Bad Men (23 page)

Eyes staring down at Pearce anyway closed.

Pain throbbing through him drugs throbbing through him like drugs like pain.

Pearce's side to side face darting around where was his crown of thorns? – missed a trick there, cunt.

Jesus was alive struggling to get out inside himself, tearing a like something out of a horror movie hole.

He couldn't take any so he shouted more of the pain and Pearce said, "Shhh. Just try to relax."

Jesus raised his
and again
eyelids, but they slammed down. And again. Deafening noise,
relax?
no pain.

Wallace hovered
but he'd gone
beside him. "Knock yourself out."
Fuck you.

Jesus wrapped his tongue
and squeezed
round Wallace's neck.

Wallace shook "Is it fun in there? Inside your brain?" his head.

Thought he'd bite his tongue off. Trying to speak. Trying to shout. Not
bastard bastard bastard
knowing who he was speaking to or shouting at or why or what the point was or
fucking fuck
whether he had a handle on his mind cause it wasn't him in there and he couldn't keep his
couldn't keep them shut
eyes open cause there was too
and me
much
on a
information
cross
.

His eyes opened. He knew he was dying.

"No, you're fucking not," Pearce said. "Listen to me, Jesus. Just fucking concentrate."

When May opened
the door, Wallace was taken by surprise. He hadn't seen her in a while, and when he had, it had been from a distance. In the flesh, he was reminded of all that had passed between them. No matter what anyone said about her being young, and people said plenty, none more so than her fucking family, well, she was old enough to decide to get married and that's what she'd done. They'd been happy together. They got on, you know. He did his thing and she did hers and they didn't argue much and when they did it was over pretty quickly. And the sex was great. Wallace couldn't understand why she'd slept with that bearded fuck. He'd asked her about it plenty, but she didn't seem to know either. When he pressed her, she said it was because he had an enormous cock, but Wallace knew she was just winding him up.

Looking at her now, her hair ruffled, face all tired and sad, he wasn't sure he could go through with it, after all. She was his family. He'd wanted to have kids with her. Was he unreasonable to want them to be his own? Fucking bitch. Fucking did this to him, made him behave like this. He hated her but he was fucking close to begging her to come home with him. Figure that out, cause he couldn't.

"You bastard," she said. "The fuck you do that to Rodge for?"

"I never," Wallace said, then realised he didn't need to be standing here defending himself.

"And Louis. How in the fuck could you do that to my dog, Wallace?"

"I didn't touch your fucking dog."

"You fucking did."

"I fucking didn't."

"Well, somebody did."

"Well, it fucking wasn't me."

"Well, who the fuck was it, then?"

"I don't fucking know."

"Rodge was shot and you have a fucking gun."

"That's fucking right, you fucking bitch, and I'll fucking use it if you don't shut your fucking gob."

"You fucking wouldn't dare."

"Keep your fucking voice down."

"Fuck off. You think everybody's scared of you. Well, I'm not. I've seen you naked."

"The fuck's that got to do with anything?"

Wallace shoved the door hard. A dog with a missing leg hopped past him at a fair old pace and crawled under a telephone table in the hallway.

"The fuck was that?"

"Cutey-pie."

"I've seen you naked, too, May."

"Well, bully for you."

"Shut the fuck up."

"Why, what you gonnae do if I don't?"

Wallace looked at her, hard. She looked back at him, equally hard. He turned to face Norrie and shot him in the chest. Norrie gasped and slumped to the ground. He sat there, bemused, back resting against a utility cupboard door in the hallway.

"Look what you made me do," Wallace said to May. "You happy now?"

"I didn't make you do anything," May said. She started to cry, thank fuck. Took a lot to get through to her sometimes.

The kitchen door burst open. Jacob stood there, armed with a rolling pin and a bread knife. He dropped his weapons when he saw Norrie. Or rather, saw what was in Norrie's hand.

Wallace reeled back as Norrie, bleeding like a burst carton of cranberry juice, pointed a Smith & Wesson .38 at him. Same fucking gun Wallace had in his hand, courtesy of brother-in-law, Rodge. Norrie pulled the trigger.

Wallace's left arm snapped backwards. There was no pain. Getting shot wasn't so bad. He swivelled, kicked the gun out of Norrie's hand. It leaped out of the old twat's grasp and bounced off his forehead, landing with a clatter on the floor. Wallace stamped on it, dragged it towards him. He was tempted to fire a couple of slugs into Norrie's brain, but he didn't want to make any more noise. For the sake of the neighbours. There'd been enough noise as it was.

The pain arrived. Oh, yeah, it fucking arrived all right. It was like part of his arm had been torn off. And when he looked down, that's pretty much what had happened. The bullet had got the fleshy part of his forearm, just below the elbow and had torn through the flesh, taking a chunk of it along for the ride, exposing it all the way to the bone. At least, that's what that dark-red-covered white lump probably was. Lucky it wasn't the elbow itself, or that would have hurt like a bastard. And although he was bleeding a fair bit, the blood was oozing rather than spurting, which had to be a good sign. His arm was numbing up, but he wasn't going to die.

May was screaming. A horrible noise. Much worse than the gunshots. And where the neighbours might mistake gunshots for fireworks, a scream was a scream. Wallace was surprised May didn't choke on the gun smoke. It was pretty thick. Getting to his eyes. Stinging.

He pointed his gun at her. "Shut up," he said. "I fucking mean it, May." And he must have looked like he did, cause she shut up straightaway.

He turned to Jacob. Sized him up. Pathetic old fool with a strapped–up nose, bile-yellow half-moon bruises under his eyes. Wallace almost felt sorry for him. Wallace flexed his fingers. The arm was numb but his fingers were still capable of movement, although he wasn't sure how long that would last. He needed to fix it, keep the bleeding to a minimum. He bent over and picked up Norrie's gun. "Snap," he said, showing Jacob both guns. "A .38, just like mine."

Jacob looked confused.

"That the weapon used to kneecap Rodge?" Wallace laughed. "It is, isn't it?"

Jacob looked at the pair of guns, staring at them as if they might speak to him, tell him Wallace was lying.

"Why would I lie?" Wallace said. "If it was me, I'd take the credit for it."

"But that's not possible," Jacob said, getting to the truth at last. "Norrie ... he's my friend."

"Some friend," Wallace said. "Wise up."

"No," Jacob said. "No."

"Suit yourself."

Didn't matter to Wallace if Jacob believed him or not. Anyway, he had to concentrate on what he should do now with this pair of old gits. The pain wasn't helpful in making a decision. Norrie was shot in the chest and was probably going to die. Jacob was pale as a starched sheet and looked like he might keel over any second.

Wallace had no plans to kill Jacob. He'd had no plans to kill Norrie either, come to that, but he'd had to show May he was serious. And Norrie deserved it. Jacob was an old fart, but he wasn't dangerous. Still, if he wasn't going to kill him, Wallace needed somewhere to lock him up until after he'd finished with May.

The cupboard behind Norrie looked inviting.

"What's in there?" Wallace pointed, looking at May. She was doing well, not screaming. She was shaking a bit, though. Hands clutching her handbag, kneading away at it.

"Just a cupboard," she said.

Norrie moaned. Life in the old fuckhead yet.

"Why's it locked?" Wallace looked at Jacob, then back at May.

"Door doesn't stay closed otherwise," she said.

"That right?" Wallace asked Jacob.

Jacob tried to say something but he might as well have had a fist stuffed in his mouth for all the sense he was making.

Wallace said, "Yes or no, Jacob?"

He nodded.

"Move your pal away from the door," Wallace told him.

Jacob stared at him.

Wallace repeated the command.

Jacob still didn't move.

Wallace pointed his gun at him, and Jacob blinked and scurried over to Norrie. He grabbed Norrie's left arm and dragged him away from the cupboard. Norrie moaned again, loudly. Jacob ignored him, kept dragging.

"Give him a hand, May," Wallace said.

May said, "I'm not —"

"Fucking do it."

May stepped over to Norrie, doing her best to avoid the blood pooled on the floor, grabbed Norrie's other arm, and father and daughter tugged Norrie clear of the door.

"Now open it," Wallace said to May.

May turned the key, pulled the door towards her.

Yep, it was just a cupboard. An ample walk-in for storing odds and ends. An ironing board, hoover, step-ladder. Wallace couldn't see much more from where he was standing, but it was unlikely there'd be an Uzi on one of the shelves. "Put him in there," he said.

Jacob was red-faced and mumbling to himself, but he didn't stop to argue. In fact, Norrie was moaning again and it sounded to Wallace like Jacob was muttering something about him being a cocksucker. Which was the first time Wallace had heard Jacob swear. Fuck, he must be mad. Maybe it was beginning to dawn on him just what his best mate had done, the crazy fucking old fucktard.

Wallace couldn't help wonder why. But it wasn't his place to figure it out. Who knew what had been going on in the old geezer's head?

Anyway, Wallace's arm was still smarting. No, smarting wasn't the word. It felt like a wild dog was gnawing on it. Needed to get it bandaged up soon, but, glancing at it, it didn't seem to be bleeding too badly. He gave it a shake and there wasn't much of a splash. Maybe needed to get it cleaned, though. You never knew where the bullet had been. But first things first.

Norrie was in the cupboard, flat on the ground, wheezing. May and Jacob were looking at him and May kicked him, half-heartedly, then stood still, folded her arms across her chest, and stared at Wallace. She kept glancing at his arm.

Wallace removed the bullets from Norrie's .38. It was tough going, since the fingers of his bad arm were cold. He could sense that both May and Jacob were considering attacking him. Maybe rushing him, thinking he was wounded and so they could take him. He said, "I wouldn't try it." They kept their distance.

Once he'd got all the bullets out, dropping them in his pocket, he threw the gun into the cupboard. He had an idea.

"Get in there with your friend," he said to Jacob.

"I can't leave May."

"Get in."

"I'm sorry. I can't."

"Then I'll shoot you, Jacob."

"But I can't leave her."

"I'll be okay, Dad. Just do what he says."

"Listen to your daughter, Dad."

"But I can't. Don't you understand?"

"Please, Dad. Just get in the cupboard. He's not going to kill you."

"It's not me I'm worried about, May."

"I'm running out of patience, Jacob."

"Sorry, Dad." May walked behind him and shoved him in the back. He stumbled towards the doorway. She shoved him again and he lurched inside.

Jacob turned. "Oh, May. It's me who's sorry."