A voice cried out to him from behind the nearest police car: "Put down your weapon."
"Oh, shut up," he said, and fired the gun at the car. He missed, and the bullet made that pee-ow sound you heard in old Western movies. He adjusted his aim and fired again. This time, he hit the back hubcap of the nearest cop car. That'd do. Keep them cowering for a while.
He used the fleshy part of his fist to ram against the door, and said, "If you don't open the fucking door, I'll shoot a fucking hole in it." He turned the gun round, burned his fucking fingers on the muzzle, dropped it, picked it up again and held it the right way round.
Come on.
Something clicked on the other side of the door, and the door swung open, slowly.
A medic was perched inside, young guy, all in green, looking terrified. And on a trolley along the wall, a small body lay covered by a white sheet.
Covered. Head to toe.
"May?" Wallace said. "May?" He stepped into the ambulance, turned to the medic. "Why's that sheet over her face?"
The medic looked away.
"I'm talking to you. Why the fuck is her face covered?"
He gave an apologetic shrug. "She didn't make it."
"Oh, yeah?" Wallace said. He didn't believe it. He hadn't killed her. He couldn't have. He'd just bumped into her, a gentle little smack, sent her tumbling. Couple of broken bones, maybe, but she couldn't be dead. He couldn't be cheated like this.
"Get out," he told the medic, who didn't need to be told twice.
Wallace closed the door after him.
Alone with May, Wallace stooped over the shroud. Pulled back the sheet. Her eyes were closed and she didn't look to be breathing. He leaned forward, kissed her forehead.
It was warm.
Her eyes opened. A smile flickered. She whispered, "I always loved you, you know."
She was alive. That fucking medic was a fucking liar. Cheap trick, pulling the sheet over her head. You'd think the little smart-arse would have thought of something more inventive than that.
"Kiss me," she said. "I don't want to die alone."
He pressed his lips to hers. Didn't have to think about it. He loved her too. That's why he had to kill her. But he could kiss her goodbye first.
He was thinking how unresponsive her cold, dry lips were, when he felt something sharp slam into the back of his neck.
The stink near Jesus's cage was putrid. How the poor bastard had managed to live in there, Pearce didn't know. Suppose he didn't have any choice. But, still. A shit bucket lay inside the cage's open door, and despite needing a piss really bad, Pearce couldn't bring himself to do anything. At the thought of staring into that bucket, his stomach started to rebel. So he gave up on the idea. Held it in. Wasn't so bad, since he'd had practically nothing to drink since he'd arrived here.
No sign of a hammer anywhere. And the DIY splint for his broken finger would have to wait till he got to a hospital.
Pearce walked away from the bucket, limping slightly on account of the pain in his ribs, and waited by the door, nail gun in his good hand. He couldn't work out whether to turn off the lights or leave them on. Seemed like he'd have more of a chance of nailing Wallace if it was dark. That way, the light would be behind Wallace, and Pearce would be under cover of darkness. Had to be an advantage. But then he reckoned that when Wallace returned, even if he breezed through the door, he'd register straight away that the lights were off, which was not how he'd left them. But, still, it would take a moment for him to register the fact, because he wouldn't be expecting it. First thought he'd have would be that something was wrong. And Pearce could nail him before he realised exactly what it was. Pearce just had to be careful he didn't get May by mistake.
"What do you think?" Pearce asked Jesus. "Lights on or off?"
But it was a good fifteen minutes, now, since Jesus had said anything coherent. He was babbling to himself almost constantly, only stopping to take a breath now and then. He didn't even look towards Pearce, concentrated instead on slapping himself on his head with his free hand, muttering Wallace's name and jabbering on about big teeth and poetry.
Pearce hit the light switch and the room went dark. All he could do now was wait.
Wallace's car wasn't parked outside, so Flash deduced that Wallace wasn't at home yet, but he couldn't think of what to do other than wait for him. Which was fine. He could wait as long as it took.
No indication that there was a burglar alarm, so Flash'd just have to chance it. If he'd been intending burgling the house, he'd have scouted the place properly but there wasn't time. He didn't like this, cause he was cautious by nature, but he had to set his nature aside and get on with it. There were greater things at stake here.
Flash took the keys May had given him out of his pocket, not convinced they'd work even though May had claimed there was no way Wallace would have changed the locks cause he'd never have expected her to go back. Flash tried them and they worked.
No alarm, unless it was a silent one and, well, he was fucked if it was, but there was no point living your life worrying about what-ifs and maybes, not when a psycho had run over your sister and been responsible for killing your dad. Didn't matter now who'd shot Rodge. Chances were there was no alarm, cause Wallace wasn't the type who'd concern himself over security, not when you considered that he reckoned he could police his own world all by himself.
Flash stepped into the hall. Stair led to the basement, the sitting room cum kitchen was straight ahead.
He opened the door, stepped inside. The sitting room was nice, white leather settee, big white rug, pile of blankets and a pillow in the corner, like maybe Wallace had been sleeping in here. Kitchen, not bad. Nice shiny hob, pristine worktops, big fuck-off fridge with a pile of fridge magnets and some photos stuck on it and the photos were mainly of May. In fact, they were all of May. Maybe Wallace was camera-shy or maybe he'd taken all the pictures.
Flash slid a knife from the rack. Nice big fat blade. He'd have a look around, secure the area. Yep, soldiers and burglars weren't all that different, although Flash wasn't sure which he was today.
Whatever it was, it slowed Wallace right down. Fucking medics knew their damn drugs, and that fucker who couldn't get out of the ambulance quick enough must have loaded May's syringe with some knockout shite while Wallace was outside banging on the door. Smart fucker.
Wallace's bitch of a wife had stuck the needle in him and plunged it before Wallace could react fast enough to get away from her. He felt sluggish as fuck, and it was worsening by the second. The needle was still sticking out of his neck. His neck was a fucking mess, no two ways about it. Holes all over the place now. And he could hardly keep hold of the gun, weakened as he was by the blood streaming out of him, and the drugs pumping through him. But he had to try. Had to move it over May's head, aim between her eyes.
And then squeeze the trigger.
Wallace tried to lift his hand, but it was reluctant to move. He felt like he'd been awake for a week. The other arm was completely dead, no chance of getting it to respond at all. The shirtsleeve dressing on his forearm looked like the kind of disgusting bleeding mess where, if this was a TV soap, he'd lose his arm. Well, Wallace had another arm. Problem was, it wasn't responding either.
His head was sinking towards May. Having problems keeping it upright, like his neck muscles had turned to soft rubber.
His gun hand fell on top of May. Panic in her eyes as she fumbled for it, but he held on tightly. He thought it strange that she didn't kick her legs. Anyway, he had to do it now, or he'd never be able to. Knew he could do it. Knew it. Fucking knew it.
He squeezed the trigger.
May bucked underneath his hand before he collapsed, bounced off the trolley and smacked onto the floor. Landed on his back. Stared at the ceiling and then it went out of focus. Then grey. Then nothing.
The bedroom was on the left at the bottom of the stairs and Flash wondered what was inside that warranted a heavy-duty bolt as thick as two of his fingers. Had t
o be a reason that room was bolted.
He slid back the bolt, pushed the door away from him. It was dark inside and there was an overpowering stench. He turned his head to the side, just as something black and yellow flashed out towards him.
Pearce's muscles tensed as he heard the bolt being pulled back. Here it was, finally, his chance to escape. He braced himself, squeezed the grip of the nail gun. Would Wallace remember he'd left the light on? Shit, now Pearce wished he hadn't touched it. He stepped forward as the gap in the doorway widened, thrust his arm out, aiming for Wallace's head.
"Fuck, amigo," a familiar voice said. "Easy, there."
Pearce licked his dry lips, tried to place the voice. Got it. It was the Baxter kid, the dickhead, not the fat one who'd been shot but the other one, the skinny one with the bad fashion sense. What the fuck was his name? Whatever, the dickhead deserved to be shot with a nail gun for talking Spanish, but since he'd just opened the door for Pearce, Pearce'd let him off for now. He let out a long breath. Lowered the nail gun. Snapped the light on.
"Pearce?"
No fucking flies on this one.
"Fucking hell," the boy said. "The fuck happened to you?"
Pearce assumed he was talking about the state of his face. The least of Pearce's problems, but it felt tender, and probably looked worse. "Been having a party down here," he said. "Glad you could make it."
The boy gazed at the nail gun, now hanging by Pearce's side, loosely grasped, and decided it was okay to step inside. He did a double-take when he looked across at Jesus's cage. Then he – the fuck was his name? – cupped his hand over his nose, glanced at Pearce again.
Pearce shrugged.
The boy stepped passed him. "Fuck," he said, catching sight of Jesus, who'd gone quiet. Probably passed out.
Pearce closed his eyes, which was a mistake. He was immediately battered by images. A quick-cut montage. Flick, flick, flick. And he was losing himself inside his head, like he'd been the one taking the drugs, until he latched onto a particular image. A book. A hardback. Big heavy leather thing, stinking of pigskin. Enough to make you heave.
The book was on a shelf, inside a bookcase, inside a row of bookcases, inside a roomful of bookcases.
A library, that's what it was. A familiar library. Portobello library.
Untying Hilda outside. Looking up. Across the road, there was Baxter's son, the dickhead, shoelaces undone, clocking him. Legging it. Pearce wondering how come he didn't trip, fall flat on his face.
Pearce opened his eyes, which was easier said than done. They didn't want to open. No, they were happy to be closed and stay closed. The lids weighed a ton, like a pair of elephants were sitting on them.
His body telling him it was all over. But his mind knew differently.
The dickhead, Pearce had seen him at the library, hanging outside. Streak? Lightning? Flash, that was his name. Pearce had known it was something stupid.
Well, he'd forgive him his daft name. He needed to get something to drink. He opened his eyes. He thought for a minute that Flash must have sneaked past him and run away. How fucked up would that be? Your rescuer arrives, then decides he can't be arsed to rescue you. Pisses off, bolts the door after him. No fun at all. But, no, Flash was bent over, muttering something to Jesus. No doubt never seen a crucifixion before.
Flash stood up, his hand still shielding his nose. "Hardly recognised him," Flash said. "With the beard and all."
Of course. Flash would know Jesus if Jesus had been friends – intimate friends – with his sister. Made sense.
Flash continued, "He's in a bad way."
Pearce said, "I don't imagine too many people who get crucified are in a good way."
Flash repeated his earlier question: "The fuck happened to you pair?"
Pearce told him, quick as he could.
Flash said, "What kind of drugs?"
Drugs. Fuck, every time Pearce heard that word his stomach shrank to a cube of ice. It was bad at the moment. This little ordeal had made him extra-sensitive, or something. His sister had died a long time ago, but the rage was still there like it had happened yesterday. Pearce had killed her dealer, and there was some therapeutic value in that. But, thing was, she'd been gang-raped afterwards, and the sick fucks responsible had never been found.
"Magic mushrooms," Pearce said.
"You know how many?"
Pearce told him.
"Holy fucking Jesus."
Holy fucking Jesus indeed.
Flash ransacked the kitchen, opening drawer after drawer, found a glass, which was handy, but wasn't what he was looking for. Finally got it, on the worktop in a container marked: SUGAR. He pulled out what he thought was the cutlery drawer, but it was stuffed full of envelopes and receipts and instructions for white goods. Drawer next to it was the one with spoons in it, so he lifted a tablespoon out of it, filled the glass with water and took all his bits and pieces back down to the basement.
No, he hadn't forgotten he'd said he'd try to get the fucking dog back for May, but the best way to find the dog was to wait here for Wallace to return, cause he'd also said he'd kill Wallace, and meanwhile Brian was dying and Flash was gasping for a cigarette but he didn't have any on him and Wallace didn't have any lying around cause he didn't believe in putting toxins in his body, not even tea or coffee according to May, and there was no way Pearce or Brian would have any fags, so he'd just have to suffer for a little bit longer.
Saw that cage again, wondered what went on in some people's heads. Wallace was a serious fucking nutcase, just as they all knew he was and if anyone doubted it, thought the family had overreacted or something, well, the fucking loony had run over May and shot Norrie and been responsible for Dad having a heart attack and here was even more proof that he was a screwed-up, dangerous, twisted fuck who should be put out of his fucking misery. What sane person keeps another human being in a cage? And then crucifies him?
Pearce gulped down the glass of water, felt much better, asked Flash what he was doing with the jar of sugar. Flash explained that the sugar would bring Brian down. Hopefully.
Brian. Hmmm. "He's already down," Pearce said. "Managed it all by himself."
"It'll stop him tripping."
"That right?" Anyway, Pearce didn't think Jesus looked like a Brian.
Flash walked over to where Jesus was slumped on the floor, took the lid off the sugar container. Stuck the spoon inside. Brought it out, heaped. "Open up," he said.
Jesus was awake. He groaned.
"Medicine," Flash said. "It'll help."
Jesus opened his mouth as the spoon approached. Spoon slipped inside. He clamped his mouth round it and recoiled. Pearce sympathised. That had to be seriously sweet.
"Swallow it," Flash said. "Go on. It's for your own good."
But Jesus spat it out.
Flash dug the spoon into the jar again, brought out another heaped spoonful.
Jesus batted him away with his free hand, moaning as he made contact.
"Leave him," Pearce said.
"He needs to take this," Flash said.
"He's way beyond the help of a fucking spoonful of sugar."
"Let me try once more."
Pearce watched Flash pop another spoonful into Jesus's mouth. Same result as last time. Jesus opened his mouth wide afterwards, made a gagging sound.
Flash said, "One more."
Jesus said, "Fuck off, Wallace."
"Brian, it's me. Flash. I'm not Wallace. Take this. You'll be right as rain in minutes."
But Jesus wasn't having any of it. Good for him.
"We need to get an ambulance," Flash said, giving up, dropping the spoon.
Pearce said, "Help me take him upstairs."
"Best to leave him where he is."
"Jesus is going upstairs."
"‘Jesus'? That's sick."
"So spew." Flash was good at that, Pearce seemed to remember.
"Look, he won't fit through the door, not attached to that … thing."
"We'll unattach him."
"Why can't we just leave him where he is?"
"He's been in here too long. It's time he got out."
Flash said, "Wallace might be back any minute."
"We'll need to hurry, then." Pearce took a quick look round. "Think you could find me a hammer?"
By the time Flash came back with the hammer, Pearce was over by Jesus. Pearce's legs were fine now. Maybe he couldn't have performed a river dance, but the feeling was back in them sufficiently for Pearce to give Wallace a good kicking if he came back unexpectedly. First things first, though.
As Pearce yanked out the nails, Jesus made almost as much noise as he'd made when Wallace was hammering them in. Pearce had considered the slow and gentle approach, but decided he should just go for it, pull them out quickly, like ripping off a plaster. As it was, unfortunately, he was forced to take it slowly on account of his broken finger. He'd given it a shot left-handed, but couldn't get a proper grip.
And Flash wouldn't help. He wouldn't even watch.
Pearce was disappointed in Jesus, though. He was being a wuss. After everything he'd been through, you wouldn't think he'd be a cry-baby about this.
You'd think Pearce was pulling teeth.
Jesus passed out again while Pearce was removing the nails from his feet. These nails were a bitch to get out, right enough. Really fucking big bastards.
Pearce and Flash grabbed an end each, Pearce trying to keep his little finger out of the way and failing for the most part, but they staggered and stumbled and got Jesus out of the basement, up the stairs and dumped him on Wallace's sofa. Each step helped loosen up Pearce's limbs, but it aggravated the pain in his side. Probably a cracked rib or two. Jesus wasn't bleeding much, but he had a fair amount of blood on him already. Shame about Wallace's nice white leather sofa.
Pearce studied Flash for a minute. The boy was surprising him. Ought to be shitting himself, worried sick that Wallace was about to arrive home, cage him up along with Pearce and Jesus.
Bad Men Page 21
