Bad Men

by Allan Guthrie

She couldn't tell where she'd been hit. Base of the spine, hip. Must have been somewhere round there. But she could tell that she was airborne.

  She braced herself for what was to come.

  Couldn't feel anything. Maybe that meant her spine had snapped. But, no, she could see the pain still, it just hadn't had time to register yet, most likely.

  She totally smacked off the windscreen. Shoulder first, then the side of the face.

  Dropped to the ground. Winded.

  Wallace drove off. Cutey-pie in the back.

  She tried to breathe, but it was as if the car was parked on top of her chest. She was cold with panic. Never been so scared.

  Another attempt to breathe.

  Nothing.

  Dark patches at the corner of her vision.

  And then, a gulp of air that was oh so sweet. And another. And another.

  Pain shot through her hip.

  She tasted blood in her mouth.

  A dull throb in her shoulder.

  And in a minute, Flash was standing over her, shouting at her and she couldn't work out why he was angry.

  She couldn't hear a word he was saying.

  Wallace hardly noticed any longer that he was sitting on shards of glass. He'd pulled over to the side of the road, tried sweeping the pieces off the seat with the back of his hand, but they'd dug into the fabric, got lost in the little grooves. And he kept dripping blood from his neck directly onto the seat, which was really fucking annoying – almost as annoying as the freaky fucking dog in the back seat opening its eyes and staring at him – so he sat down and got moving again.

  He needed medical attention, and not for his scratched arse. But if he went to a hospital, he was fucked. He'd live, but he'd go to prison. Nothing much for it but to struggle on for as long as he could, hope he didn't bleed to death. The bitch had missed his jugular, thank fuck, but there was a lot of blood coming out of the wound, a steady trickle.

  Shame she wasn't going to see her boyfriend nailed up. Nothing ever went to plan. Wallace was going to go home, patch himself up, dispose of the bodies in the basement.

  Ah, fuck. Who was he trying to kid?

  He'd shot the old guy at Jacob's house. He'd run over May. He was fucked. Nothing he could do but finish off what he'd started.

  He still had the gun. Grabbed it from behind the front wheel. Could put a bullet in his head right now, or go home first, tidy up, then do it.

  If the police weren't waiting for him. For all he knew, somebody had reported gunfire at Baxter's house and Baxter had spilled his guts. And why wouldn't he? In the same situation, so would Wallace. Then again, if nobody had reported shots fired, then Wallace was safe for the time being.

  Was there a way out of this?

  Nope.

  If he was going to go, he was going to take Jesus with him. He didn't mind so much about Pearce, but that little shit who'd slept with May ... Fuck, no, he didn't even mind leaving him alive, but he did want him to know May was dead. Okay, so maybe she wasn't dead, but Jesus wasn't to know.

  Wallace floored the accelerator pedal.

  His arm was okay, still bleeding, the shirtsleeve wrapped around it mainly dark red now. But his neck was the main problem. Fucking wife of his had nearly took his fucking head off. His collar was saturated with blood. He needed to take a shower and change his shirt before he did anything else. Some people might want to die dirty, but Wallace wasn't one of them.

  Fortunately Jesus wasn't dead. Just temporarily passed out with the pain.

  "Where does it hurt?" Pearce asked him, trying to get him talking to stay awake now he'd come round again. Pearce hoped that the pain had sobered him up, counteracted the mushrooms a little.

  "Leg," he said. A reply. A bit of dialogue. Excellent. And he wasn't screaming any longer. Pearce guessed he'd gone into shock. Well, deeper into shock, since he'd probably gone into shock the minute Wallace smacked the first nail through his palm. He was doing pretty well, considering.

  Although maybe he'd gone into shock before that. In his cage, when he realised he was never going to get out of this room alive.

  "Teeth," Jesus said, and Pearce was totally confused. "Strong teeth." Jesus pulled back his lips like some crazed chimpanzee.

  Oh, fuck. He'd really lost it now.

  Flash didn't know whether he ought to pick her up, or move her or, or what he was supposed to do, and he stood there like a plonker playing with his car keys and feeling like he was about to cry, but he figured that if he left her there like that on her back with her nose busted and bleeding she'd drown or something and he couldn't stand back and watch that happen, so he told her he was going to move her head.

  She smiled at him, which was worrying.

  Blood trickled out of her left ear and that was worrying too.

  He shouted, but that didn't seem to get through to her either, so he gave up trying to communicate and took off his jacket and rolled it up and bent down. Slowly, he lifted her head and saw her cheek was red and puffing up and there was a bump under her eye that looked hard like maybe it was bone and he said, "Fuck," cause this was looking really bad. He turned her head to the side and lowered her gently onto the pillow he'd made of his jacket. The other side of her face looked normal.

  She said, "I'm cold," and the words came out slurred.

  He took off his sweatshirt and draped it over her. Crossed his bare arms. It was cool, hardly T-shirt weather.

  She said, "I can't hear anything. Can you hear me?"

  He nodded.

  She said, "I can't feel my legs. Doesn't hurt at all. Isn't that funny?" She shivered.

  He looked down and moved the arm of the sweatshirt out of the way but he couldn't see anything without removing her clothes and he wasn't going to do that, hardly, so he dialled 999. Let the experts handle this. About time, huh?

  And as he sat waiting for the ambulance to arrive, and the police accompaniment cause they never sent one out without a police escort, he looked at her broken body.

  She said, "Flash."

  He stroked her hand. "What is it?"

  She shook her head ever so slightly to tell him she still couldn't hear him. "Promise me something."

  He nodded. "Anything."

  "You'll get Cutey-pie."

  "Okay," he said.

  She shook her head. "Now."

  He pulled a face. She couldn't expect him to go after the dog. Not when she was all fucked-up like this and needing him.

  She squeezed his hand. "Don't stay with me. There's nothing you can do. That was the ambulance you called? So go now."

  "You want me to go?" Flash couldn't just walk away. She needed him and the police would want to ask him questions and it was too complicated.

  She was reading his mind. "You can speak to the police later. I'll tell them I made you go after my dog."

  She pleaded with her weepy eyes and he said, "I can't, May. I can't just leave you here like this. Not for a dog."

  "What?"

  He mouthed the last sentence again, slowly.

  May said, "Then go kill Wallace for me, Flash. Before the police get him."

  Flash looked at his hand, where the keys were bunched in his fist. "Okay," he said, squeezing his fingers tightly around the keys.

  "Take mine," May said.

  "Your what, May?" He had to mouth the words for her again.

  "Keys," she said. "In my handbag. Find it."

  Pearce had figured out that the series of leather belts strapping him down were pulled tight and buckled on the underside of the bench. At least, that's the way it had to be, since he couldn't see any buckles no matter how far across he leaned.

  Jesus had been chewing away at the leather strap for ages now, and there wasn't anything Pearce could do to stop him. He had attacked the strap where there was a gap, between Pearce's waist and his right forearm and Pearce's arm was now wet with dribble.

  This was the craziest idea Pearce had ever heard. But Jesus had dreamed it up from somewhere in his near-psyc
hotic brain, and there was nothing Pearce could do to stop him. Thing was, Pearce had nothing better to offer.

  "Any progress?" Pearce asked.

  The weight lifted off him. "Soft," Jesus said.

  "What's it look like?"

  A pause. Jesus said something that sounded like "Wasp."

  "Okay," Pearce said. "That's good." What was the poor bastard thinking? Something about chewing a wasp? His gums were bleeding, and no doubt his jaw had to be aching. He should take a breather.

  "No," Jesus said, shook his head hard.

  "Okay," Pearce said. "It's not good."

  Jesus calmed down again, looked like he was about to get stuck in once more.

  "Hang on," Pearce said. "Maybe I can rip those fuckers out of the bench now. Let me have a go."

  Jesus seemed to understand. He lifted his head out of the way.

  Pearce waited a second, psyched himself up, then shoved against the wrist restraint. It tightened, but didn't give.

  He yanked again, till the pain in his side made him stop.

  No good.

  And the effort had exhausted him.

  "Chew," Jesus said. "No."

  Poor bastard realised he wasn't doing any good. Wallace would come back, kill them both.

  Jesus said, "Floor."

  Floor? What now?

  Flash drove off, leaving May behind. He'd go to Wallace's right now and kill the fucker with his bare hands.

  What Flash really wanted was to talk to Rodge, just pass a bit of español between them, a bit of banter, Rodge would understand and give him just the right amount of sympathy without being over the top, cause he needed sympathy right now the mess May was in. Not every day your sister was run over and if he wasn't mistaken, fair enough, he wasn't a doctor, but it looked like she might be paralysed and that didn't bear thinking about.

  But he couldn't talk to Rodge. Rodge wasn't fit enough to take this on board and in any case Flash didn't have the time. Sure, if Rodge was well he'd be right here in the car sitting by Flash's side, but although Rodge was much better he was still very far from well.

  Wallace. The cunt. Flash wished Pearce had fucked Wallace up big time. Course, he couldn't help thinking that if Wallace had beaten Pearce, there really wasn't much hope for him, but Wallace was fucked up, wasn't he? Shot and stabbed and weakened from all the blood loss and anyway, Flash didn't give a shit. Maybe it was true that even in his current injured state, Wallace would chew him up and spit him out. Maybe it was true that he was a psycho and psychos had the strength of ten normal men. Everybody knew that. But, fuck it, Flash was going to give it his best shot. He owed it to May.

  Pain leg in his. Just to add to the other pains hands and feet. Levelled had off the drugs. The pain helped. Mushrooms. Could think now, just, in bits together that made sense. Speak was hard. Couldn't much. Hear the chirping? Birds. Are they Greek? How'd they get in here? Open window. Handy. No open windows. Weird.

  Twist.

  Mum used to do the twist. Only dance step she knew. Every bloody song. The twist. Danced to.

  Not good dancing. Why did Pearce? Three bobs short of a bob-bob-bob-bob.

  Twist, yes, right, Jesus understood. He was the one doing the twist. Not Pearce. Twisting round. Positioning himself. That kind of twist, too, not the other one. Nobody was dancing. Not mum, not him, not Pearce. He yelled, something digging into him. Couldn't quite locate the pain. Seemed to be shifting. Animal burrowing inside him. Could feel claws. In his thigh. Yuck. Bird feet.

  Not birds. Not down here. No.

  And he understood what Pearce was asking him. How'd he do that?

  The bird noise was Pearce speaking.

  That's what it was.

  Not birds.

  Not down here.

  No.

  Birds were outside.

  Not in here.

  "You can you do it," the wasp said.

  Jesus panted. Tried to speak. His jaw hurt. His teeth hurt. His gums hurt. His lips hurt. Do what? "Do what?"

  "What you're doing."

  What he was doing.

  Yeah. "Yeah."

  Muttered: "Didn't think I was getting through there."

  Jesus paused, then said, in his head, "Not sure you are."

  "Fuck, that was almost a conversation. Go on. You can do it."

  "What?"

  "What you're fucking doing."

  And the room tipped upside down.

  Jolt of pain. Intense. On the floor, though. Bolt of fire down his hip and along his ribcage. Heat, heat, heat. He couldn't see Pearce any longer, but he could certainly hear him, willing him on, telling him he could do it. Or was it the wasp?

  No more birdsong, which was a relief.

  So what was he doing down here on the floor? No leather straps to chew. Did he have to catch the birds and see if he could speak Greek? Was that it?

  Just lying on his back, staring at the pretty lights. In pain. Staring at the

  Chan

  del

  ier

  above the bench.

  Spectacular. Thing of beauty. Could get lost in it forever. Forget about the pain. Lose himself. Startling textures. It had remained intact. Cross toppled, missed. Higher up than it looked. He let his mind fall into the damn thing, let it swallow him up and not let go. Yep. He was sinking, falling deeper into the shimmer. Inside it, and there was another chandelier, and he sank into it, too. And then he pulled himself out with a jerk, like a man who's almost nodded off to sleep at the wheel. But he was one chandelier short, so he jerked himself out of that one too.

  Afraid, now, that if he fell into it, he'd never get out. Sink deeper and deeper and the surface would be a distant memory of something no longer obtainable. And the chandelier, absorbing. A story the wasp wanted to read to him. The Enchanted Chandelier.

  He closed his eyes to avoid looking at the light. Heard the wasp's rasping voice. He'd been quiet for a while, but he was back, telling Jesus a story.

  Once upon a time there was a young boy called Brian.

  He smiled. So long since anyone had used his first name.

  And Brian was a bad boy.

  No! Never!

  And he was taken into the dungeon by a bad man called Wallace.

  The wasp had to shout to be heard over Jesus's screams. But he managed, powerful pair of lungs on him.

  Wallace didn't like bad boys. In fact, Wallace used to take all the bad young boys of the village down into his dungeon and strap them to benches and leave them there to rot in their own stink.

  Like Pearce. Not like Jesus. Jesus had a cage. What about that, Mr Wasp, think you're so smart?

  Sometimes he'd come down and talk to them. Sometimes he'd give them tea to drink. But the tea was poisoned and made them see things that weren't there.

  Sometimes the boys would think there was a giant wasp in the dungeon with them, but that was the poison playing tricks on their senses.

  And sometimes the boys would hear screaming and yelling and when they asked who was there, Jesus would reply and tell them he was helping them escape, but he was nailed to a cross so it was a slow, painful process and they'd have to bear with him.

  "Thanks," Jesus said. "I think that's enough of that story."

  The wasp hovered, silent, then flew away, zigzagging out of sight. No voice in Jesus's head now, but lights flashed bounced spun around inside his skull, vivid colours dancing and words swelling into cushioned shapes that softly kissed the surface of his brain.

  He was getting lost again and he heard someone shout.

  Jesus screamed again and the word, ‘Jesus', appeared in his head, yellow, the fat ‘J' tinged orange at its base. It was a beautiful thing to behold. "Come, ye, and see the word ‘Jesus' in all its glory."

  Other words popped into his head: ‘shark', ‘custard', ‘Heathrow'. ‘Custard' was a good-looking word. The other two were thin, stark, cold, blue. Like Wallace's eyes.

  "Jesus."

  It was the wasp again. The fuck did he want?r />
  "The nail gun."

  The fucking nail gun. Nail gun. Big fat stripy waspy nail gun. He raised his head. In the corner, there it was, was it? Was that a nail gun?

  But he couldn't get over there. He'd have to crawl. Drag this cross with him.

  No fucking chance.

  Somebody started screaming and after a while the screaming got to be rhythmic and it didn't sound like screaming any longer.

  He was a nice guy. Look, he was going to all this effort for Pearce, wasn't he? Fucking hurt.

  Or was he doing it for the wasp? Where was the fat, ugly, stingy thing? Couldn't see it any more.

  Fuck the screaming. It was making the nails vibrate, which made his palms tingle, which made his feet tingle, which made his forearms tingle, which made his shins tingle, which was something.

  He tired to move.

  A screech.

  More pain.

  A gentle sobbing, panting, and a groan.

  He closed his eyes. Saw the chandelier in his head, swimming, like it was made of liquid. Above it, the grains in the ceiling wriggled. Opened his eyes. Turned his head. Saw the floor, slivers of worms.

  Caught his breath on the edge of his larynx.

  What was he doing? Where was he? Who was he? What was all this pain?

  "Nail gun," the wasp said.

  Flash stared out the window, cars blurring past on one side, the odd pedestrian on the other, nobody giving anybody a glance, nobody caring what anybody else was up to, nobody caring what happened to anybody else, nobody caring what became of May, nobody, but, yeah, Rodge would care if he knew, and Dad, sure, yeah, God, if May died and that, Godfuckingdamnit, that wasn't unlikely, you know, Rodge would be fucked and it would end Dad and —

  Fuck. The baby. May might survive, but there was no way the baby was going to.

  If May lost the baby it'd definitely end Dad.

  Gotta speak to him. Tell him.

  Flash groped for his phone. Dialled. No reply.

  Which didn't seem right. Dad ought to be there, and when he was on the phone earlier he'd sounded out of breath, and Flash remembered him having chest pains before.

  Flash had to make a detour. "Sorry, May," he muttered, swinging a left. Wallace would have to wait.