The Rule of Fear

‘You found something?’ Renita asked, slowly following him.

‘Over here,’ he told her as he passed his light over the arrangement of old sofa cushions, homemade stools and a crate that was clearly being used as a makeshift table, littered as it was with the remnants of drug use and alcohol consumption.

‘Christ,’ Renita surveyed the scene. ‘Lovely place to talk the night away with friends.’

King bent closer to better examine the items strewn across the table. ‘Don’t be too harsh on them,’ he told her. ‘Looks like cannabis and alco-pops – nothing too heavy. Probably just kids looking for somewhere to hang out of the rain and away from their parents.’

‘Speaking from experience?’ she asked.

‘I was a kid once,’ he answered.

‘Hard to believe,’ she replied, trying to sound serious.

‘Still,’ he ignored her, ‘can’t have them hanging around off their faces down here. Only a matter of time before they start a fire and burn the whole bloody block down.’

‘Idea?’ she prompted him.

‘Hope you brought a good book,’ he told her.

‘Ahh,’ she complained. ‘You’re not serious, are you? You want to wait down here until someone shows up? Could be hours. Could be days.’

‘We’re not going to wait down here for days,’ he began to explain.

‘Good, because this place still gives me the creeps.’

‘But let’s give it a while.’

‘Fine,’ she reluctantly agreed and followed him to the darkest corner of the basement room where they prepared to lie in wait for whatever came their way.

Susie Ubana sat in her kitchen waiting for someone to answer the number she’d called on her untraceable pay-as-you-go mobile phone. Eventually a man’s voice spoke cautiously.

‘Hello.’

‘It’s me,’ she replied.

There was slight pause before the man spoke again. ‘What do you want?’ he asked without any politeness or subtlety.

She drew deeply on her cigarette, exhaling as she spoke. ‘We may have a problem.’

‘Go on,’ he told her.

‘These new cops on the estate – the one in charge,’ she explained, ‘I think he’s planning on upsetting things around here.’

There was a long silence before the voice spoke again. ‘Can he be persuaded?’

‘Not like that,’ she assured him. ‘He’s young. Clean. Untainted. He still has … ideals.’

‘Do I need to do something right now?’ he asked.

She sighed before answering. ‘No. Let me keep an eye on him – for now.’

‘OK,’ the man agreed casually. ‘But keep me informed.’ The line went dead before she could answer.

‘Shit,’ she cursed under her breath before taking a long pull on her cigarette.

King and Renita waited silently in the dark shadows of the corner, their eyes well adjusted to the dim light. The sound of distant laughter made them look at each other as they visibly tensed, but as the noise grew louder and closer they realized it was more giggling than laughing – the sound of children. Soon they could hear their footsteps as well as their voices talking softly to one another as they filed into the opening and took what appeared to be their usual places on the stools and cushions; their conversation grew a little louder and coarser as they became increasingly confident they were alone.

‘Now,’ Renita whispered in his ear.

‘Not yet,’ he hissed back as he watched the five children aged between twelve and fourteen empty their pockets onto the table making a communal display of cigarette papers, lighters and broken cigarettes. The youngest-looking child pulled something too small to see from his trouser pocket and began to fiddle with it. King guessed what it was and what he was doing, but still he waited until he could be sure.

He didn’t have to wait long before the boy began to heat whatever it was he was holding over the small flame of a lighter, immediately filling the basement with the smell of softening cannabis resin, but still they waited until he crumbled the resin into the waiting tobacco on a paper bed that another boy rolled and ignited with his own lighter. King tapped Renita on the shoulder and stepped out into the space, clicking his torch on and half blinding the youngsters. They looked to one another in terror before trying to scramble to their feet, but King and Renita were already on top of them.

‘Police!’ King half shouted, before lowering his tone. ‘Everybody stay where you are.’

‘Fuck,’ one of the girls announced, dramatically clutching her chest. ‘It’s just the police. You nearly scared the hell out of us.’

‘Nobody do anything stupid,’ King warned them. ‘You,’ he spoke directly to the youth holding the joint. ‘Put that out and drop it on the table. Everybody else – let’s have any drugs, cigarettes or booze on the table too.’ He gave them a couple of minutes to search themselves, but they produced little to add to the collection that they’d already made.

‘Is that it?’ he asked once they were no longer fidgeting in their pockets.

‘That’s it, man,’ the one who’d brought the cannabis resin answered. ‘What d’you expect – a whole soap or something?’

‘Watch your mouth,’ Renita scolded him, ensuring the silence of the others too.

‘Right then,’ King shone his torch in their faces one by one. ‘Who do we have here?’

‘I recognize chatty boy here,’ Renita told him. ‘Darren Stokes, right? Been causing trouble round here for years. And that one,’ she pointed to a pretty girl with long, straight blonde hair, but the eyes of a battle-hardened street fighter, ‘that’s Crissy O’Sullivan. Don’t be fooled by the angelic face.’ Crissy gave them her best sarcastic smile before her face again turned to stone.

‘Who else?’ King asked, but no one answered. He tapped the nearest one on the shoulder with his torch. ‘You. Name?’

The small, unhealthily slim boy sighed before answering, his translucent skin shining in the light. ‘James.’

‘James what?’ King snapped at him.

‘James Mulheron,’ he admitted with another sigh as King moved to the next girl.

‘And you?’

She brushed her short brown hair from her young face. He could see the fear in her eyes and guessed she was new to the group. The weak link. ‘Kimberley Clarke,’ she almost whispered.

‘Your parents know you’re hanging around with these clowns?’ King asked. Kimberley just shrugged. ‘Thought not,’ he told her and turned his attention to the last of the group who, despite his boyish appearance and slight build, had a look of feral viciousness about him. King instinctively knew that if this was the boy’s first contact with the police it certainly wouldn’t be his last. He shone the torch directly into the boy’s face, making his eyes appear black and red – like a trapped rat’s. ‘And you?’

‘I don’t have to tell you anything,’ the boy snarled, summoning some fight from his urban, animal instinct.

‘Have it your way then,’ King warned him. ‘If you won’t tell me who you are we’ll have to arrest you – for your own good, you understand.’

‘Just fucking tell him,’ Mulheron demanded, but the boy stood firm – his face a mixture of fear, defiance and hatred.

‘And obviously if I have to arrest you then we’ll have to arrest all of you,’ King threatened, immediately turning the entire group on the isolated boy as they took turns to tell him to say his name – their fear of arrest making their young faces twisted and ugly until Mulheron could take no more.

‘His name’s Billy Easton,’ Mulheron told them. ‘It’s fucking Billy Easton.’

King saw the fire burning in Easton’s eyes. Betrayal on the estate to the police had clearly long been installed in the boy’s fabric as the greatest of sins – even if it was just a name to save them from arrest.

‘Billy Easton, eh?’ King nodded, tapping the boy on his shoulder with his torch. ‘I’ll be sure to keep an eye on you.’

The boy never flinched – his eyes intense flames of intent that momentarily unnerved King.

‘All right, you lot,’ King suddenly barked. ‘Leave all your shit here and fuck off.’ The children looked to one another, unsure – suspicious of King’s motives. ‘I said fuck off,’ he repeated, this time drawing a look of concern from Renita.

‘Sarge?’ she checked. ‘You sure?’

‘I’m sure,’ he told her. ‘Now go, all of you. Just go and tell all your friends this place is now out of bounds – understand?’

‘Yeah, yeah,’ Mulheron agreed. ‘We’ll tell ’em.’

They hurriedly scrambled to their feet and scampered off towards the corridor – all except Easton, who took his time getting to his feet, his eyes never leaving King’s.

‘Got something to say, Billy?’ he asked, but the boy didn’t answer as he turned towards the corridor and strolled after his fleeing friends. ‘I’ll see you around, Billy,’ he tried to wrestle the initiative from the boy, but it was already too late.

Once the sound of their retreating feet had faded King examined the table, taking the remains of the resin and unsmoked joint before carefully placing them in a pouch on his utility belt.

‘Better not leave this behind.’ He spoke more to himself than anyone.

‘No,’ Renita agreed, sounding a little confused. ‘I guess not.’

‘Come on,’ he told her. ‘Let’s get out of here.’

A few minutes later they were back in the bright sunshine that overheated the microclimate of the estate and made everything shimmer and dance – the warmth giving King’s fading hangover new life.

‘We should find a drain,’ Renita told him.

‘A drain?’ he asked. ‘What the hell d’you want to find a drain for?’

‘You planning on booking that resin and joint in as property found when we get back to the station?’

‘No,’ he laughed. ‘Got enough paperwork to get through without wasting my time booking this in.’

‘Exactly,’ she explained. ‘So chuck it down the nearest drain.’

‘Not this time,’ he replied casually.

‘Oh,’ she said, sounding a little suspicious. ‘You’re not planning on getting stoned, are you?’

‘No,’ he laughed again. ‘I don’t even smoke cigarettes.’

‘So why d’you want to keep it?’

‘I’d just rather keep hold of it,’ he smiled. ‘You never know when it might come in handy – when we might need it to encourage someone to tell the truth.’

‘That’s a route fraught with danger,’ she warned him. ‘Every little toe-rag’s got a mobile they can record shit on these days.’

‘Don’t worry about it,’ he reassured her – a call coming through on his radio saving him from any further questioning.

‘PS 42.’ The voice on the radio used his shoulder number as his call sign. ‘PS 42 receiving – Control over.’

‘Now what,’ he complained, before answering professionally. ‘Go ahead, Control.’

‘Can you take a domestic dispute,’ the male voice from Control Room back at Newham Police Station asked, ‘at number 24 Millander Walk? That’s your patch, I believe. Informant’s a Debbie Royston – says her boyfriend is drunk and won’t leave the house.’

He froze for a second. It was his first domestic since the incident. The familiar images from his nightmares rushed him – the girl in the white dress staggering towards him, the maroon blood spreading through the pristine material. The mother and son lying together in a scene of carnage, but always worst of all – the tiny figure of the girl no more than six years old, lying still and peaceful, her eyes wide open in death with barely a mark on her body. His radio blared again and brought him back to the present.

‘Can you deal, 42? Control over.’

‘Yes,’ King answered, his voice almost too weak to hear. ‘Yes,’ he repeated more strongly. ‘Show me as dealing. I’m with 274.’

‘Thanks,’ the voice acknowledged. ‘I’ll show yourself and 274 as assigned.’

‘You all right?’ Renita asked.

‘I’m fine,’ he lied as they began to walk to the location of the domestic.

‘Is this your first domestic since … you know?’

‘Yeah,’ he answered. ‘Can’t avoid domestics for the rest of my career. I’ll be fine.’

‘I can handle it on my own if you’d rather,’ she offered. ‘No one need know.’

‘No,’ he snapped at her slightly before gathering himself. ‘No. I want to deal. I have to.’

As they approached the scene of the reported domestic, King was relieved to hear the normal sounds associated with such an occurrence – a man and woman screaming at each other – dispelling his fear that he was about to walk into another silent trap of horror.

‘Sounds like things are in full swing,’ Renita joked before they had to dive head first into other people’s misery and anger.

‘Great,’ he replied through gritted teeth as they approached the front door and found it already open – the sounds of exchanged profanities spilling out onto the communal walkway. King knocked on the door once, called inside, ‘Police’, and then entered without waiting to be invited, quickly taking in his surroundings – looking for any immediate dangers, obvious or hidden. Other than the duelling couple he saw none, although he was surprised by the size and clever open-plan design of the kitchen and living area of the maisonette, noting that it was clean and ordered, with no shortage of decent mod-cons, least of all the oversized LED TV dominating the space. He was relieved the fight was taking place in the living area and not the kitchen where deadly weapons always lurked close to hand, denying the attacker time to think – time to take stock before they committed a serious armed assault or worse.

‘Someone call the police?’ he added to get everyone’s attention.

The man looked in his direction and grimaced before continuing to shout at the woman standing only inches in front of him. ‘Why did you have to go and call this fucking lot?’

‘Because you’re a drunken arsehole – that’s why,’ the woman King assumed to be Debbie Royston answered him.

‘All right,’ King said calmly as he moved towards them. ‘That’s enough. Who called us?’

‘Me,’ Royston answered, ‘and I want this fucking drunk out of my house.’

‘You Debbie Royston?’ he asked.

‘I ain’t going fucking anywhere,’ the man interrupted.

‘You,’ King pointed a finger into the man’s chest, ‘be quiet and don’t interrupt me again.’

‘Yeah, I’m Debbie Royston,’ she now answered, ‘and this is my house and I want him out of it.’

‘I’ll get to that,’ King assured her, ‘but right now we need to know if anyone else is in the house?’

‘My kids,’ she answered, still shouting everything she said. ‘Hiding upstairs scared half to fucking death because of this bastard.’

‘Shut up, you stupid slag,’ the man began again.

‘One more word,’ King warned him. ‘One more word.’ He took a breath before continuing, but suddenly paused as he felt a strong presence for the first time since entering the home. It was strangely powerful and alluring, but dangerous too. He turned his head towards the source of whatever it was that had been strong enough to distract him from the couple who’d already started screaming at each other again and saw a teenage girl, no more than sixteen or seventeen. Intelligence and sexuality blazed from her almond-shaped eyes that were so brown they appeared quite black. Her strikingly angular face was covered with flawless olive skin and framed by long deep brown curls. Her tight jeans and top showed off her curved hips and full, shapely breasts. Despite the complete lack of style or subtlety in her appearance, she was undeniably beautiful.

‘Who’s this?’ he asked the screaming woman, before realizing his virtual whisper was being drowned out. ‘I said, who’s this?’ he shouted loud enough to match them as he continued to stare at the girl standing halfway up the stairs. She looked straight into his eyes, a slight smile of seduction on her lips as she seemed to ignore everything in the house but him.

The couple momentarily stopped shouting and looked in the direction he was facing. ‘That’s my eldest,’ Royston told him. ‘Kelly.’ She looked to King and then back to Kelly before bellowing at the girl. ‘I thought I told you to stay upstairs and watch your brother and sister.’ Kelly casually shrugged and began to climb the stairs, looking back over her shoulder as she did so, her eyes never leaving his as she seemed to float from step to step with the grace of an old movie star.

‘How old is she?’ he asked Royston once the girl was out of sight.

‘Why d’you want to know?’ she asked, suspicious.

‘For my report,’ he told her, not even sure if he was lying or not.

‘She’s seventeen,’ Royston finally answered. ‘Be eighteen in a couple of months.’

‘And the other children in the house?’ he asked, recovering from the distraction of Kelly.

‘Jason’s thirteen and Sharmane’s eleven,’ she told him, before re-igniting the battle with her boyfriend. ‘Not that it’s got anything to do with the fact that I want him out of my house.’ She stabbed an index finger at the man’s chest.

‘I ain’t going nowhere,’ he shouted back as King and Renita got in between them, easing them further apart. ‘I paid for everything in here, so why the fuck should I go anywhere?’

‘’Cause it’s a council house and it’s registered in my name,’ she screamed back with an ugly smile.

‘All right,’ King spoke loudly enough to be heard and silence the bickering couple. ‘You,’ he talked to the man. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Chris O’Connell,’ he answered truthfully. King could smell the alcohol on his breath.

‘Is the house registered in your name?’ King continued.

‘No,’ O’Connell admitted.

‘No, it bloody isn’t,’ Royston refused to remain silent for long. ‘I told you – it’s in my name.’

‘So fucking what?’ O’Connell called to her over King’s shoulder.

‘Do you want this man to leave?’ King went through the procedural questions he needed to ask.

‘Course I want him to bloody leave,’ she confirmed loudly.

‘Then, Mr O’Connell,’ he told him, ‘you have to leave.’

‘I ain’t fucking going nowhere,’ O’Connell hissed.

‘I was hoping you were going to say that,’ King replied before moving faster than O’Connell could anticipate, spinning him around and pushing him up against the nearest wall as he twisted an arm up behind his back, making O’Connell call out in pain. ‘Chris O’Connell,’ King began, ‘I’m arresting you for causing a breach of the peace. You have the right to remain silent, blah, blah, blah,’ he continued as he pulled O’Connell’s other arm behind his back and locked quick-cuffs around his wrists.

‘Argh,’ O’Connell complained. ‘Get the fuck off me.’

‘Be quiet,’ Renita told him as she helped King restrain the struggling man.

‘Oi, what you doing to him?’ Royston tried to come to O’Connell’s aid.

‘What you wanted,’ King told her, breathing a little heavily as he battled with O’Connell, who’d been made strong by anger and alcohol. ‘We’re removing him from your house.’

‘Yeah, but,’ she argued, moving towards them, ‘there’s no need for all this.’

‘Back up,’ Renita warned her, ‘or you’ll be getting nicked too.’ Royston stopped in her tracks as Renita pinched her radio and called for a van to transport their prisoner. At the same time King looked over his shoulder to check any danger Royston could be to them, but he found himself looking past her to the figure that now stood in the shadows at the top of the stairs, looking down on him with the same smile of unknown intentions. For a moment it felt as if he and Kelly were the only people in the room before she gave a silent giggle and disappeared into the upstairs darkness.

‘You all right?’ Renita asked without being heard. ‘Sarge. You all right?’

‘Yeah,’ he answered as her words cut through the intoxicating effects of Kelly. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Good,’ she told him. ‘Van’s on the way.’

5

King had keys, but still he knocked on the front door then took a step back. He wrung the neck of a bottle of wine while he waited next to Sara, who was holding an elaborate bunch of flowers and a box of expensive chocolates.

They listened as heavy, military-sounding footsteps approached followed by the sound of at least two locks being freed. The door swung ceremonially open, revealing the tall, straight-backed figure of a man in his sixties standing unsmiling in the entrance, his hair cut short and neat, his clothes as clean and pressed as his uniform had been before he retired as a full colonel from the army.

‘Made it here at last then,’ he greeted them.

‘Dad,’ said King.

‘And how are you, Sara?’ his father asked, ignoring his son as he stepped aside to allow them to enter.

‘I’m fine thank you, Mr King,’ she answered through a nervous smile.

‘No need to stand on ceremonies,’ he told her. ‘I keep reminding you to call me Graham. Everyone else does these days.’

‘Sorry,’ she apologized. ‘I keep forgetting. I’m fine thank you, Graham.’

‘You’d better come and say hello to your mother,’ he told King. ‘Let her know you’re still alive. For some reason she still worries about you. Can’t think why.’

‘No,’ King rolled his eyes at Sara when he was sure his father couldn’t see. ‘Nor can I.’

The two couples began to eat their way through the meal that King’s mother, Emily, had taken hours preparing. King couldn’t help but think what a pointless exercise it had been – taking so much time to make something that would disappear in minutes and probably not be appreciated by anyone. He became increasingly aware of the growing pain in his shoulder and back as he watched his mother picking at her food as she’d done all her life – ensuring she remained slim for the Colonel. Her ash-blonde hair was pulled back into a permanent ponytail and she spoke with a heavily clipped accent – on the rare occasions her husband allowed her to get a word in edgeways. Even now, King felt he hardly knew her. He had been sent to boarding school at seven years old and then on to university and finally the police. This was their home, not his. As far as he was concerned, they’d never shared a home.

‘You still haven’t asked about Scott,’ Graham reprimanded him, with no attempt to conceal his annoyance at King’s apparent lack of interest in his own brother.

‘I was going to,’ he replied, ‘when Mum wasn’t around.’

‘What’s your mother’s presence got to do with anything?’ Graham demanded.

‘Well, I didn’t know if she wanted to talk about it,’ he explained. ‘She gets upset.’

‘Nonsense,’ Graham insisted. ‘Your mother’s fine. It’s not like he’s not going to make a full recovery. It’s not like he’s lost any limbs or been disfigured. Many have, you know. If you ask me he’s been bloody lucky.’

‘Funny idea of luck,’ King argued, ‘being shot.’

‘Could have stood on an IED,’ Sara added awkwardly before realizing she wasn’t helping – drawing stony looks from both King and his father.

‘He’s going to be fine,’ Emily tried to end it. ‘That’s all that matters.’

‘Quite,’ Graham huffed as they settled into silent eating until Sara tried once more to break the tension.

‘How long has Scott been back from Afghanistan now?’ she asked.

‘Six months or so,’ Graham answered.

‘Weren’t we supposed to have left there more than a year ago?’ she asked naïvely.

Graham cleared his throat to answer, but King spoke before he could. ‘Not everyone,’ he explained. ‘The army left some military advisors behind.’

‘Shot by the very people he was supposed to be helping train,’ Graham spat the words out like bile. ‘Let the whole lot of them go to hell in a handcart,’ he added.

‘Where is he now?’ Sara asked, making King move uncomfortably in his chair.

‘Still in hospital,’ Emily quickly told her, as if only she had the right to answer the question.

‘But he’s getting out very soon,’ Graham took over again, ‘as Jack would have known if he ever bothered to visit him.’

‘I did know he was being released soon,’ King surprised them.