Bad Men

by Allan Guthrie

  He needed to calm right the fuck down.

  Come on. Get a grip.

  Work this out.

  How long had he been here? Could be night. Could be day. No way to tell.

  If it was still daytime, surely a room with windows would have let in some light, even with the curtains drawn. Unless the windows were boarded up. He raised his head as far as he could, ignoring the increased throbbing at the top of his skull, and let his eyes drift from side to side on the off-chance that somehow he'd missed a trickle of light. Under a door, maybe. But he couldn't move his head high enough to see that far down. Or, at least, he didn't think so. In the blackness, it was impossible to tell.

  Could be Wallace's basement.

  Or maybe it was night.

  Or maybe Wallace had slung him in his Range Rover and taken him to an abandoned warehouse.

  Unlikely, though. Wallace wouldn't have risked the neighbours seeing him bundling an unconscious man into his car.

  Maybe, maybe, maybe. Fuck maybe. Maybe wouldn't get him out of here.

  And he had to get out of here. The stink was going to make him puke. And if he puked, he risked drowning in it, cause he wasn't even sure which way was up.

  Where the fuck was he? Weigh up the odds and the silence would suggest that he was in a windowless room. The basement, then, like he'd thought. Not so good. But at least he'd worked that out.

  All alone in Wallace's basement, strapped to something. A bed. Well, there seemed to be a mattress underneath him. It was yielding, at any rate.

  Could be worse. Wallace could have killed him. At least this way Pearce was alive. Although he didn't know for how long. There was no way of guessing what Wallace's plans were. Maybe he was intending leaving him here to starve to death. Ah, well, no, that wouldn't work. Pearce would get hungry all right, but he'd die of thirst, wouldn't he? Maybe that was the plan. Pretty shit way to go, dying of thirst.

  Jesus, he'd done it again. That was very fucking clever, putting that thought in his head. Somebody should shut him off. Now all he could think of was how much he wanted a drink of water. Pictured the chilled bottle of Highland Spring in his fridge. Ran his tongue over his lips. His mouth had dried completely. Felt like he was licking a cement path.

  And the more he thought about it the more it seemed possible that a drink would get rid of the fucking appalling smell. No, it wasn't logical. Having a drink wouldn't mask the smell, he knew that.

  Fuck, it was dark.

  Wallace wasn't really going to kill him, was he? Not like this, for fuck's sake. This was pathetic.

  Pearce cried out, "Fuck you." His voice walloped off something and bounced back at him. He guessed he was in a small room. So yelling hadn't been a complete waste of his anger. He just wished he could use it to break out of his restraints. Could he? He gave it his best shot. Straining his muscles till they burned. Getting nowhere. Making a fucking racket. And maybe all he'd succeeded in doing was alerting Wallace to the fact that his captive was awake. Which wasn't what Pearce wanted. Not yet. Not until he'd figured out what was going on, where he was, and discovered the source of that fucking smell.

  But who was he kidding? He knew what was in store for him.

  This was his future. Right here. He'd piss himself after a while. Eventually he'd shite himself. And he'd have to lie in his own mess and breathe in a fresh stink until he couldn't breathe any more.

  That's what Wallace wanted. What a cunt.

  "Who's there?" a voice called out of the darkness, causing Pearce's stomach to shoot into his throat.

  A young-sounding male voice and it wasn't Wallace's. Yet until just now, Pearce had been sure he was alone. He'd listened and heard nothing. Apart from his breathing. Maybe it wasn't his breathing he'd heard. Maybe it was this other guy's.

  It occurred to Pearce that maybe he'd died. Fuck, yeah, this could be Hell. And if it was, Pearce was going to be pissed off. Nothing worse than dying and finding out that you were fucked cause you couldn't play a tambourine or didn't know all the words to the Lord's Prayer.

  The voice spoke again: "Who is it?"

  This guy was clearly in the same room, maybe fifteen feet away. Why had he remained silent for so long? Pearce had been awake for ages before the fucker had opened his mouth. Oh, yeah. He wouldn't have known that Pearce was awake.

  "Who are you?" Pearce asked.

  "A lost soul."

  For fuck's sake. "How long you been here?" Pearce said.

  "Longer than I care to remember."

  Pearce tried again. "What's your name?"

  "You wouldn't believe me."

  "Try me." Pearce wondered again if he was dead. Was that so impossible? He'd been struck on the head with a heavy object. He'd woken up in complete darkness. Unable to move. In a place that stank like the arsehole of Hell. Now he was hearing voices.

  The voice said, "Jesus."

  Holy fuck. Pearce didn't believe in life after death, but this was fucking freaky. There was no raging fire and no screaming tormented souls. So it wasn't Hell. Maybe he'd gone to Heaven. Although it wasn't the sort of Heaven you got told about at Sunday School. But, fuck it, you didn't get thirsty when you were dead. And he was parched. "Don't suppose you can untie me, Jesus?" he asked.

  Laughter.

  "That'll be a no, then," Pearce said. "Do you know Wallace?"

  "In a sense," Jesus said. "In as much as knowledge is —"

  "Do you know where we are?"

  "In a world of chaos."

  God give him strength. "I meant more specifically," Pearce said. "Is this his basement we're in?"

  "It's a place for poor souls. Are you real?"

  Was he real? This guy was a fuckwit. "Yeah," Pearce said. "How about you?"

  "I don't know," Jesus said. "My head's so screwed up I think I'm probably talking to myself."

  "You're not," Pearce said. "You're talking to Pearce. Have you been here long?"

  "Forever."

  "Where are we?"

  "Wallace's."

  "Basement?"

  "Yeah."

  Confirmation at last. "You strapped to a bed, too?"

  "I'm in my cage." Jesus rattled something that could have been bars and started yelling.

  Pearce had been right first time. This was definitely Hell.

  No, Hell was when the light came on seconds later. A blinding pain flashed behind Pearce's eyes and Jesus rattled his bars harder.

  Wallace said, "You shut up, you dirty fuck, or I'll do it today." Instant silence. Then Wallace loomed over Pearce and said, "Why he persists, God alone knows. The window's bricked up and soundproofed. He knows nobody's going to hear him."

  Pearce said, "Fuck you."

  Wallace asked, "You want to make a noise, too?" and yanked Pearce's little finger back until he screamed. "You don't like that? I'll do it again, then," Wallace said. "How's your head, by the way?"

  The Cat & Dog Home was down the road a bit, heading east, just beyond Seafield Road's glut of car showrooms. Pearce didn't know of any buses that went down that way. The 12, maybe? There had to be something, but he'd walk. It was a hot dry day and the exercise would do him good.

  He'd been to the pet shop in Portobello High Street earlier. Stood a while observing the gerbils. A white male and a fawn female in separate cages. Little bastards could jump. Quick hop-two-three and they were on top of their water bottles. Inquisitive, too. Came up to the bars, started pounding on them with their front paws. Kangaroo boxing to match their kangaroo legs.

  In an adjacent cage, a solitary brown-and-white hamster sat cleaning itself in the corner next to its food bowl. It had rocked back on its haunches, its balls thrust forward. Christ, they were massive. Make a couple of nice pillows for a lady hamster. Wee guy was getting a bit carried away now, with all his cleaning. His little pink member was sticking out through his fur. And he was licking away at it with something approaching a frenzy. He stopped just as a tiny parcel of thick white cum appeared. It stuck there, like toothpaste fresh
ly squeezed from a tiny toothpaste tube. Without any preamble, he grabbed the lump of jizz in his teeth and chucked it across the cage.

  Pearce was tempted to take this wee guy home. Maybe invite Jodie Foster for dinner. She could walk past the hamster's cage while he chucked jizz at her even if he couldn't tell her he could smell her cunt. But Pearce wasn't here for the rodents. No, he was here for a dog bowl, a collar and an extendable lead.

  No sooner said than done.

  He left the shop with a spring in his step. Kind of like the gerbils, but not so pronounced. In any case, his water bottle was at home in the fridge.

  There was a lot less spring in his step by the time he reached the Cat & Dog Home. But, Christ, much as he hated to admit it to himself, he hadn't been this excited in years. Fortunately, he had a little more self-control than your average hamster.

  Pearce woke with a start, mouth as dry as if he'd been sucking a breeze block, head pounding like it'd been used to wedge a lift door open all night. Last thing he remembered was some guy who thought he was Jesus rattling the bars of his cage, then Wallace making an appearance, bending Pearce's finger back until his whole hand throbbed with pain. Then he'd asked about Pearce's head, how was it after the pistol-whipping. He'd told Wallace to fuck off. Wallace had punched Pearce in the face and head until he lost consciousness.

  Jesus in a cage. Did Pearce dream that?

  Light seeped through Pearce's eyelids, bright as fuck. As if someone was directing a torch into his eyes from just a few inches away. When he raised his eyelids, it felt like somebody'd stabbed his eyeballs with their fingers. His eyelids lowered. He hadn't been able to make out a fucking thing. He'd try again in a second.

  "Too bright for you?" Wallace's voice.

  Pearce was at Wallace's mercy once again and from what he'd already experienced, Wallace wasn't big on mercy. This situation was in danger of becoming tedious if Wallace kept up the torture treatment for any length of time. But Wallace was in a perfect position to do what he liked and Pearce couldn't do a fucking thing about it. Or could he?

  He'd seen a movie once where a quadriplegic had bitten his assailant to death. Possible re-enactment? Get Wallace close enough, then sink his teeth into his neck. How would he do that? Tell him he wanted to give him a kiss? Problem with that scenario was that having bitten Wallace to death, Pearce would still be strapped to the fucking bed.

  Did he want to gamble his life on being able to free himself? Cause he didn't expect anyone else from the outside had access to this homemade prison. And Jesus couldn't help if he was in a cage. Maybe biting Wallace to death wasn't a good idea.

  Anyway, Pearce's face hurt too much to consider biting anybody.

  Problem was, he had no idea what Wallace was planning. He thought about asking. Maybe Wallace would enjoy telling him. Sadists were like that. On the other hand, Wallace might consider it more sadistic to let Pearce's imagination play out the possibilities.

  Which Pearce did. They were all bad.

  He opened his eyes again, blinked several times. Eventually he managed to focus. In the light, the stink somehow didn't seem so bad. First thing he noticed was that Wallace had his glasses on. Maybe he was trying to hide some of his facial bruising. Ordinarily the glasses would have made him look young and harmless. But in this instance they made him look psychotic. As Pearce's eyes started to focus properly he saw that Wallace's lips were swollen, like he'd had an allergic reaction to collagen. His nose was a gaudy combination of dark-red and purple. The frames of his glasses only partly hid the big black shadows under his eyes.

  Good.

  Pearce reckoned his own face must look even worse. Certainly felt it.

  Anyway, Wallace held a water bottle in his right hand. Oh, yeah. It was ‘are you thirsty' time? Psychological torture now. The fucker was going to enjoy standing there drinking in front of Pearce. Although the water was yellowy brown. Not water at all. Looked more like dark piss, or liquid shit.

  Bastard. Pearce would have preferred getting beaten up again. He'd never been this thirsty. He tried to forget about his thirst and seize the opportunity to take in what he could of the rest of the room. Not being able to lift his head more than a couple of inches (and that hurt), he couldn't see too much. Low ceiling with a totally inappropriate four-tier chandelier dangling from it. Hard to judge the distance precisely, but it looked as if he might bang his head on it if he sat up (if he was able to). Last thing he wanted was to bang his head. The thought alone made his cranium sting and a knot of pain formed in the middle of his head. The wall behind Wallace was made of egg cartons. At least, that's what they looked like. Box on box, all the way to the ceiling. Somebody'd eaten a lot of eggs. And in front of the egg cartons, a cage. Jesus's cage. Tall enough for a man to sit upright in and long enough for him for him to lie down in. Jesus fuck. There he was. A filthy kid, no more than eighteen, with a bumfluff beard, wearing nothing but a piece of cloth round his waist.

  Pearce squinted at Wallace and said, "Who's he?"

  "Didn't he tell you?"

  "Told me some shite."

  "Who does he look like?"

  "Looks like who he says he is."

  "Then that's who he is."

  "You're a pair of fucking lunatics. Who is he?"

  "Jesus."

  Biting Wallace to death suddenly seemed like a good idea again. "Give us a clue."

  Wallace ignored him, said, "You don't look too good."

  "You should see the other guy, shithead." Pearce braced himself.

  No blow came, though. Wallace said, "I thought you might be thirsty. Brought you a drink." He held the water bottle aloft.

  This was worse than getting another kicking. Thirsty wasn't the fucking word. Pearce realised he was licking his lips and stopped.

  Wallace had noticed, though. He was smiling. "I'm going to undo the strap from around your chest," he said, after a second. "You'll be able to sit up. Have a nice long drink."

  "My hands, too."

  "Do I look like a prick?" Wallace said. "What's your name?"

  Fuck, this was playing dirty. Payback for the Jesus thing. "You know."

  "Would I ask if I knew?"

  "I'll tell you if you tell me who you've got caged."

  "Cards in your wallet claim you're called Pearce. Gordon Pearce."

  Pearce hated mind games. He always lost. "You've been in my pockets?"

  "How could I resist?"

  "Can I have some?" Jesus said.

  Wallace said, "I didn't invite you to speak."

  Pearce said, "He's welcome to it."

  "You don't like tea, Pearce?"

  Tea? Was it? Could be. But why go to the trouble of making tea? What was wrong with water? Tea. The thought made Pearce salivate, just when he'd thought he'd never salivate again. And he didn't even like tea.

  Wallace untied the strap and said, "Sit up."

  Pearce managed to raise his head a foot or so. Enough not to choke when he swallowed.

  Wallace placed one hand behind his head to support him. Put the water bottle in front of his mouth.

  Pearce sniffed, trying to determine what kind of liquid was in there. See if Wallace really was playing games with him. Hoping against hope that, fuck, it was tea.

  Couldn't tell. Too much of the other stink was still getting through.

  Wallace said, "You've got five seconds. You don't want it, I'll give it to Jesus."

  Jesus. Right. "Why's he here?"

  "Mmm. Jesus was a bad boy."

  "What did he do?"

  "You don't want the tea?"

  "I'll have a sip. What did he do?"

  "Tell Pearce, Jesus."

  Jesus started to sob. "I'm sorry."

  "I know you are. But tell Pearce what you did."

  Jesus's sobbing grew louder. "I can't."

  "Oh, but you can. You must."

  Through thick sobs, Jesus forced out the words: "I slept with May."

  Ah, the boyfriend. The fool who'd got May pregnant. Jesu
s was dead meat, then. Pearce said to Wallace, "What are you going to do to him?"

  Wallace sighed. "What am I going to do to you, Jesus?"

  Jesus broke down, wailed.

  "Not much of a hard man, now." Wallace strode over to his cage and kicked it. Jesus shut up. Well, he carried on keening, but quietly. "Used to fancy himself, this one, Pearce," Wallace continued. "Take on all-comers, as long as he had a knife and his opponent didn't. But when May told me he wrote poetry, I knew what kind of a wimp he was. Fucking poetry." He kicked the cage again and Jesus stopped keening. "Answer the question," Wallace said. "Tell Pearce what I'm going to do to you."

  After a second, Jesus said, "When the time comes, Wallace is going to crucify me."

  Fuck's sake. "When's the time?" Pearce said.

  "Very soon," Wallace told him. "Got all the wood. Got my tools. Bringing it all down later, going to do a spot of carpentry, make a beautiful cross and place it on that wall there so you can get a grandstand view from your bench."

  So Pearce was lying on a bench, not a bed. Pearce was momentarily pleased Wallace had let something slip, until he realised that it didn't make the tiniest bit of difference.

  "Now," Wallace said, "you want this tea or am I going to have to pour it all down that stinking, bearded fuck's throat?"

  Fuck it. Pearce's thirst was too great. He had to try it. He put his lips round the nozzle and sucked. Just allowed a trickle into his mouth. Lukewarm. Waited a second until his tastebuds registered. Wondering if he'd just taken a mouthful of shit. But, no, it was tea. Possibly the vilest tea Pearce had ever tasted, but it was recognisably tea. He took another sip. Then another. If Wallace had pissed in it, Pearce didn't want to know.

  "Good boy," Wallace said, pulling the nozzle away. "You don't want too much of that, believe me." He strapped Pearce back up, pulling the restraints tight. "Now, Jesus has to have the rest. Today, he will see a slice of Heaven."

  Pearce had no idea what Wallace was talking about. But he didn't like the sound of it. The only slice he wanted was a slice of cake. Fuck, he was starving. That's what having a couple of sips of tea did for you. He didn't want to ask, but couldn't stop himself. "Any chance of something to eat?" he said.