Bad Men (33 page)

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.

But he seemed very composed. Not like the first time Pearce had seen him. Green-faced and calling for his dad.

Pearce was in a much better condition now, too, and tooled up, which no doubt helped the lad compose himself. Pearce saw him sneak a look at the hammer he'd stuck in one of his belt-loops. Pearce handed it over and said, "I'll go get the nail gun. You get Jesus some water."

Back in the basement, Pearce felt incredibly grateful to Flash. Wanted to give him a hug, or something. Which was peculiar. Because other than his mother and his sister, Pearce had never felt like hugging anyone.

He came back, dumped the nail gun on the settee next to Jesus, resisted hugging Flash.

God, it was good to breathe clean air.

Hammer tucked under his arm, Flash was giving Jesus some water, and he was gulping it down. He would survive. He was a tough fucker. But they should definitely call an ambulance for him.

Pearce walked over to the window, parted the curtains, peeked outside. Nothing moving. He turned, eyed Flash. Had a sudden image of him again as he was loitering around outside the library the day Wallace killed Hilda. Which Wallace had denied. After previously admitting to it. Or at least, that's what Flash had claimed. Shit, no. Pearce saw how he'd been played. Fuck, the only question was how far this shithead had taken the game. "Did you drown my dog?" Pearce said.

Flash pulled a face, let go of Jesus, stood up. He took the hammer out from under his arm, weighed it in his hand, bent down and laid it on the ground. Then he shuffled his feet in his unlaced trainers and said, yes, he'd stolen Hilda. Not that he knew Hilda's name. He'd said, "Your dog." And in fact he hadn't said ‘stolen' either. The actual word the skinny little fucker had used was ‘dognapped'.

Pearce said, "Say that again."

Flash's face paled. "We wanted you to kill Wallace." Behind him, Jesus looked like he was listening, but Pearce doubted the poor bastard understood anything anyone was saying any more. "I never intended hurting the dog."

Pearce was having difficulty understanding this himself. "Wallace didn't have anything to do with it?"

Flash shook his head. "Nah. Nobody else. It was me."

Pearce said, "So all this shit was avoidable."

Flash looked away. "S'pose. But if I hadn't snatched ... your dog ..."

"Hilda," Pearce said.

" ... Hilda, then you wouldn't have been able to save ... Jesus."

Pearce let his head slump. He should lamp the little fucker, maybe retrieve the hammer off the rug and pound the bones of each and every last one of Flash's fingers and toes. Or pick the nail gun up off the settee and fire a couple of projectiles into his crotch. But Pearce was exhausted. He just wanted Hilda back. He said, "At least Hilda's safe."

Flash didn't look at him. Stared at his trainers. Gave the hammer a tap with his toe.

Pearce said, "Hilda's safe, right?"

"Well."

Pearce had the little fucker dragged across the room and pinned to the wall before he had time to look up. One hand round his throat, pinkie throbbing, but who gave a shit? "What did you do to my dog?"

Flash was shaking.

"Huh? The fuck did you do?"

"It was an accident,
amigo
—"

"I'm not your fucking
amigo
. What did you do?"

"Nothing, I swear, don't hit me. An accident. The dog got out. Wallace let the dog out. Got hit by a car. Wasn't my fault. Wallace's fault."

Flash moved his arm, so Pearce squeezed his throat tighter. Raised his other fist. "Tell me everything."

Flash pawed at Pearce's wrist. Pearce gave another sharp squeeze, jerk of his fist, and Flash's eyes widened.

"Quickly," Pearce said.

Flash tried to speak but couldn't do much more than choke unintelligibly, so Pearce loosened his grip. No question now that the feeling in his fingers was back. His little finger was fucking agony, though. Last thing he wanted was to have to wallop Flash, but if he had to, he'd hit him hard enough to break another finger if that's what the little fucker deserved.

Flash blurted out the story about Hilda getting run over. About his sister trying to persuade Wallace to take the dog to the vet's. About Wallace knocking her down. About Hilda still being in the back seat of Wallace's car. And more stuff. Rambling about Norrie, a pal of his dad's, maybe being the guy who'd shot Rodge in the legs, that Wallace had shot the old guy but maybe not Rodge, and his dad had had a fatal heart attack. But Pearce didn't care about any of that right now.

"Is Hilda alive?" Pearce asked.

"No idea," Flash said. "But he was still breathing last May saw him."

"Where's Wallace?"

"I don't know. I thought he'd be here."

"And none of this would have happened," Pearce said, controlling his temper as best he could, "if it wasn't for you."

"I came for the dog. I came to rescue your fucking dog from the back seat of Wallace's car."

"Why the fuck would you do that?"

"May asked me to."

"My fucking dog," Pearce said.