Bad Men

by Allan Guthrie

  Rodge said, muffled, "Ah, fuck, ah," cause the pain of the muzzle digging into his skin far outweighed the burning.

  Wallace pulled the gun back an inch from Rodge's face and said, "Maybe."

  "Look," Rodge said, spreading his fingers, "this is all a big misunderstanding."

  "Yeah?" Wallace said. "I find that hard to believe."

  "I just wanted to scare you," Rodge said. "Warn you off."

  Wallace said, "I should shoot you for telling lies. You pointed this gun at me." Wallace jabbed his gun arm forward and Rodge thought the gun was going to go straight through his cheek and knock his teeth out.

  Wallace said, "You told me I was dead."

  Rodge said, "I didn't mean it."

  "No?"

  "I'd never have killed you."

  "No?"

  "No." All over his body, Rodge's muscles were loose. Felt like they weren't attached to anything, just lumps of fat and sinew floating inside big flaps of skin. "A misunderstanding," he repeated in a wet whisper, his tongue slack in his bleeding mouth.

  "Yeah?"

  "Honest."

  "Oh, well," Wallace said. "In that case ..." He lowered his arm.

  Rodge started to breathe again, but he was suspicious that this was a bluff, that Wallace was just being sadistic, giving Rodge hope and any minute he'd whisk his arm back up again and fire a bullet clean through Rodge's skull. Clean through. At this distance most of Rodge's brain would spurt out the back of his head. Oh, shit. The fucker was going to do it. Rodge knew it, for sure.

  Any second now.

  His trigger finger. Little pink tip, whitening with the slight pressure he was putting on it. Short, chewed fingernail.

  Rodge didn't want to die on account of that finger.

  Irrational. He knew he was being irrational. But he didn't want to. Not that. God, no, anything but that. But what difference did it make whether Wallace's fingernail was chewed or not?

  Calm down, calm the fuck down.

  Hold out till the police got here. Neighbours would have heard the shot, called the cops, they'd be here soon.

  But this was Friday afternoon in Edinburgh, could have been anything. Fireworks City. Loud bangs were an everyday everywhere occurrence.

  Everyday everywhere. Did that make sense? Rodge felt light-headed. Words were like bubbles and he didn't want to burst them.

  God, he was cold and itchy and couldn't breathe and he was hot and his mouth was wet with blood and it was cold and his teeth hurt and his lip hurt and his bowels were not good, not good at all but he couldn't let go, just couldn't allow himself to get into that state where he didn't know if he was hot or cold or anything much of anything else anyway. Had to pull himself together and face this. Come on. What was the worst that could happen? Wallace would kill him. So face it. Brace himself for the worst case scenario. And if he got through that, he'd be okay, cause everything else would be an improvement.

  Wallace was going to kill him. And it was okay. Right?

  Wallace was sitting on his hookers, eyeing Rodge.

  His trigger finger relaxed and so did Rodge.

  For all of the time it took Wallace to swing the gun back up, and place the muzzle on Rodge's left knee. "How much do you think that would hurt?" he asked.

  Rodge shook his head. Shit. He could feel the warmth of the gun through his trousers. He was sweating like he'd never sweated before. Pools of moisture were running down his back. He was going to lose consciousness, have a heart attack, both, something.

  "You don't know? Fuck, well, let's find out, shall we?"

  "No," Rodge screamed. "Don't do that. It would hurt. A lot."

  "Is that all?" Wallace said. "Just ‘a lot'?"

  "Fuck, it would hurt like the sorest fucking thing I can fucking imagine."

  "I can imagine something sorer," Wallace said. "Want to know what it is?"

  Rodge shook his head. He didn't want to know. His worst case scenario wasn't the worst case scenario at all. He'd rather die than have his kneecap blown off. He closed his eyes.

  It didn't help. Wallace told him anyway. "Imagine I pop a cap in your knee, here, like this." He made a ‘bang' sound. Rodge's eyes snapped open and he about crapped himself. No kidding. He knew now what people meant when they said they had loose bowels. "And you're screaming in agony," Wallace continued. "Then imagine I pop a cap in your other knee." He moved the gun to Rodge's other leg, pressed the muzzle hard into his kneecap. "Bang. You with me?"

  Rodge nodded. He was with him alright. He could feel the pain just as if Wallace had really shot him. And he had a pain in his chest as if he'd been shot there too.

  Wallace said, "Now would both kneecaps be twice as sore as the single kneecap, do you think?"

  "I really don't know," Rodge said.

  "But what do you think?"

  "Probably, yes."

  "Want to try it?"

  Oh, fuck. Here it was. The fucking end. The fucking end.

  The police weren't coming. Neighbours hadn't called it in.

  Car backfiring. Firework. None of their business.

  Rodge said, "Just fucking shoot me if you're going to."

  "Okay," Wallace said. He stood up.

  Rodge refused to pray. Didn't care how close to death he was, he wasn't going to start with that shit. Even though, somehow, it was the only thing he could think of that might save him.

  "You better go," Wallace said.

  Rodge looked at him. Another bluff? What a bastard.

  "Go," Wallace said again. "I might change my mind."

  What was the sadistic fucker's plan now? Would he wait till Rodge had got to his feet, then shoot him? Would he wait till Rodge's back was turned? Would he wait till Rodge was halfway out the door?

  Or would he shoot him right this minute, despite what he was saying?

  Well, Rodge didn't have much of a choice. He had to go.

  He got to his feet, unsteady, wishing he could ask Wallace to let him lean on his shoulder. Legs were feeble, like the bones had turned to mush. He dragged himself to the door. Opened it. All the time, feeling a massive itch in his back where Wallace was pointing the gun.

  But Rodge got out the door without being shot. Down the path. And he broke into a run.

  Wallace shouted, "Bang!"

  Tears welled in Rodge's eyes.

  He rounded the corner and relief coursed through him. He was safe. Spat blood out of his mouth. Got into the car. Sat behind the wheel and realised he couldn't drive with his hands shaking like this. Got out and climbed in the back. Amazed he was still alive. But still terrified. He lay down on the back seat. He'd be safe there till he composed himself.

  A wave of exhilaration swept through him. He couldn't believe his luck. He ought to be dead. Yet here he was, as alive as he'd ever been. More so. He felt like singing. But he didn't know any songs.

  He lay in the back for ages, a tight fit but he didn't care. Snug meant safe. He'd have locked himself in the boot if it didn't stink of Louis. He wasn't sure how long he lay there, but eventually he snapped awake, got a grip of himself. Realised with a horrible clarity that it was entirely possible that Wallace could storm out of his house any minute and shoot Rodge where he lay. He wasn't safe in the least. He was doing that ostrich thing of sticking his head in the sand and thinking that because he couldn't see anyone else, then no one else could see him.

  He jumped out of the car, got in the front, started the engine and accelerated away. Screamed round the first corner, straight on, flew over a speed bump, slammed down with a stomach-jarring thump, then slowed to a crawl. Still wasn't ready to drive. He pulled over.

  Got out his phone. Called Flash.

  Then opened the door and spewed all over the pavement, just

  missing the sandals of a teenage girl walking her parent's Labrador.

  She called Rodge a minging cunt.

  After that, he felt almost normal again.

  "Wish you'd told me you were going to do it today," Flash whispered, l
ater, in the garden. Rodge was lying down, shades on, lip throbbing, drinking a beer. May was lying on her front, reading, next to the spot where they'd buried Louis. "I'd have told you you weren't ready," Flash said. "I'd have done it instead."

  Rodge knew it was just words, but he nearly burst into tears. He wasn't right yet. He was still shaken up by the whole experience. He knew he wasn't going to sleep a wink and his emotions were all over the place.

  He was happy to be alive, yet terrified by his near death encounter. Simultaneously.

  He hadn't told Dad what had happened. Not yet. That little treat was going to come later. And Dad wouldn't be happy, cause Wallace now had the gun, so he was even more of a danger to May than he'd been before.

  "What're you pair whispering about?" May looked up from her book.

  "Nothing," Flash said.

  She flicked her hair out behind her, gave Rodge a stare. "Your lip's not healing."

  "It's fine," he said. "Just a bit swollen from the stitches."

  "Aha?" she said, then turned back to her book.

  Which was just as well. Rodge couldn't trust himself to speak. He could have sorted out Wallace once and for all. Rodge had had the opportunity and he'd blown it. If he wasn't such a fuck-up, his wee sister would be safe.

  He felt his eyelashes moisten.

  God, if May saw him crying she'd be onto it. Bad enough lying about what happened to Louis, but having to lie again was more than Rodge was ready for.

  Thank God for the sunglasses.

  "I'm going to get another glass of coke," she said, getting to her feet. "You lying bastards want anything?"

  "Cut the language," Flash said. "Dad'll hear you."

  "Away and shite," May told him. "You want anything or what?"

  Flash and Rodge both shook their heads.

  Dad hadn't noticed the gun was missing. At least, Rodge didn't think so. Dad hadn't said anything. But maybe he wouldn't. When they'd got back, Dad had been in the kitchen chatting to Norrie about Andalusia and Rodge hadn't wanted to disturb him.

  Actually, Rodge didn't want Dad knowing what a fuck-up his son

  was.

  May was in her room.

  Flash went in to speak to her and after a minute they strolled back out and invited Rodge to join them in the garden. Soak in what was left of the sun. He couldn't speak.

  He'd fetched his shades, got a drink.

  Right. Feel better after a beer. And he had. A little, anyway.

  "Maybe I should just go ahead and tell Dad now," he said to Flash, lifting his glasses to wipe his eyes. Look, it had been a fucking difficult time, all right? And big men cried, occasionally. There was no shame in it. He felt like such a tosser, though. Shame, or no shame. His lip really hadn't been hurt too badly. It wasn't that he was crying about.

  "I think you should," Flash said.

  Rodge waited till May came back with her long glass of coke, then he went inside and locked himself in the toilet. He sobbed his heart out for a good ten minutes.

  Then he went to the kitchen, asked Dad if he could speak to him in private, but Dad said he didn't have secrets from Norrie. So Rodge told them what he'd done.

  If Dad still had his gun, he'd have shot Rodge there and then.

  Next morning and fortunately Rodge hadn't burst into tears once since he'd got up, but he hadn't been able to sleep a wink all night. Telling Dad had been hard. You'd think there'd be some truth in the saying about a problem shared and all that. But there wasn't. Crock of shite, it was. Dad and Norrie wanted details, so he gave them details. Told them about Wallace threatening to blow his kneecaps off, about how he hid in the backseat of the car.

  Dad told him he was a fool. He was lucky to be alive.

  All night Rodge kept replaying the events of that day in his head. The more he went over it, the more he realised that Dad was right. If Rodge had been a betting man, he'd have wagered a shitload of money that Wallace would never have let him go.

  It wasn't right, man. Wallace wasn't the sort of person to behave like Gandhi. Okay, so that wasn't exactly how he'd behaved, but by his standards, that was as near as damnit.

  Rodge thought about how composed Wallace had been. Someone strolls into your house and fires a couple of bullets at you, you don't stop to think how you're going to respond, do you? You kick the shit out of the bastard. At the very least. Well, that's how a normal person would respond. Wallace was very far from being normal. From the outset, he began messing with Rodge's head. And he was continuing to do so. And doing a fuck of a good job of it, too.

  The next night, around two o'clock in the morning, Rodge was in bed listening to the welcome patter of rain on his window—this heat didn't help when you were having trouble sleeping – when he heard a noise, like chair legs scraping, that sounded as if it came from the kitchen. Wasn't May. She slept like a horse. Could be Dad, his busted nose keeping him awake. Or a bit peckish, making himself a sandwich or grabbing a biscuit. But what if it wasn't Dad?

  Rodge got out of bed, quietly, reached under it for the black wood Louisville Slugger baseball bat he'd kept for protection since May had moved in.

  He crept along the corridor. Poked his head into the sitting room.

  Nothing.

  Carried on along the corridor. Braced himself. Firm grip on the bat. Poked his head round the kitchen door.

  Nothing.

  He switched on the light, just to make sure. Nothing. Nobody. He breathed out hard. Went over to the sink, poured himself a glass of water, drank it, switched off the light again. Wished he could calm his nerves.

  Wallace wasn't stupid. He wouldn't come here. If he was carrying a grudge, he'd play it out on his own patch. He wouldn't —

  Wham! The side of Rodge's head exploded. He staggered, tried not to go down. Tried to keep hold of the baseball bat, but his grip had slackened with the blow to his head. He felt dizzy. Wham! A second blow dropped him to his knees. Lights flashed in front of his eyes. The baseball bat slipped out of his fingers. They had no strength in them at all. "Wallace?" he said, then asked the craziest question: "Did you just shoot me?"

  A third blow, across the bridge of his nose, knocked him backwards. His face filled with pain.

  Then he felt a hand on his leg. "Wallace?" he said again.

  And an explosion. He knew what it was, what it meant. He had his answer. The first three blows weren't shots. This was. For a second, he was left with only his imagination. And during that time, his imagination tried to prepare him for the ensuing pain by conjuring up what it thought was a suitable agony. But it fell way short. When the pain came, it was like nothing he'd ever experienced. At the same instant, a hundred mallets slammed into his kneecap. Pulverised it. The pain overloaded his senses. He couldn't believe this much pain was possible. But it was. He roared, told himself the pain wasn't so bad. Roared again at the lie. Choked on the blood from his smashed nose.

  He didn't notice what Wallace was doing. Not that he could have stopped him.

  The second explosion followed quickly. The same blinding pain. This time, the other knee. Through the pain, the thought that he'd never walk again. Not caring, if he could only stop the pain.

  He heard the outside door slam.

  A split second later, he passed out.

  Pearce heard about it first on the radio. It was in the newspapers, too, and on the TV news.

  Somebody'd done both knees at close range with a handgun. Pearce recognised the big guy's name. Wondered what Rodge Baxter had done to piss Wallace off.

  None of his business, though, was it?

  GHOST DOG

  Guapa was Flash's favourite word, so much so that he kept it to himself, and used muchacha instead when he was messing around with Rodge. A guapa was what the Americans called a babe, and guapas were always wanting to know why he was called Flash.

  Well, he could hardly own up to the real source of his nickname, could he, you know? It wouldn't be right to say to some lovely lady he'd just met, "Hello, darlin'. They call
me Flash cause I nick things. Quick as a flash," although he knew some people who'd have done just that but no, Flash had a bit of style and when he took a girl out on a date, he didn't take her to Burger King, no chance, mate, no, he wined and dined his women at Pizza Hut or somewhere classy like that, maybe even Pizza Express if the lady was really special, and threw in a bit of español which usually did the trick maybe because, who knows, it sounded a bit dirty.

  For a while, he'd taken to telling all the guapas he met that his name was Gordon and that he was known by the nickname Flash and after a minute they'd get it and go: A-ha. King of the universe.

  Never failed. Well, sometimes it did but you win some and anyway the point is he was pissed off when he found out Pearce's first name was Gordon because it was as if the fucker had stolen his monicker, even though Flash's parents had saddled him with the name Fraser, not Gordon.

  Gordon Pearce. The bastard was called Gordon. That's what Dad told him.

  Anyway, he was supposed to be doing something here, pronto. Flash was ready to rumble, even though his mouth was dry, but as Dad had kept saying, there was no danger and he was right, of course. No danger at all, just a phone call, so what was he so frigging jumpy about? Flash blew his cheeks out, tapped his foot, made a fist and thumped his knuckles into the palm of his other hand. Yeah, bring on a barrel load of radges, he was ready, man, fucking primed.

  Not that he had to beat anybody up, not this time, no, all he had to do was make this shagging phone call.

  He could use a fag right now but he'd given up, hoping to prove to Dad how easy it was, just a matter of willpower and that was the same as being stubborn and Dad was stubborn all right, so no problem.

  And it wasn't as if he was going to be face to face with Wallace, so there was nothing to get all steamed up about, but the truth was he was friggin' terrified of what the fucker was going to do next.

  Flash couldn't quite get his head round what had happened to Rodge. Never heard of anything so fucking cowardly in his life, apart from hitting May and what the jizzwad did to Louis, maybe, but the point was that it was pretty fucking low to shoot somebody like that in the fucking knees when they weren't looking and had no means of defending themselves, apart from the baseball bat, but that wasn't likely to be much good against a gun, was it, so didn't amount to much, almost nothing, which was the point, right, as he said.