicker?”

  The traffic officer looked across to him. “No.”

  Benson banged the side window with a fist. “How much longer?”

  “Sat nav says 13 minutes.”

  “Great.”

  * * *

  Mick swallowed the last of his whisky, belched, and enjoyed the burning sensation in his throat. He stared at the computer screen and lit up another cigarette. He was much happier. The big event was just right, pitched perfectly, he thought. It was a shame the disclaimer spoilt it a little, but it was necessary, anyway, ‘this information has been passed on to the police in its entirety’, kind of added extra weight, he supposed. Not that it really needed extra weight; this was heavy enough by itself. He allowed himself a little chuckle, and then he dragged all the other information into one folder, along with the ‘heavy’ on his screen, and opened up his encrypted email.

  * * *

  Rain was running down the wall, settling in one long puddle against the side of the building but Sirius never noticed how wet his feet were as he crept along to the open window. The noise surrounding him was enormous; the rain on the trees, the trees rattling and groaning in the wind.

  He neared the window, saw a small white vent pipe poking through, and crouched beneath it, trying to listen for sounds in the room beyond. There were none so far as he could tell, just the noise of the drier attached to the hose. Sirius allowed himself a very brief peek into the room, quickly scanning it from one wall to the next. It was empty. Sixteen seconds later, he was standing next to the drier using a nearby towel to get the water off his face and hands, trying to get a better grip on the gun. He flicked off the safety catch.

  The cottage was substantially built, an old worker’s cottage that was designed to be robust, something that would need little maintenance, something that would be there as long as the main farm house, solid right the way through with no sign of wooden floors, but instead great flags of Yorkshire stone.

  He crossed the kitchen, past the huge old iron Rangemaster, and peered through the crack in the door into a small lounge. Grey light grudgingly seeped in through a window partly concealed by the windswept ivy outside. The room was empty, and so he edged right into the hallway. It was almost black in here; the front door was windowless, solid wood but old and flaky, rotten at its lower edge.

  He walked softly up the hallway towards it. It was locked with a Yale. Good, but the frame was holed with painted-over woodworm. To his right, the stone stairs with a strip of red and black patterned carpet running along their centre wound at a shallow angle upwards towards the faint glow of artificial light.

  Standing at the foot of the stairs, he listened for voices or signs of movement. There were none, so he looked around the corner up the stairs and began his slow ascent, listening all the time, watching the light grow steadily brighter.

  And then he heard it, the sound of fingers prodding at a keyboard, the irregular pattering of a two-fingered typist. Sirius didn’t know what Mick Lyndon was writing, but it signified unfinished work at least, so there was still time. Yet again he cursed Henry Deacon, and questioned Sir George’s decision not to kill Henry when they first had the chance and the inclination.

  His only real concern at this moment was Eddie Collins. He felt certain he was still in the cottage too - who in their right mind would be out walking in this weather? - but where was he if he wasn’t downstairs? In the toilet? Sleeping in another room? In the same room as Mick?

  He was three steps from the top and he ducked down hoping to see something of use under the part open door of the room with the light on, but the carpet and undulating floor prevented him seeing anything. At least the typing continued, in its stuttering fashion. He could smell tobacco smoke, and mixed with it was whisky. Mick would be hard at work, mind focused on the task in hand, oblivious to his surroundings, used to the dull drumming of the rain and screeching wind. Sirius could let off a party-popper and he probably wouldn’t notice.

  He stood on the landing, and scanned the surroundings. To his left was Mick’s study, well lit, target sitting in an old green leather chair, hunched over a keyboard, cigarette and whisky easily to hand. To his right was a short landing, two doors off it, one left one right, both doors open. One a bedroom and one a bathroom.

  The typing stopped.

  He returned his attention to Mick and watched him take a last mouthful of whisky. Sirius stepped silently into the room and looked at the computer screen.

  His eyes widened.

  Friday 26th June

  Chapter Fifty Four

  — One —

  They walked slowly and quite dejectedly down the remainder of The Headrow towards Millgarth Police Station. There were people rushing by them up the hill, heading for the growing noise near Park Lane and the Town Hall. Some of those rushing carried furled banners and looked intent upon creating trouble. Ros stepped aside to let them pass, made it obvious to them that she wanted no trouble, and for the first time today, she wished she were not in uniform. The t-shirt with the Force crest on it drew more and more attention so she walked along with her arms folded across her breasts, trying to cover it up. The police radio and her Maglite dangling from her belt were things she could do nothing about.

  “Let’s hurry up and get the hell out of here,” she said to Chris.

  Chris walked faster, Ros following close behind him, when suddenly he stopped and she walked right into him. “Sorry,” she said.

  He was looking to his right into a shop window. She followed his gaze and then stared up at the sign over the door: Bookman Antiques. They swapped glances. “This looks promising,” she said, and went inside.

  Chris caught her up and took a gentle hold of her arm.
She turned and saw the concern in his face. He whispered, “We could be in trouble if it’s him. If he recognises you—”

  “Should be fine, I had my mask on and hood up.”

  “Sure?”

  She nodded and he closed the door behind them.

  Their boots squeaking, together they walked across the floorboards looking around at the cramped little space that was filled with everything from globes to clocks, wicker furniture, carved oak furniture like you’d get at an upper class banquet, candelabras, and stuffed animals. Shelf upon shelf held dusty old books with spines two inches wide and their titles embossed in gold. The ceiling was a latticework of cast iron hooks, from which hung a thousand lamps and lights and crystal chandeliers that cast a million rainbows on the walls. And on those walls were paintings; hundreds of them crammed into the tightest spots, resting on pianos, on tables of all descriptions, leaning against walls.

  On the far wall was something quite extraordinary. Ros and Chris felt compelled to go to it, as though pulled there by some kind of gravity, some kind of magnetism.

  From beneath an archway draped with beads, a small rotund man with spectacles poised on the end of his nose watched them. He wore a golden-coloured waistcoat.

  They stood before the most wonderful paintings they had ever seen. Each of the twelve pictures was two feet square, and framed in either gilt or silver. And they spoke to them, the pictures spoke to them; they held them in a trance for they were created in layers and in each layer was an image that complemented the layers above and below it, until the viewer understood the entire work from the foreground right back to the horizon.

  In each corner, a white label adhered to the frame, or inserted between the canvas and the frame, proclaimed the price. Not one was below three thousand pounds. Each label seemed to obscure the flourish of the painter’s name.

  Ros nudged Chris, and he looked to the left at a further painting. This one was huge by comparison and it was the grand master over all the others. This one depicted a stunningly beautiful woodland nymph gazing skyward, a light mist surrounding her and a myriad of forest creatures who stared alongside her up into the heavens. A pair of large opaque wings drifted down to the grass, and she wore a delicate smile that complemented her crying eyes. It was unfinished, but in the bottom right corner, was a dark squiggle.

  Ros moved closer, and she bent to see the artist’s signature. She gasped: Christian Ledger.

  “May I be of some assistance?”

  — Two —

  Eddie swallowed, looked around. They were both still trapped, no escape, and then Eddie saw it for the first time. The kid was laughing because he was far, far stronger than any version of Eddie Collins had ever been. And the gun in his hand provided him with infinite power. Suddenly Eddie felt very weak indeed. Suddenly Eddie felt like he should have ignored the screaming woman and continued driving home, maybe put on a CD to take away the tedium of the journey.

  Instead he was here, facing down a robber, who wasn’t a robber at all, he was a would-be murderer. And the person to grant him that status, to permit membership of that illustrious club, was Eddie Collins. This wasn’t a stranger that he was reading about in the paper, or some poor bastard on the TV news who had left behind a grieving wife and three young children. It was him, Eddie Collins. And he wouldn’t get a chance to feel sorry for the guy and his family, because he would be dead.

  The end

  Dead.

  The kid stopped laughing. He aimed the gun and shot the fucking thing.

  Eddie blinked. So it was real after all. He felt the impact, like a tug, like someone had taken some fur lined pincers and just gently pulled on the skin on the inside of his leg. There was no immediate sharp pain, just the tug. And then a kind of dull throb that was a little disconcerting. Eddie looked at the kid. The kid wasn’t smiling. The gun was still outstretched, and there may have been a wisp of smoke from the barrel, but he could have been mistaken because the wind was so strong. And then the throb wasn’t a throb any more, the throb was a definite pain. He had been hit, and it now it began to hurt a little, no it began to hurt a lot. And then a strange sensation; his leg began to grow warm, at least on the outside.

  But on the inside it grew cool, like he’d been sitting on it too long and the circulation had stopped. He looked down.

  Water dropped from his hair and from his nose, he could see the droplets falling, and they just disappeared as they hit the white snow. Except the snow wasn’t white. The snow was red. Around his foot the snow was turning red.

  And quite suddenly, he was looking into the sky. His face was exposed to the snow, and it stung his cheek and the wind was biting, so cold, and his mind grew cooler, and a hollow feeling grew over him, and he raised a hand and it was red too, and it was shiny, and from it droplets of blood fell, and from it steam rose. And it was the strangest of feelings. And then he whimpered because he was frightened and then he screamed because now it fucking hurt.

  He moved his face downward a little, could see the tips of his toes, and over the tips of his toes he could see the kid standing there, now only a couple of yards away. He was smiling again, and if the light had been better, Eddie could have sworn he had a hard on. The kid pointed the gun at him again.

  And then he felt light-headed, just as you do on the cusp of being drunk, except there was another less pleasant feeling that came with this; he had an awful sensation deep inside his chest, as the new hollowness expanded. And then he was struggling to keep his eyes open.

  He looked back at the kid, made himself stare in to the face of the bastard who was going to make his wife a widow and his Sammy fatherless. And it was that thought alone, nothing to do with inherent fear of dying, it was his family that made him sit up. He swooned again, but stuck with it. In his lap, blood pooled, his groin was shining with it, deep enough that you couldn’t see his trousers anymore. There was a pulse to it, slow and regular, a little fountain of blood spurted outwards into the snow, and it reminded him of garden sprinklers in summer time. That’s a fucking artery, he thought. Blood pattern analysis.

  It ran between his legs, and steam whipped from it carried by the wind along with its curious metallic smell.

  Well, this was no good, and Eddie was having none of it. “You fuckin coward, gimme the bag,” he slurred, glaring at the kid. He tried to stand, but couldn’t raise the energy to do more than put a hand into the snow. He was shaking now. He grabbed a handful of snowy mud and he chucked it towards the kid. It missed, it never even went in the kid’s direction, but it was all he could do, that and the glare and mutter the words, “You fuckin coward.”

  * * *

  Sirius brought the gun up, and coughed.

  Mick Lyndon spun around. His face remained emotionless as his right index finger hovered above the keyboard.

  Sirius shot Mick through the front of the head.

  * * *

  The kid raised the gun and aimed directly into Eddie’s face. Eddie bared his teeth and growled, wide-eyed, and then there was a shot.

  Eddie fell backwards, face once again turned to the sky, arms outstretched like a snow angel bleeding to death. Snowflakes fell on his cheeks and into his closed eyes, melted and ran into his ears.

  He heard the throng of the traffic.

  But how could you hear anything if you’re dead?

  His eyes flickered open and the image of a police officer’s outstretched arm, hand holding a Glock, vanished into the cracked ceiling in Mick’s bedroom.

  Eddie was wet with sweat. His eyes darted around the room; his hand touched his groin, and came away dry – no blood. But even if it hadn’t been for the loud crack he just heard, he would have sensed something was wrong, like a nagging that told him to get his sorry arse in gear. He reached across to Mick’s bedside table, grabbed Henry’s gun and edged off the bed.

  Three paces brought him into the hallway and he could see right into Mick’s study. And he froze. He stared. Sweat dripped into his eyes and he scrubbed it aw
ay with his sleeve. Rain beat against the landing window and Eddie walked forward, damp feet on the carpet, determination on his face, and a tremor in his hands.

  He was in Mick’s room and Mick was laid awkwardly, twisted somehow between his chair and the desk, right arm hanging limp. And there was Sirius, the same guy who had been in his flat, who had followed them into the back yard, the same man who had spoken into the phone less than a yard from him. He had his back turned, he was reading the computer screen and then he was bending, searching for something. He pulled out a memory stick from the USB port and turned.

  Eddie stuck the gun in his face.

  Silence. Utter silence.

  He stared into Sirius’s eyes. They were cold, emotionless, just-doing-my-job eyes. They had no fear in them. They had nothing in them. And it was this lack of reaction that stoked the fires in Eddie’s chest. He breathed hard through clenched teeth, and he squeezed on the trigger, felt the metal resist his skin; and then he wondered about the ‘no going back’ thing. He wondered how it would feel to kill someone, because once they’re dead, they tend not to come back and let you make a different choice next time. Sirius twitched and Eddie punched him hard in the face with his left hand.

  Sirius absorbed the blow and Eddie knew it had been a mistake, he should have just pulled the fucking trigger, he should have finished it instead of trying to be reasonable in front of a dead friend who didn’t need impressing anymore. And he guessed Sirius was busy reading his mind, because the long pause had been a sign of weakness, and Sirius pounced on it. After all, he was a killer, he knew indecision when he saw it, and he knew Eddie didn’t have the balls to pull the trigger, and that’s what he counted on.

  Everything dropped out of real-time and into slow motion as Sirius knocked aside Eddie’s gun as though it wasn’t there. It bounced off the corner of Mick’s desk and landed near the waste paper basket, and in its place pointing at Eddie’s left eye, was his own gun.