Bad Men (17 page)

When it was at last time to make his move, Pearce discovered that the knife had caught in the lining of his pocket and the only way he could get it out was to tear the fabric. Lucky he'd decided to get it out now. Had he been planning on impressing Wallace with a quick draw, he'd have looked pretty damn stupid. He placed the knife in his left hand, flush against his palm, handle towards his elbow. Gripped the point of the blade with his fingertips. That way it stayed hidden from passers-by. And wouldn't snag on anything. Other than his fingers. But he was going to be careful. He wasn't planning on cutting himself.

He crossed the street. Strolled up to the door. Rang the bell.

He was calm. Slight speeding up of his heartbeat, but that was only to be expected. And, yes, a light sweat. But what the fuck, this was more dangerous than a fucking job interview, and people sweated at those.

Wallace answered the door, a piece of paper in his hand, probably a bill, judging by the torn brown envelope on the floor by his feet.

Pearce gauged the situation instantly, grabbed the frame of the door and shoved.

Cracked against Wallace's forehead. Knocked his glasses at an angle. Almost comical, but nobody was laughing.

Pearce pushed the door again.

Wallace managed to scamper out of the way before he was hit a second time. Just as well. Had to be a good joke to be funny twice.

Pearce stepped inside, switching the knife into his right hand.

One side of the tiny hall was lined with shoe racks. Three-deep. Wallace liked his footwear. A leafy plant with a solid rope-like stalk stood in the opposite corner, leaves bendy with thirst. Couple of plant pots on the window ledge contained flimsy herb-like things that had seen better days. There was a faint smell of drains.

Wallace stood at the far end of the hall, a flight of stairs to his right, a door to his left. A tiny cut had opened on his forehead above his right eye and a thin trickle of blood ran towards his eyebrow. "Haven't a fucking clue who you are," he said, straightening his glasses. "But I'm going to cut your balls off and make you eat them."

Pearce closed the door. "You'll need a knife."

"I'll use yours."

Pearce couldn't help but admire this guy, despite what he'd done to Hilda. He had no weapon, but listen to him. A bit of a gamble, maybe, but Pearce hadn't expected Wallace to answer the door with a gun in his hand. Pearce was banking on Wallace having got rid of it, now it had been used on Rodge Baxter. Anyway, even if Wallace was tooled up, he'd be second favourite – not that he was to know that, of course. Yet to hear him now, you'd think he was toting a machine gun.

Pearce checked Wallace's hands, just to make sure he wasn't.

The guy had unbelievable confidence. Made Pearce look bad. Made him feel less confident than normal. Couldn't let that happen. Had to redress the balance.

He flipped his knife over and took a step towards Wallace. Wallace leaned back. Not scared. Just protective. Pearce held out the knife, handle-first. "Go on, then."

Wallace said, "Yeah, right."

"Take it."

Wallace looked at the knife. Looked at Pearce. Back at the knife.

Pearce sighed. "Don't trust me?"

"Who the fuck
are
you?"

"The knife's yours. Take it."

"Go fuck yourself."

"Okay," Pearce said. "Step back."

Wallace didn't move.

"Just take one step back. What harm can that do?"

Wallace didn't move for a few seconds. Then he took a step back.

Not taking his eyes off Wallace's, Pearce bent down and placed the knife on the floor. He stepped away from the knife until it was the same distance from both of them.

"You going to tell me who you are?" Wallace said.

"Skip the mind games, Wallace."

Before Pearce had finished his sentence, Wallace dived for the knife.

Pearce's timing was slightly off. His boot connected with Wallace's shoulder instead of his chin and sent them both spinning. Wallace bounced off the near wall, knocking a couple of shoes onto the floor, and launched himself at the knife again.

This time, Pearce's fist caught him a blow on the jaw before his hand reached the handle. Wallace's head jerked back. A spot of blood popped from his lip almost immediately. He wiped it off with the back of his hand.

Pearce flung his fist at him again, but Wallace blocked the punch. Pearce kicked the knife away from Wallace's scrabbling hand and waited. Let his knuckles cool down. Felt like his pinkie might have gone.

The knife nestled against the skirting board.

Wallace stood up. "I don't need a knife," he said. "I'll skin you with my bare hands." He reached up, removed his glasses. Opened the door behind him and disappeared inside.

Pearce glanced at the knife. Did he have time to pick it up? Nah. Had to move now. Follow Wallace inside. Because by the time Pearce got the knife, Wallace would have legged it to wherever he kept his gun. Cause there was always the possibility, however slim, that he hadn't chucked the gun after kneecapping Rodge. Fuck.

Move.

Why the fuck had Wallace turned his back on him, though? And left the door open? It was downright fucking arrogant.

This guy was something else.

Pearce launched himself through the doorway. He didn't see the punch coming. It knocked him off his feet. Jolted his spine when he landed hard on his arse. He felt dazed and instantly knew he was in trouble. He grabbed hold of the doorframe, tried to pull himself up.

Wallace stood a couple of feet in front of him. "I don't like fighting in a cramped space," he said. He placed his glasses on a sideboard. His lip was beginning to swell. And his eyebrow was red where the blood from his cut forehead had matted. "Get up. Been a while since I've had any competition." He stepped further back into his sitting room.

Pearce hauled himself to his feet. The punch had hit him on the cheek. Could have been worse. But it had been a solid blow. He hadn't taken too many that had floored him like that. The inside of his mouth was bleeding. At least, it tasted like blood.

Wallace was standing in front of his settee. Nice white leather job. Very seventies. Pile of blankets on the floor by its side. Behind it, the kitchen.

Wallace liked his shoes. Bet he liked his furniture, too.

Pearce sucked his cheek and launched a gob of red spittle at the settee. Watched the fucker's composure disintegrate.

Fuck he was fast. Pearce managed to block the punch, but the kick caught him on the shin. Bastard had been aiming for his knee. And if the sole of his foot had landed the way he was hoping, Pearce's knee would have snapped. As it was, his shin was on fire.

Wallace said, "Am I doing okay for a blind man?"

Pearce moved in with a punch and kick combo of his own. Wallace blocked the punch, sidestepped the kick. Pearce tried again. Same result. Third time lucky? Pearce didn't think so.

Neither did Wallace, apparently, for he said, "I suggest you try something else."

"Your turn," Pearce said.

Wallace shrugged, nodded, and hit Pearce three times in the ribs.

Pearce landed on the floor again. Banged his shoulder against the sideboard. When he tried to get up, he felt a bolt of pain in his side. Wallace had busted something. Fuck. Pearce was wishing he'd kept the knife. He'd underestimated Wallace. Or overestimated himself. Came to the same thing. He had to buy himself some recovery time. "Why did you do it, Wallace?"

"Tell me what I'm supposed to have done and I might be able to give you an answer."

His refusal to tell Pearce was enraging. Fuck recovery time. His anger helped Pearce scramble to his feet. His leg wasn't quite so bad, but his side was going to be something of a hindrance. Every time he took a deep breath, it was like somebody was sticking a knife in him. Luckily, it was his left side. He'd still be able to swing with his right. And if it hurt, so fucking what?

"I have no idea who you are," Wallace said. "I answer my door and next thing I know you're slamming it in my face and thrusting a knife at me."

"You know fucking why."

"I've never seen you before."

"Course you fucking have."

"Well, pretend for a minute that I haven't."

"Fuck you."

"Okay. As you wish. Give me your best shot, hard man."

Pearce steadied himself. If he didn't get it right this time, and Wallace retaliated with another few blows of his own with the same class as before, Pearce would be out of it. He needed to get in close. Wallace had had some kind of training. Cheating bastard.

Pearce feigned a punch with his right, then another, then brought his foot down as hard as he could on Wallace's toe. Wallace yelled. Pearce imagined Wallace's face was a football and headed it.

Wallace slammed back into the settee.

As he bounced forward again, Pearce thumped him in the nose. Yep. Pearce's pinkie was definitely broken now. He cradled his hand in his other one as Wallace moaned.

Fuck it. He couldn't punch again with that hand and his ribs were hurting too much to punch with the other. His forehead was smarting too. Maybe he could kick the bastard to death.

Whatever he was going to do, he needed to do it quickly and finish this before Wallace had the chance to recover. He leaned across, trying to keep his pinkie out of the way, and grabbed the back of Wallace's neck. Pearce brought his knee up at the same time as he yanked Wallace's head down. The two collided hard.

Wallace snorted, then made gasping sounds.

Pearce had gunk all over his jeans now.

Wallace's nose was a bloody mess, his mouth was hanging open, red threads dangling from his lower lip. He looked up at Pearce. His eyes weren't focusing. You could tell he didn't know what time of day it was.

Pearce tilted Wallace's head back and nutted him again.

Then Pearce turned round, walked out of the sitting room and into the hall, picked up the knife from where it had landed against the skirting board. Was he going to kill him? He wasn't sure yet. But if he didn't, Wallace would come back to haunt him. No way would a man like Wallace take this lying down. Course, Pearce could cut off his hands or something. Disable him. He returned to the sitting room and noticed that Wallace —

Straight into another punch he didn't see coming.

Fuck, that was a punch and a half.

No, it wasn't a punch. He'd collided with the butt of a gun.

Pearce crumpled to the floor. Tried to keep hold of the knife but his fingers wouldn't respond. Kind of funny. He'd taken a fuck of a crack on his forehead, but what he felt most was the throbbing of his pinkie. He tried to stay conscious but his brain wanted to shut down. And it was hard to resist.

Didn't help when the fucker hit him on the head again with the gun. Right on the crown this time.

One last attempt to get up. Nah. Fuck it. He wasn't going anywhere.

When Pearce woke
up he wished he hadn't. Pain in his head, his cheek, his side, the knuckle of his little finger. He didn't know which was worst. He tried not to focus, let them all blend together so that he just sort of hurt all over. Much better that way. For seconds at a time, it got so that he hardly noticed.

He tried to sit up, but couldn't. A belt or a rope was stretched across his chest, pinning him down. His wrists were clamped to whatever he was lying on. And when he tried to move his legs, straps across his shins and thighs prevented him.

He didn't like this. Bondage. Always thought of it as a picnic in hell.

To make matters worse, it was pitch black. He squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again. Speckles of random-coloured lights zipped around in the darkness.

Okay, so he couldn't move and he couldn't see. And he was in considerable pain in several parts of his anatomy. Couldn't get any worse, right? Well, there was one other thing. An unholy stink. From the moment he'd woken up he'd been vaguely aware of something vile crawling up his nose. Now the stench had lodged in his nostrils like a couple of small decomposing rodents.