Bad Men

by Allan Guthrie

  Getting hard to see. Wallace kept blinking but his vision stayed blurry. The neck wound wasn't getting any better. He hated to use the word, but, well, it was gushing. Like someone was pouring warm water down his Adam's apple. Wasn't so good. And, yeah, he did feel a bit woozy.

  Wasn't just his collar that was soaked. Shirt front was drenched. Definitely have to change it now.

  Tried to press his foot down but it wouldn't respond. Like his hand on the wheel. Not moving. Just sitting there clutching the grip, not turning, not doing what he was telling it to. His foot felt light. Feather light. Little feathers at the ends of his legs. Feathers at the ends of his arms.

  Fuck. He was hard. Prison hard. Anybody called him a pussy, he'd show them. Beaten by a wee girl? By his fucking wife?

  Fuck was he on about feathers for?

  Jesus fucking Christ.

  No way he was going to make it home in this state. There was only one thing for it.

  He slammed both his feet down. This time they responded. The car came to a halt.

  He took a breath and turned the car round, headed back to the churchyard. If he was quick enough, he'd still catch her before the ambulance whisked her away.

  He'd die dirty. So be it.

  All Jesus wanted to do was close his eyes and drift away on the waves of pure tangerine that were coursing through his veins. He was in too much pain to be caring about anything any more, no matter what he was being told. The wasp wanted him to fetch something, but the wasp could go fuck itself. He hurt all over. Really badly. His hip was fucked up. And it felt like his palms were about to slide right through the nails. Thought for a minute that the right one had and that his arm was hanging loose and free. Tried to wave to the guy on the bench. And pain flooded through his hand anew.

  Turned his head to the side. Very nice. As he thought. His right hand was pushed forward, the nail head disappearing somewhere within intricate folds of flesh in his palm. His hand was halfway out.

  The throbbing pain was excruciating.

  A lucid thought. Zapped into his head by the wasp. You're going to die in a psychedelic haze if you don't get on with it.

  With what?

  Get to the fucking nail gun.

  Imagined he was halfway there and he hadn't even tried. Just the constant weight of him, hanging. The thrusting forward, the rocking, the dragging of the fucking thing on his back across the floor. Somehow.

  A good hard tug. Was that all it would take? If only he could get some traction.

  He closed his eyes, saw fireworks, opened them again. Still saw fireworks.

  I'm not crazy I'm not crazy I'm not crazy.

  But he probably was. Couldn't be here, could he? Not possible. The cage against the far wall, that guy whose name he couldn't remember up there on his bench, the cross. All these fucking egg cartons glued to the wall. A giant wasp.

  Nah, but he knew what was going on. He knew he was Jesus, knew he'd been crucified. Not much doubt about it.

  And he hadn't been able to think straight for a long time, but he was thinking straight now and what he was thinking was that if he was Jesus he could perform miracles, right? Just cause his hand had a nail driven through it didn't mean it could stop him. Not God's son. He could pull his hand out of that. Easy.

  His breath was shallow and he really wished he could wipe off the sweat that was dripping down his forehead.

  So he'd do that, then. Pull his hand out of the cross.

  Psyche himself up. Get ready for it.

  And go.

  Tug.

  It hurt. It shouldn't have.

  Aaargh. He was Jesus. He could do this.

  If he really fucking tugged.

  Fucking fuck fuck.

  It burned and burned and burned and burned and burned and burned like a

  F U C K E R

  No ripping sound. But his hand came free. He stared at it, a hole through the centre, and started to cry.

  Flash pulled into the side of the road. He needed to take a minute to calm himself.

  Naturally he was worried about May, and even more worried about her baby, but the more he thought about it, the more scared he became of what he might find at home. He went over what his dad had said last they spoke. About Norrie. About him being shot and Dad not caring. About Norrie shooting Rodge. Flash still couldn't believe it, even though May had said so, too. It wasn't right. Nothing about this was right and Dad wasn't answering the phone. He might have gone out, but Flash didn't think so.

  Not like he had a mobile.

  But maybe he'd called an ambulance for Norrie. Maybe that's all it was, and he'd gone off with him.

  Norrie was his fucking friend.

  Well, Flash would find out the truth soon enough cause he wasn't far away from Dad's now.

  He pulled back out into the traffic.

  Jesus was sobbing his heart out and saying, "Look," but Pearce couldn't see anything, couldn't get his head high enough.

  Pearce was fed up of saying, "What? What am I supposed to see?" He felt like crying himself. His physical state didn't help, either. Lying here for so long, it had begun to feel as if he was packed in sand. His limbs were so heavy from lack of use that the very air around them seemed to press down on them. The various straps across him were weighty as lead. But inside, he was lighter than air.

  Very strange. He didn't like it at all.

  Jesus started to move.

  Pearce couldn't see him, but he could hear the wood of the crucifix scraping against the floor.

  "Can't get more out," he said.

  Can't get more out. More what?

  But he was moving quickly. And then, suddenly, he was on the floor below Pearce, looking up, holding a hand out to Pearce.

  "Look," he said.

  And there was a hand, free of the nail, ugly hole in the palm.

  "Jesus, you're a hard bastard all right," Pearce said. Respect where respect was due. "Can you reach underneath here and unbuckle me?"

  It was hard for the poor bastard to manoeuvre, since he still had three limbs attached to the cross. Must have been even more of a struggle with his fried brain. But he managed. Maybe it was because he was so shot full of adrenaline. Something had to be countering the mushrooms. Otherwise, he'd have been nothing more than a slobbering wreck. Mind you, this guy wanted to live. No doubt being crucified helped minimise the effects of the drugs, kept you sober, to a degree.

  "This a good thing?" Jesus asked.

  Pearce didn't know what he meant, but he said, "Yes." The leather shifted on his forearm. Not like it had when Jesus was tearing at it with his teeth. This was a gentler motion, a tugging motion. Had to be hurting the poor fuck, after what his hand had been through, but he wasn't uttering a word of complaint.

  A bolt of nausea hit Pearce hard. He thought he might be sick. Which is something he didn't want to do, lying here on his back, so close to being released. At least, released from this fucking bench. He held it back, saliva flooding his mouth. God, no, he wasn't going to get panicky again. Fuck that. Of all the times in the world to get panicky, now would be incredibly ill-timed. He was about to escape, for fuck's sake.

  He balled his fists as hard as he could, but they weren't responding. He couldn't feel anything other than a numb ache in his little finger. If it weren't for the slight pain, he wouldn't have known if his hands were still attached to his arms. And even then, there were such things as phantom pains, weren't there? Good fucking Christ. Nobody had cut his hands off, they'd just gone numb from lack of circulation. Fuck's sake, he had to concentrate on what was real. He hadn't swallowed a bucketload of magic mushrooms. Didn't bear thinking about what he'd be imagining if he had. He'd have no idea what was real and what wasn't.

  Pearce felt the strap round his chest loosen.

  Wallace pulled into the church driveway. Wasn't going to get much further. There were two police cars, various uniformed cops running around, and behind them, an ambulance. No sign of May, so presumably they'd already taken h
er inside. Patched her up. Set those broken bones.

  He was weak, limbs felt leaden.

  Fingers were numb, but not numb enough to lose grip on the gun.

  He got the car door open. Stepped outside. Glass fragments dropped from his trousers to the ground when he stepped forward.

  Somebody screamed. Somebody else shouted, "He's got a gun." Bodies darted to and fro, ducked down behind the car.

  Poor little policemen. Not allowed to carry. Couldn't very well take him on, armed with just their batons. Not that he minded if they tried.

  Silence.

  He was cold. Very fucking cold. And the gun was very fucking heavy. Had to keep a firm grasp. Didn't want to drop it.

  Took another look around, saw a head poke over one of the police cars. Raised his ridiculously heavy arm, pointed the gun and the head disappeared.

  Heard the crackle of radio static. Calling for back-up. Armed Response Unit. That lot would be bringing guns.

  Good. Let them. This wasn't going to take long.

  He looked up. The ambulance driver was frozen in his seat, shiting himself.

  Wallace nodded to him as he staggered passed. Headed round to the back of the ambulance. The door was closed.

  May was inside.

  All Wallace had to do was open the door and shoot her.

  Of course, now that he was here at Dad's, Flash would have done anything to be able to avoid going inside, you know, Norrie having been shot and Dad not answering the phone, and whatever that signified, but he got out of the car and headed up the path to the door and turned the handle, his voice cracking as he said, "Dad?"

  But Dad didn't answer, even as the door swung open and Flash called for him again.

  The hall cupboard was busted open, looked like somebody'd exploded a tiny bomb in the lock. A chunk of the woodwork was missing.

  The door was ajar and a pair of boots stuck out from inside, looking horribly lonely for some reason, maybe because Flash recognised them as Norrie's and knew the man wearing the boots had been shot and maybe he'd deserved it, which was an even worse thought.

  Flash would have explored the cupboard further, but on turning his head to the side he saw Dad sprawled out in the hallway beside the phone, and rushed over to him. As Flash drew closer, he saw the pool of blood on the floor, not much, just a trickle, but it was coming from Dad's head, which wasn't good, fuck, no, Christ, shit. and it was worse than he thought, cause he bent down and raised Dad's head and saw the eye fucked up good and proper, something sticking in it, something thick and pointed and wooden, and knew that Dad wasn't going to reply to him no matter how many times he said his name, cause that's what he was doing, just repeating it over and over, "Dad, dad, dad," like that, and Dad was saying nothing and he'd never say anything again, cause that thing in his eye, fuck, that thing in his eye, was only something to blind him, not something to kill him, but his heart wasn't what it used to be, as if they all didn't fucking know, and that's why he wasn't breathing. Chest still. No breath from his bandaged nose or his blue lips. Cause Flash checked, as best he could, even though he knew that Dad was dead. You don't lie with your mouth open and your eyes open and say nothing, not try to speak, not try to breathe, if you're alive.

  The thing in his eye, making him cry blood: a chunk of jagged wedge-shaped wood. Just a big splinter, that's all. Not something fatal, a splinter. Not possible he could die from a fucking splinter. No fucking way. He couldn't be dead. Couldn't be. Wasn't. No. Fuck off.

  It was not fucking fair.

  Flash lowered his dad's head to the floor, trying to keep it out of the pool of blood, which seemed important somehow, like it was the least he could do. Got to his feet, walked over to the cupboard and peeked inside. Yep, it was Norrie and not just somebody wearing Norrie's boots. and he was just as dead as Dad.

  Had Norrie shot Rodge? Dad had said yes. May had said yes. They'd been here, heard something or seen something that had convinced them. Why did Flash find it so hard to believe?

  He spotted a gun lying nearby, but when he picked it up and checked the chamber, he found it was empty. He placed it back where he'd found it, and as an afterthought, wiped his prints off it.

  He was calm. Calm as a cunting cucumber.

  Pearce breathed, felt his chest rise, felt the strap yield. Jesus tugged, and the strap fell away.

  "Get my wrist," Pearce said.

  "Wallace?"

  "No, wrist."

  "I love May."

  "That's lovely. Can you undo the strap on my wrist?"

  Jesus's fingers touched Pearce's hand. Pearce wasn't sure if Jesus had much of an idea of what was going on. But Jesus cried in pain as he pressed on his wounded hand, and Pearce felt the buckle loosen. For the first time, he began to have some real hope that they'd make it out of here.

  Pearce's hand popped free. His good hand. At least, it was the one that didn't have a broken finger. Be nice to say being freed was bliss, but his hand was numb and it hurt like it'd been frozen and was now thawing out. That old expression about being all fingers and thumbs was ridiculous, cause Pearce was definitely all thumbs and no fingers.

  Pearce slapped his hand against his chest in an effort to get the circulation going and after a minute started fumbling at the strap securing his other hand.

  Jesus moaned. Pearce spoke to him, but didn't get any form of coherent reply.

  Pearce undid the strap and tried to sit up. His right hand was numb, and his left was at the pins and needles stage. He flexed his fingers – those that would respond – curled them into a fist, straightened them again.

  He needed a drink.

  Jesus needed a drink. Jesus needed something else, too, cause his brain was fried. Pearce wasn't sure what, if anything, would help. Quite likely it was too late.

  He was starting to feel his fingers again. Thousands of tiny pin pricks stabbing at him. And one big pain in his pinkie. A few more minutes and he'd be able to drag himself out of here.

  His hands had enough sensation in them to get to work on the strap securing his legs. He undid it and stared at his legs, willing them to move. But they refused. Wouldn't budge. He couldn't feel them.

  He should rub them. Get the blood-flow going again. He balled his fist and gave his legs a good pounding.

  Twisted over, ignoring a spasm in his side, let his legs dangle over the bench, careful not to kick Jesus on the head. But Jesus was out of reach, prostrate on the floor, weeping silently, or maybe laughing to himself. Hard to tell. Pearce's circulation was improving by the second. Give it a bit longer, swinging his legs back and forwards here, and then try to stand. Hell, it'd be like learning to walk again. Not that Pearce remembered what it was like learning to walk first time, but … no, forget it. It was bound to have been much harder first time.

  He licked his lips. His mouth tasted weird. All this time, it'd been musty and stale in here and no doubt his breath was deadly.

  Pins and needles were shooting through his feet now. Which was a good sign. He wanted to stand up and stamp them out. Was he ready? Yeah, fuck it, why not?

  Easy.

  Lowering himself down to the floor, keeping his elbows bent, hands clutching the bench. Be embarrassing if he fell on his arse. But here he was, standing up again. Yeah, his legs felt a bit weak, like he'd had them in a cast and the cast had just come off, and the pins and needles were worse, but he'd taken one hand off the bench and the other was going ... now.

  Piece of piss. Standing was fucking easy. There was a stabbing pain in his side where Wallace had caused some damage, but he ignored it. At the moment, it was a minor irritation.

  Stepping over Jesus, now, that might be a bit of an ordeal.

  But he could do this. He took a step forward. Wasn't just his legs. He was stiff all over. It was like the second day of the school holidays. First day, he'd go tattie picking. Day after, he'd swear to God he'd never pick another tattie ever again, he was so fucking sore. But he'd wait a couple of days until his muscles didn't ache so
much, then go back. And second time was never so bad. But the day after the first time, like now, every movement was fucking agony. The second step, Pearce knew, wouldn't be so bad. He lifted his foot off the ground and slammed it down.

  Jesus said something that Pearce didn't quite catch. Pearce's head felt fuggy, like he'd been walloped with a blunt instrument. But maybe that was because he'd been walloped with the butt of Wallace's gun, which was indeed a blunt instrument.

  One foot after the other. One step at a time. Easier with each step. Until he got a rhythm going. Walked over to the nail gun, picked it up. Maybe that's what Jesus had been trying to reach. Then he turned, walked back again.

  "How's it going, Jesus?" he said.

  Got back a weak smile in a tear-streaked face. "Wallace."

  "No, I'm not Wallace. Wallace isn't here."

  "Wallace."

  "Don't worry about Wallace."

  Jesus shook his head. "Don't kill me, Mr Wasp."

  Jesus Christ.

  Jesus said, "Stuck."

  And he was. Still nailed to the cross. Pearce looked at the nail gun. If Wallace had a nail gun, then he ought to have a hammer around the house somewhere. But no doubt it was on the other side of the locked door. Fair enough. Pearce would have a look around, see if he could find anything. Be nice if he spotted some spare wood, too. Make a little splint for his finger.

  But killing May wasn't as straightforward as Wallace had imagined. The ambulance door was locked. Bastards.

  Wallace reeled forwards into the door, banging his head hard. The collision wrenched his neck, which was a problem cause he was now leaking blood at an alarming rate. He wouldn't try that again in a hurry.

  He slammed the door with the butt of his gun. "Open this fucking thing, or I'll kill the bitch like I should have done first time."

  Nothing happened. Nobody moved inside. Nobody replied.

  Shit. He could do without this.