Bad Men

by Allan Guthrie

  Come on. He could figure how to get out of here. That's what he

  had to do. Wallace must have missed something. Left some kind of loophole. Look, if Wallace was some kind of mad genius, he'd have attached Jesus's cross to the wall instead of propping the damn thing against it. Wasn't very safe. Damn thing could keel over any time.

  See, now something was brewing. An answer. Came as an image. Or two. Wallace leaning the cross against the wall, stepping back, the Good Lord Jesus leaning forward like an angry, dirty swan, all his weight on his chest. Couldn't have that, cause he'd suffocate in no time at all. Which is why Wallace hadn't done it. He'd leaned him backwards, at a slant. Wallace had propped him up like that for a reason. To draw his death out as long as possible. Fuckhead.

  Pearce dug his fingernails into his palms. His broken pinkie swelled with pain. Kept his brain ticking over, though. Use a bit of pain for clarity. Jesus was shouting again. Swearing. "Shut up," Pearce said.

  Jesus opened his eyes and looked down at Pearce. Jesus was pale. Agony tugged at his cheek muscles now he was awake and experiencing the full horror of his plight. He was a skinny rake of a thing. A healthier, fitter person might have been able to survive this, but being kept in a cage for God knows how long meant that this particular Jesus wasn't likely to last a hell of a lot longer. Barring a miracle. He might once have been hard, but he'd had the shit kicked out of him. Wallace knew what he was doing.

  Pearce wished Wallace were here. He'd try luring him over. Maybe call him names or whisper something and then, when he leaned in, nut him. Get a lucky butt in, maybe. Or bite him, like in that movie.

  But that wouldn't help him escape. He'd have the satisfaction of getting another blow in, or ripping out a chunk of his neck, but it wasn't a practical solution. He'd still be in the same position he was in now. Strapped to a fucking bench.

  Wallace dropped the knife. Her knife. It clattered to the ground and he mouthed the word ‘shit' and clamped his hand to his neck. He staggered towards May, his free hand tugging the gun out of his waistband.

  May knew she should have seized his weapons from him when she had the opportunity. She shouldn't have listened to Flash telling her to leave things alone. She should have followed her instinct. A little voice reminded her that it was her instinct that had got her into this nightmare mess in the first place. She told the little voice to fuck off if it couldn't be helpful. She'd had no choice. She'd had to stab him.

  "What am I going to do?" she asked Flash. Maybe he'd give her better advice this time.

  "Just sit tight."

  Didn't sound great. "What good's that?"

  "He can't get in the car."

  But he could. Course he could. Bleeding like a bastard but it wasn't stopping him from aiming his gun at the windscreen.

  She told Flash what was happening.

  "You have to get out of the car, May."

  "But you told me I'd be safe here." She shouted at him: "You told me."

  And Cutey-pie made a tiny growling sound and May said, "Sorry, baby." And into the phone, "I'm scared, Flash. I don't know what to do."

  "You have to ... shit, I dunno ... shit."

  "Flash?" She'd have to decide for herself. Stay where she was and hope the bullet didn't smash the window. Right. Stay where she was and hope that Wallace didn't want to risk killing her. Right. After what she'd just done to him? Maybe Wallace might drop dead any minute. Right. She'd have to fling open the door and totally sprint like the Devil himself was after her. Which wouldn't be hard. Cause, in a way, he was.

  She said, in a whisper, "I'm going to run," into her phone.

  "Don't hang up," Flash yelled.

  So she didn't.

  Wallace fired, and glass smashed everywhere.

  How did a guy who was strapped to a bench and weak with hunger and thirst and blows to the head and stiff with lack of movement, and another guy who was nailed to a couple of planks of wood and out of his tree on magic mushrooms, get rid of their restraints and break out of a locked room? Tough assignment, right?

  Pearce had to focus.

  Wallace had gone, but could return any minute. They had to get out of this shithole. Right now. The stench hit Pearce again and he gagged. Or maybe it wasn't the smell but the memory of it.

  Same difference. Same result, anyway.

  Jesus spoke. Bit of breathlessness in there. "I'll give it a shot," he said.

  Give what a shot?

  Jesus clearly had a plan. Which was fine by Pearce.

  Jesus strained. Head and upper body rocking forward. Just a bit. Then he slid back. Cried out. Palms bleeding again. Again. Worse, this time. The strain. The cry.

  "Hey," Pearce said. It was tough to watch. But Pearce knew what the poor bastard was up to.

  Shouting now from Jesus as he went for it a third time. The forward movement causing his hands to slide along the nails until they thrust against the nailheads. Then he fell backwards.

  "Look," Pearce said. "Don't —"

  Jesus yelled, tried again. Pearce was impressed. Maybe Jesus was pretty hard after all. Even if he was crying. The sound made the bench Pearce was lying on vibrate. He could feel the cry in his thigh bone.

  But, no. No fucking way would Jesus be able to yank those nails out. Poor bastard.

  Jesus rested, closed his eyes. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

  Pearce wished he could reach out and slap him. Stop him feeling so fucking sorry for himself and try again. Again. Now. Why, Pearce didn't know. There was no fucking point.

  "Rock," Jesus said. "Rock."

  And Pearce joined him. "Rock," he said.

  And because May left her phone on, Flash heard what happened.

  A sound, like somebody'd dropped a tray of pint glasses, and Flash could almost see the liquid splashing everywhere and the shards and splinters of glass, but of course he knew that's not what it was, however much he wanted it to be, and then in his head he saw the driver's window pulverised and knew that's what had happened and his stomach shrank and went cold.

  And then a scream, the likes of which Flash never wanted to hear again, unless it was made by the shitfucker who was doing this to his sister, in which case the cunt could scream fit to rip his throat and that would be okay with Flash.

  But at least he knew from the scream that May was alive. The bullet might have hit her, but it hadn't killed her.

  Then a thud, and who knew what that was, but the screaming stopped so Flash had to imagine the jizzwad cocksucking bastard had hit May and yeah, when Flash replayed the sound in his head, it had that dull smacking sound that a solid object makes when it connects with bone.

  But then May said, "You bleeding fuck," and Flash realised he'd imagined it all wrong, somehow.

  "What the fuck's happening, May?"

  "I twatted him a beauty," she said.

  "You punched him?"

  "Nutted him."

  Fuck's sake, hermana. "Right, well, brilliant. Now leave the dog. Get out of there. You'll have really pissed Wallace off now."

  "Good," May said into the phone. Flash shouted at her, so she put the phone on the passenger seat. She couldn't make out what he was saying.

  The horse tosser had shot at the window, shattered it, stuck his hand inside, unlocked the door and clambered in.

  Thought he was in charge, with his fucking smoking gun in his hand.

  She'd thrown herself forward. Didn't think about it. Last thing he'd expected. Hit his chin with the top of her head. It felt swollen already.

  Now Wallace was sprawled half-in and half-out, dribbling blood from his neck wound. He was lying face-down on the driver's seat, head twisted slightly to the side, and she couldn't see the gun anywhere.

  He wasn't moving. This was her chance to make absolutely sure she was going to get out of this alive.

  She peered down at him, looking for the gun. God knew what had happened to the knife. There wasn't a weapon of any kind in his good hand. Couldn't see his other hand, though.

&
nbsp; Oh, fuck. She'd been here before and she wasn't taking any chances this time. She'd run. But if she ran, he'd wake up like some baddie from a horror movie and chase her. She'd never make it to safety. The only way to stop him was to put him permanently out of action, wasn't it? Which is what she should have done before.

  She got out of the car. Stepped round to the driver's side, ready to sprint if he so much as twitched. His hand was empty. He must have dropped the gun. No sign of it on the ground. It must have slid under the car and she wasn't crawling under there looking for it, cause she'd be trapped if he woke up. Okay. What was she going to do?

  Put him out of action. Properly. Right. She didn't want to touch him, but she knew there was no other way of doing this. She forced herself to grab hold of the back of his belt. He was heavy. She had to jerk hard to get him to move at all, but eventually he slid towards her, face dragging on the leather upholstery, until he was almost entirely outside the car, only his forehead resting on the seat.

  Good. Everything was nicely lined up. Yep. What she was about to do would put him out of commission for sure.

  She yanked back the door and slammed it hard. On his head.

  And, fuck, if that didn't wake the bastard up.

  He sat bolt upright. Just like he'd been messing around and playtime was over. He looked pretty dazed. And then his eyes narrowed.

  She turned, started running. But she hadn't gone more than a few steps when the noise of the engine turned her knees to liquid.

  She glanced behind her. He'd crawled back into the car and was sitting in the driver's seat, wiping blood from his eyebrow.

  She was in for it now. Unless she could outrun the car.

  Like she said, she was in for it now.

  Pearce uttered words of encouragement as Jesus rocked back and forward once again, yelling with pain as his palms thrust against the nailheads.

  The cross bounced off the wall, slapping against the egg cartons.

  Jesus wept, but he was a tough wee fucker.

  Pearce tried talking to him again, but his brain was clearly too fried. But fried or not, Pearce was sure Jesus had some inkling of what he was trying to achieve. He was trying to topple the cross over.

  Okay. Maybe he wasn't. Hard to tell. Maybe he was just doing what his body felt like. Did he have a plan? Did he know why he was rocking backwards and forwards? Surely, he must do, however fucked up his head was. Otherwise, he wouldn't inflict that kind of pain on himself. Or maybe that was his purpose, to inflict pain on himself, somehow use the pain to keep himself sane.

  Well, regardless of whether Jesus knew what he was doing or why he was doing it, enough momentum and he'd tip over. And that would be something. Pearce wasn't entirely sure what, but he knew they'd both get some sense of achievement out of it.

  "Come on, J," Pearce said. "Put your back into it."

  Jesus roared as he threw himself forward once more.

  That was the spirit. Maybe he couldn't speak, but he knew what Pearce had just said.

  To Pearce, it seemed to happen in slow motion. The cross left the wall and hovered there, not knowing whether it was going to fall forwards or backwards. Jesus didn't appear to know either. He leaned forward again, and that was enough, finally, to topple himself and the cross towards Pearce.

  Shit. Planned or not, Pearce noticed the big fucking flaw in it right then. As eight or nine stones of admittedly undernourished Jesus, nailed to a couple of solid planks of wood, tipped towards him, Pearce realised that he had no means of protecting himself. He was going to take a solid hit. He turned his head to the side, braced himself.

  Which was just as well. He took a blow to the side of the head. And another where Jesus's chin hit him midway between his stomach and his balls. Could have been worse. Could have been a foot lower. Or smack into his side, where his ribs still nagged at him.

  Jesus hadn't got off so lightly. He was screaming into Pearce's shirt, his breath warm and wet.

  It sounded as if something had snapped. Maybe bust a bone in his arm, maybe a rib or two. A mattress cushioned the bench Pearce was strapped to, but Pearce was solid and unyielding and Jesus had been in no better position to protect himself than Pearce.

  Jesus was making a phenomenal racket. Not good. He had to deal with the pain or this was simply a pointless exercise. Which it might be anyway, but Pearce wanted to find out what was next.

  Pearce knew about pain and having to deal with it. The crossbeam was pinning his head to the bench and it was starting to hurt. Really badly. Flashing bright lights, no doubt similar to those Jesus was experiencing, but these weren't caused by drugs. Fuck, no, he was losing consciousness and that was no bloody good at all.

  Jesus needed him. As much as he needed Jesus, in fact. A perverse kind of co-dependency.

  The inside of the car didn't honk of dog so badly now although that was probably on account of Flash having got used to the smell and his concern over May making him not give a shit what the stink was like cause all he wanted to smell was burning rubber.

  He desperately wanted to put his foot down, but he knew if he wanted to find her he'd have to keep it slow.

  He'd climbed up Ardmillan Terrace and was turning into Slateford

  Road. According to May's recollections of where Wallace had been headed, the church ought to be around here somewhere.

  "May," Flash said into the phone. "This church, does it have a big spire?" Then he'd see it no problem from the road so he could speed up, which is what he really wanted.

  "May?" But May didn't answer. Flash thought he might puke and the feeling was so strong he lowered the window just in case.

  The car crawled along, Flash saying his sister's name into the phone time after time while he scanned both sides of the road, looking for a church, a spire, a driveway, May, the dog, Flash knowing he needed to take it nice and slow, even though every sinew in his body was screaming at him to get a move on because every second was precious and she wasn't answering even though he kept saying her name over and over and he was telling himself to calm down now so he closed his mouth because that was the only way he could keep from screaming and he was thinking that it didn't help that he didn't know this area particularly well and why hadn't he ever paid attention when he'd been along this way before and he couldn't help himself, no, he shouted into the phone: "May. You there? May."

  This time someone answered. A man's voice.

  Flash felt sick again.

  Wallace said, "May's got something to tell you. Listen up."

  And Flash heard the engine rev and a thump and a scream and he shouted into the phone, swearing at the bastard fucker cunt and was quiet, oh, very fucking quiet, when he saw Wallace's Range Rover about to pull out of a driveway twenty feet ahead.

  With a dented fucking bumper.

  Wallace was at the wheel. Bloodstained, shirtsleeve ripped and wrapped round his arm, and looking like he was drunk.

  Flash glanced to the right. A church spire.

  He didn't think about it. Slammed his foot on the accelerator.

  "You're a dead man," he yelled into his phone.

  Which was a mistake because Wallace clocked him and pulled out into the road, tyres screaming.

  Flash eased his foot off the pedal. He could have followed, and he had considered doing so for a second or two, too long to be proud of the thought, but he couldn't leave May.

  His face was hot and sweaty and he gripped the steering wheel like he was squeezing the life out of it. He turned into the driveway and really surprised himself: he started to pray.

  "Stop that fucking racket," Pearce said out of the side of his mouth, his face flattened into the mattress. Maybe he was being too hard on Jesus. It was probably the racket that was keeping Pearce from blacking out. Ought to be grateful to him, but shit, it was hard to be grateful to someone when they were making such a ridiculous noise. And, Christ, did young Jesus smell bad.

  Pearce decided that there were two choices. One: he could sing along with Jesus,
cause his yowling was strangely melodic. Two: he could make a concerted effort to get the noisy, stinky bastard from off the top of him. It'd be nice to be able to breathe freely again and relieve this pressure on his head and he never had much of a voice, so the decision wasn't hard.

  A man of action acts. He doesn't talk, or think. Doesn't repeat himself. Nope. Just acts. Is what he does. That's how you judge a man. Not by what he says but by what he does.

  Yep.

  So stop talking to yourself and get the fucker off you.

  Okay, sir.

  Now he was talking to himself.

  Jesus was still yowling.

  Pearce pushed with his neck and shoulder against the crossbeam. It hurt, but that hardly mattered. Just another bit of discomfort to add to all the rest. He pushed again, felt it shift. Once again, and it shifted a little further. Progress. He stopped for some air. Took a few gulps, the muscles in his neck smarting. Wondered how the foul air wasn't so foul anymore. Concentrate. One, two, three: another shove. Bingo. The crossbeam slid down onto his torso, which was great, but it dug into his collar bone, which wasn't so great.

  A small victory, though.

  And Jesus had finally shut up, which was a second small victory. Unless he'd died. There was no victory in that, small or otherwise. Pearce needed the bearded lunatic to help get him out of here. Unless he killed him in the attempt.

  Oh, yeah, she knew it was going to be bad, but she wasn't prepared for just how bad.

  She didn't feel any pain. Not at first. Didn't happen like that. No, a light dazzled her. Weird. And no mistake.

  And how weird was it when she realised she was seeing the pain? Not feeling it. Crazy, sure, but yet it made some kind of sense. The pain solidified into a thin bar that buzzed. Like a light sabre.

  All in a split second.