Bad Men

by Allan Guthrie

  Just walk along a bit and – whee – over the railing, like that. Simple and effective.

  On the other hand, Pearce shouldn't really have to pay for what Wallace had done and Flash didn't want to get those two thugs mixed up even if Pearce had given him a pasting. Getting hit in the balls was bad enough, and being smacked on the head with the edge of a briefcase hurt a lot more than you'd imagine, but it was the sound of that knife tearing through his trousers that made Flash squirm. Even now, he broke out in a sweat just thinking about it. So he wouldn't think about it, not if he could help it. Anyway, he needed Pearce. Now, if it was Wallace's dog, Flash might have to rethink his plan, especially after what Wallace did to Louis, but as it was, Flash dismissed the idea of dumping the dog in the sea and headed for the car.

  It was unlikely Pearce would be able to see him, you know, with the thick-rolled blanket of mist, but if he did, all he'd be able to make out would be a distant figure carrying a sports bag and think it was somebody heading for the five-a-side practice pitches up the road cause you wouldn't imagine anyone would have your dog in their bag, now, would you?

  An hour later, it had started to rain. Pearce didn't give a shit about the weather. He knew he'd lost the three-legged bastard. He'd hunted everywhere he could think of. No sign. He'd whistled repeatedly, shouted till he was hoarse. Nothing. He retraced his footsteps. Nope. Finally he decided to go home. Figured that Hilda might have thought the same thing, that he'd be waiting outside the door looking sheepish. Or, more accurately given his size, lambish.

  Once Pearce had left the beach, he walked home in the middle of the road. All the way worrying that maybe Hilda had been run over. Couldn't help glance to the side, lower his head to look under parked cars.

  Nothing.

  He sat at home for thirty minutes. But he couldn't sit still. He got up and went out to look some more.

  It was pissing down now. He got soaked and Hilda's whereabouts remained a mystery.

  Back home again he removed his wet clothes, ran a bath and tried to relax. But there was a tightness in his gut that wouldn't go away.

  Pearce didn't get any sleep that night after all. Kept imagining Hilda outside the door, tail wagging, stirring a puddle.

  Twice Pearce got up to see if he'd come home.

  Of course he hadn't.

  As soon as daylight broke, Pearce went back out. He was prepared for the worst. Finding Hilda's mashed remains by the side of the road. Or finding his bloated, matted body washed up on the beach.

  Not even a dead cat lay sprawled out by the roadside. Although half a dozen dead birds were washed up on the beach (the fat little penguin wasn't one of them – Pearce liked to think he'd survived).

  Of Hilda, there was no trace.

  Through the sitting room window at Dad's, Flash watched May playing with the dog in the garden and he was impressed that the pooch could run – in fact it could run pretty fast, considering its physical limitations.

  He hadn't thought about how May would respond to Pearce's dog, how she'd lost Louis, how she'd be delighted to have another mutt round the house. It was great to see her happy again.

  When he returned to Dad's last night, May had oohed and aahed as he removed the dog from the bag and once she'd noticed its missing leg, Flash had exchanged glances with Dad and Norrie and they all knew they were going to have trouble prising the dog out of her grasp when the time came to return it.

  "Where did you get him?" she said.

  "Found him," he said. "Abandoned."

  "Oh, what a cutey-pie."

  Flash assumed she didn't mean him and certainly the dog knew who she meant cause it started dancing on its three legs, tail wagging, a wind-up toy, licking her hand like it was covered in ice cream.

  And since then, it hadn't left her side.

  Flash looked away from the window and dialled Pearce's number.

  "This is Flash Baxter," Flash told him when he picked up. "Got a message from Wallace this morning. He wanted to know how your dog's doing."

  Pearce's initial reaction was relief. All thoughts of Hilda's demise were nothing more than wild fantasies.

  The wee bastard was safe. Wallace had nabbed him.

  But Pearce didn't know Wallace. Wallace didn't know him. "What's Wallace want with Hilda?" he asked Flash.

  "Somebody must have seen you talking to us," Flash said. "Wallace wanted to warn you off."

  More likely one of the Baxters had told him Pearce was helping them, thinking it'd scare him off. Stupid fucks.

  And then Pearce's thoughts twisted in another direction as he recalled his only glimpse of the Baxters' dog. In their car boot, throat slit from ear to ear. "What's the fucker done to Hilda?" he asked Flash.

  Flash said, "I don't know how to tell you this."

  Pearce said nothing.

  After a while, Flash said, "He said the dog dropped like a stone when it hit the water. Probably on account of the boulder he put in the bag to keep it company."

  TRUE ROMANCE

  Scenario one. That's what Norrie decided on today. Close his eyes. Oh, yeah. And open, open wide, yeah. There it was. As real as real could be.

  The gasps from the back seat of his car told Norrie that his old friend was having fun. Good. All he wanted was for Jacob to be happy. Really, that was it, it, it. Nothing more. Nah, no way. That was all. Made it worthwhile Norrie taking the time off work. Happy Jacob made for a happy Norrie. Life was simple. Well, it should be, no need to complicate it, eh?

  Norrie was a couple of years younger than Jacob. Younger men were supposed to have an advantage, but from the floppy state of Norrie's wee boaby, you'd never have guessed.

  Norrie was thinking too much. Sexy stuff and thinking didn't go together. He was never going to enjoy it after all he'd been through recently. This was for Jacob, not for himself. His mind was racing – whiz – he didn't know what it was racing, but it refused to slow down. It had been this way since ... ah, Jeez. If he was going to have as much fun as Jacob, he'd have to concentrate. Join in. Be here in the warmth of his car, not in some cold dark place in his mind. Life had never been this hard. He'd certainly never had such a tough choice to make. And he still wondered if it had been the right one.

  Yes, yep, yipee. No two ways about it. It had to be the right decision. Andalusia had been a great idea, but Norrie couldn't let Jacob go. No way, boss. Getting rid of Wallace and staying in Edinburgh was a much better idea. Wasn't it? Even though ...

  Well, these moments of self ... self-doubt were only natural. Of course they were. You couldn't know what he now knew and carry on as if nothing had happened, although that's how it appeared. Oh, yeah. It was done. Over. Finished. Term ... inated. No use beating himself up about it. There was nothing he could do now. You couldn't rewrite history, right? That's what they said, and he wasn't going to argue with them. You could write the future, though, so that's what he was going to concentrate on. The present, too, if he was able – fuck the past. Oops. Jacob wouldn't like that. Swearing was bad, terrible, awful. Money in the swear box. Okay, boss.

  Flash's plan was full of holes, full of danger. If Pearce found out who'd really taken the dog, they'd all be in serious trouble. Norrie wondered sometimes if he was just being an old fool. Being too protective. Maybe, possibly, probably. But he'd started now and he had to keep going. Jacob had to be protected. Obviously May had to be protected, too, but Jacob was his first concern. Bottom line, Norrie wanted Wallace out of the way whatever the cost.

  The bastard – oops – the bad man had been tearing Jacob apart for too long. And it wasn't going to end unless somebody put a stop to it. Every day Wallace failed to act was another day Jacob suffered. There was nothing for it but to do what had to be done. Now that Flash had put the next part of the plan into action, Norrie knew that Jacob was beginning to tense up all over again, worrying about it all.

  God, he could feel himself shaking and it wasn't because of what the girl was doing to his wee boaby. No, that was more annoying than
enjoyable now, even if he was as stiff as a fossilised jobby.

  Move on to scenario two. Hmmm? Nah, this was the best, if only he could continue to concentrate.

  Sometimes Norrie couldn't believe what he'd seen.

  Sometimes in his memory what had happened was too strange to be credible, and he beat himself up for imagining things. But then it hit him full on, lu ... cid as a nightmare. He wished it could have remained airy and cottonwoolly. Dreamlike. Continued to have a kind of unreality about it. That would have been something. That notion he could try to hold onto; he wasn't really there; it must have been somebody else. Yep, yippee, sure, boss. Somebody else. Not me.

  Norrie had sat down and cried for hours afterwards, and he wasn't the sort to cry. That night had been the worst night of his miserable old life, worse than the accident, and he did feel old right now, even though he was younger than Jacob by those two whole years and ought to have no trouble getting his pecker up. Things had had to change. Pearce wouldn't play along with the original plan. It was Pearce's fault. Okay, not the dog, but the dog was supposed to bring Pearce into the picture. Supposed to get him to help. Bastard. Oops. Already had a second chance. Fifty pence in the swear box, Jacob. All the time, Jacob was under the worst kind of pressure.

  See, Norrie knew what Jacob had kept from his children. Jacob had a bad heart. He really didn't need this hassle.

  Anyway, what had happened to Rodge gave Jacob a way out. A way he could save May and the baby without having to leave the country. Or at least, that was the idea. Norrie had thought it would be obvious to the police that Wallace was the culprit. And with Wallace locked up for a good few years, May wouldn't be at risk. And who knows, he might have calmed down by the time he got out. Point was, that didn't matter. By that time, anything could have happened. Fucking stupid bastard pigs, though. Another fifty pee. No, two fifty pees. Completely failed to see what was glaringly obvious. No evidence that it was Wallace, they said. Which meant it was just as well Flash had embarked on the insurance policy option. That's where Pearce came in, again. If this worked out right, Pearce would take Wallace out of the picture for good. And if not, if Wallace killed Pearce, he'd be banged up for long enough, which is all Norrie ever wanted in the first place. That way, May would be safe and her kid would be born safely and, most importantly, most hugely importantly of all, right, Jacob would be safe. And with any luck, the prosecution would convict Wallace of shooting Rodge, too. The only wrong outcome would be if the pair of them decided not to kill one another. But given their violent natures, that kind of conc ... lusion was extremely unlikely.

  Well, it was a good plan, then.

  Ah, boy, it was hard seeing Rodge lying there pumped full of bullets. Hard, hugely hard, tough. But Norrie had come through it. Just. Although he wasn't enjoying this here frolic one little bit. But he had to persevere as best he could. Didn't want Jacob to guess. Had to carry on as usual. Do what they did every Friday. Pretend everything was okay.

  Norrie looked after Jacob. That's how their relationship worked. At first, Jacob hadn't been too keen. Felt it was wrong to be doing this. After Annie died, Jacob hadn't felt like meeting any other woman, but he did get urges now and then, as he'd admitted to Norrie.

  Norrie told him what he did about those urges and suggested Jacob do the same. But Jacob didn't do anything. One day Norrie sorted him out with a pretty lass who could satisfy those urges. And Jacob had broken down in front of him. Told him he'd never thought he'd do it again, hadn't even known he could still get his boaby up. Well, there was little doubt about that, as Norrie could see in the rear-view mirror. Okay, that was scenario two. In fact, the scenarios were getting a bit mixed up.

  They'd both been to the hospital this morning (true). Norrie thought it might be difficult being in the same room as Rodge. Guilt, guilt, guilt. Guilt could be a heavy coat weighing on his shoulders if he let it. Could make him sweat badly and get short of breath. But he was fine. Just remembered how it was.

  It had happened so quickly. Bam, in the face with the rolling pin, then bang, bang, the knees were done.

  And he was out of there before anyone got to the kitchen.

  No problem getting the gun, you know. Knew where to go, didn't he? The Mohican guy, tried to sell him that antique again until he remembered he'd tried it before.

  "Ouch." Norrie opened his fist. His palm was tacky with blood where he'd gouged a hole with his car keys.

  "Sorry."

  "Not you." He stroked the girl's hair with his uninjured hand. Her hair felt rough, not soft and smooth like you'd imagine it to feel. Of course, this one was a junkie. Lived rough since she left school. Three years ago, she'd said. Didn't have much opportunity to pamper herself. Probably just as well. She was heavy, despite her ill-health and poor diet. You wouldn't think it, you know, a fat junkie. But Norrie had seen a few fat vegetarians, so anything was possible. Anyway, above her scabby knee, he saw her thigh, creamy white, thick. If she'd stayed on at school, become a secretary, she'd have become a fat secretary. "You're doing just fine." He tugged gently on her earlobe as her lips slid up and down his shaft.

  In the back seat Jacob's grunts were louder now. The problem with cars: if you couldn't get the seats down, there was no room for anything other than a good old toot on the horn. But that wasn't too much of a problem, really, when you thought about it. At their age, having your horn blown was about the only kind of sexual act that worked, so there was never any need to put the seats down.

  Norrie wasn't going to feel guilty. No, shag that. What he'd done was he'd shown the family, and he'd shown Pearce too, that there was no doubt Wallace was a man capable of anything. All this wasn't just Jacob's del ... uded whimsy. Or worse, paranoia.

  Cause that's about how it was until Norrie cut the dog's throat.

  "Oh, Norrie," Norrie heard from the back seat. "I'm gonna —"

  "Boss."

  Jacob thrust out his hand and Norrie grasped it.

  Norrie turned his head to face Jacob. Jacob opened his eyes, smiled. "— come," he said, his hips bucking.

  Norrie squeezed his hand. Jacob squeezed back. And Norrie felt himself reach the point of no return.

  Love was always much more effective than sex.

  Five minutes later, cleaned up, the girl said to Norrie: "Who's the guy you pretend's in the back, the one you call Boss?"

  Norrie gave her a slap and told her to mind her own fucking business. She disappeared like that, like that, see, like snapping fingers, snap, pfff, ‘bye-‘bye. And, no, fuck the swear box, Jacob had gone.

  Norrie tucked himself away, got up off his settee, went through to the kitchen to make a brew.

  One of the side effects of the accident was that he could see things that weren't really there. He could imagine he was watching a TV programme, make up the images in his head, and his brain would respond just the way it would if he was watching the real thing. As far as he was concerned, it was the real thing. Like vivid dreaming, but while he was awake. Could be good fun, sometimes. He'd learned to control it for certain occasions, like these special afternoons with Jacob.

  He lifted the gun off the mug hook. Smith & Wesson .38. Bang, bang, bang. Smokin'. Didn't know if he should still be holding on to it, but he needed it for protection. He put it back, watched it rock to and fro while the water boiled in the kettle.

  Anyway, seeing things wasn't the worst leg ... acy of the accident. Some words he had to scrabble around for, sure, getting stuck in the middle, but the worst thing was that he kept thinking straight and he wasn't sure that other people did. You know, he'd work something out, the obvious thing to do, and it'd surprise him when other people came up with a different obvious thing. It was hard to explain. Maybe it was like the terminator in those sci-fi films. The obvious thing to do to people who were in your way was to shoot them. Well, that's how Norrie felt. And he had to keep quiet about it, cause he knew nobody else thought the same. Not everybody with a brain injury was stupid, you know.

  Th
e tall guy bumped into Pearce – or maybe it was the other way round – and said, "Hey, man. Be cool, huh?" He was about fifty. His eyes were wide, muscles around his mouth twitching. A wonder his nose wasn't twitching, the amount of aftershave he was wearing. The guy was wired. Still, no excuse for being rude.

  The fucker grinned.

  Another day, Pearce might have let it go. But after finding out that Hilda was dead he was none too rational and none too forgiving. After he'd finished speaking to Flash, he'd dashed straight out of the house before he did something he regretted, jogged down to the beach, and was now heading along the promenade at a furious walking pace. No destination in mind. Just had to keep moving or he'd explode.

  This junkie had fucked Pearce's momentum and that fucking grin was – Jesus, Pearce couldn't even take a deep breath to calm himself down because of the reek of aftershave – totally out of order. Fuck, he could taste the pillock's aftershave on the roof of his mouth.

  They'd collided at the point on the whitewashed wall surrounding the indoor funfair where a graffiti artist had scrawled: WALL, HUH, WHAT IS IT GOOD FOR?

  Once before, Pearce had owned a dog. When he was a kid. It had been run over and he'd seen the result. Poor bastard, still alive, crouched under a car. It crawled towards him, whimpering, dragging a fleshy mess that used to be one of its legs.

  Fucking funny, eh? Look at that junkie cunt laugh.

  Life was one big fucking joke, eh? Everything you grew attached to ended up dying. Split your sides at that, junkie fuck.

  Your sister ODs.

  You kill her dealer.

  You go to prison for ten years.

  Is that funny? Is it? Laugh. That's right.