Kill Clock

The sea breeze nibbled at Pearce's bare arms as he crossed over the Prom towards Portobello beach, his dog hopping along beside him. Pearce never wore anything over his T-shirt unless the temperature dipped below zero. Sunbathing appealed to him about as much as tucking into a plate of vegetarian sausages.

Luckily, it was a typical April evening, rain drizzling onto the empty tables in the sea-front pub's outdoor seating area. On the beach opposite, a couple of dog walkers trudged through the sand. One hardy soul in a wet suit kite-surfed in the shallows.

Pearce was halfway across the road when this tosser backed out of a parking space right in front of him. The car jolted to a stop, the rear bumper less than a foot away from Hilda's nose. Pearce didn't know much about cars. Wouldn't have known the make of this one if he wasn't staring down at the words 'Hyundai' and 'Accent', silver against the black paintwork either side of the number plate.

Hilda didn't seem to mind any of this, but Pearce did. The least he expected was an apology. But from the way the driver kept blasting his horn, there was cock-all chance of that.

"Get off the road, arsehole." The driver was leaning out of his window. Bald. Pointy head. Made you want to turn him upside down and plant him in the sand.

Hilda tugged on the lead, muscles straining in his weasel-shaped body. Turned his head, big eyes looking sad as ever.

Pearce stooped down. Gave the wee fella's chin a scratch. "It's OK, pal. This won't take long."

Hilda was named after Pearce's mother, who passed away a few years ago. He was still speaking to her long after her death, which he finally realised wasn't healthy. So he'd paid a visit to the local cat and dog home, leaving with a three-legged Dandie Dinmont terrier, one that happened to be male but somehow still looked like a Hilda. And of course, Pearce could speak to the dog without everyone thinking he was a loony. Most of the time, anyway.

"Move, you thick twat." Speaking of loonies, the bald guy wasn't going to let this rest. "Want me to run you over? That it?"

Pearce stayed where he was, even though his mouth tasted bitter with all the exhaust fumes he was inhaling.

Hilda stared up at him, the tips of his ears wet.

The guy shook his head. Leaned on the horn.

After a short while, two men came out of the pub, one looking heavily pregnant, the other with a crutch under his arm and his foot in plaster. They sparked up a couple of smokes and watched.

The driver finally eased off the horn and yelled at Pearce. "You've got ten seconds to get out of the way." He started counting. "Ten … nine … eight …"

Pearce picked up Hilda and stood his ground, staring at the guy in the car.

"… three … two … one."

Interesting. What was Baldie going to do now?

He revved the engine. And then started to reverse.

Pearce watched the car inch closer, wondering how far this knobhead was prepared to go. He found out when the bumper touched his shins.

Well, well.

He stepped to the side, set Hilda down and unclipped the lead. "Go, be busy." Wee soul was desperate. The grassy area where he liked to do his business was a safe distance away.

The car drew alongside Pearce. "Good mind to take your stupid dog and shove it up your hole."

Pearce could have reached through the open window and grabbed him, but that would have been no fun.

The bald bastard blinked hard, then rolled up the window. "Wanker," he mouthed, moving his wrist up and down for emphasis. Thought he was safe 'cos there was a pane of glass between them.

Should have driven off while he had the chance.

Pearce turned to the side, as if he was about to walk away, then swivelled, hammering the sole of his boot into the window.

It exploded, glass spraying over the driver. He yelled. Sounded more surprised than scared.

Other than a jagged fragment in the bottom corner, the window was gone.

Pearce looked over at Hilda, who was squatting, back towards him as always. Until he'd got Hilda, he hadn't known that a dog could be shy about taking a dump. Made him laugh. Usually. Wasn't in a laughing mood right now though. Things to do. Slapheads to sort out.

He put his hands on the car bonnet and jumped onto it. Stayed in a crouch to stare at the driver. He was sucking his finger. Probably cut it picking glass out of his clothes. He looked at Pearce, eyes wide, and let his hand fall to the side.

Pearce stood up, his back foot slipping a fraction on the wet surface. Baldie was still staring at him through the rain-pocked windscreen, forgetting to blink. Stunned, no doubt, at the sight of this madman standing on his car.

Great. Learning a lesson, maybe.

It was his lucky day, 'cos Pearce had plenty more to teach.

Pearce planted his feet, then raised the right one and drove the sole of his foot into the windscreen. The blow jarred the bone in his heel but only resulted in a thin crack in the glass.

Inside, Baldie cowered, hands in front of his face, palms out. Scared now and making no attempt to hide it.

Pearce kicked the windscreen again. Same spot. A few cracks this time. Bigger ones.

"No, no, no." Baldie clasped his hands together. Looked as if he was about to cry. "Don't."

Third time, the windscreen crunched, spider-webbing from top to bottom. Milky splodges streaked across the glass. Good enough. No way Baldie would be able to see out of that.

Pearce jumped down. Content to leave it at that and continue his stroll with Hilda.

Baldie opened the door. "Look what you've done."

By now, the pregnant guy and his crippled mate had been joined by a clutch of other curious patrons outside the pub to watch the entertainment. Most likely they'd only expected a game of pool and a spot of karaoke tonight, so a ruckus like this was a real bonus.

Baldie shook his arms and bits of glass dropped to the ground. He balled his fist. "I'm gonna …"

"What?"

No reply. Baldie just stood there working his jaw, silently, as if he was chewing his tongue.

"We done?"

Still nothing.

"Thought so." Pearce walked away.

He hadn't gone more than a few steps when he heard the car door click shut. Then the engine roared. Seconds later, he turned as the vehicle screeched to a halt just short of his leg. Again.

"You're paying for this." Baldie's voice was high and loud. "Don't think you're not."

Clearly not taking instruction too well.

Pearce swung round the side of the car, opened the driver's door and reached inside. Baldie put his arms up to protect himself, but Pearce batted his arms to the side and pulled him out, sending him sprawling onto the road. Splinters of glass covered the driver's seat. There was a coat in the back, though, which Pearce dug out and draped over the seat to form a protective cushion. Then he climbed inside and sat down on it, carefully.

"Hey." Baldie staggered to his feet. "What do you think you're doing?"

Pearce closed the door.

Baldie shoved his hand through the hole where the window used to be.

Pearce grabbed the wrist and used Baldie's momentum to pull him forward. His face bounced off the roof of the car with a dull sound like a dropped mug hitting carpet.

That had to hurt.

Pearce let go.

Long time since he'd been behind a wheel. Hadn't had much experience before he went to jail, and since he'd come out, he'd not had the chance.

First thing, he put on his seatbelt.

Right. The engine was still running. He pressed in the clutch, found first gear and applied a little power. The soles of his boots were pretty thick. Not the best footwear for driving. But that didn't really matter. He wasn't going far.

About twenty feet to the left would do. That's where the wall was.

He stepped on the accelerator. Hard to see through the busted windscreen, but he knew roughly where he was headed.

He had fun rushing forward for a few seconds, and then:

BANG.

Twenty miles an hour when he hit. Caught the wall a little side on, the impact jolting him forward. He rolled his neck, checking for whiplash. It felt fine.

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