Bad Men (13 page)

Pearce might get some sleep tonight. Cool enough that he might even drag the quilt out of the cupboard. Ah, to sleep with something weighing down on him. And he didn't mean another body. Or bad thoughts.

The bird was
standing at the water's edge. Black and white, stretched-out-of-shape little body complete with beer-gut. Looked like a tiny penguin. It wasn't moving. For a second, Pearce thought someone had placed a statue in the sand. But the bird gave a tiny jerk of its head as Pearce approached. He kept expecting it to flap its wings and take off. But it sat there, as if it were stuck. Had it been facing the other way, it might have been engrossed in the task of watching for fish. But it was facing the deserted promenade. Looking towards the station, where there was nothing to catch other than a bus. In any case, the station was shrouded in mist and if you didn't know it was there, you'd be unable to tell. Tonight, even an eagle wouldn't have seen shit.

He walked right up to the bird. It gave him a sideways glance. Then ignored him. He bent down, still expecting it to take off, and picked it up. It gave a half-arsed squawk, beat its wings a couple of times, kicked its legs. Then played dead again.

So it hadn't been stuck in the wet sand. Hadn't sunk in there under its own pot-bellied weight. Hadn't dug its heels in. Hadn't been rammed in feet-first by a sadistic dog walker.

Eleven o'clock, dark, the mist filtering out most of the moonlight. He used the light from his mobile phone to check that the bird wasn't injured. Its wings looked okay. Its legs seemed fine. Looked perfectly healthy, as far as he could tell. Like a bird ought to look. So why was it sitting there like a right sorry fuck?

He put it back down. It stared towards the promenade, motionless. For all the world it appeared to have given up on life. Was it old? Was it sitting here waiting for the end, was that it? How did you tell how old a bird was? Was it tired? Just taking a rest? Nah, it would have summoned some energy from somewhere. Was it crazy? Did you get insane birds? He crouched down and spoke to it. Asked it the questions he'd just asked himself. After a while he realised that what he imagined was comforting to the poor creature was probably distressing the fuck out of it. And if it was already suicidal, maybe that wasn't the best thing for it. Should he go, just leave it alone? It was waiting for something to kill it. Birds probably found it hard to kill themselves. Can't very well pick up a gun, shove it in the old beak and pull the trigger. Should he help? Wring its neck? Smash its skull between a couple of big stones? Was that the right thing to do?

Pearce turned, walked away from the bird. He didn't feel like killing anything today.

What had he been doing? Oh, yeah. Acting on his plan for what was left of the evening. Fetch Hilda, go home, watch TV. Maybe drag the quilt out of the cupboard, hopefully get a good night's sleep. Where
was
the bloody dog? He hadn't seen Hilda for ages now. He called his name.

"Are you sure you're doing the right thing?" his mum asked him. "Leaving that poor bird?"

"You're dead, Mum," he said. "Give it a rest, huh?"

Piece of piss.
The buzz was pretty close to the buzz Flash got from a successful burglary because, okay, you always imagined you'd get away with it, otherwise you wouldn't take the chance in the first place, but there was usually a moment when you knew you'd pulled it off and this was it.

Everything was cool and Dad would be pleased and Rodge, when he told Rodge, when Rodge was ready to hear about it, maybe he'd break into that long-overdue smile.

Flash pressed down against the dog's head with one hand and started to pull the zip up with the other. His fingers were numb and he swore because he should have brought gloves, but who'd have thought that the mist would make it so friggin' cold? The dog licked his wrist, oblivious to the shrinking world over its head and the funny thing was it wasn't wriggling, wasn't kicking as much as a single one of its three legs and in fact seemed to be enjoying the novelty of being stuffed in a large sports bag, fucking freakshow of a creature.

Flash left a small gap so the wee fucktard could breathe and he spoke to it continuously, just in case it decided to start barking and warned its owner of its whereabouts, although it seemed nice and relaxed, scarcely moving inside the bag, probably thinking it was bedtime or some similar kind of stupid dog thought, but then what did you expect, because something that small can't have much of a brain even though horses were pretty big and only had brains the size of a pea but were quite bright, so Flash had heard. Oh, well, that was one for the scientists.

Flash got to his feet and peeked out from behind the mound of boulders where he'd been hiding for the past couple of hours and where if it hadn't been for the mist he'd have been just fine but, Christ, his balls were just about frozen solid and his legs were stiff and his back hurt when he stood up and he couldn't help but think that this is what it must feel like to be as old as Dad. Flash hoped somebody would shoot him before he ended up in a permanent state like this because quality of life,
amigo
, that's what it was all about and if you lost that, you might as well lose everything, like his Uncle Cam who went into hospital with a small lump on his shoulder and died within a couple of days. Cancer. No clue, other than a week or so before he'd had a strange experience when he lost all feeling in his mouth. Cam had been a mountain climber and everybody agreed it was as well he'd gone so quickly otherwise the misery in store for him if it had been drawn out, well, it didn't bear thinking about, did it, because if you're going to go, go quickly and don't hang around cause there's no point.

Fifty yards behind Flash, waves crashed against the sea wall. There didn't seem to be any beach back there, but he didn't understand why that was, just that the sea slapped against the wall. There was more beach here, where he'd been hiding, maybe because the coastline curved inwards. Another one for the scientists.

The bag tipped, the weight moving from one end to the other as the dog finally started to get jumpy, damn the little fucker, but as long as it didn't start making a noise everything would be okay. But it might start making a noise any minute, so Flash got a move on.

The sand gave way under each of his footsteps and the dog was lurching from one end of the bag to the other but still didn't yap. Well behaved little pooch.

Not much further.

Flash crept towards the steps and started up them and it occurred to him that once he got onto the promenade, instead of taking the dog back to the car with him, he could head back to where the water was lapping against the sea wall and, well, drop the bag over the railing.

Hang on, it wasn't something he'd actually do cause no, he wasn't a great dog lover, but there were limits, obviously, and it just occurred to him momentarily as being an easier option cause if he got rid of the mutt now, he wouldn't have to take it to Dad's and ask him to take care of it and all that shit cause Dad would probably tell him it was his responsibility and Flash wasn't looking forward to walking it and feeding it, and, anyway, he couldn't keep it in his flat cause his flatmates would object, so fuck that for fun.

Just walk along a bit and –
whee
– over the railing, like that. Simple and effective.

On the other hand, Pearce shouldn't really have to pay for what Wallace had done and Flash didn't want to get those two thugs mixed up even if Pearce had given him a pasting. Getting hit in the balls was bad enough, and being smacked on the head with the edge of a briefcase hurt a lot more than you'd imagine, but it was the sound of that knife tearing through his trousers that made Flash squirm. Even now, he broke out in a sweat just thinking about it. So he wouldn't think about it, not if he could help it. Anyway, he needed Pearce. Now, if it was Wallace's dog, Flash might have to rethink his plan, especially after what Wallace did to Louis, but as it was, Flash dismissed the idea of dumping the dog in the sea and headed for the car.

It was unlikely Pearce would be able to see him, you know, with the thick-rolled blanket of mist, but if he did, all he'd be able to make out would be a distant figure carrying a sports bag and think it was somebody heading for the five-a-side practice pitches up the road cause you wouldn't imagine anyone would have your dog in their bag, now, would you?

An hour later
, it had started to rain. Pearce didn't give a shit about the weather. He knew he'd lost the three-legged bastard. He'd hunted everywhere he could think of. No sign. He'd whistled repeatedly, shouted till he was hoarse. Nothing. He retraced his footsteps. Nope. Finally he decided to go home. Figured that Hilda might have thought the same thing, that he'd be waiting outside the door looking sheepish. Or, more accurately given his size, lambish.

Once Pearce had left the beach, he walked home in the middle of the road. All the way worrying that maybe Hilda had been run over. Couldn't help glance to the side, lower his head to look under parked cars.

Nothing.

He sat at home for thirty minutes. But he couldn't sit still. He got up and went out to look some more.

It was pissing down now. He got soaked and Hilda's whereabouts remained a mystery.

Back home again he removed his wet clothes, ran a bath and tried to relax. But there was a tightness in his gut that wouldn't go away.

Pearce didn't get any sleep that night after all. Kept imagining Hilda outside the door, tail wagging, stirring a puddle.

Twice Pearce got up to see if he'd come home.

Of course he hadn't.

As soon as daylight broke, Pearce went back out. He was prepared for the worst. Finding Hilda's mashed remains by the side of the road. Or finding his bloated, matted body washed up on the beach.

Not even a dead cat lay sprawled out by the roadside. Although half a dozen dead birds were washed up on the beach (the fat little penguin wasn't one of them – Pearce liked to think he'd survived).

Of Hilda, there was no trace.

Through the sitting
room window at Dad's, Flash watched May playing with the dog in the garden and he was impressed that the pooch could run – in fact it could run pretty fast, considering its physical limitations.

He hadn't thought about how May would respond to Pearce's dog, how she'd lost Louis, how she'd be delighted to have another mutt round the house. It was great to see her happy again.

When he returned to Dad's last night, May had oohed and aahed as he removed the dog from the bag and once she'd noticed its missing leg, Flash had exchanged glances with Dad and Norrie and they all knew they were going to have trouble prising the dog out of her grasp when the time came to return it.

"Where did you get him?" she said.

"Found him," he said. "Abandoned."

"Oh, what a cutey-pie."

Flash assumed she didn't mean him and certainly the dog knew who she meant cause it started dancing on its three legs, tail wagging, a wind-up toy, licking her hand like it was covered in ice cream.

And since then, it hadn't left her side.

Flash looked away from the window and dialled Pearce's number.

"This is Flash Baxter," Flash told him when he picked up. "Got a message from Wallace this morning. He wanted to know how your dog's doing."

Pearce's initial reaction
was relief. All thoughts of Hilda's demise were nothing more than wild fantasies.

The wee bastard was safe. Wallace had nabbed him.

But Pearce didn't know Wallace. Wallace didn't know him. "What's Wallace want with Hilda?" he asked Flash.

"Somebody must have seen you talking to us," Flash said. "Wallace wanted to warn you off."

More likely one of the Baxters had told him Pearce was helping them, thinking it'd scare him off. Stupid fucks.

And then Pearce's thoughts twisted in another direction as he recalled his only glimpse of the Baxters' dog. In their car boot, throat slit from ear to ear. "What's the fucker done to Hilda?" he asked Flash.

Flash said, "I don't know how to tell you this."

Pearce said nothing.

After a while, Flash said, "He said the dog dropped like a stone when it hit the water. Probably on account of the boulder he put in the bag to keep it company."

Scenario one. That's
what Norrie decided on today. Close his eyes. Oh, yeah. And open, open wide, yeah. There it was. As real as real could be.