Authors: Allan Guthrie
Bad Men (35 page)
A big clear breathing tube was stuck between his parted lips. All Pearce had to do was pull it out or unplug the ventilator. Didn't even need to pinch Wallace's nostrils and cup his hand over his mouth afterwards. And he'd probably get away with it.
But did he want to? It appeared that Wallace, despite his violence towards almost everyone else, hadn't harmed Hilda. Pearce took that on board. See, Pearce had been wrong about Wallace. It had never been personal. At least, not until Pearce, like the dumb fuck he was, made it so.
Pearce turned away. Yeah, wasn't his business. He'd leave Wallace for Rodge. The big guy might have lost the use of his legs, but as far as Pearce knew, he still had a working pair of balls. And if he didn't, Pearce was pretty sure May did.
Pearce sat for
ten minutes at the vet's before they let him into a room at the back.
"There's the wee fella," the vet said. "Proper little hard man."
Hilda was in a large cage. Shaved, stitched, wearing a cone round his neck, groggy, trying his hardest to wag his tail.
Pearce spoke to him. Told him he was a fucking rascal.
Hilda wagged his tail all the harder.
They'd warned Pearce that Hilda wasn't completely in the clear yet, and they'd need to keep him in for a few days before he could go home, but the signs were good that he'd make a full recovery.
"I'll leave you two alone for a few minutes," the vet said. "But don't excite him too much."
Since getting out
of Wallace's basement, Pearce had found it hard to sleep. And when he did fall asleep, he'd wake up after seeing visions of Jesus on a cross, and that fucking awful stench getting right up his nose. He spoke to his mum about it, but she wasn't much help. Told him to get a grip, it was all in his head.
He'd spent another restless night last night, lying on in the morning hoping to nod off again, but with no success. He ate lunch, thought about going to the library, swap those books he'd never opened for another couple he'd probably never open, but decided to go for a walk instead. Get back in practice for when Hilda came home.
It was cooler along the promenade and only a few people were about. Mainly dog walkers, mothers with their kids, old men with the shakes. One or two of the folk he passed gave him odd looks. Understandable. His face was at the purple stage of bruising, looked like he had a massive port-wine-stain birthmark with dirty yellow trimming.
A couple of toddlers were walking along the beach wall, looking like they were going to topple off any minute. They hadn't spotted Pearce, which was probably a good thing cause their mother had and she couldn't stop staring.
Pearce was so busy staring her down as he walked by that he bumped into someone walking the other way. He turned. A tall guy, around fifty, familiar. Pearce was about to apologise, but the guy was grinning. Something wasn't right here.
The tall guy looked
really
familiar. The look in his eyes, like he was amped. And he was right in Pearce's face.
Pearce caught a whiff of his cheap aftershave and remembered immediately who he was: Happy Harry, the old junkie Pearce had barged into once before in this same spot, the junkie Pearce had called a paedophile.
Happy Harry's recall clearly wasn't as efficient as Pearce's. The old junkie stepped back, said, "Do I know you?"
Pearce held out his good hand. "Pearce," he said. "You okay?"
Happy Harry took Pearce's hand, shook. "Never been better," he said, and skipped off.
Pearce sat down, leaned against the wall. God, he was tired. He was glad Harry hadn't kicked off. Too much violence takes it out of you.
One of the toddlers, a wee boy with a chocolate mouth and tear-streaked cheeks, looked Pearce in the eye and pointed towards Happy Harry's back. "Bad man," he said.
His mother said, "Come on, Davey. Your brother needs the toilet."
"It's okay, Davey," Pearce said to the kid. "The bad man's gone." He closed his eyes. He was a liar. The bad men were never gone.
###
Also by Allan Guthrie on Kindle
novels
Slammer
UK
Savage Night
UK
novellas
short stories
Allan Guthrie is an award-winning Scottish crime writer and co-founder of digital publisher,
Blasted Heath
. His debut novel, TWO-WAY SPLIT, was shortlisted for the CWA Debut Dagger award and went on to win the Theakston's Crime Novel Of The Year. He is the author of four other novels: KISS HER GOODBYE (nominated for an Edgar), HARD MAN, SAVAGE NIGHT and SLAMMER and three novellas: KILL CLOCK , KILLING MUM and BYE BYE BABY, a Top Ten Kindle Bestseller. When he's not writing and publishing, he's a literary agent with Jenny Brown Associates.
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