Bad Men (24 page)

"Jacob?" Wallace said.

The old guy looked at him, eyes misty.

"Present." Wallace's hand dipped into his pocket. He took out a bullet and threw it into the cupboard. Then he slammed the door closed and locked it.

"What now?" May said to Wallace.

"Fix my arm."

May stared at him. "Why would I do that?"

"Cause I'll shoot you if you don't."

"I'm not a nurse."

Wallace switched his gun to his other hand, ripped his shirtsleeve in a sudden painful jerk. Handed the torn bloodstained fabric to her. "Wrap that tight around the wound."

She took the shirtsleeve and he returned the gun to his good hand. She did as she was told. Tied it in a knot on top. "Now what?" she said.

"We go for a drive. I want to show you something."

"And then?"

"Patience. Wait and see."

Wallace opened the front door, half expecting to see a row of squad cars lined up outside, but it appeared that no one had reported hearing anything. Just like when Rodge had come for Wallace. Edinburgh was wonderful. You heard gunshots and decided it was something else. Nobody fired guns in Edinburgh. That only happened in Glasgow.

Something brushed against his leg and May cried out as the three-legged dog bounded down the garden path, yelping, and out into the road.

The scared little fuck didn't last long. Busy road, you know.

Jacob heard the
outside door closing. May was gone. He'd screwed up. Wallace had got to her after all their precautions, after all their failed attempts to keep her safe, to enlist Pearce's help. Pearce must be dead. And May was as good as.

He wanted to sink to his knees and cry. Pathetic old fool that he was.

He should have protected her somehow. But how could he have done that without being shot? Not that he would have minded being shot. No, what he meant was that he couldn't have protected her. Any attempt to do so, he'd have been shot like Norrie, no question. And then he'd have had no chance of protecting her at all. This way, there might be something he could do. Something, aye.

Although, right now, he wasn't sure what it was.

He reached behind him, fingers fumbling for the torch. Found it,

switched it on.

Jacob shone the light on Norrie. He was gurgling, clutching his stomach

with both hands as blood poured between his fingers in little spurts. Blood trickled out of his mouth as he tried to speak.

Jacob picked up the discarded gun, swept the torch around looking for the bullet. Very good of Wallace to have given it to him. Of course, Jacob knew why. The sadistic son of a bitch wanted him to put Norrie out of his misery. Although Jacob couldn't help wondering if Wallace had considered that Jacob might use the gun on himself.

Cause really, when your best friend does something like this, you don't particularly want to live. Your trust is broken and you have to question everything. Nothing's what it seems any more.

There it was. He dug the bullet out from the back of the cupboard, swung out the cylinder of the revolver and slotted the bullet in one of the chambers. Fire a slug into Norrie's skull, or fire one into his own? He pointed the gun at Norrie.

Norrie's eyes widened. He spat a mouthful of blood, which sprayed over his chin. He opened his mouth, teeth stained red, and choked when he tried to speak.

Jacob said, "You denying you shot Rodge?"

Norrie tried to speak again. Finally managed to say, "No, boss."

"You're not denying it?"

"Yeah."

Jacob was confused. Not that it mattered. Norrie had clearly shot Rodge. The only question was why. Jacob asked him.

Norrie gasped, squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again. He was no doubt in terrible pain, but Jacob didn't feel sorry for him. Quite the opposite, in fact. Jacob was pleased his old friend was feeling pain. Jacob had to restrain himself from leaning down and stabbing a finger in Norrie's wound and pressing down hard.

Jacob said, "You killed Louis, too?"

Norrie's eyes lost focus, then he nodded.

Jacob shook his head. He didn't understand and Norrie wasn't going to last long enough to explain. Unless Jacob got him to a hospital. Thing was, Jacob really wanted to know. He didn't want Norrie to die. Was it the accident that had made Norrie behave like this? People said Norrie wasn't quite right in the head but Jacob had never believed that. Norrie was always perfectly fine when Jacob was around. Lord save him, but although Jacob didn't want Norrie to die, he didn't want Norrie to live either.

So first things first.

Jacob placed the gun on the floor at his feet. Then he stuck his hand in Norrie's pocket. Bingo. Wallace should have looked for it, although he probably didn't care too much what happened now. Jacob took out Norrie's mobile phone, hoping to Christ he had Flash's number on it. Jacob had to find out how to work the stinking thing first, though.

He wished he'd paid more attention.

Step one was turning it on. For the life of him, he couldn't see an on/off switch. What on earth were you supposed to do? He asked Norrie.

Norrie choked, dribbled blood over his chin.

Jacob shook his head.

Norrie held out his hand and Jacob gave him the phone.Norrie pressed a tiny little button with his thumbnail and pressed some other keys and handed the phone back to Jacob.

What now? Dial the number, Jacob supposed. Could he remember Flash's number? It was in the address book by the telephone in the hall. No, Jacob couldn't remember it. "You have Flash's number on here?" he asked Norrie.

But Norrie had closed his eyes and was making sporadic spluttering sounds that were painful to hear.

Jacob put down the mobile phone and picked up the gun again. He had one bullet. He could finish off Norrie, or he could put an end to his own misery. Or ...

Door opened and
off he scooted and a screech of brakes later, Cutey-pie was on his side in the middle of the road. And May was thinking, couldnae be. Nah. A dream or something like Joanne kept having where it was dead vivid like as if she was there and all and it was really happening. Cause Wallace shooting Norrie was totally freaky and totally impossible to believe. Course Joanne was away in her head. A real mentalist. Fat tart. And May was sane. Which meant all this
had
happened.

Look at it again. Still can't take it in. Play it back.

She'd been too busy wondering how she was going to escape from Wallace. Look at him, cocky or what, with his fucking gun? She was glad he'd been shot in the arm. Looked nasty, too.

Screech. Smack.

The driver got out of the car, neck scrunched into his shoulders, arms robot-stiff , palms forwards, the way Italian footballers react when they've fouled an opponent. Dipshit was dressed in a shirt and tie, smart trousers.

And that was enough for May to get really angry. "Bastard!" May yelled at him. "Fucking fannyarse!" she said.

He got more stiff-armed and his neck started to disappear like his shirt was floating towards his head. Looked like he was thinking about running away. Scared of the wee lass, was he? Should be.

Or maybe he was scared of Wallace, cause he still had the gun in his hand and was waving it about and shouting, his torn shirtsleeve stained red already where some blood had soaked through.

May joined Wallace. "Fuck you!" she said to the driver. "You fucker!"

But she realised that Wallace was shouting at her.

Anyway, the driver swivelled round and got back in his car.

May could have thrown some more insults (and she had some bad ones, she just couldn't think of them) at him, but, oh well, what was the point? More important, what was she going to say to Flash? She couldn't just tell him straight out that Cutey-pie had been run over.

Tyres screeched as the driver screamed off out of there.

Good. Glad to see the back of the bastard. Maybe everything was going to be okay, though. Cutey-pie's eyes were open. His top lip was curled up, baring his teeth. Looked for all the world like he was grinning.

May bent over him.

Wallace said, "Watch he doesn't bite."

"He won't bite."

"Hurt dogs are dangerous."

"Can't blame them, can you?" Arsehole. How was an injured dog supposed to know you were trying to help? All they knew was that it was sore and they didn't want any more pain. "That cock jockey" – see? – "was going too fast." The rage had seized hold of her again. She wanted to kick that poncey twat of a driver in the balls.

"Bloody dog ran out in front of the car," Wallace said. "Nothing the driver could do."

Nah, kicking his balls wasn't enough. Cut them off. "Ten miles an hour slower, he'd be okay. I've seen the adverts."

"Don't think so."

"Thoughtless bastard." Cook them and smother them in tomato sauce and feed them to Cutey-pie. "He'd be fucking okay. Anyway, you opened the door. It's your fault."

Wallace was quiet for a second, let her stroke Cutey-pie's cheek. Wee fella's eyes flickered towards her, looked away again. And he sighed as if he was bored of all this and just wanted to get on with whatever was going to happen next. Cool dog, or what?

May said, "We need to get him to the vet's." She gave Wallace her best stare. If he argued, she'd bloody well do him. He had a gun, but she didn't give shit. He only had one good arm. She had some nasty thoughts swirling around in her head right now. And she had Flash's present in her handbag. Good old Dirk. Wallace could do his worst but she wasn't going to let Cutey-pie lie on the road and bleed to death.

She told Wallace how she felt.

"All fucking right," he said. "Just calm down." He put his hand on her shoulder and she got a lungful of aftershave. Or more like a throatful, cause it didn't go all the way down before she coughed it back out. Same kind of fuddy-duddy stinky old-guy crap Sue's dad wore. Stink City. Sort of smellies Dad got for Flash at Christmas and he thanked Dad for and never uses but he couldnae bring himself to chuck in the bin.

The toes of Wallace's shoes were totally gleaming. May patted her

skirt down, just in case he was thinking of using those gleamers to sneak a peek of her pants.

Cutey-pie's tongue flicked out and disappeared again almost immediately. "You thirsty, darlin'?" she asked him. Looked at Wallace and said, "You wait with him while I get some water."

Wallace grabbed her. "Take me seriously," he said. "Or I'll shoot the fucking dog." He pulled a face like he was constipated.

May said, "You wouldn't."

He pulled back the hammer and placed the gun against Cutey-pie's head.

"Okay, okay," May said. She was forgetting that it was Wallace. Most times when they were together when she said he wouldn't do something, he'd gone ahead and done it. He was a loophead. She should be scared of him but she was still too angry. Why was she so fucking angry? She didn't know. The rage had started simmering when Flash gave her the knife and she realised they'd all been scheming behind her back. All of them. There wasn't a single fucking one of them she could trust. Since then, she'd got gradually angrier. Wallace barging into the house and shooting Norrie and threatening Dad hadn't helped. And now Cutey-pie had been run over.

Cutey-pie needed to get to the vet's as quickly as possible. His eyes weren't looking too bright. Probably a wee bowl of water was neither here nor there. So, okay. Judging by the way he was flopped out, he'd be hard pushed to do much more than look at it, poor soul. She slipped her fingers under his back and lifted him as gently as she could, making shushing noises all the while. "Where's your car?" she asked Wallace.

"Up the street a bit," he said. Then he shook his head. "You're not taking the fucking dog."

She tried hard to keep her voice calm. "Please. Just let me drop him off at the vet's. Then you can still show me whatever it is you want to show me."

"No."

"Come on, Wallace. What's it to you?"