Bad Men

by Allan Guthrie

  You're back on the outside for a few months and some fuckhead stabs your mother.

  You get over that.

  You get a dog.

  Some fucker kills your dog.

  Ha bloody ha.

  Try to shed some of the rage and some arsehole junkie Happy Harry Fuckbastard bumps into you. And he's stinking of cheap aftershave. And he's laughing.

  Pearce hated junkies but he particularly hated old junkies. They should fucking know better.

  He slung a fist in the fucker's gut and that wiped the grin off him.

  Happy Harry doubled over, one arm stretched out for balance.

  Pearce wanted to hit the fucker again, but stopped himself. He was aware that people were watching now, but that wasn't the reason he held back. He didn't particularly care if he made a spectacle of himself. A young couple, hand in hand, were giving Pearce dirty looks. Especially the bloke. Showing off to his girlfriend. But, no, the reason Pearce didn't hit the junkie again was because he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop. Maybe just plant a quick forehead on his nose. But, no. It was really Wallace he wanted to nut and he shouldn't accept this sad bundle of counterfeit joyous shit as a substitute, even if it would make him feel infinitely better to kick the crap out of him.

  Pearce composed himself as best he could and said, loudly, "This man's a known paedophile. Shouldn't be allowed near a beach," and, fuck, did those watching faces change. If Pearce wasn't so torn up inside, he might have found something to laugh at, finally. For a second or two, he thought they were going to lynch poor old Harry. But Harry righted himself, no trace of a smile now, and legged it, clutching his stomach. Maybe he was a paedo. Otherwise, wouldn't he have hung around a while to defend his honour? Mind you, that's the kind of allegation that's hard to shake off. The guy was probably right to scarper.

  "Hey," the girl said to Pearce, pointing. She had at least one ring on every finger. "You can't just go around assaulting people."

  "Why not?" Pearce asked her. He was genuinely interested in her answer. At the moment, he couldn't think of a single good reason why he shouldn't ‘assault' Wallace and he was hoping she might persuade him there was an alternative. Because he couldn't fucking see one, no matter how hard he looked.

  And God knows, assault was a serious thing.

  And God knows he didn't want to do any more time.

  But she didn't reply, just turned up her studded nose and urged her boyfriend to get moving.

  Interesting that she hadn't asked Pearce where he got his information. Call someone a paedophile, that's what they are. Nothing sticks like shit.

  Pearce had hoped going outside for a walk might have calmed him down. And it might have done, were it not for this little incident. But he was just as keen to fuck Wallace up as he'd been when Flash gave him the news about Hilda. And that was pretty keen. But at least he hadn't smashed the TV or kicked the shit out of the mirror in the hall or broken all the crockery or snapped all his mum's CDs in half. Although he did have to go back home. There was something he had to pick up.

  He dialled Baxter's number on the way. The old man answered quickly. "Wallace's address," Pearce said. "I need it now."

  "Perfect timing."

  Jacob was taking the baking tray out of the oven just as Flash and May arrived back with the dog. The mutt was getting spoiled, more exercise already than Louis got his whole short life. But May and Flash were torn-faced of late, and Jacob had thought some homemade scones – with jam and cream, of course – would cheer them up. When Flash was a bairn, he used to love helping his old dad bake. Rodge was different. Didn't like getting his hands messy.

  May said she wasn't hungry. "Can I go outside in the garden with Cutey-pie?"

  "As long as you stay where we can see you," Jacob said.

  She went to her room, came back with a handbag. Spoke to Pearce's dog and they went outside.

  "Keep an eye on her, Flash, eh?" Jacob set the baking tray down on the worktop.

  "Ow," Flash said. "I hate seeing you do that."

  Jacob grinned. Working in the bakery in the factory all those years had desensitized his fingertips. You get burnt repeatedly, eventually your skin toughens up. He never used oven gloves to take things out of the oven. He felt the heat, aye, but for a few seconds – which is all it took – the pain was perfectly tolerable.

  Flash dragged a chair out from the table, sat down. Could use a shave. He looked like he was about to say something. Glanced at Jacob, but said nothing. Passed a hand through his hair and sighed.

  "They'll need five minutes to cool down," Jacob said.

  Flash cleared his throat. "Smell great."

  They did. Hot sweet smell that reminded Jacob of family weekends when the kids were still young enough to be innocent and Annie and him were still young enough not to care what age they were.

  Jacob stuck his hands under the cold tap. Well, after a while, the heat penetrated the toughened skin and his fingers did begin to burn. Took a long time, though. And, if he was honest, there was an element of showing off. Impressing Flash with his party piece, even if Flash had seen it a hundred times over the years. Like Granny Spence. The old woman could drink vinegar straight out of the bottle. And not just a sip but the whole bottle. He turned off the tap, shook the water off his hands, then grabbed a dish towel and dried his hands on it.

  "Some mess," Flash said.

  Jacob did a quick scan. Flour everywhere. Bits of dough stuck to the worktop. Mixing bowl, rolling pin, butter wrapper, empty milk carton. He always made a bit of a mess. At the bakery, he had an assistant to clean up after him. Not so at home. "You can clean up, if you like," he said to Flash.

  "I don't mind the mess," Flash said. "Just commenting on it. Not complaining."

  Jacob sat opposite his son, wondered if he should say anything or if he should wait till Flash was ready to bring up the subject, whatever it was. Christ, though, Jacob wasn't sure he could stand that girning face much longer. No, he definitely couldn't. "What's on your mind?" he said.

  Flash's neck shrank a couple of inches. Well, that's what it looked like. As if someone had clubbed him on the top of the head. "What do you mean?" Took after his mother. That sinking into himself. Then, he was always so much more like her than Rodge was. Even as a baby. Not just mannerisms. Character, too.

  "Spit it out," Jacob said. "Can't be that hard."

  Flash got up, opened the fridge door, rummaged around until he found the carton of cream Jacob had bought earlier. "Jam in here?" he asked.

  "In the cupboard. I fancy the strawberry."

  Flash placed the cream next to the scones, walked over to the cupboard, turned before he opened the cupboard door. "Something is on my mind."

  Jacob waited. And waited.

  "Rodge," Flash said. Paused. Then: "I was wondering ..." He opened the cupboard door, plucked a jar of jam from the middle shelf. He went red in the face as he tried to open the lid. "What if Pearce was right?" he said, puffing his cheeks out and trying again. "What if it wasn't Wallace?"

  "How can you ask that?" Jacob said. "You've heard what Rodge has to say."

  "Come on, Dad. He couldn't be sure. He thinks it was Wallace. Couldn't see him, though. It was dark. Rodge was taken by surprise."

  "Course it was Wallace. Who else could it have been?"

  "That's what I've been wondering." Flash passed the jar to Jacob.

  Jacob twisted the lid and it popped open. Amazing he'd managed to do that without allowing his hands to shake. Out of sight, his leg was trembling under the table. He handed the jam back to Flash. "You worried that the wrong guy might get hurt?"

  "If Pearce kills Wallace I'll be as happy as the next man. It's not that. It's just that if Wallace wasn't responsible for shooting Rodge, then what happened to Rodge is going to go unpunished." Flash opened the cupboard above his head and removed a couple of side plates. He turned, one plate in each hand. "Doesn't that worry you?"

  Jacob had to be canny. That was a difficult question. He cowped ove
r his fag packet, picked up one of the two fags that fell out. Offered it to Flash.

  "I'm just about to eat, Dad."

  "Have a fag first. Let the scones cool a bit."

  "Given up."

  "Again?"

  "For good. Anyway, that's your last."

  "There's two."

  "I don't want one."

  "Being fikey cause it's not a Silk Cut?"

  "If I wanted to cadge a fag, I'd ask. I've given up."

  "Okay." Jacob put the cigarette back in the packet. He added the other one. "I'll not have one either." He drummed his fingers on the table. Couldn't help wondering how Pearce was getting on. "Screw it," he said. "Pass us a scone."

  Baxter had advised Pearce he should wait until Wallace got home. Wouldn't be too long, he'd said. It was now ten past four.

  No chance.

  Pearce had said, "Give me his work address."

  "Too public."

  "Too public for what?"

  "Look, you can't go there."

  "What's stopping me?"

  "It's not a good idea, Mr Pearce."

  Ah, back to mister, now. Pearce let his voice get louder. "If you don't tell me, I'll find out for myself."

  "He'll have colleagues there. At home, he's all alone. If you wait —"

  "Only Wallace will get hurt."

  "How do you know? He has a gun."

  "He'll have got rid of it if he has any sense," Pearce said. "Give me his fucking work address."

  Baxter gave him Wallace's work address.

  After Pearce hung up, he ransacked the kitchen cupboards for the knives he'd confiscated from the Baxter brothers. Found them under some of his mum's tea towels. Opted for Flash's, cause it was bigger and sharper.

  He could have got a gun. He knew a guy who sold them. Knew how to get hold of him. But a gun was no good to Pearce. He'd fired one once. Missed by a mile.

  He didn't think he'd miss with a knife.

  EI8HT

  Wallace worked for an advertising agency. Never have thought he was an office boy, but that's how deceiving reputations can be. The office was tucked away off the road in a side street down in Leith.

  Pearce had taken a taxi. Told the driver to drop him off at the bottom of the Walk, though. Didn't want the driver remembering the fare he'd had on the day of the murder.

  Only when a blonde girl with glasses and a strawberry birthmark on her chin opened the office door did Pearce realise that he wasn't going to be able to kill Wallace here. Too many witnesses. Voices carried from inside. To the right, off the corridor. Not just one witness, but several. Baxter had been right. Pearce was going to have to wait until Wallace got home.

  "Wallace around?" Pearce said.

  "Sure. You want to come in?"

  "Nah."

  She looked nonplussed. "You don't want to come in? Since you're here? Or I can fetch him for you."

  "It's okay."

  "Well, if you're sure ..."

  "Yeah, I'm off now."

  "Well, I ..."

  "Thanks."

  "Can I ask who called?"

  "I'll come back later." And Pearce left, amazed at how pushy some people can be.

  Pearce had two options. He could take Wallace here, outside his office. Relatively secluded, in that it was off from the main road. But there were his colleagues to consider. Innocent bystanders were a real pain in the arse. The second option was to go to Wallace's house and wait for him there.

  Pearce called Baxter. Asked what time Wallace finished work. Baxter told him to hang on, he'd ask May.

  Couple of minutes later he came back on the line. "It varies," he said.

  Pearce felt as if somebody had punched a hole in his chest and left their hand inside. Not a good feeling. Last time he'd felt like this was at his mother's funeral. Took a couple of days before he'd felt the hand retreat. And even then, it left a big messy hole.

  A cab appeared and the front door of number six opened shortly afterwards. After strapping her kid into a child seat, a woman got into the taxi. She looked flustered and tired.

  Wallace lived next door, number eight, a main-door flat. Alone. The windows were boarded up at street level, which suggested that the lower floor was unoccupied. Either that, or Wallace really liked it dark. Or his windows had been broken and he hadn't got round to fixing them.

  With the house now empty, there was nothing stopping Pearce from barging on in and making himself at home. Give Wallace a nice little surprise when he opened the front door. Tempting.

  Of course, when he thought more about it, he realised there was one thing stopping him. He had no idea how to break in. At least, not with any subtlety. He could kick the door in, but somebody might see him. And anyway, if he caused any visible damage, Wallace would know there was someone waiting for him inside.

  He'd just have to keep his distance for now. Sit on the wall opposite, pretend he was talking to somebody on his mobile so as not to look too suspicious. Then take Wallace as he was entering the house.

  Yep. That smacked of military precision.

  Ah.

  Was that the best time to ambush him?

  Maybe better to let him settle, relax a bit. Then Pearce could do what he did all those years ago with Priestley. Ring the bell and when the fucker answered, catch him in his slippers with a drink in his hand. A man in his slippers is an easy target.

  Although Wallace was unlikely to be quite the pushover the drug dealer was.

  This piece of shit had a rep. Well, a rep of some kind.

  And maybe he wouldn't be all that relaxed. After all, Pearce had called at his office, and no doubt that visit had been commented on by the pushy blonde.

  Well, fuck it. Pearce felt the knife inside his coat pocket. He wanted to get this over with. There was fuck all he could do about Wallace's state of preparedness. There was only so much you could do to stop justice running its course. No matter how prepared you were.

  He knew there'd be people who'd condemn him for what he was about to do. People who'd no doubt sympathise if he told them what had happened to his nearest and dearest, and his resulting violent reactions. But because Hilda was a dog, they'd think he was unjustified in doing the same thing.

  Just a dog.

  Well, fuck them. Hilda wasn't just a dog. Hilda was his dog.

  "Wallace is the best suspect we've got," Jacob said to Flash for the umpteenth time.

  "We need to get a confession out of him," Flash said. "That's the only way to be sure." He scooped a dollop of cream onto a fourth scone.

  "I doubt Pearce'll be up for that."

  "After what Wallace did to his dog?"

  "Wallace is going to deny he touched it."

  "But Pearce is hardly likely to believe him, is he?" Flash took a bite of his scone, chewed for a while, then said, "Look, I'm sure Pearce won't object to a few minutes of torture. Probably quite like the idea."

  "You'll need to call him, then. He might have other plans."

  The doorbell rang. Flash got to his feet.

  "That'll be Norrie," Jacob said. "Door's open. He'll let himself in. You call Pearce."

  Pearce was pretending to have a conversation on his mobile when it rang. He pressed the green button and said, "Speak."

  Flash Baxter. Again. He wanted a favour. He asked Pearce if he'd torture Wallace.

  "You want me to do what?" Pearce said.

  "Get a confession out of him."

  "You're off your fucking trolley."

  "Hang on a minute. Let me ex—"

  Pearce hung up. He preferred talking to himself.

  Jacob could tell, even before Flash said, "I think that was a no."

  "Never mind," Jacob said. "It was a long shot."

  Flash grabbed another scone.

  Norrie took one too, said, "Jacob, boss, these are good, great, brilliant." Then he bit into it.

  Flash said, "That dog's got fleas."

  Jacob gave him a look.

  "Swear to God." Flash plopped his bitten
, half-moon-shaped scone on the table, rolled back his sleeve and exposed the pale underside of his skinny arm.

  "What are we looking at?" Norrie asked.

  Flash was a skinny runt. Ate as many scones as he could stuff down his throat, yet stayed pencil-slim.

  Flash said, "Spots."

  "You see spots, Jacob?"

  Jacob shrugged.

  "Look." Flash pointed to a small blemish on his wrist. "There's one." He moved his finger down a couple of millimetres. Jacob couldn't see anything. He did, however, notice that there was dirt under Flash's fingernail. "And there's another."

  "Oh, aye," Jacob said.

  "Hundreds of them."

  "Right enough. And they're flea bites, are they?"

  Flash reeled back in his seat as if Jacob had bad breath. "What else?"

  Norrie said, "So Pearce told you to fuck off" – he looked at Jacob, said "Fifty pee, boss," and continued – "about what?"

  Flash told him.

  Norrie said, "You were going to torture a con ... fession out of him?"

  Jacob said, "Medieval, eh?"

  Norrie nodded. "Why do you need a confession, lads?"

  "Flash thinks there may be some doubt as to who shot his brother."

  "You're joking, right? Wallace had motive and opportunity and a fucking – excuse my language, Jacob – gun."

  "Looks damning, right enough," Jacob said.

  "Next you'll be telling me somebody else cut Louis's throat."

  Flash said, "I hadn't considered that."

  "You think there's only so far Wallace will go?" Norrie said. He was getting animated, waving his hands about, scattering crumbs. "Slits dogs' throats, alright, but draws the line at kneecapping? Get your head in gear, Flash. This is Wallace we're talking about."

  "Pearce might kill him," Flash said. "Just wanted to be a hundred percent sure."

  Norrie said, "I'm a hundred percent sure. How about you, boss?"

  Jacob said, "Hundred and ten."

  Norrie looked at Flash and shrugged. "So what exactly is Pearce doing at the moment?"

  Jacob said, "Waiting for Wallace to get home."