Bad Men (19 page)

Anyway, Pearce's face hurt too much to consider biting anybody.

Problem was, he had no idea what Wallace was planning. He thought about asking. Maybe Wallace would enjoy telling him. Sadists were like that. On the other hand, Wallace might consider it more sadistic to let Pearce's imagination play out the possibilities.

Which Pearce did. They were all bad.

He opened his eyes again, blinked several times. Eventually he managed to focus. In the light, the stink somehow didn't seem so bad. First thing he noticed was that Wallace had his glasses on. Maybe he was trying to hide some of his facial bruising. Ordinarily the glasses would have made him look young and harmless. But in this instance they made him look psychotic. As Pearce's eyes started to focus properly he saw that Wallace's lips were swollen, like he'd had an allergic reaction to collagen. His nose was a gaudy combination of dark-red and purple. The frames of his glasses only partly hid the big black shadows under his eyes.

Good.

Pearce reckoned his own face must look even worse. Certainly felt it.

Anyway, Wallace held a water bottle in his right hand. Oh, yeah. It was ‘are you thirsty' time? Psychological torture now. The fucker was going to enjoy standing there drinking in front of Pearce. Although the water was yellowy brown. Not water at all. Looked more like dark piss, or liquid shit.

Bastard. Pearce would have preferred getting beaten up again. He'd never been this thirsty. He tried to forget about his thirst and seize the opportunity to take in what he could of the rest of the room. Not being able to lift his head more than a couple of inches (and that hurt), he couldn't see too much. Low ceiling with a totally inappropriate four-tier chandelier dangling from it. Hard to judge the distance precisely, but it looked as if he might bang his head on it if he sat up (if he was able to). Last thing he wanted was to bang his head. The thought alone made his cranium sting and a knot of pain formed in the middle of his head. The wall behind Wallace was made of egg cartons. At least, that's what they looked like. Box on box, all the way to the ceiling. Somebody'd eaten a lot of eggs. And in front of the egg cartons, a cage. Jesus's cage. Tall enough for a man to sit upright in and long enough for him for him to lie down in. Jesus fuck. There he was. A filthy kid, no more than eighteen, with a bumfluff beard, wearing nothing but a piece of cloth round his waist.

Pearce squinted at Wallace and said, "Who's he?"

"Didn't he tell you?"

"Told me some shite."

"Who does he look like?"

"Looks like who he says he is."

"Then that's who he is."

"You're a pair of fucking lunatics. Who is he?"

"Jesus."

Biting Wallace to death suddenly seemed like a good idea again. "Give us a clue."

Wallace ignored him, said, "You don't look too good."

"You should see the other guy, shithead." Pearce braced himself.

No blow came, though. Wallace said, "I thought you might be thirsty. Brought you a drink." He held the water bottle aloft.

This was worse than getting another kicking. Thirsty wasn't the fucking word. Pearce realised he was licking his lips and stopped.

Wallace had noticed, though. He was smiling. "I'm going to undo the strap from around your chest," he said, after a second. "You'll be able to sit up. Have a nice long drink."

"My hands, too."

"Do I look like a prick?" Wallace said. "What's your name?"

Fuck, this was playing dirty. Payback for the Jesus thing. "You know."

"Would I ask if I knew?"

"I'll tell you if you tell me who you've got caged."

"Cards in your wallet claim you're called Pearce. Gordon Pearce."

Pearce hated mind games. He always lost. "You've been in my pockets?"

"How could I resist?"

"Can I have some?" Jesus said.

Wallace said, "I didn't invite you to speak."

Pearce said, "He's welcome to it."

"You don't like tea, Pearce?"

Tea? Was it? Could be. But why go to the trouble of making tea? What was wrong with water? Tea. The thought made Pearce salivate, just when he'd thought he'd never salivate again. And he didn't even like tea.

Wallace untied the strap and said, "Sit up."

Pearce managed to raise his head a foot or so. Enough not to choke when he swallowed.

Wallace placed one hand behind his head to support him. Put the water bottle in front of his mouth.

Pearce sniffed, trying to determine what kind of liquid was in there. See if Wallace really was playing games with him. Hoping against hope that, fuck, it was tea.

Couldn't tell. Too much of the other stink was still getting through.

Wallace said, "You've got five seconds. You don't want it, I'll give it to Jesus."

Jesus. Right. "Why's he here?"

"Mmm. Jesus was a bad boy."

"What did he do?"

"You don't want the tea?"

"I'll have a sip. What did he do?"

"Tell Pearce, Jesus."

Jesus started to sob. "I'm sorry."

"I know you are. But tell Pearce what you did."

Jesus's sobbing grew louder. "I can't."

"Oh, but you can. You must."

Through thick sobs, Jesus forced out the words: "I slept with May."

Ah, the boyfriend. The fool who'd got May pregnant. Jesus was dead meat, then. Pearce said to Wallace, "What are you going to do to him?"

Wallace sighed. "What am I going to do to you, Jesus?"

Jesus broke down, wailed.

"Not much of a hard man, now." Wallace strode over to his cage and kicked it. Jesus shut up. Well, he carried on keening, but quietly. "Used to fancy himself, this one, Pearce," Wallace continued. "Take on all-comers, as long as he had a knife and his opponent didn't. But when May told me he wrote poetry, I knew what kind of a wimp he was. Fucking poetry." He kicked the cage again and Jesus stopped keening. "Answer the question," Wallace said. "Tell Pearce what I'm going to do to you."

After a second, Jesus said, "When the time comes, Wallace is going to crucify me."

Fuck's sake. "When's the time?" Pearce said.

"Very soon," Wallace told him. "Got all the wood. Got my tools. Bringing it all down later, going to do a spot of carpentry, make a beautiful cross and place it on that wall there so you can get a grandstand view from your bench."

So Pearce was lying on a bench, not a bed. Pearce was momentarily pleased Wallace had let something slip, until he realised that it didn't make the tiniest bit of difference.

"Now," Wallace said, "you want this tea or am I going to have to pour it all down that stinking, bearded fuck's throat?"

Fuck it. Pearce's thirst was too great. He had to try it. He put his lips round the nozzle and sucked. Just allowed a trickle into his mouth. Lukewarm. Waited a second until his tastebuds registered. Wondering if he'd just taken a mouthful of shit. But, no, it was tea. Possibly the vilest tea Pearce had ever tasted, but it was recognisably tea. He took another sip. Then another. If Wallace had pissed in it, Pearce didn't want to know.

"Good boy," Wallace said, pulling the nozzle away. "You don't want too much of that, believe me." He strapped Pearce back up, pulling the restraints tight. "Now, Jesus has to have the rest. Today, he will see a slice of Heaven."

Pearce had no idea what Wallace was talking about. But he didn't like the sound of it. The only slice he wanted was a slice of cake. Fuck, he was starving. That's what having a couple of sips of tea did for you. He didn't want to ask, but couldn't stop himself. "Any chance of something to eat?" he said.

"Do I look like a cook?" Wallace walked towards the cage and Pearce had to lift his head to keep him in sight.

"You eat enough fucking eggs," Pearce said.

Wallace looked at the floor-to-ceiling egg cartons. "That's soundproofing, you fucking fool."

"I might be a fucking fool," Pearce said, "but at least I'm not a prick whose wife would rather fuck that poor bastard over there than have me within twenty feet of her."

"You want to go first?" Wallace said. "Just keep it up."

Pearce didn't want to think about what Wallace meant. But he knew, anyway. Wallace was going to crucify the pair of them. How was Pearce going to get out of this sorry situation?

He heard Jesus sucking manically at the bottle of tea. "What's Jesus's real name?" he asked Wallace.

The sucking sound stopped. Pearce tilted his head and saw Wallace had pulled the bottle away. "What's your real name?" Wallace asked Jesus.

"Jesus," Jesus said.

"Good boy," Wallace said and put the bottle back to Jesus's lips. Just as if he was feeding a baby.

Jesus polished off the dregs and Pearce let his head fall back onto the mattress. He was fucked.

But there were some things he had to find out first. He heard the sound of footsteps receding, looked up and Wallace was nearly at the door. Pearce didn't want to talk to the bastard, but he didn't have any choice if he wanted information. Engaging the fucker in conversation couldn't hurt. They might bond. People did that, bonded with their kidnappers. That's how some of them survived. Happened all the time. Yeah, bond with the fucker. Fucking right. But, supposing you wanted to, how did you do that? Ask him a question. Which is what Pearce was going to do anyway.
So get on with it, pillock, before it's too late.

Pearce said, "Why did you kill my dog?"

"What're you talking about?" Wallace said, his hand on the light switch. "Everybody's obsessed with dead dogs. I like dogs, Pearce. I've never harmed a dog in my life. Why does everybody think I killed their dogs? Don't I have better things to do with my time?"

"You killed him. You killed Hilda."

"Your dog's called Hilda?"

"What if he is?"

"And it's a ‘he'?"

"Fuck you," Pearce said. Yeah, fuck the rapport. Fuck bonding. There was only so much crap a man could take. "I suppose you don't know who shot up your brother-in-law, either?"

"You think I'd waste my time on poor old Rodge? I wouldn't shite on him if he was a giant fly and it was his birthday."

Weird that Wallace didn't want to take responsibility. "So who shot him, if it wasn't you?" Pearce asked.

"What makes you think I'd know? I'm the last person anyone talks to." Wallace's hand carved an arc through the air at his side. "Family gossip goes sweeping right past me."

So Wallace was denying everything. That was good. Pearce would ask about the Baxters' dog, expect a denial, then he'd know Wallace was serious and the Baxter family wasn't as mad as Pearce had first thought. "What about Louis?"

"What
about
Louis?"

"You know. May's dog."

"Course I know who the dog is."

"Was. Past tense. The dog's dead."

"She'll be upset."

"You saying you weren't responsible?"

"You're obsessed with the idea of me killing dogs. Give it a rest."

The fucker was enjoying this. "Well, you planning on ... you know ..." Pearce had a question but somehow between his head and his mouth it had gone missing. Odd, and a bit worrying. Try as he might, he couldn't remember what he was going to say. Shit, no. Couldn't remember what the fuck he'd been talking about. Something was a bit wrong with his head. Taken a blow too many, maybe. That was the last thing he needed. A brain that didn't fucking work.

Wallace said, "I ought to smack the fuck out of you, Pearce," turned out the lights and spoke into the darkness. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

Jesus was shaking.

Wallace had come back, as promised, and he was now stuck behind Pearce's bench. Jesus couldn't see what he was doing, but he could hear the scrape of saw on wood and knew he'd soon hear the thunk of nails slamming home. Wallace was prepared. No hammer for him. Jesus had seen him carry in a nail gun. Black and yellow stripes. A giant wasp-like thing with a fuck-off sting in its tail. Jesus thought he'd long since accepted his fate, but he felt a brief burning sensation in his penis and a trickle of warm liquid on his thigh and realised he hadn't. A fucking nail gun.