Bad Men (32 page)

But killing May
wasn't as straightforward as Wallace had imagined. The ambulance door was locked. Bastards.

Wallace reeled forwards into the door, banging his head hard. The collision wrenched his neck, which was a problem cause he was now leaking blood at an alarming rate. He wouldn't try that again in a hurry.

He slammed the door with the butt of his gun. "Open this fucking thing, or I'll kill the bitch like I should have done first time."

Nothing happened. Nobody moved inside. Nobody replied.

Shit. He could do without this.

A voice cried out to him from behind the nearest police car: "Put down your weapon."

"Oh, shut up," he said, and fired the gun at the car. He missed, and the bullet made that
pee-ow
sound you heard in old Western movies. He adjusted his aim and fired again. This time, he hit the back hubcap of the nearest cop car. That'd do. Keep them cowering for a while.

He used the fleshy part of his fist to ram against the door, and said, "If you don't open the fucking door, I'll shoot a fucking hole in it." He turned the gun round, burned his fucking fingers on the muzzle, dropped it, picked it up again and held it the right way round.

Come on.

Something clicked on the other side of the door, and the door swung open, slowly.

A medic was perched inside, young guy, all in green, looking terrified. And on a trolley along the wall, a small body lay covered by a white sheet.

Covered. Head to toe.

"May?" Wallace said. "May?" He stepped into the ambulance, turned to the medic. "Why's that sheet over her face?"

The medic looked away.

"I'm talking to you. Why the fuck is her face covered?"

He gave an apologetic shrug. "She didn't make it."

"Oh, yeah?" Wallace said. He didn't believe it. He hadn't killed her. He couldn't have. He'd just bumped into her, a gentle little smack, sent her tumbling. Couple of broken bones, maybe, but she couldn't be dead. He couldn't be cheated like this.

"Get out," he told the medic, who didn't need to be told twice.

Wallace closed the door after him.

Alone with May, Wallace stooped over the shroud. Pulled back the sheet. Her eyes were closed and she didn't look to be breathing. He leaned forward, kissed her forehead.

It was warm.

Her eyes opened. A smile flickered. She whispered, "I always loved you, you know."

She was alive. That fucking medic was a fucking liar. Cheap trick, pulling the sheet over her head. You'd think the little smart-arse would have thought of something more inventive than that.

"Kiss me," she said. "I don't want to die alone."

He pressed his lips to hers. Didn't have to think about it. He loved her too. That's why he had to kill her. But he could kiss her goodbye first.

He was thinking how unresponsive her cold, dry lips were, when he felt something sharp slam into the back of his neck.

The stink near
Jesus's cage was putrid. How the poor bastard had managed to live in there, Pearce didn't know. Suppose he didn't have any choice. But, still. A shit bucket lay inside the cage's open door, and despite needing a piss really bad, Pearce couldn't bring himself to do anything. At the thought of staring into that bucket, his stomach started to rebel. So he gave up on the idea. Held it in. Wasn't so bad, since he'd had practically nothing to drink since he'd arrived here.

No sign of a hammer anywhere. And the DIY splint for his broken finger would have to wait till he got to a hospital.

Pearce walked away from the bucket, limping slightly on account of the pain in his ribs, and waited by the door, nail gun in his good hand. He couldn't work out whether to turn off the lights or leave them on. Seemed like he'd have more of a chance of nailing Wallace if it was dark. That way, the light would be behind Wallace, and Pearce would be under cover of darkness. Had to be an advantage. But then he reckoned that when Wallace returned, even if he breezed through the door, he'd register straight away that the lights were off, which was not how he'd left them. But, still, it would take a moment for him to register the fact, because he wouldn't be expecting it. First thought he'd have would be that something was wrong. And Pearce could nail him before he realised exactly what it was. Pearce just had to be careful he didn't get May by mistake.

"What do you think?" Pearce asked Jesus. "Lights on or off?"

But it was a good fifteen minutes, now, since Jesus had said anything coherent. He was babbling to himself almost constantly, only stopping to take a breath now and then. He didn't even look towards Pearce, concentrated instead on slapping himself on his head with his free hand, muttering Wallace's name and jabbering on about big teeth and poetry.

Pearce hit the light switch and the room went dark. All he could do now was wait.

Wallace's car wasn't
parked outside, so Flash deduced that Wallace wasn't at home yet, but he couldn't think of what to do other than wait for him. Which was fine. He could wait as long as it took.

No indication that there was a burglar alarm, so Flash'd just have to chance it. If he'd been intending burgling the house, he'd have scouted the place properly but there wasn't time. He didn't like this, cause he was cautious by nature, but he had to set his nature aside and get on with it. There were greater things at stake here.

Flash took the keys May had given him out of his pocket, not convinced they'd work even though May had claimed there was no way Wallace would have changed the locks cause he'd never have expected her to go back. Flash tried them and they worked.

No alarm, unless it was a silent one and, well, he was fucked if it was, but there was no point living your life worrying about what-ifs and maybes, not when a psycho had run over your sister and been responsible for killing your dad. Didn't matter now who'd shot Rodge. Chances were there was no alarm, cause Wallace wasn't the type who'd concern himself over security, not when you considered that he reckoned he could police his own world all by himself.

Flash stepped into the hall. Stair led to the basement, the sitting room cum kitchen was straight ahead.

He opened the door, stepped inside. The sitting room was nice, white leather settee, big white rug, pile of blankets and a pillow in the corner, like maybe Wallace had been sleeping in here. Kitchen, not bad. Nice shiny hob, pristine worktops, big fuck-off fridge with a pile of fridge magnets and some photos stuck on it and the photos were mainly of May. In fact, they were all of May. Maybe Wallace was camera-shy or maybe he'd taken all the pictures.

Flash slid a knife from the rack. Nice big fat blade. He'd have a look around, secure the area. Yep, soldiers and burglars weren't all that different, although Flash wasn't sure which he was today.

Whatever it was
, it slowed Wallace right down. Fucking medics knew their damn drugs, and that fucker who couldn't get out of the ambulance quick enough must have loaded May's syringe with some knockout shite while Wallace was outside banging on the door. Smart fucker.

Wallace's bitch of a wife had stuck the needle in him and plunged it before Wallace could react fast enough to get away from her. He felt sluggish as fuck, and it was worsening by the second. The needle was still sticking out of his neck. His neck was a fucking mess, no two ways about it. Holes all over the place now. And he could hardly keep hold of the gun, weakened as he was by the blood streaming out of him, and the drugs pumping through him. But he had to try. Had to move it over May's head, aim between her eyes.

And then squeeze the trigger.

Wallace tried to lift his hand, but it was reluctant to move. He felt like he'd been awake for a week. The other arm was completely dead, no chance of getting it to respond at all. The shirtsleeve dressing on his forearm looked like the kind of disgusting bleeding mess where, if this was a TV soap, he'd lose his arm. Well, Wallace had another arm. Problem was, it wasn't responding either.

His head was sinking towards May. Having problems keeping it upright, like his neck muscles had turned to soft rubber.

His gun hand fell on top of May. Panic in her eyes as she fumbled for it, but he held on tightly. He thought it strange that she didn't kick her legs. Anyway, he had to do it now, or he'd never be able to. Knew he could do it. Knew it. Fucking knew it.

He squeezed the trigger.

May bucked underneath his hand before he collapsed, bounced off the trolley and smacked onto the floor. Landed on his back. Stared at the ceiling and then it went out of focus. Then grey. Then nothing.

The bedroom was
on the left at the bottom of the stairs and Flash wondered what was inside that warranted a heavy-duty bolt as thick as two of his fingers. Had to be a reason that room was bolted.

He slid back the bolt, pushed the door away from him. It was dark inside and there was an overpowering stench. He turned his head to the side, just as something black and yellow flashed out towards him.

Pearce's muscles tensed
as he heard the bolt being pulled back. Here it was, finally, his chance to escape. He braced himself, squeezed the grip of the nail gun. Would Wallace remember he'd left the light on? Shit, now Pearce wished he hadn't touched it. He stepped forward as the gap in the doorway widened, thrust his arm out, aiming for Wallace's head.

"Fuck,
amigo
," a familiar voice said. "Easy, there."

Pearce licked his dry lips, tried to place the voice. Got it. It was the Baxter kid, the dickhead, not the fat one who'd been shot but the other one, the skinny one with the bad fashion sense. What the fuck was his name? Whatever, the dickhead deserved to be shot with a nail gun for talking Spanish, but since he'd just opened the door for Pearce, Pearce'd let him off for now. He let out a long breath. Lowered the nail gun. Snapped the light on.

"Pearce?"

No fucking flies on this one.

"Fucking hell," the boy said. "The fuck happened to you?"

Pearce assumed he was talking about the state of his face. The least of Pearce's problems, but it felt tender, and probably looked worse. "Been having a party down here," he said. "Glad you could make it."

The boy gazed at the nail gun, now hanging by Pearce's side, loosely grasped, and decided it was okay to step inside. He did a double-take when he looked across at Jesus's cage. Then he – the fuck was his name? – cupped his hand over his nose, glanced at Pearce again.

Pearce shrugged.

The boy stepped passed him. "Fuck," he said, catching sight of Jesus, who'd gone quiet. Probably passed out.

Pearce closed his eyes, which was a mistake. He was immediately battered by images. A quick-cut montage. Flick, flick, flick. And he was losing himself inside his head, like he'd been the one taking the drugs, until he latched onto a particular image. A book. A hardback. Big heavy leather thing, stinking of pigskin. Enough to make you heave.

The book was on a shelf, inside a bookcase, inside a row of bookcases, inside a roomful of bookcases.

A library, that's what it was. A familiar library. Portobello library.

Untying Hilda outside. Looking up. Across the road, there was Baxter's son, the dickhead, shoelaces undone, clocking him. Legging it. Pearce wondering how come he didn't trip, fall flat on his face.

Pearce opened his eyes, which was easier said than done. They didn't want to open. No, they were happy to be closed and stay closed. The lids weighed a ton, like a pair of elephants were sitting on them.

His body telling him it was all over. But his mind knew differently.

The dickhead, Pearce had seen him at the library, hanging outside. Streak? Lightning? Flash, that was his name. Pearce had known it was something stupid.

Well, he'd forgive him his daft name. He needed to get something to drink. He opened his eyes. He thought for a minute that Flash must have sneaked past him and run away. How fucked up would that be? Your rescuer arrives, then decides he can't be arsed to rescue you. Pisses off, bolts the door after him. No fun at all. But, no, Flash was bent over, muttering something to Jesus. No doubt never seen a crucifixion before.

Flash stood up, his hand still shielding his nose. "Hardly recognised him," Flash said. "With the beard and all."