Underneath the piece on the rapist, there was an article about a guy who'd had his jaw relocated to his back. Well, to his side. There was a picture, posed by a model, from the neck down, with arrows indicating where this guy's new jaw had been positioned. On the right-hand side, just under his armpit. Unfortunately, you couldn't make out very much, even with the helpful arrows. It was fascinating, but what Pearce really wanted to see was the real guy's face. You couldn't help wonder why he'd had to have his jaw repositioned in the first place. The article didn't say. Apparently, the poor bastard hadn't eaten properly in four years. But now he was munching away. Right there, just under his armpit. Didn't have any teeth, though.
Still, can't have everything.
Rodge was sweating, despite all the car windows being open. What was wrong with the weather this year? Where was all the fucking rain? You got to rely on it and you missed it when it wasn't there. This heat was making him sweat and the sweat was making his stitches itch. He licked his lip and tasted salt. Man. And there was also that frigging stink, even with the windows open. He'd already poured the best part of a bottle of disinfectant all over the boot. End result, instead of smelling like dead dog, the car smelled like clean dead dog. An improvement, yeah, but a stink was a stink, even if it was a clean stink. And now the inside of the boot was sopping wet.
They'd stopped the car to talk.
Rodge said to Flash, "Park's the only man who might have done it and he's in prison." He dipped his head out the window and breathed in some fresh air. Only, it wasn't so fresh. The traffic fumes were pretty bad, as you might expect at one o'clock on the Glasgow Road. What was he doing here anyway? Flash wanted to talk in private, reckoned May was safe enough at home with Dad now he had a gun. For a while, anyway. Once they were in the car, Flash asked if he'd help with another burglary, cash was tight, but Rodge didn't have the stomach for it. He'd been on four with Flash already, and they'd all been successful – in the sense that they'd got a few quid and some electronic equipment and a stack of jewellery and, most importantly, got away with it – but Rodge hadn't managed to get used to the whole experience, not one little bit. In fact, each successive occasion was worse than the last. So he'd cried off, saying, "Now isn't the right time." And credit to Flash, he'd shut up about it. Asked him instead if he fancied helping him get a tyre collection service established, and explained how there was money to be made in taking away old tyres from garages and disposing of them in an environmentally friendly manner, according to the law passed in Scotland in 2003. He knew a guy who knew a guy who owned several garages who apparently paid seventy grand a year to have all his used tyres taken away. Lot of money in tyre disposal. Rodge thought it sounded like an interesting proposition, but he said no when Flash explained he was planning on illegally dumping the tyres in the countryside cause you had to save on costs somehow.
Rodge tucked his head back inside the car. He should think about getting a bite to eat, man. But he wasn't hungry. Hadn't had much of an appetite for a while. And he couldn't remember that ever happening before. "We can't let Dad do it," he said. God, Dad would kill him if he knew how he'd really been making money recently. He hated lying to Dad about being a bouncer, but it made the old guy happy and what was the harm in that? Truth was, Rodge had worked behind the bar in a Grassmarket pub for a while, but he was let go for being too slow.
"Muchacha alert," Flash said. "Would you look at that arse?" He turned in the passenger seat so he could carry on watching the muchacha. Or rather, the muchacha's arse. "Muy nice."
It was nice. Rodge couldn't argue with that. A J Lo arse. Something to get your teeth into and chomp on.
Flash continued, "Wouldn't you just love to take a plank of wood to it?"
The thought hadn't crossed Rodge's mind. But now that Flash mentioned it, he couldn't get the image out of his head. He gripped the steering wheel, squeezing it as if he were somehow able to squeeze the image from his brain. No joy. The picture stayed where it was. If anything, it was lodged even tighter and was in sharper focus. There she was, the muchacha, bare-arsed, oh yeah, bent over the back of a low chair, Rodge about to give her a whack with a plank. Why, he had no fucking idea. But there he was, all planked up. He wasn't thinking straight at all. Having all sorts of strange notions. Hallucinating, practically, like he was tripping, but he hadn't indulged for at least six months now and he'd never been a heavy user, so it wasn't a flashback. He felt fucking odd, though. "Why would I want to do that?" he asked Flash.
"Just, you know, cause it would ... fuck, I dunno, do I?"
"You're a perv, Flash." Which was true. He was. Rodge needed to get his mind off the babe. He was being too easily distracted. And he knew why. He didn't want to think about what he was going to have to do. But there was no way out. He'd have to concentrate. He said to Flash, "Pay attention, huh?"
"I'm listening."
"Look at me."
Flash turned, reluctantly. "I'm looking. Prefer the muchacha, though."
Rodge didn't return Flash's smile. He squeezed the steering wheel harder. "We can't let Dad do it," he said.
Flash snatched another look at the muchacha. "Rusty nails," he said.
"What the fuck are you on about now?"
"Rusty nails in the plank of wood."
Rodge pictured it. Jesus. His brother was sick. "You're sick," he told Flash.
"Maybe."
"Anyway," Rodge said, "she'd eat you for breakfast."
"Let's hope so."
Flash had a good laugh at his own joke. Rodge wasn't in a mood for Flash's jocularity today. Somehow, he didn't think he'd be in the mood for it tomorrow, either. If he ever saw tomorrow. After a while he said, "I've made my mind up."
Flash said, "What about?"
Rodge didn't bother replying.
Flash said, "You're not thinking what I think you're thinking, are you?"
Rodge had his attention now. "I don't know." String it out. It's what Flash deserved. "What do you think I'm thinking?"
"Jesus. You can't. If anyone's doing it, it's me."
"I'm not asking for your permission."
"Rodge, you can't."
"Why not, Flash? Why the fuck not?" And that's what he wanted to know. It wasn't a rhetorical question. Apart from the law, what was there to stop him? Fuck, you know, he wasn't thick. Scored pretty well in tests at school and could have gone to college if he'd wanted. But he didn't need a degree to know about personal responsibility. Anyone could do anything they wanted if they were prepared to take the consequences. That's why suicide bombers were so hard to defend against.
"You have the rest of your life to think about," Flash said.
"And you don't?"
"Well, I decided first."
"And I'm your big brother and I'm undeciding you."
"Christ." Flash ran his hand over his face. "This isn't fair."
"Tell you the truth," Rodge said. "I think you'd fuck it up, man."
"Rodge, compadre, that's bullshit and you know it."
Rodge screwed his eyes together as sunlight glinted off the windscreen of a double-decker bus pulling into a bus stop up ahead. The doors opened and a couple of passengers got out. Rodge watched in a daze. It was as if this mundane action, the doors swinging open, passengers getting out, were a riveting scene in a film he'd spent his whole life watching. The bus pulled away. As it passed, an advertising band along the side advised Rodge to keep the zing in his thing. He had no idea what it was advertising. Or which thing he was supposed to keep his zing in. It saddened him that he might never find out.
Flash prodded him. "I'm talking to you."
Rodge was suddenly angry. He didn't appreciate being poked in the ribs, but under normal circumstances he'd have let Flash get off with it. Shit, he was stressing out. He said, "Fucking don't do that, will you?" An overreaction. But he couldn't help himself. Saw that gorgeous arse again. The plank of wood. A rusty nail. Holy crap, his mind was rotten.
"Well, you fucking pay attention, then
, verga. You tell me off for muchacha-watching, then five minutes later you're away with the fairies yourself. Did you hear a word I was saying?"
"Watch who you're calling a fairy." There it was. He couldn't resist the banter. When things get serious, take the piss out of the situation. Use humour to crack the tension. The way they'd always been, the way they'd grown up. All they knew. Which made this whole process so much harder.
"You know what?" Flash said. "I think you're full of shit."
Rodge punched him on the arm.
Flash said, "Ow," and punched him back.
Rodge was going to miss him. "I've got bigger cojones than you," he said.
"Impressive," Flash said. "Cojones. Very good."
Rodge was aware that he could spend some time devising a foolproof plan to get away with what Dad referred to as Plan B. But what was the point? He'd get caught eventually. There was no point postponing the inevitable. If he was going to kill his brother-in-law, he'd get banged up. For a long time. End of story.
Unless he shot himself afterwards.
He only had twenty-four hours to think about it, cause he was going to do it tomorrow.
Tomorrow, and a slight breeze tickled the back of Rodge's neck. He pressed the buzzer of Wallace's flat, the gun tucked down the back of his trousers digging into the base of his spine. He wanted to run away. Like some kid. Scared of what was to come. Don't be fucking pathetic. He ought to be thoroughly ashamed of himself.
He told Flash he'd wait a while. Think it over. Now Rodge wished that was the truth.
Wallace answered the door, looking bigger than he had when Rodge last saw him. Looked older, too. Less of the baby face about him. More of a pinched look. "You shouldn't be here," Wallace said. "Unless you're planning on dying."
He knew. Somehow the fucker knew.
Wallace's eyes, magnified by the lenses of his glasses, were dull. No joy in them. No sparkle, not a trace of humour. As if something had sucked the shine out of them. For the briefest moment, Rodge wanted to hug him. Tell him what he was going to do, apologise, but explain that it was necessary. And he wanted to apologise for his sister. How fucked up was that? But, you know, she'd slept with somebody else and she was married to Wallace and Rodge had spoken to her about it pretty sternly. Not like he'd be going behind her back. But he couldn't apologise to Wallace before he shot him, now, could he? That was ridiculous and he was nervous which was why he wasn't thinking straight.
He'd seen Wallace arrive home in his Range Rover ten minutes ago. Watched him park outside, lock the car, open his front door. His usual routine, in other words. It was a Friday, and he liked to leave work early. May's departure hadn't changed that.
"What do you want?"
Rodge felt a knot in his throat. Shit, shit, shit. He had to go through with it. Fuck, he'd nicked the gun easily enough. He hadn't thought to ask for it. He knew Dad wouldn't let him, any more than he'd let Flash. Didn't rate their expertise on the old assassination front. But Dad wasn't expecting Rodge to be the one who might try to steal his nice new weapon. Looking out for Flash, and that was cool. Anyway, Dad was keeping an eye on Flash, so it was easy for Rodge to go to the bedroom, lift the mattress, rescue the gun. Living in the same house had its benefits.
Dad would notice it had gone soon enough, though.
But not for a while. He was out with Norrie this afternoon, off for a quiet pint or two, try to take his mind off things. Nice that Dad had a good friend. All you needed, one good friend. And Norrie was a good friend, otherwise he wouldn't have decided to take two weeks off work at the factory to help out the family.
Rodge took a breath, then another, and another. Shook his hands by his side like a dog shaking water off its coat.
"You going to leave or do I have to kick the crap out of you again?" Wallace asked.
Rodge nodded, which probably confused Wallace.
"Fine, I'll call the police," Wallace said, turned and started to move away, his cream-coloured shirt untucked at the back. Rodge shoved the door hard and barged into the hall.
"Get out of my house, Roger," Wallace said.
So bloody young and innocent. About five ten, medium build, no threat at all to look at.
Rodge wanted to speak, say something cool like, "Eat lead, motherfucker." But his throat was tight and he knew he had no chance of saying anything at all. Or if he did, it would sound squeaky. Which wouldn't be the least bit cool. Come to think of it, fuck being cool.
Shit. Get a grip. You're bigger than him.
His size was usually an advantage. Not with Wallace. Wallace wasn't intimidated in the slightest.
Rodge brushed sweat off his forehead with his wrist.
You have a fucking gun.
He took the gun out of his waistband. Held it. Pointed it at Wallace.
Now the wanker would be intimidated.
Wallace stared. Didn't flinch. His eyes never wavered for a second.
Fuck, you had to hand it to him. Rodge was about to piss himself and he was the one with the gun. Could he do this?
Yes. He cocked the gun. Held it with both hands. One trying to steady the other. Both shaking. His palms were sweaty. His finger tightened on the trigger.
"What's this shit?" Wallace said, his voice perfectly even.
"You're dead," Rodge said, his voice trembling.
"Why don't you put the gun down, Roger? We can talk about this."
"We can't."
"Sure we can."
When Wallace moved, Rodge yelped and pulled the trigger.
The recoil threw Rodge backwards. He hadn't expected that. The gun jumped out of his greasy fingers and clattered to the floor.
"I'll take this," Wallace said, picking up the gun. He wiped the butt on his trousers. "Before somebody gets hurt."
Rodge tried to sit up, pains in his chest when he tried to breathe. What a fuck-up. He deserved what was coming to him. He just hoped it was quick.
Wallace bent over him. Rodge's heartbeat speeded up. He had no idea his heart was capable of beating this fast. Holy shit.
Wallace looked around. "Lucky all you did was damage a bit of the ceiling there." He indicated the hole in the roof at the top of the stairs leading to the basement. "Bit of a mess, eh?" A chunk of plaster had fallen onto the staircase and kicked up a cloud of dust. He patted Rodge on the leg. "I'll send you the bill."
Rodge struggled to take a breath and finally managed to say, "What're you going to do?"
"Get a plasterer in."
Rodge wheezed. His breath wasn't coming at all now. His chest felt tighter than ever. "To me," he gasped. "What're you going to do to me?"
"You look pale. You need a doctor?"
Rodge shook his head.
"Drink of water?"
Rodge nodded.
"Well, that's a shame," Wallace said. "Now let's be serious, huh?"
Rodge wasn't entirely sure what hyperventilating felt like. But he suspected that's what he was doing. His chest had a steel band round it. His heart – fuck, was he having a heart attack? His arms, legs, mouth were all tingling. Wallace was going to shoot him. He knew. Christ, who wouldn't hyperventilate? Who wouldn't have a fucking heart attack? Maybe he was having both? For fuck's sake, why didn't the bastard just get it over with?
"Shoot me," Rodge said. "You fucker."
"Okay," Wallace said.
Wallace placed the gun against Rodge's forehead.
"Ow," Rodge said, pulling his head back. The muzzle was red hot. Well, it felt like it was.
Wallace looked at him, not making the connection between Rodge's pain and the gun. Then when Rodge put his hand to his forehead to touch the spot where the gun had burned his skin, Wallace wrapped his fingers round the barrel, testing it suspiciously, and sharply pulled them away again. "Never realised," he said. "That is very fucking hot."
Then he stuck the gun against Rodge's lip. Right against the stitches.
Rodge's head snapped back once more, but this time Wallace leaned in, forcing the gu
n against Rodge's mouth. The back of Rodge's head was mashed into the wall and couldn't go back any further.
The gun wasn't red hot. Not like a branding iron. But it still hurt like a bastard. And blood was dripping onto Rodge's tongue. Rodge reached up, grabbed Wallace's arm.
"Nope," Wallace said.
"What do you mean?" Rodge said, the pain making his eyes water. He could smell the gun smoke, and it made him feel sick.
"Put your hand back down or I'll pull the trigger," Wallace said.
Rodge stared him in the eye. He was serious. Rodge let his hand flop back down to his side. His lip was burning, but he was so cold inside that he started shaking.
Cause this was bad. Worse than if Wallace had turned the gun on him and shot him point blank. Because Wallace was doing this shit, and he'd probably still turn the gun on him and shoot him anyway once he'd had his fun.
Rodge hardly dared breathe, yet the pain was going to make him scream.
Or maybe it wasn't the pain. Maybe it was just the situation. Having a pissed-off madman with a gun standing over him, pressing the muzzle against his damaged mouth. That was probably enough to make him scream.
And if he screamed, the sudden noise might make Wallace pull the trigger. Without meaning to.
Or he might pull the trigger anyway. Intentionally. Scream or no scream.
So Rodge might as well scream.
Unless Wallace wasn't planning on shooting him. But that wasn't very likely.
But it was possible.
And possibilities were worth exploring when you were on the point of getting shot.
Rodge said, breathlessly, "Are you going to shoot me?"
Wallace pulled a face and pressed the gun hard against Rodge's stitches. And twisted.
Bad Men Page 5