Luke Delaney - The Rule of Fear

‘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.