Sleepyhead tt-1

by Mark Billingham

  'Well, what's it been? A few weeks? And we're already on to our second major row. It doesn't bode well, does it?'

  Thorne smiled. This was highly encouraging. 'Well, I'd actually categorise the first one as more of a bollocking, if you want to be accurate.'

  'Are you going to get that coffee or what?'

  As he filled the mugs from the cafeteria, she shouted through to him from the living room, 'I'll stick some music on. Classical? No, let me try and guess what you're into…'

  Thorne added the milk and thought, never in a million years. He shouted back, 'Just put whatever you want on… I'm easy.' As he walked back in with the coffee, he almost laughed out loud as she turned round brandishing a well-worn and wonderfully vinyl copy of Electric Ladyland.

  As the taxi – a black one, he wasn't going to make that mistake again – ferried him back towards Kentish Town, the evening's conversation rattled around in his head like coins in an envelope. He could remember every word of it. Bishop had been laughing at him.

  The cab drove down the Archway Road towards Suicide Bridge and he looked away as they passed Queens Wood. He pictured the fox moving swiftly and silently through the trees towards its earth. A rabbit still twitching in its jaws, trailing blood across leaves and fallen branches as the vixen carries its prey home. A litter of eager cubs tearing their supper to pieces – ripping away pale chunks of Helen Doyle's flesh while their mother stands frozen, watching for danger…

  Thorne stared hard at shop fronts as they flashed past. Bed shop, bookshop, delicatessen, massage parlour. He shut his eyes. Sad, soggy men and cold, brittle women, together for a few minutes that both would try later to forget. Not a pleasant image but.., a better one. For now. He knew that Helen and Alison and the rest of it would be with him again in the morning, lurking inside his hangover, but for now he wanted to think about Anne. Their kiss on the doorstep had felt like the beginning of something and that, together with the reliably pleasant sensation of being moderately off his face, made him feel as good as he had in a long time.

  He decided that, late as it was, he'd ring his dad when he got in. It was ridiculous. He was forty. But he wanted to tell him about this woman he'd met – this woman with a teenage daughter, for God's sake. Rachel had arrived back just as he was leaving. He'd said a swift hello before making a quick escape once the inevitable argument started about how late she'd got back.

  He wanted to tell his dad that 'maybe', with a large dollop of 'perhaps' and a decent helping of 'forget it, never in a million years', one of them might not be spending quite so much time alone any more.

  He added a two-pound tip to the six-pound fare and headed up the front path, grinning like an idiot. It was always a risky business for cabbies, wasn't it, picking up pissed punters? A healthy tip or vomit in the back of the cab? That was the gamble. Well, one had just got lucky. Thorne was humming 'All Along The Watchtower' as he put the key in the lock, and was only vaguely aware of the dark figure that emerged from the shadows and ran up the path behind him. He turned just as an animalistic grunt escaped from the mouth behind the balaclava and the arm came down. He felt instantly sick as a bulb blew inside his head.

  And suddenly it was much later.

  The objects in his living room were at the bottom of a swimming-pool. The stereo, the armchair, the half-empty wine bottle shimmered and wobbled in front of him. He tried desperately to focus, to get a little balance, but all his worldly goods remained upside down and stubbornly unfamiliar. He looked up. The ceiling inched towards him. He summoned every ounce of strength to roll himself over, face down on the carpet and vomit. Then he slept. A voice woke him. Hoarse and abrasive. ' You look rough, Tom. Come on, mate…'

  He raised his head and the room was full of people. Madeleine, Susan and Christine sat in a line on the sofa. Their legs were neatly crossed. Secretaries waiting for a job interview. Not one of them would look at him. To one side Helen Doyle stood staring at the floor and chewing nervously at a hangnail. Huddled into the single armchair were three young girls. Their hair was neatly brushed and their white nightdresses were crisply laundered. The smallest girl, about five years old, smiled at him but her elder sister pulled her fiercely to her breast like a mother. A hand reached towards him and dragged him to his knees. His head pounded. His throat was caked in bile. He licked his lips and tasted the crusty vomit around his mouth.

  'Up you come, Tom, there's a good lad. Now, eyes wide open. Nice and bright:

  He squinted at the figure leaning against the mantelpiece. Francis Calvert raised a hand in greeting. 'Hello, Detective Constable.' The dirty blond hair, yellowed by cigarette smoke, was thinner now, but the smile was the same. Warm, welcoming and utterly terrifying. He had far too many teeth, all of them decayed. 'It's been ages, Tom. I'd ask how you were doing but I can see… Bit of a session, was it?'

  He tried to speak but his tongue was dead and heavy. It lay in his mouth like a rotting fish.

  Calvert stepped towards him, flicking his cigarette towards the carpet and producing the gun in one horribly swift movement. Thorne looked frantically round at the girls on the armchair. They were gone.

  At least he was to be spared that.

  Knowing what would inevitably follow, he turned his attention back to Calvert, his head swinging round on his hunched shoulders with the ponderous weight of a wrecking ball. Calvert grinned at him, those rotten teeth bared as he clattered them theatrically against the barrel of the gun. He tried to look away but his head was yanked upwards by the hair, forcing him to watch.

  'Ringside seat this time, Tom. All in glorious Technicolor. I hope that's not a new suit…'

  He tried to close his eyes but his eyelids were like tarpaulins, heavy with rain.

  The explosion was deafening. He watched as the back of Calvert's head attached itself to the wall and began a slow, messy descent like some comical, slimy child's toy. He moved an arm to wipe away the hot tears that stung his cheeks. His hand came away red, the bits of brain between his fingers. As he slumped towards the floor he was vaguely aware of Helen moving across to join the others on the sofa and lead them in a round of polite but sincere applause.

  It was like being horribly drunk and massively hung-over at the same time. He knew he mustn't drift off again. The faces were still jumping around in his head like pictures in a child's flick book, but( the speed was decreasing. The equilibrium had almost returned but the pain was beyond belief.

  He was alone, he was himself, and he was crawling across the puke-ridden carpet, inch by agonising inch. He had no idea what time it was. There was no light coming through the window. Late night or early morning. His fingers grasped at the nylon fibres of the cheap shag pile. He took a deep breath. Gritting his teeth and failing to stifle a cry of agony, he willed his knees to shuffle another few inches across the vast and merciless eight feet of carpet that separated him from the telephone.

  PART TWO

  THE GAME

  Not spoken to Anne for a couple of days. Not really spoken, I mean. Well, let's get this straight. Perhaps I'm making these conversations sound like bouts of non-stop banter, full of juicy gossip and cracking gags. Let's not be stupid. Basically she spills her guts and I just blink occasionally. Don't get me wrong, they're fucking dynamite blinks, but I don't think I'm chat-show material just yet.

  She's probably spending every free moment she's got getting it from her tame copper and his trusty truncheon. There are so many jokes I could make about taking down her particulars and policeman's helmets but I am far too classy.

  'Tits first, I'm not a slag: That's me.

  My head is full of corny jokes but, come on, what else have I got to do? I've got shitloads of time on my hands and I'm hardly up to my eyeballs, am I?

  I can't even kill myself.

  I hope she hasn't lost faith in me. Anne, I mean. I'm not exactly sending the doctors scurrying about with talk of medical miracles. I know that. There's days when I feel so together it's just like I've got pins and needles or
something, and as soon as they wear off l can get up and get dressed and go and call Tim. And there's other days.

  I used to do this thing years ago when I'd lie in bed and try really hard to think of a new colour. One that didn't exist. Or a completely new sound that you've never heard before. I think I read about it in some wanky women's magazine thing about inner calm or some such crap. It's really weird. You start to get dizzy after a while and then feel a bit stoned. I feel like that quite a lot now. Or sometimes I'd lie on my back and stare for ages at the ceiling and try to convince myself that it was the floor. If you concentrate really hard you can actually do it and you start holding on to the sides of the bed in case you fall. It's like that in here, only all the time. And I can't hold on to the side of the fucking bed, can I?

  I'm falling…

  SEVEN

  Thorne would later classify the minor physical injury as the easiest of the ways in which he became a victim during the Backhand case. Not that he put himself anywhere near the top of the list. His life was not erased with the twist of a skilful finger or put on hold by the deadly and delicate touch of a hand on his neck. He never felt the sob catch in his throat as a sheet was lifted to reveal the expressionless face of a girlfriend or wife or daughter.

  He saw them buried, but they were not his blood. But still he suffered.., losses. It was, of course his own doing, but he could only watch as one by one, they fell away. This process, the honing down, the shedding of those around him was a long and painful journey for all concerned, but it began the moment Thorne opened his eyes and saw David Holland at his bedside, reading a copy of FHM. The first thing his brain told his mouth to do was swear, but all it could manage was a gulp and some half-hearted lip-smacking. He closed his eyes; he'd try again in a minute.

  Holland was engrossed in a pictorial. The model, a quiz-show hostess, was gorgeous, but he reckoned that actually she wasn't that stupid. He couldn't help but be impressed by quotes like 'The main reason I had breast implants was that I wanted bigger tits.' He wondered what Sophie would look like with bigger tits. He flinched mentally at the tirade of abuse that would surely be heaped upon him were he ever to bring it up.

  Hearing a noise he lowered the magazine. The Weeble was awake and trying to say something.

  'Do you want a drink of water or…?' Holland reached towards the jug on the bedside table, but Thorne was already closing his eyes.

  Holland dropped the magazine and rummaged in a plastic bag beneath his chair. He produced a CD Walkman and, unsure exactly where to put it, placed it on the edge of Thorne's bed.

  'I picked this up from your place after you were brought in. Thought you might be… you know.., and I got this from Our Price…' He produced a compact disc and struggled manfully with the Cellophane wrapping. 'I know you're into that country-and-western or whatever. I don't know much about it as it goes – more of a Simply Red man myself. Anyway.. '

  Thorne opened his eyes again. Music. It was a nice thought but some sunglasses would have been better. Or a Bloody Mary. His vision was blurred. He squinted at the CD Holland was brandishing and tried to focus on the sleeve. After a second or two he was able to make out the words Kenny Rogers. Before he had a chance to laugh he was asleep.

  And Hendricks came. Filled him in on the details. Smacked over the head and drugged. Oh, and Spurs were already thinking about sacking their manager. Then Keable. They'd got nothing from the flat. They'd fill him in when he was back on his feet. Oh, and the lads sent their best.

  And finally Anne Coburn.

  Thorne was perched on the edge of the bed putting on his shoes when the curtains were pulled aside. She was grinning. 'Fair enough – if I was in the Whittington I'd want to make a quick getaway.'

  Thorne smiled for the first time since he'd last seen her.

  'Why couldn't it have been the Royal Free, for Christ's sake? I could have done with a day or two with my feet up.'

  Anne sat down next to him and gazed around the ward.

  'This place isn't that bad, actually. It's just got a bit of a dodgy reputation.'

  'I don't think people stick around long enough to find out. As soon as I saw the name on the blankets I started feeling much better.' He took what he hoped would be a final look around. Perhaps they had made an effort but there was something a bit desperate about it. The eastern European eau-de-Nil on the walls had been replaced by a more optimistic orange, and there was even the odd pair of floral curtains, but it was still a hospital. He had spent the previous night failing to sleep through a cacophony of rattling trolleys, humming floor polishers and anonymous screeching. He would have felt only slightly less miserable in a private room with cable television, intravenous red wine and dancing girls.

  Anne reached across towards his head. 'Can I?' Thorne lowered his head and she gently traced a finger along the stitches. 'They'd be happier if you stayed another night. I know you don't like hospitals but concussion is unpredictable.., and when you've been shot full of Midazolam on top of it…'

  'He wasn't very gentle about that either. I've got a bruise the size of a cricket ball on my arse. He could have tried the champagne – I might have gone for it, state I was in.

  'Perhaps you're not his type.' The filthy laugh… Thorne finished tying his laces and stared straight ahead. 'Oh, he'll find out exactly what type I am.'

  Anne looked away briefly at nothing in particular. She was starting to get a pretty good idea herself. 'He gave you a big dose, Tom. It can't have been.., pleasant.'

  'It wasn't.'

  'It might sound strange but that's exactly why we use it. Midazolam fries your short-term memory and detaches you from reality. You go into a dream state. We can stitch up a ten-year-old while they stare at a blank wall and look at the lovely pictures.'

  'Mine weren't particularly lovely.' He turned to look at her and tried his best to smile. 'How's Jeremy?'

  She tried to look stern, but couldn't manage it. 'He's fine. He seemed rather concerned when I told him what had happened, considering that you two didn't really seem to hit it off.'

  'He got home all right, then?'

  She stared at him. He knew he was pushing it. He was being stupid and she was anything but. 'I mean, if he was half as pissed as I was, he might have had trouble.' The chuckle was forced and he knew she could see it. There was only one other way to go. He reached across and took her hand. 'I don't suppose we did hit it off, but the two of you were involved at one time.'

  'It was twenty-five years ago.'

  'Still, I'm hardly likely to invite him down the pub', am I?'

  She squeezed his hand and smiled. They said nothing.

  Not telling the truth wasn't the same as lying and he would be jealous of Bishop if he didn't feel something a whole lot stronger. Better that she thought it was jealousy. Much better.

  Thorne blinked slowly and held his breath. The smell.., and creaking mattresses, and squeaky shoes, and the uncomfortable smile on the faces of people at bedsides. Was it the same smile he'd given his mother all those times he'd sat by her bed and squeezed her hand and looked into her milky blue eyes and tried to figure out where the fuck she'd gone?

  'Tom…'

  The curtains moved again and Dave Holland appeared. Thorne let go of Anne's hand. 'My taxi's here…'

  Anne stood up and moved towards the curtain. Before she turned, Thorne saw her smile at Holland and put her hand on his arm. What the hell was that about? Look after the poor old bugger?

  'Give me a ring, Tom.'

  She left and Thorne stared hard at Holland. He looked for the smirk but didn't see it. He couldn't see a notebook either. His vision obviously wasn't back to normal yet. As they walked towards the car Thorne could feel the chill in the air. August had finally thrown in the towel and now there would be bad weather coming. He preferred it that way if he was honest. He was happier in an overcoat. A security blanket that covered a multitude of sins. The warm night when he'd stepped out of that taxi, pissed and singing, seemed a long way away. I
f it hadn't been for the wine he'd guzzled while he and Anne had flirted and talked about Jimi Hendrix and failed marriages, he knew that the whole, hideous thing would be over by now. He might even have been what's laughably called a hero. If he hadn't beer pissed he might have seen it coming. He might have turned round a second earlier and he'd have had him. He might, a the very least, have avoided the blow. But the man in the balaclava with the iron bar and the needle had had a distinct advantage, of course.

  He'd known Thorne was pissed, hadn't he?

  Holland held the car door open but Thorne didn't resent it. They pulled out on to Highgate Hill.

  'Have you got any food in? I had a quick look and couldn't see much.'

  'Are you inviting yourself round for a meal, Holland?'

  'Do you want to stop somewhere? There's a Budgens on the way, isn't there?'

  'You can get me a sandwich when we get to the office.'

  'Sir?'

  Holland looked across at Thorne whose head lay against the car window, his eyes half shut. He'd been wrong about the Weeble. He looked distinctly wobbly.

  'There's not much happening at the moment, to be honest. The DCI said it would be best…

  'Office.'

  Holland put his foot down.

  He'd stood at a bus stop and watched as Thorne and the young DC had climbed into the car and driven away. Thorne had been in hospital less than thirty-six hours. He was impressed.

  So, now what?

  Things would pick up a bit, wouldn't they? Thorne would be on the warpath for sure. They'd all have taken it personally, he knew that. That was the copper's way. Once you involve one of their own, watch out! Like a piss-poor bunch of Masonic East-Enders. Thorne wasn't one of their own, though, was he? He'd hate that idea. He was getting to know the man, little by little, but he knew that for sure. He just needed to get him riled up a little, that was all.

  The bus came, and he stood back and watched as people with no place to go hopped on and off, all of them pale and in pain. He turned away in disgust and started to walk down towards the underground station at Archway.