Bad Men (27 page)

"See how the dog is."

"Huh?"

"Cutey-pie needs your help. He's scared."

"He is?"

"That's right. Go on. Quickly." Pause. "You doing it?"

"What about Dirk?"

"You can get it later."

"I don't think I want it now, anyway."

"That's okay, then."

"Flash, will I go to prison?"

"Don't worry about that."

"He tried to ... it wasn't my fault."

"I know. You won't go to prison. I promise."

"But they'll find the knife and they'll blame me. Doesn't matter that Norrie shot him."

"Norrie shot him?"

"In the arm."

Norrie had been busy. And where had he got a gun? Never mind.

"And it was Norrie who shot Rodge."

Fuck. Maybe Dad wasn't raving.

"But he's dead now. Wallace shot him."

Flash knew that. This wasn't the greatest topic of conversation. It was clearly upsetting her.

As was the business with the knife. She repeated: "They'll find Dirk, Flash."

"They won't know who the knife belongs to."

"But they'll be able to trace it."

"Don't worry about it."

"Fingerprints."

"May, we'll sort all that out when I get there. Just help me find you. Please. Where's the last place you remember?"

"I dunno."

"Think. Where did you go when you drove off?"

"Supposed to be going to the vet's."

"Which vet's?"

"Had to stop and ask someone."

And would Wallace have headed in that direction, if he never had any intention of reaching his destination? Flash had to hope so. He closed his eyes. "And where did they suggest?"

"I ... Slateford, I think."

Warehouses and old breweries. And, yes, churches. "Okay, I'll find you."

"Cutey-pie's still breathing," May said. "What should I do now? I don't want to leave him alone in the car."

God, this was hard. "Stay in it, then."

"Okay."

"Great. Lock the doors."

"Hang on. Okay."

"You're doing good."

"Flash?"

"Yeah?"

"I wet myself."

"That's okay, darling. It's okay."

Her teeth chattered. "Flash?"

"Yeah?"

"Wallace has still got his gun."

Tune started playing
. Funky drumbeat. Human beatbox shit. Annoying the crap out of Pearce. He said, "Give it a rest."

Thank fuck the shouting was over, though. Words had been popping into Jesus's head and coming straight out of his mouth, making no sense at all. Nothing Pearce could do about it. Just had to lie there and listen. Try as he might, he couldn't get the crazy fucker to shut up.

"Pop into my mouth. Come out of my head." That was the most coherent response to anything Pearce had said in the last while.

Jesus's brain wasn't prepared to play ball. Not yet. Maybe not ever. It was cooked.

Enough of Jesus. Pearce knew that if he stayed here, he was going to die. If he didn't free himself, that was. It was a fucking weird situation, lying here pinned to a bench with Jesus looming over him on a cross. If Pearce didn't keep a grip, there was a panicky edge just dying to creep in and take over. He had to be careful, keep control, not allow that to happen.

It helped having the lights on. In the dark, as he'd been previously, it was as if he'd lost the power to think rationally. There was too much out there, too much of a distraction in the unknown. Of course, he knew there was only Jesus out there, but here he was, not scared of the dark, exactly, but finding it harder and harder to see a way out of this situation. Even if Wallace had intended letting him go, Pearce was now a witness to a crucifixion. Wallace couldn't let him go. The only question was how Wallace was going to dispose of him. Another cross, or would Pearce get lucky and take a bullet in the skull?

While Jesus stayed quiet, just moaning occasionally, Pearce thought through his options. They were ... zero. There was absolutely fucking nothing he could do. Almost everything he thought about was patently, almost painfully, impossible. He'd been there, thought about it, no matter how ridiculous it seemed, and realised it wasn't up to him. He couldn't do anything. The restraints were too powerful. Pulling against them did nothing other than hurt his arms, made the pain in his side flare up.

His fate was out of his control.

He was as good as dead. He could see himself dead. Close his eyes, he was dead. Open them, he was dead. Peer through slitted lids, still dead.

He had to remind himself he wasn't dead. Not yet. It was all in his head. Although he knew now what it was like to be dead. And it didn't seem so bad. Some comfort, at least, as far as Mum was concerned. But it was still a state he'd prefer to avoid if possible. The question was, how?

Come on. He could figure how to get out of here. That's what he

had to do. Wallace must have missed something. Left some kind of loophole. Look, if Wallace was some kind of mad genius, he'd have attached Jesus's cross to the wall instead of propping the damn thing against it. Wasn't very safe. Damn thing could keel over any time.

See, now something was brewing. An answer. Came as an image. Or two. Wallace leaning the cross against the wall, stepping back, the Good Lord Jesus leaning forward like an angry, dirty swan, all his weight on his chest. Couldn't have that, cause he'd suffocate in no time at all. Which is why Wallace hadn't done it. He'd leaned him backwards, at a slant. Wallace had propped him up like that for a reason. To draw his death out as long as possible. Fuckhead.

Pearce dug his fingernails into his palms. His broken pinkie swelled with pain. Kept his brain ticking over, though. Use a bit of pain for clarity. Jesus was shouting again. Swearing. "Shut up," Pearce said.

Jesus opened his eyes and looked down at Pearce. Jesus was pale. Agony tugged at his cheek muscles now he was awake and experiencing the full horror of his plight. He was a skinny rake of a thing. A healthier, fitter person might have been able to survive this, but being kept in a cage for God knows how long meant that this particular Jesus wasn't likely to last a hell of a lot longer. Barring a miracle. He might once have been hard, but he'd had the shit kicked out of him. Wallace knew what he was doing.

Pearce wished Wallace were here. He'd try luring him over. Maybe call him names or whisper something and then, when he leaned in, nut him. Get a lucky butt in, maybe. Or bite him, like in that movie.

But that wouldn't help him escape. He'd have the satisfaction of getting another blow in, or ripping out a chunk of his neck, but it wasn't a practical solution. He'd still be in the same position he was in now. Strapped to a fucking bench.

Wallace dropped the
knife. Her knife. It clattered to the ground and he mouthed the word ‘shit' and clamped his hand to his neck. He staggered towards May, his free hand tugging the gun out of his waistband.

May knew she should have seized his weapons from him when she had the opportunity. She shouldn't have listened to Flash telling her to leave things alone. She should have followed her instinct. A little voice reminded her that it was her instinct that had got her into this nightmare mess in the first place. She told the little voice to fuck off if it couldn't be helpful. She'd had no choice. She'd had to stab him.

"What am I going to do?" she asked Flash. Maybe he'd give her better advice this time.

"Just sit tight."

Didn't sound great. "What good's that?"

"He can't get in the car."

But he could. Course he could. Bleeding like a bastard but it wasn't stopping him from aiming his gun at the windscreen.

She told Flash what was happening.

"You have to get out of the car, May."

"But you told me I'd be safe here." She shouted at him: "You told me."

And Cutey-pie made a tiny growling sound and May said, "Sorry, baby." And into the phone, "I'm scared, Flash. I don't know what to do."

"You have to ... shit, I dunno ... shit."

"Flash?" She'd have to decide for herself. Stay where she was and hope the bullet didn't smash the window. Right. Stay where she was and hope that Wallace didn't want to risk killing her. Right. After what she'd just done to him? Maybe Wallace might drop dead any minute. Right. She'd have to fling open the door and totally sprint like the Devil himself was after her. Which wouldn't be hard. Cause, in a way, he was.

She said, in a whisper, "I'm going to run," into her phone.

"Don't hang up," Flash yelled.

So she didn't.

Wallace fired, and glass smashed everywhere.

How did a
guy who was strapped to a bench and weak with hunger and thirst and blows to the head and stiff with lack of movement, and another guy who was nailed to a couple of planks of wood and out of his tree on magic mushrooms, get rid of their restraints and break out of a locked room? Tough assignment, right?

Pearce had to focus.

Wallace had gone, but could return any minute. They had to get out of this shithole. Right now. The stench hit Pearce again and he gagged. Or maybe it wasn't the smell but the memory of it.

Same difference. Same result, anyway.

Jesus spoke. Bit of breathlessness in there. "I'll give it a shot," he said.

Give what a shot?

Jesus clearly had a plan. Which was fine by Pearce.

Jesus strained. Head and upper body rocking forward. Just a bit. Then he slid back. Cried out. Palms bleeding again. Again. Worse, this time. The strain. The cry.

"Hey," Pearce said. It was tough to watch. But Pearce knew what the poor bastard was up to.

Shouting now from Jesus as he went for it a third time. The forward movement causing his hands to slide along the nails until they thrust against the nailheads. Then he fell backwards.

"Look," Pearce said. "Don't —"

Jesus yelled, tried again. Pearce was impressed. Maybe Jesus was pretty hard after all. Even if he
was
crying. The sound made the bench Pearce was lying on vibrate. He could feel the cry in his thigh bone.

But, no. No fucking way would Jesus be able to yank those nails out. Poor bastard.

Jesus rested, closed his eyes. Tears rolled down his cheeks.

Pearce wished he could reach out and slap him. Stop him feeling so fucking sorry for himself and try again.
Again. Now.
Why, Pearce didn't know. There was no fucking point.

"Rock," Jesus said. "Rock."

And Pearce joined him. "Rock," he said.

And because May
left her phone on, Flash heard what happened.

A sound, like somebody'd dropped a tray of pint glasses, and Flash could almost see the liquid splashing everywhere and the shards and splinters of glass, but of course he knew that's not what it was, however much he wanted it to be, and then in his head he saw the driver's window pulverised and knew that's what had happened and his stomach shrank and went cold.

And then a scream, the likes of which Flash never wanted to hear again, unless it was made by the shitfucker who was doing this to his sister, in which case the cunt could scream fit to rip his throat and that would be okay with Flash.

But at least he knew from the scream that May was alive. The bullet might have hit her, but it hadn't killed her.

Then a thud, and who knew what that was, but the screaming stopped so Flash had to imagine the jizzwad cocksucking bastard had hit May and yeah, when Flash replayed the sound in his head, it had that dull smacking sound that a solid object makes when it connects with bone.