Bad Men

by Allan Guthrie

  But he seemed very composed. Not like the first time Pearce had seen him. Green-faced and calling for his dad.

  Pearce was in a much better condition now, too, and tooled up, which no doubt helped the lad compose himself. Pearce saw him sneak a look at the hammer he'd stuck in one of his belt-loops. Pearce handed it over and said, "I'll go get the nail gun. You get Jesus some water."

  Back in the basement, Pearce felt incredibly grateful to Flash. Wanted to give him a hug, or something. Which was peculiar. Because other than his mother and his sister, Pearce had never felt like hugging anyone.

  He came back, dumped the nail gun on the settee next to Jesus, resisted hugging Flash.

  God, it was good to breathe clean air.

  Hammer tucked under his arm, Flash was giving Jesus some water, and he was gulping it down. He would survive. He was a tough fucker. But they should definitely call an ambulance for him.

  Pearce walked over to the window, parted the curtains, peeked outside. Nothing moving. He turned, eyed Flash. Had a sudden image of him again as he was loitering around outside the library the day Wallace killed Hilda. Which Wallace had denied. After previously admitting to it. Or at least, that's what Flash had claimed. Shit, no. Pearce saw how he'd been played. Fuck, the only question was how far this shithead had taken the game. "Did you drown my dog?" Pearce said.

  Flash pulled a face, let go of Jesus, stood up. He took the hammer out from under his arm, weighed it in his hand, bent down and laid it on the ground. Then he shuffled his feet in his unlaced trainers and said, yes, he'd stolen Hilda. Not that he knew Hilda's name. He'd said, "Your dog." And in fact he hadn't said ‘stolen' either. The actual word the skinny little fucker had used was ‘dognapped'.

  Pearce said, "Say that again."

  Flash's face paled. "We wanted you to kill Wallace." Behind him, Jesus looked like he was listening, but Pearce doubted the poor bastard understood anything anyone was saying any more. "I never intended hurting the dog."

  Pearce was having difficulty understanding this himself. "Wallace didn't have anything to do with it?"

  Flash shook his head. "Nah. Nobody else. It was me."

  Pearce said, "So all this shit was avoidable."

  Flash looked away. "S'pose. But if I hadn't snatched ... your dog ..."

  "Hilda," Pearce said.

  " ... Hilda, then you wouldn't have been able to save ... Jesus."

  Pearce let his head slump. He should lamp the little fucker, maybe retrieve the hammer off the rug and pound the bones of each and every last one of Flash's fingers and toes. Or pick the nail gun up off the settee and fire a couple of projectiles into his crotch. But Pearce was exhausted. He just wanted Hilda back. He said, "At least Hilda's safe."

  Flash didn't look at him. Stared at his trainers. Gave the hammer a tap with his toe.

  Pearce said, "Hilda's safe, right?"

  "Well."

  Pearce had the little fucker dragged across the room and pinned to the wall before he had time to look up. One hand round his throat, pinkie throbbing, but who gave a shit? "What did you do to my dog?"

  Flash was shaking.

  "Huh? The fuck did you do?"

  "It was an accident, amigo —"

  "I'm not your fucking amigo. What did you do?"

  "Nothing, I swear, don't hit me. An accident. The dog got out. Wallace let the dog out. Got hit by a car. Wasn't my fault. Wallace's fault."

  Flash moved his arm, so Pearce squeezed his throat tighter. Raised his other fist. "Tell me everything."

  Flash pawed at Pearce's wrist. Pearce gave another sharp squeeze, jerk of his fist, and Flash's eyes widened.

  "Quickly," Pearce said.

  Flash tried to speak but couldn't do much more than choke unintelligibly, so Pearce loosened his grip. No question now that the feeling in his fingers was back. His little finger was fucking agony, though. Last thing he wanted was to have to wallop Flash, but if he had to, he'd hit him hard enough to break another finger if that's what the little fucker deserved.

  Flash blurted out the story about Hilda getting run over. About his sister trying to persuade Wallace to take the dog to the vet's. About Wallace knocking her down. About Hilda still being in the back seat of Wallace's car. And more stuff. Rambling about Norrie, a pal of his dad's, maybe being the guy who'd shot Rodge in the legs, that Wallace had shot the old guy but maybe not Rodge, and his dad had had a fatal heart attack. But Pearce didn't care about any of that right now.

  "Is Hilda alive?" Pearce asked.

  "No idea," Flash said. "But he was still breathing last May saw him."

  "Where's Wallace?"

  "I don't know. I thought he'd be here."

  "And none of this would have happened," Pearce said, controlling his temper as best he could, "if it wasn't for you."

  "I came for the dog. I came to rescue your fucking dog from the back seat of Wallace's car."

  "Why the fuck would you do that?"

  "May asked me to."

  "My fucking dog," Pearce said.

  "I know."

  "And you stole him. Let him get run over."

  "It's Wallace's fault," Flash shouted. "I wasn't even there."

  Adrenaline crashed through Pearce's bloodstream, running riot like those mushrooms in Jesus's veins. Pearce imagined picking up the hammer. Turning it so the claw-side was facing Flash. Saw himself club the skinny little fucker, yank the hammer back out of his head, sink it back in again.

  "Don't," said Flash, as if he too could see what Pearce was seeing.

  Who the fuck did he think he was, telling Pearce what to do?

  "I came to help," the skinny little toe rag said.

  Pearce saw the hammer swing again, saw Flash drop to his knees, stunned expression on his face. Fuck, no. He couldn't. Pearce loosened his grip on Flash's throat.

  "Thanks," Flash said.

  "What are you thanking me for?" Pearce asked him. Without waiting for a reply, Pearce drew back his good fist and sent it smashing into Flash's nose.

  Flash bounced off the wall, straight back into a second blow. The stunned expression Pearce had imagined seconds earlier now appeared for real.

  Pearce took a step towards him, grabbed him by the hair, spun him round. The little shite would never know how close he'd come to a sudden violent end. But he wasn't going to get off Scot-free.

  Pearce nutted him. He reeled backwards, dropped to the ground. Wasn't enough to put his lights out. Slithered about on the floor, groaning, blood dripping from his nose. Raised himself onto his hands and knees. Pearce stamped on his hand, kicked him under the chin. Flash keeled over, tucked his hand under his armpit, curled into a ball.

  Flash said, "Wallace's fault. Wallace."

  And Jesus said, "Wallace," as he sprang off the settee and landed on top of Flash. Flash screamed, flapped his hands uselessly, and twisted onto his back. Jesus pressed the nail gun against Flash's chest, said, "Bzzz," and pulled the trigger. Jesus yelped, his hands presumably smarting as the nail shot out, but he didn't let go. The gun must have had a bump trigger: before Pearce managed to wrestle him off Flash's body, he'd fired three more times.

  Flash didn't look too good.

  The police arrived just after the ambulance. They asked Pearce questions, lots of questions, checked out the basement, took his statement, took it again. They whisked Jesus away, took their time over Flash before bundling him into a second ambulance. By then he was dead and lots of detectives had arrived, along with the forensics team in their white overalls.

  Pearce spent three hours in hospital, had his face looked at, was told he had a cracked rib, and his finger was put in a splint. Then he spent four hours in custody before they told him they'd found a three-legged dog in Wallace's car. They gave him the phone number of the vet Hilda had been taken to. Wouldn't say if Hilda was dead or alive.

  After another couple of hours Pearce was released without charge. For once, they believed him.

  Pearce knocked on the door. Private room, ha
d to be a bad sign. No reply, so he shifted the flowers into his right hand and turned the handle. Checked the number again. This was definitely the right room.

  Opened the door slowly.

  A young girl was asleep in bed. Pearce took a couple of quiet steps into the room. Hard to tell from a distance, but close up, you could see it was May, face swollen and bruised, but recognisable.

  The visitor was sitting at the far side of the bed in a wheelchair. He looked different without the dark-blue suit, and was a lot fatter in the face than last time Pearce had seen him. Still had powerful-looking arms, though, which his faded ‘Spain Is Different' T-shirt showed off to good effect. An XXL, and yet it was tight round the biceps.

  "The fuck you doing here?" Rodge Baxter said, looking like he'd just taken a mouthful of grapefruit when he'd been expecting an orange. He had a little scar above his top lip.

  Pearce ignored him, looked for somewhere to lay the flowers. There were flowers everywhere, none of which he recognised, apart from some bright yellow tulips. He wasn't good at identifying flowers. Anyway, there was no space for his carnations (these he knew), so he settled on placing them on the floor. "Maybe get one of the nurses to put these in a vase," he said to Rodge. Paused. "How is she?"

  "How does she fucking look?"

  Pearce nodded. "What about the ..." he said, " ... the baby?"

  Rodge said, "Fuck you, Pearce. Get the fuck out of here. Haven't you done enough damage to my family?"

  Pearce looked at his hands, ran his thumb up the side of his cheek. "Flash was an accident."

  "You better hope I'm never able to walk again."

  "You going to come after me, Rodge?"

  "Too fucking right I am. The police might think it's okay for you to go around letting crazy people slam nails into my brother, but I hold you accountable."

  "If you come after me," Pearce said, "I'll kill you." That shut the bastard up. "I'd rather not, but if you're going to be an arsehole, I won't have any choice."

  "You as good as killed him." Rodge's face was tight, his fists clenched. Perched on his wheelchair, he looked like someone seriously constipated.

  "I'm sorry about what happened," Pearce said. "Believe me."

  "You're sorry? Fuck good's that to me?"

  "I don't know. What do you want me to say?"

  Rodge's hands went to his knees. He shook his head. "I don't know either."

  "I'm going," Pearce said. "I didn't come to see you, anyway." He turned. "I hope she makes it. And I hope the baby's okay."

  He was at the door when Rodge said, "There's no baby."

  "Shit," Pearce said. "I'm —"

  "No," Rodge said. "You don't understand. There's no baby. Never was."

  Pearce looked at him, wondering if he understood what Rodge was telling him. There was never a baby. There. Was. Never. A. Baby. How hard was that to understand? "She got rid of it?"

  Rodge ran a hand through his hair. Shook his head. "She was never pregnant. The doctors checked and ... well ..." He shrugged.

  This family was too fucked up for Pearce. She wasn't pregnant. Yet she'd told everybody she was. All this shit had stemmed from that. "Why the pretence?"

  "She didn't fucking pretend. She was mistaken. Missed a couple of periods. Assumed the worst."

  "She didn't take a test? Or go see her doctor?"

  "You criticising my sister?"

  "Just curious."

  "I'll show you something curious." Rodge uncurled his fist, showed Pearce a scrunched up piece of paper, words in a meter written on lined paper in block capitals. "This was in her handbag," he said. "Your friend wrote it."

  Pearce took the paper. It read:

  HARD MAN

  A Poem by Brian Trotter

  where's my madness?

  anger's gone, now only joy

  and love spilling out in the darkness,

  my lovely little boy

  safe, all sweet and warm

  no more a wanting inside me

  a thing of beauty, her sleeping form

  lies curled beside me

  fatherhood is daunting,

  milky scalp, his baby smell

  his tiny body, haunting,

  her nipple will bring him Heaven,

  he will bring down Hell

  but this is what it is to be father,

  not husband, not son

  I do not have a brother

  it hurts to love this much, little one

  floating again, no drugs,

  oh, no, no need of that shit

  not now, not ever, not mugs or thugs

  we're just us, we're our own hit

  "he's mine, arsehole," the hard man says,

  dancing in circles on his own.

  My son, watching me, those eyes, my eyes,

  not the hard man's eyes, our eyes in tears will drown

  where do we go from here?

  only the narrow-minded fail to appreciate sacrifice

  the beauty of it, killing what you fear

  when what you fear and love, you despise

  that's what the hard man says,

  it's all lies, all lies,

  I hope the fucker dies

  "What do you make of it?" Rodge asked.

  "It's shit," Pearce said.

  As Pearce handed Jesus's poem back, his fingers brushed against Rodge's and Rodge grabbed his hand. The poem dropped to the floor.

  "I've lost my father," Rodge said, "and his friend, Norrie. Wallace shot him."

  Norrie. The name rang a bell. Flash had mentioned him. He was possibly responsible for crippling Rodge, if Pearce remembered correctly. Pearce let it go. Better for everybody that Rodge still thought his assailant was Wallace rather than some old dead friend of his father's.

  "And my sister's fucked up," Rodge continued. "And as if that's not bad enough, you let that fucking crazy bastard kill my brother. You expect me to talk to you like nothing happened?"

  "Jes — Brian didn't know what he was doing."

  "But you knew what he was doing. And he's locked up in a loony bin. While you're free."

  "So what you going to do?" Pearce said. "Squeeze my hand until I beg for mercy?"

  "I'm going to make you suffer." Rodge let go of his hand. "Once I'm well again."

  "You're angry." Pearce nodded. "If I were you," he said, "maybe I'd want to make me suffer too." He paused, took a last glance at May. "But if I were you, I'd know I'd lose."

  "You know who loses?" Rodge said. "Mugs who play fair."

  "And that means?"

  "Watch your back, Pearce."

  "You got it," Pearce said.

  "Hey," Rodge said, looking at the piece of paper on the floor, "think you could put that piece of shit in the bin?"

  Pearce stared at him. Then walked over to his wheelchair. Grabbed the side of it with both hands, and heaved. Tricky with his sore finger. He raised the wheel off the ground but Rodge was a big heavy fucker, even heavier since he'd been shot and wasn't getting any exercise. Pearce heaved again, and Rodge's flailing arm grabbing at Pearce's T-shirt didn't stop him from tipping out onto the floor.

  "Put it in the bin yourself," Pearce said, as Rodge moaned and swore. "And, Rodge, if you're going to be angry, for fuck's sake be angry at the right person."

  Pearce looked across at the bed. May was awake, her eyes gummy. She smiled at Pearce and called him Cutey-pie.

  He left the room without a word.

  Wallace was neatly wrapped. Neck braced to keep his head steady, head and arm bandaged. Soft restraints held his wrists by his side. His eyes were closed, and his face had the bloated look of a drowned body. Various tubes spidered across the bed, connected to drips and machines, taped down across his smooth-shaven chest. There was a huge wedge-shaped scar on his stomach, but it looked like an old one.

  A big clear breathing tube was stuck between his parted lips. All Pearce had to do was pull it out or unplug the ventilator. Didn't even need to pinch Wallace's nostrils and cup his hand over his mout
h afterwards. And he'd probably get away with it.

  But did he want to? It appeared that Wallace, despite his violence towards almost everyone else, hadn't harmed Hilda. Pearce took that on board. See, Pearce had been wrong about Wallace. It had never been personal. At least, not until Pearce, like the dumb fuck he was, made it so.

  Pearce turned away. Yeah, wasn't his business. He'd leave Wallace for Rodge. The big guy might have lost the use of his legs, but as far as Pearce knew, he still had a working pair of balls. And if he didn't, Pearce was pretty sure May did.

  Pearce sat for ten minutes at the vet's before they let him into a room at the back.

  "There's the wee fella," the vet said. "Proper little hard man."

  Hilda was in a large cage. Shaved, stitched, wearing a cone round his neck, groggy, trying his hardest to wag his tail.

  Pearce spoke to him. Told him he was a fucking rascal.

  Hilda wagged his tail all the harder.

  They'd warned Pearce that Hilda wasn't completely in the clear yet, and they'd need to keep him in for a few days before he could go home, but the signs were good that he'd make a full recovery.

  "I'll leave you two alone for a few minutes," the vet said. "But don't excite him too much."

  Since getting out of Wallace's basement, Pearce had found it hard to sleep. And when he did fall asleep, he'd wake up after seeing visions of Jesus on a cross, and that fucking awful stench getting right up his nose. He spoke to his mum about it, but she wasn't much help. Told him to get a grip, it was all in his head.