The Third Rule (Eddie Collins Book 1) Read online

  She was not an art aficionado, but she could appreciate something of great beauty, something almost living, and she drank it in like a broth on a winter’s day. “Shit, Christian; this is wonderful. This is fucking gorgeous.” She didn’t turn to him, only stared at the picture, unaware that any other place existed on earth; only this scene of a summer sunset bathing a meadow in deep orange and burgundy hues, how it cast long shadows across the castle walls, how it glinted like a diamond ring as it sometimes did when eclipsed by the moon. She stared in awe as the dying light flicked and danced on the surrounding water, how it played with the breeze in the tall grass down by the river, itself a golden band weaving through an old English countryside view.

  She was about to turn to him, tears – of what? joy, pride, enchantment? – glazed her eyes, but she stopped and looked back at the picture, looked deep into it as though someone had called her name. And she became rigid with wonder as she lost herself in the scene. Through the painting – no, that’s wrong, through the paint, the actual scrapes and brush strokes of the oils, perhaps even through the canvas itself, she could see it. It was a face, long hair, in ringlets blowing around it. It was a man’s face, and it smiled at her with sparkling eyes—

  “Do you see him?”

  Christian’s voice was like an explosion. It wrenched her back into the cellar with its cobwebs and its dankness, its smell of linseed and damp, back into the cold dusty room with grit underfoot and goose-pimples on flesh. She gave a small shriek and then almost collapsed against the bench. Christian wrapped his hands around her again, and she breathed as though in childbirth, exhaling a rasping sound through her throat. She peered at him; his eyes sparkled and she recognised the man in the picture. “You…”

  He smiled still.

  “You should grow your hair, Christian. It looks wonderful.”

  “I’m glad you can see it.” He encircled her, and she felt safe, untouchable by the horrors of today. But somehow she felt troubled; unease trickled through her like a warning, a foreboding that she couldn’t tie down. He nuzzled her neck and she closed her eyes.

  “You’ve heard of Realism? I call this style Beyond Realism,” his breath warmed her neck. “I invented my own style.”

  He paints like… he paints like a magician; it shocks you, it startles you and it teases you, draws you nearer and then it mesmerises you. “Are they all like this?”

  “All made with paint.”

  “Are they all as detailed as this? Do they all—”

  “Talk to you?”

  “Yeah, do they all talk to you?”

  He shrugged. “Don’t know. I suppose it depends who’s looking at them, how deeply they look, how hard they listen.”

  “Yeah, but they’re all as detailed as these, aren’t they? They’re all,” she struggled for the word, “they’re all special.”

  “Oh yes, they’re that alright.”

  She closed her eyes and dreamed of selling the paintings. What a difference a vein full of drugs could make to an otherwise dull day, and what a difference seeing the magic hidden inside the mind of your man, the magic that could command financial independence. At that moment everything was as it should have been.

  Alice ignored his earlier lies about trying and failing to sell the paintings, for these things would sell themselves without a shadow of a doubt; and she understood why he’d lied to her. He didn’t want to sell them, and she appreciated that; they were wonderful things but they didn’t deserve to live hidden in a dark cellar in a fucking squat! She turned and embraced him, let his stubble stroke her neck and her hands moved over his body, down to where—

  She stopped. Spencer was crying.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s not fair,” she said, deflated.

  “What?” he asked again.

  “Spencer.”

  He closed his eyes and sighed. “I was getting in the mood then.”

  “I wanted to look at that one.” She nodded to the easel.

  “Not that one. Not yet.”

  “Oh why?”

  Spencer’s cry heightened.

  “It’s not finished.”

  “So?”

  “No one sees my work before it’s finished; it’ll ruin it up here,” he prodded his head. “It’s like discussing some idea; it dilutes it, ruins the purity.”

  “You know how to talk bollocks, dontcha?”

  “Anyway,” he walked back around the corner to the battery, leaving the two naked paintings for her to stare at until it all went dark, “I need more paint, can’t paint without it.”

  “Then you should go out and buy some!” She screamed it at him, and then quickly put her hand over her mouth. Patience, she told herself. You’ll get to see it soon.

  “I only steal paint, never buy it.”

  “Why, you have the money, don’t you?”

  “Got plenty. But I’m not wasting food-money on paint, we have to eat and drink.”

  “But—”

  “Don’t worry, I’m going out this afternoon, there’s a big demo in town today and it’ll shield me.” He poked his head around the corner, and she tore herself away from the lake to look up at him. “Stolen paints give you an edge, they give you a buzz.”

  It all went dark.

  “You’re weird.”

  “Thanks.”

  Spencer yelled.

  Saturday 20th June

  Chapter Fifteen

  — One —

  Mick sat at his desk, sighed, and rubbed the whiskers on his face. It was 11am and he’d been in the office less than an hour. Already he wanted to go home; already he felt the need for a drink. He looked at his in-tray, sighed again and got up, looked around to make sure Rochester wasn’t watching, and headed through the double doors towards the gents’ and a generous top-up.

  He’d come directly here after Eddie – Ros, actually – kicked him out this morning, and he guessed that if it was Eddie’s first day back at work next week, then who could blame the guy for wanting to be prepared. He himself though, didn’t care too much for work, or his personal appearance. If he stank, he stank; let them breathe me in, he laughed to himself. Mick sniffed his pits and oh yeah, there were signs of stench for sure, strong enough to make his nostril hairs recoil.

  The gents’ was quiet as it usually was at this time of day, after breakfast and before lunch, but he was dismayed to see his cubicle, the one nearest the wall, engaged. “Fuck,” he whispered, and stepped into another cubicle, sat and waited. His mind got working on Eddie and his situation. He was a good drinking buddy, and he planned on keeping it that way; they were so rare these days, and to have one that worked for the police had its benefits, not that Eddie realised he was occasionally being pumped for information.

  That bitch Ros, was the fly in the Eddie ointment, always wanting to manipulate him.

  He heard the sound of a zipper, and the toilet flushing in the next cubicle – his cubicle. Mick jumped up and waited, door ajar. The lock snapped back and footsteps echoed on the tiled floor. Mick froze. The footsteps belonged to Rochester. Mick closed his eyes, standing there, half in and half out of the foreign cubicle, with smell oozing out of his armpits, with a day’s growth on his chin and no fucking tie.

  The taps turned on and a voice spoke. “Still waiting for that story to land in your lap, Mick?”

  Mick opened his eyes and sighed. “Hello, Mr Rochester. How are you today?”

  “Rather better than you judging by your appearance.” Staring at him in the mirror, Rochester rinsed, dried and then turned around. “You look disgusting.”

  “Sir.”

  “You are turning into a tramp.” He stepped closer, sniffing the air. “You stink.”

  “Sir.”

  “You really have gone downhill. And weren’t at much of an altitude to begin with.”

  “Attitude, sir?”

  “Altitude. You didn’t start that high. Oh, never mind.”

  “Sir.”

  “You have turne
d disagreeably into a slimy toad, Mick. You have grease escaping from every pore that isn’t blocked with filth. Your hair is a disgrace; you’ve worn that shirt every day for the last week so far as my memory serves and,” he moved slightly closer, holding his breath, “is that gravy down the front of it?”

  Shit, I knew I should have brought a tie in. “Absolutely not, sir!”

  Rochester raised his eyebrows.

  “It’s spaghetti.”

  “Well? What’s your excuse?” Rochester was not pleased.

  “I was never very good at twiddling it around the fork and as I sucked it in, it did a helicopter and threw juice all—”

  “Stop fooling around!”

  “I was late for work, sir. Didn’t have time for a shower.”

  “Be in my office in ten minutes.”

  “Shit,” he whispered as Rochester walked to the door.

  “And Mick?”

  “Sir?”

  “Find some deodorant first, please.”

  This was it. The day he was forced to resign. Then what would he do? He didn’t have a trade to fall back on, this was all he knew; had done nothing else for fifteen years. And by Christ, he was far too advanced in years to take on an apprenticeship. He went in to his own cubicle, and slammed the door and punched the wall. He took off the cistern lid and took out a bottle of brandy wrapped in a plastic bag.

  — Two —

  Mick sucked on a Polo as he approached Williams, the office junior. “Williams?” The lad turned, and his usually permanent smile slipped somewhat. “Have you got any deodorant you can lend me?”

  “What?”

  “Deodorant. Do you have some?”

  “Yeah. Suppose so.”

  “And I need to borrow your tie.”

  — Three —

  “Sit down, Mick.”

  “Sir.”

  “And close the door.”

  Mick got up and shut the door, retook his seat and stared into Rochester’s widely-spaced eyes. “What can I do for you, sir?”

  “You are a disgrace to this newspaper, Mick.”

  Mick laced his hands, and twiddled his thumbs. There was a long silence, so long that it angered Mick into saying, “Look, are you going to sack me, because if you are—”

  “I should sack you, Mick.”

  Should. The old man said should. That is a good word. It means won’t. But it also means there’s a condition attached.

  Rochester leaned forward on his desk, cufflinks tinkling against it, and stared daggers at Mick. And then seemed to relax, took a deep breath, and said, “You’ve done some reasonably good reporting in your time here, Mick.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I said reasonable, not good, certainly not outstanding,” he said. “You’ve covered stories about the UK Criminal Justice system, haven’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. I did a piece on—”

  “I want you to take it a step further. I want you to go beneath the surface—”

  “Undercover work?”

  “I want you to get beneath the skin of the system, I want background stories for and against The Rules; I want you to capture the effects they’re having on everyday people.”

  Well at least it wasn’t the sack. “Sir.”

  “You may need a starting block. Something to ease you into your assigned path?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Take a look at this.” Rochester handed Mick an unmarked brown envelope. “Read it when you get back to your desk. And then formulate an approach, gather information on the subjects and report back to me after you’ve interviewed them with a basic premise on your approach strategy.”

  “Right, sir.” I think he means read the fucking letter, interview someone and write the fucking story.

  “I’m treating this as your first real report. I’m treating you as I would a newcomer to the office, which means that all basic procedures must be adhered to, and company policy is uppermost. I want to see good story, good layout and plenty of feeling. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Oh yes, Mr Rochester, very.”

  “This, Mick, is the last chance you’ll have to prove to me that I should keep you on. Hand in mediocre work, and I may give you a reference; hand in work to your usual standard, and I’ll have Security come and evict you. Is that clear?”

  Mick nodded. He swallowed.

  — Four —

  To Whom It May Concern:

  I am writing this letter to you as a last resort. Please don’t be offended by that, I meant that I have tried every other avenue available to me but have so far failed.

  My son, Stephen, was sent to jail last year. His crime was defending his property. He was sent to jail because someone else was doing something he shouldn’t have been doing. My boy stopped a burglar getting away with his phone, keys and other property from his kitchen. In his haste, my boy stabbed the burglar. I’m not defending his actions although I think any reasonable person could see it from my boy’s point of view.

  What I’m protesting about – and not too successfully so far – is the Parole Board keep knocking him back for release because they say, and this really chaps my arse – excuse me – they say ‘he represents a danger to burglars’! A danger to burglars. Does that go against all common decency, or what! Surely if you didn’t burgle good honest folk in the first damned place, you wouldn’t be in danger. Does that make sense?

  He’s a decent fella in his fifties who don’t deserve to be locked away like a common drug-taking rapist or thief.

  But to add insult to injury, the burglar gets Legal Aid to sue my Stephen for wounding him. I nearly had a heart attack when I heard that. And that’s something else that I think the public, if I can bring it to the public’s attention through your wonderful newspaper, would be disgusted to learn. As they will be disgusted to hear that the prisoners inside jail get a TV in their room and a choice of what VD to watch every evening. Good living if you’re a criminal eh.

  I would very much like you to take up this story on Stephen’s behalf and see if you can’t get him out of prison and back to his family.

  Thank you,

  Lincoln Farrier

  P.S. I’m going to see Sir George tomorrow, don’t know if he can help.

  Mick read the letter through twice more, and he felt the prickle of injustice skitter up his spine and settle uncomfortably inside his head. He tutted, reclined in his seat and folded his hands behind his head. He had a feeling for the story already; decided to play it from the sympathy angle, milk it for all it was worth. But then he had another feeling, a genuine interest in this old guy’s plight, his son’s. It was a shame that things like this happened in what was supposed to be a just and fair society. Maybe he didn’t need to give it an angle at all; maybe it had all the angle it needed in its raw, untouched state.

  “Can I have my tie back now?”

  Mick looked up, dragged away from his thoughts, and saw Williams hovering over him. “Sure,” he said. “Spilt coffee down it though. Sorry.”

  Sunday 21st June

  Chapter Sixteen

  — One —

  Her feet tapped on the cinder path. She stopped, turned and listened. The high hedges on either side prevented the orange streetlight reaching down to her, and the moon along this part of the path was out of sight. It was eerily dark in Jilly’s space in the world. For a moment she thought someone was following her, and she almost said, ‘Come on, Sammy; hurry up!’, but she stopped short, reminding herself that she was alone, literally.

  When something traumatic like the death of your son happened, something you couldn’t really cope with, there were only two ways to proceed. She could go on and try to live life again; of course it would be different, like trying to climb the same old rock face you’d climbed for the last twelve years and finding out its profile had changed completely. Not the same footings, not the familiar handholds there used to be. It was like waking up in someone else’s skin and learning who was who and what went where.
/>   She buried her kid weeks ago and had to begin all over again; not making his breakfast, not getting him ready for school, not being part of the ‘parents club’ who stood outside the school and nattered about how many more birthday party invites they got from kids they didn’t even know, and how expensive it was becoming.

  Eddie should be here, but she’d said some awful things to him at the funeral and hadn’t seen him since. She’d wanted to hurt him, and her tongue was an effective weapon. Might as well have loaded a gun at the graveside and shot the bastard through the head.

  Despite often taking twice the dose of Protromil – and walking around like a zombie – she felt as though there was an inevitable end to it all, a sinking feeling pulling her in like a black hole pulls in the light. She wasn’t coping and instead of the guilt and the shame and the grief abating slowly but distinctly as time passed by, it grew worse and at one point she thought seriously about suicide. The second option was jumping off that rock face.

  Sometimes there was a third option. It was something reserved for the fruit loops and the desperate. If he can’t come to you, why couldn’t I go to him? And so she had. That was the third option.

  The night was cool, and a breeze like a refreshing tonic floated over her as she walked the cinder path from the Community Hall. She smelled the scents of flowers caught in the breeze, and for the first time in a million years, Jilly smiled. It had been a good night.

  She past the school she no longer congregated outside with other parents. It pulled at her as though it had a gravity of its own but she continued to look straight ahead. Overhead, the moon was yellow and out of focus through a veil of mist that might be the precursor to a storm tonight or tomorrow.

  This had been her mum’s suggestion, and she’d treated it with annoyance, as though she wouldn’t be foolish enough to fall for hocus-pocus like that, stupid enough to let others play with her memories and her grief, and pissed off enough that her mum thought her ills could be cured with smoke and mirrors. But the black hole grew bigger, its pull stronger and her will to carry on lessened.