Bad Men

by Allan Guthrie

  From their very first walk along the beach, Hilda had proved himself to be a sniffer. Not too interested in chasing sticks. Which was fine. Poor bastard only had three legs, after all. In any case, Pearce would rather sniff than chase sticks, too.

  Pearce headed east along the promenade, towards Joppa. Hilda would follow in his own time.

  Okay. The Baxter family. Well, they were serious. There was no doubt they were scared of Wallace, genuinely believing him capable of hurting his wife badly enough to endanger her and, particularly, her unborn child.

  But were they crazy fuckers, or did they have genuine reason to be worried?

  Well, you'd have to be deranged beyond measure to harm your own family. That was something some other fuckbastard did. Wasn't Wallace's family, though. The kid wasn't his, but May was his wife. … Ah, fuck. Shouldn't have started thinking about what people could do to your family.

  Pearce leaned against the outside wall of an amusement arcade, breathing fast and shallow, the back of his neck cold with sweat. Memories leaked out of his head and burned acid paths down his throat and into his lungs. Holding his mum in his arms while blood pumped out of a stab wound in her neck – yeah, takes a lot of getting over. Maybe he'd never get over it. That was a possibility he'd have to face.

  No point dwelling on it, though. He couldn't change what had happened. He pushed himself off the wall, carried on walking.

  Just supposing for a moment that May was in danger.

  Well, look at him. He wasn't in a position to protect anybody.

  At least he was breathing normally again.

  He looked behind him, checked that Hilda was still there. He was half-heartedly chasing another dog. Knew that with only three legs he'd never have a chance in hell, but it was fun trying.

  The guilt was a killer. Not only did Pearce fail to save his mum, but he'd sold her flat. That really fucked him up and there wasn't anything he could do about it. The flat held too many reminders of her. You know, it was hers. Didn't feel he could buy new furniture, put up new pictures, strip the wallpaper. Any change he made was being disrespectful to her memory. Nothing he could do about it. It would never be his.

  So he'd sold it. And maybe she'd haunt him forever as a result, but he thought she'd understand. She wouldn't haunt him. Christ, no, what was he saying? That was almost as mad a notion as the Baxter family's tale. Worse, even. At least Wallace was alive. But Pearce saw Mum all the time. Just glimpses. And sometimes he heard her speak. She'd ask how he was and he'd say he was fine. They'd talk about the weather. Banal snippets of dialogue. For a while, he did wonder about his sanity. And then he thought, fuck it. He was as sane as the next man. It was normal to miss your mother.

  He'd bulldozed into action. Didn't bother to redecorate, put Mum's flat on the market as it was. Not surprisingly, he didn't get the best price for it, but what he did get was substantially more than he'd expected. Property prices were outrageous.

  He went looking for a flat of his own. Something he'd never had. Had his own cell at Barlinnie, mind you. Only for two weeks, though, until that Irish guy, Seamus, moved in. Read all the time, like Pearce. But they didn't get on. Pearce resented him for ending his solitude. Not Seamus's fault. Anyway, having your own cell in Barlinnie didn't really count as having your own place.

  Pearce wanted to stay in the east of the city. It was his old stomping ground and he preferred to live somewhere familiar. Anywhere else, he might as well move to England or America or Australia. He'd been checking the property pages for a couple of months, noticed that despite the generally ridiculous prices of flats in the capital, Portobello seemed just that bit cheaper than more central areas. Like Musselburgh used to be before everybody cottoned on to the fact. And Porty was okay. Bit of history, which didn't hurt. He hadn't got round to buying a car yet. Probably wouldn't. There was nowhere to park it. And he hadn't driven much recently. In fact, he hadn't driven much ever. Didn't own a car when he went inside, and, not surprisingly, didn't get much practice while he was locked up. Truth was, he wasn't entirely sure of himself behind a wheel. Fortunately, Portobello was a half-hour bus ride from town. And the number twenty-six ran every five minutes. No need for a car.

  Portobello was Edinburgh's seaside (so claimed a road sign on the approach from either end of town) and once upon a time, before the dawn of the package holiday, people flocked to Portobello from all over Scotland to sun themselves and dip their toes in the sea. Must have been a sight. Like Southern California, but colder. And without the surfing. Or the bronzed babes. Used to have an outdoor swimming pool with a wave machine, so he'd heard from his neighbour, Mrs Hogg. It was highly popular, too.

  These days, the vestiges of the old seaside resort remained. The amusements, fish and chip shop, ice-cream vendors. But most of the time it was a forlorn-looking place. Apart from the weekends. The weekends brought out the crowds. Pasty-skinned dads, pregnant mums with purple-veined white legs, screaming kids. Kids loved it. Sand and kids. When did that combination ever fail? Sitting on the beach building sandcastles and eating gritty ice cream as the haar rolled in.

  Rest of the time, the beach was just for dog-walkers.

  Pearce loved Portobello's faded glory. His kind of place. Made him nostalgic. Could you be nostalgic for something you'd never experienced? Yeah, fucking right you could.

  And you know what? Mum would have loved living here.

  He'd picked up a rare fixed-price property at the east end of town. A top-floor flat. Two bedrooms. One for him. The other, well, for the dog he'd promised himself he'd get once he'd moved in. Mainly for companionship. Not that he got lonely, as such, but he was aware that talking to his mother was a bit strange and having someone else to talk to might help. Of course, some people thought it was odd talking to a dog. Pearce didn't think there was anything wrong with that at all. So long as the dog wasn't dead.

  He'd been amazed at how much haar there was round these parts. Atmospheric stuff. Out of his bedroom window, only a couple of days after he'd moved in, he'd watched it approach across the Forth from Fife. First it obliterated the little island with the lighthouse, then headed towards the coastline, rolled over the beach, and gradually consumed the bus station at the rear of his flat.

  He'd opened the window, let the mist roll in. You could feel it. Like that stuff, ectoplasm. Felt like it had been in the fridge, chilling.

  "Feel that, Mum?" he said.

  But there was no mist today. Pearce sat down on a bench and gazed out to sea. It was clear and warm. A couple of tankers in anchorage in the distance looked like red toys in a big bath. You could see Kirkcaldy. Fine view. The finest you'd ever see of Kirkcaldy, cause the nearer you got, the worse it looked.

  Shove those memories of Mum in your head and slam the lid on them.

  Pearce knew he should concentrate on deciding whether to accept Baxter's proposal or not.

  The promenade wasn't too busy. The odd mother and child. A family enjoying a barbecue. A kid with a kite trailing behind him. A cyclist. A bunch of old folks squashed together on a bench. A lone tourist stomping past, lugging a rucksack.

  Pearce couldn't sit still. He got to his feet, whistled on Hilda.

  As he passed a couple of schemies sitting on the wall drinking Buckfast, one of them asked if he could spare any change.

  "What do you think?" Pearce said.

  Baxter. Mad fuck or caring parent?

  On the beach, a guy was throwing sticks for a couple of dogs: a big lurcher-type, a sleek-looking creature with the body of a small greyhound; and a dumpy little mutt. Pearce paused to watch for a while. The mutt got to the stick first every time. Determined little fucker.

  Pearce looked behind him for Hilda. There he was, sniffing some old dear's shopping bag.

  Right, never mind the dog. He should be deciding whether to accept Baxter's proposal. He turned, carried on walking along the promenade.

  Getting Hilda hadn't been a tough decision, even though he knew dogs meant responsibility. You
couldn't stay out all night, or go abroad. But Pearce never stayed out all night, or went abroad. And then you had to walk the fuckers at least twice a day. But he knew he'd take a walk every day, probably twice, in any case.

  Then he got worried that if he got a dog, it would end up like everything else he'd ever loved. Like his sister. Like his mum.

  Like Louis in Baxter's boot.

  But he'd put that crap out of his head, thank fuck.

  Anyway, Baxter. What was he going to do about him? Yeah, the money was undoubtedly attractive. Thing was, Pearce had sold his mum's flat, but ended up paying considerably more for his new one. He still couldn't get over how easy it was to get a mortgage. He'd imagined having a criminal record would have been held against him. Then again, his criminal record had nothing to do with fraud, so maybe that's why it had all been so straightforward.

  He didn't even have to fabricate a job to secure the mortgage. Bottom line, his deposit of eighty grand was enough for the mortgage lender to be happy to lend him the remaining forty-five.

  It was up to him how he met his monthly repayments.

  He'd held onto a few grand to tide him over. But at some point he'd have to start looking for work. And that would be difficult.

  What qualifications do you have for this job, Mr Pearce?

  Stabbed a drug-dealer with a screwdriver so many times I lost count. He died. I went to prison. Got out ten years later only to watch my mother die. Got shot twice trying to nail the fucker who killed her. Qualifications? They belong to the real world. I don't think I do. Sorry to waste your time.

  Pearce needed the money. Arsewipe. Maybe he should think about getting a proper job. Only thing he'd done since he got out of prison was debt collecting. And that wasn't an option now Cooper was inside. What else could he do?

  Okay. Why should he help Baxter? He didn't know the ugly bastard. And Baxter was obviously over-reacting to the situation. His daughter wasn't really in danger. Did Pearce want to take money from him for nothing? Well, it wouldn't be for nothing, precisely, cause he'd have to stay with the daft bastard and his family for a month. Jesus. Pearce didn't like that idea one little bit. What about the baby? Was it really in danger? Well, Wallace sounded fucked-up, all right. Was it Pearce's responsibility? Could anybody else handle it? Wallace sounded like a dangerous guy.

  And there was another topic for consideration. Wallace might well be the wrong person to mess with—if indeed he'd been responsible for killing the dog. On the other hand, maybe he was just a fuckwit. But was the risk worth four grand? Shit, yes. The guy might be able to beat up women and old men and boys who couldn't fight and kill dumb animals but Pearce was none of those.

  That four grand was tempting. It was sad that he was even considering this, but there was no denying that on four grand he could live quite comfortably for three or four months. Maybe even get himself an IKEA table or replace his mum's settee with a large two-seater. Yeah, he'd sold her old flat but kept some of her furniture. Seemed wrong just to throw it out. When he curled up in the settee, sometimes it was like she was there beside him. He fell asleep on it once and he could have sworn he felt her hand on his brow.

  For fuck's sake. What was he doing even considering the Baxter job?

  What do you think, Mum?

  You might get shot again, his mum said.

  He didn't need reminding. He'd been shot twice. In the shoulder and in the gut.

  Pearce put Hilda on his lead, turned and retraced his steps. He perched on the edge of a bench and took out his phone. Then realised he didn't have Baxter's number. Damn, fuck and fuck.

  Hands wedged in his pockets, he headed back home.

  Was he a fool? Well, was he?

  It seemed like the right decision, but what if he was wrong?

  He kept his head down, didn't notice anything or anybody till he came to the corner at the bottom of his street. He started to climb the hill. By then, he'd made up his mind.

  Into the kitchen, grabbed a bottle of Highland Spring out of the fridge. Supposed to be for hangovers but he'd run out of beer and needed something cold. The bottle hissed when he opened it. He swigged a couple of mouthfuls, letting the fizz dance on his tongue. Went over the pros and cons one more time and reached the same conclusion.

  In the sitting room, he picked up the photo of May, noticing her fingers spread over her stomach, and dialled the number on the back.

  Baxter said, "Mr Pearce?"

  Recognised his number already, eh? "I've decided," Pearce said. He waited a while.

  Baxter said, "Well?"

  "The answer's no." Pearce hung up.

  Pearce was surprised that Baxter left it a couple of days before calling him back. But he did.

  "I've made my mind up," Pearce told him. "Don't bother trying to change it."

  "How about," Baxter said, "if I offer you double?"

  Ah, the bastard. He was playing dirty now. Eight grand was a lot of cash. Well, two could play at that game. Pearce said, "I'll think about it," and hung up.

  He slept well that night. Didn't get up next morning till ten. Hilda was bursting for a piss.

  Baxter called, as Pearce knew he would. It was only a matter of how long the poor bastard could hold out. His resolve caved in at two twenty-four, according to Pearce's watch.

  Baxter's voice was full of tension. Sounded like someone was throttling him. "You made your mind up yet?"

  Pearce said, "Ten."

  "Jesus Christ," Baxter said. "I'm retired."

  "Rodge isn't. And you said he'd just got promoted."

  "Look, Jesus, hang on."

  Pearce hung on. He didn't imagine Baxter would go for it. But he came back to the phone and said, "Okay." Just went to show, it was always worth a try. Problem was, Pearce had no intention of taking the job. He'd made his mind up, and once he'd done that there was no changing it. If he had wanted the job, he'd have settled for four from the off.

  "I'll need to get organised," Baxter said. "Get your room sorted out."

  Well, now. There was Baxter making a pretty big assumption. Pearce hadn't said he'd take the job. Hadn't even indicated that it might be a possibility, had he? Just said, "Ten," that was all.

  Pearce was about to clear this up with Baxter when the old fool said, "You'll need some background, I suppose. I'll get you the lowdown on Wallace's routine. That's no problem. Tends to work a bit later during the week so's he can get home early on a Friday. And you'll need to know where May goes and when. School holidays at the moment, so she goes all over the place, swimming and gym and shopping and stuff but mainly just lies about in the garden in the nice weather. And, well, I dunno. I just need to know when you're moving in. Pearce?"

  Pearce didn't want to be cruel. Really, he didn't. He had to put the guy out of his misery. "Baxter?"

  "Yeah?"

  "I can't do it."

  "What do you mean?" Baxter paused. "You just said you would. Look, I'm good for the money, if that's what's worrying you."

  "I don't doubt it," Pearce said. "Why don't you buy something nice for May instead?"

  Jacob hadn't long hung up when Flash came round to the house and wandered into the kitchen where Jacob was nursing a cup of tea. Flash stood there moving his feet from side to side as if they'd gone to sleep and he was trying to stamp them awake. He was wearing trainers and the laces were undone. You'd have been excused for thinking he had foot problems of some sort, but Jacob knew this footwear was a fashion statement, not a health issue.

  "How's the head?" Jacob asked. Sure, it was ages ago, but Pearce had really walloped Flash with the briefcase and you could never be too careful with head injuries.

  Flash took a swig from a can of fizzy juice he'd brought with him. "Fine," he said, and scratched his scalp, as if to prove it no longer hurt. But maybe it did, cause he quickly moved on to scratch a scrawny arm just where his T-shirt stopped. "How's the nose?"

  "Fine," Jacob said. It wasn't, but it was growing less tender by the day.

 
"So," Flash said, "did you call Pearce?"

  Flash was painfully thin. Always had been. Really needed some home cooking to fatten him up. But that's not something Flash would get any time soon. Moved away from home when he was sixteen. These days he rented a room in a shared flat. Pretty good going, considering the boy's only job had been as a petrol station attendant, and that hadn't lasted very long before he was fired for pilfering. Natural born thief. Jacob didn't know where he got it from, but Flash had been nothing but trouble since he was old enough to put things that weren't his in his pocket. Lived on microwaved ready-made crap that contained very little nutrition. The boy needed a baked potato smothered in butter. A whole sack of them.

  Thin or not, Flash had bottle, no question. Jacob didn't like to think about what he did to make a bob, definitely not, but he'd only been arrested twice, and had never done time, so he had to be good at it.

  "Well?" Flash said, and Jacob remembered he'd been asked a question.

  Jacob recapped his conversation with Pearce.

  Once he'd finished, Flash said, "May doesn't need ‘something nice'. She needs protection."

  "Pearce doesn't have a daughter," Jacob said. "Doesn't know what it's like to be responsible for another human being."

  Flash took a long swallow of his juice. Then he said, "Don't let it get to you, Dad."

  Jacob wondered what his son was talking about, then realised that he was right. Anger was surging through Jacob's muscles, his limbs tingling like they'd done after he'd spent an hour in the swimming baths with Norrie one Friday afternoon a few weeks back. Jacob said, "Wallace would have torn him apart, anyway."

  Flash looked at him, lips slightly parted. He belched. "I'm not so sure," he said.