Bad Men (29 page)

Another attempt to breathe.

Nothing.

Dark patches at the corner of her vision.

And then, a gulp of air that was oh so sweet. And another. And another.

Pain shot through her hip.

She tasted blood in her mouth.

A dull throb in her shoulder.

And in a minute, Flash was standing over her, shouting at her and she couldn't work out why he was angry.

She couldn't hear a word he was saying.

Wallace hardly noticed
any longer that he was sitting on shards of glass. He'd pulled over to the side of the road, tried sweeping the pieces off the seat with the back of his hand, but they'd dug into the fabric, got lost in the little grooves. And he kept dripping blood from his neck directly onto the seat, which was really fucking annoying – almost as annoying as the freaky fucking dog in the back seat opening its eyes and staring at him – so he sat down and got moving again.

He needed medical attention, and not for his scratched arse. But if he went to a hospital, he was fucked. He'd live, but he'd go to prison. Nothing much for it but to struggle on for as long as he could, hope he didn't bleed to death. The bitch had missed his jugular, thank fuck, but there was a lot of blood coming out of the wound, a steady trickle.

Shame she wasn't going to see her boyfriend nailed up. Nothing ever went to plan. Wallace was going to go home, patch himself up, dispose of the bodies in the basement.

Ah, fuck. Who was he trying to kid?

He'd shot the old guy at Jacob's house. He'd run over May. He was fucked. Nothing he could do but finish off what he'd started.

He still had the gun. Grabbed it from behind the front wheel. Could put a bullet in his head right now, or go home first, tidy up, then do it.

If the police weren't waiting for him. For all he knew, somebody had reported gunfire at Baxter's house and Baxter had spilled his guts. And why wouldn't he? In the same situation, so would Wallace. Then again, if nobody had reported shots fired, then Wallace was safe for the time being.

Was there a way out of this?

Nope.

If he was going to go, he was going to take Jesus with him. He didn't mind so much about Pearce, but that little shit who'd slept with May ... Fuck, no, he didn't even mind leaving him alive, but he did want him to know May was dead. Okay, so maybe she wasn't dead, but Jesus wasn't to know.

Wallace floored the accelerator pedal.

His arm was okay, still bleeding, the shirtsleeve wrapped around it mainly dark red now. But his neck was the main problem. Fucking wife of his had nearly took his fucking head off. His collar was saturated with blood. He needed to take a shower and change his shirt before he did anything else. Some people might want to die dirty, but Wallace wasn't one of them.

Fortunately Jesus wasn't
dead. Just temporarily passed out with the pain.

"Where does it hurt?" Pearce asked him, trying to get him talking to stay awake now he'd come round again. Pearce hoped that the pain had sobered him up, counteracted the mushrooms a little.

"Leg," he said. A reply. A bit of dialogue. Excellent. And he wasn't screaming any longer. Pearce guessed he'd gone into shock. Well, deeper into shock, since he'd probably gone into shock the minute Wallace smacked the first nail through his palm. He was doing pretty well, considering.

Although maybe he'd gone into shock before that. In his cage, when he realised he was never going to get out of this room alive.

"Teeth," Jesus said, and Pearce was totally confused. "Strong teeth." Jesus pulled back his lips like some crazed chimpanzee.

Oh, fuck. He'd really lost it now.

Flash didn't know
whether he ought to pick her up, or move her or, or what he was supposed to do, and he stood there like a plonker playing with his car keys and feeling like he was about to cry, but he figured that if he left her there like that on her back with her nose busted and bleeding she'd drown or something and he couldn't stand back and watch that happen, so he told her he was going to move her head.

She smiled at him, which was worrying.

Blood trickled out of her left ear and that was worrying too.

He shouted, but that didn't seem to get through to her either, so he gave up trying to communicate and took off his jacket and rolled it up and bent down. Slowly, he lifted her head and saw her cheek was red and puffing up and there was a bump under her eye that looked hard like maybe it was bone and he said, "Fuck," cause this was looking really bad. He turned her head to the side and lowered her gently onto the pillow he'd made of his jacket. The other side of her face looked normal.

She said, "I'm cold," and the words came out slurred.

He took off his sweatshirt and draped it over her. Crossed his bare arms. It was cool, hardly T-shirt weather.

She said, "I can't hear anything. Can you hear me?"

He nodded.

She said, "I can't feel my legs. Doesn't hurt at all. Isn't that funny?" She shivered.

He looked down and moved the arm of the sweatshirt out of the way but he couldn't see anything without removing her clothes and he wasn't going to do that, hardly, so he dialled 999. Let the experts handle this. About time, huh?

And as he sat waiting for the ambulance to arrive, and the police accompaniment cause they never sent one out without a police escort, he looked at her broken body.

She said, "Flash."

He stroked her hand. "What is it?"

She shook her head ever so slightly to tell him she still couldn't hear him. "Promise me something."

He nodded. "Anything."

"You'll get Cutey-pie."

"Okay," he said.

She shook her head. "Now."

He pulled a face. She couldn't expect him to go after the dog. Not when she was all fucked-up like this and needing him.

She squeezed his hand. "Don't stay with me. There's nothing you can do. That was the ambulance you called? So go now."

"You want me to go?" Flash couldn't just walk away. She needed him and the police would want to ask him questions and it was too complicated.

She was reading his mind. "You can speak to the police later. I'll tell them I made you go after my dog."

She pleaded with her weepy eyes and he said, "I can't, May. I can't just leave you here like this. Not for a dog."

"What?"

He mouthed the last sentence again, slowly.

May said, "Then go kill Wallace for me, Flash. Before the police get him."

Flash looked at his hand, where the keys were bunched in his fist. "Okay," he said, squeezing his fingers tightly around the keys.

"Take mine," May said.

"Your what, May?" He had to mouth the words for her again.

"Keys," she said. "In my handbag. Find it."

Pearce had figured
out that the series of leather belts strapping him down were pulled tight and buckled on the underside of the bench. At least, that's the way it had to be, since he couldn't see any buckles no matter how far across he leaned.

Jesus had been chewing away at the leather strap for ages now, and there wasn't anything Pearce could do to stop him. He had attacked the strap where there was a gap, between Pearce's waist and his right forearm and Pearce's arm was now wet with dribble.

This was the craziest idea Pearce had ever heard. But Jesus had dreamed it up from somewhere in his near-psychotic brain, and there was nothing Pearce could do to stop him. Thing was, Pearce had nothing better to offer.

"Any progress?" Pearce asked.

The weight lifted off him. "Soft," Jesus said.

"What's it look like?"

A pause. Jesus said something that sounded like "Wasp."

"Okay," Pearce said. "That's good." What was the poor bastard thinking? Something about chewing a wasp? His gums were bleeding, and no doubt his jaw had to be aching. He should take a breather.

"No," Jesus said, shook his head hard.

"Okay," Pearce said. "It's not good."

Jesus calmed down again, looked like he was about to get stuck in once more.

"Hang on," Pearce said. "Maybe I can rip those fuckers out of the bench now. Let me have a go."

Jesus seemed to understand. He lifted his head out of the way.

Pearce waited a second, psyched himself up, then shoved against the wrist restraint. It tightened, but didn't give.

He yanked again, till the pain in his side made him stop.

No good.

And the effort had exhausted him.

"Chew," Jesus said. "No."

Poor bastard realised he wasn't doing any good. Wallace would come back, kill them both.

Jesus said, "Floor."

Floor? What now?

Flash drove off
, leaving May behind. He'd go to Wallace's right now and kill the fucker with his bare hands.

What Flash really wanted was to talk to Rodge, just pass a bit of
español
between them, a bit of banter, Rodge would understand and give him just the right amount of sympathy without being over the top, cause he needed sympathy right now the mess May was in. Not every day your sister was run over and if he wasn't mistaken, fair enough, he wasn't a doctor, but it looked like she might be paralysed and that didn't bear thinking about.

But he couldn't talk to Rodge. Rodge wasn't fit enough to take this on board and in any case Flash didn't have the time. Sure, if Rodge was well he'd be right here in the car sitting by Flash's side, but although Rodge was much better he was still very far from well.

Wallace. The cunt. Flash wished Pearce had fucked Wallace up big time. Course, he couldn't help thinking that if Wallace had beaten Pearce, there really wasn't much hope for him, but Wallace was fucked up, wasn't he? Shot and stabbed and weakened from all the blood loss and anyway, Flash didn't give a shit. Maybe it was true that even in his current injured state, Wallace would chew him up and spit him out. Maybe it was true that he was a psycho and psychos had the strength of ten normal men. Everybody knew that. But, fuck it, Flash was going to give it his best shot. He owed it to May.

Pain leg in
his. Just to add to the other pains hands and feet. Levelled had off the drugs. The pain helped. Mushrooms. Could think now, just, in bits together that made sense. Speak was hard. Couldn't much. Hear the chirping? Birds. Are they Greek? How'd they get in here? Open window. Handy. No open windows. Weird.

Twist.

Mum used to do the twist. Only dance step she knew. Every bloody song. The twist. Danced to.

Not good dancing. Why did Pearce? Three bobs short of a bob-bob-bob-bob.

Twist, yes, right, Jesus understood. He was the one doing the twist. Not Pearce. Twisting round. Positioning himself. That kind of twist, too, not the other one. Nobody was dancing. Not mum, not him, not Pearce. He yelled, something digging into him. Couldn't quite locate the pain. Seemed to be shifting. Animal burrowing inside him. Could feel claws. In his thigh. Yuck. Bird feet.

Not birds. Not down here. No.

And he understood what Pearce was asking him. How'd he do that?

The bird noise was Pearce speaking.

That's what it was.

Not birds.

Not down here.

No.

Birds were outside.

Not in here.

"You can you do it," the wasp said.

Jesus panted. Tried to speak. His jaw hurt. His teeth hurt. His gums hurt. His lips hurt. Do what? "Do what?"

"What you're doing."

What he was doing.