MARK BILLINGHAM
LIFELESS
FOR MIKE GUNN
And for his son, William Roan Gunn
Hell is a city much like London.
—Percy Bysshe Shelley
No one told me grief felt so much like fear.
—C. S. Lewis
CONTENTS
EPIGRAPH
PROLOGUE
I won’t waste any time asking how you’ve been, because…
PART ONE
BREAKFAST AND BEFORE
ONE
He woke up in a doorway opposite Planet Hollywood, with…
TWO
Lots of things had changed…
THREE
It was a forty-minute tube ride home from St. James’s Park.
FOUR
If a man jumped out in front of him with…
FIVE
The mood of the café owner had obviously not improved…
SIX
Thorne leaned in close and stared at himself in the…
SEVEN
The mobile phone Thorne had been issued with was permanently…
EIGHT
London stank of desperation.
NINE
For Robert Asker it had begun with the simple, overpowering…
TEN
The fat café owner had managed an even more miserable…
PART TWO
BLOOD AND PETROL
ELEVEN
“That isn’t Christopher.”
TWELVE
Thorne remembered what Brendan had said about real London grime…
THIRTEEN
A few years before, a major inquiry had been launched…
FOURTEEN
There were a surprising number of places that gave out…
FIFTEEN
The Media Operations Office of British Army HQ (London District)…
SIXTEEN
Becke House was not a fully functioning police station. There…
SEVENTEEN
Holland jabbed at the remote and stopped the tape.
EIGHTEEN
“I was pissed,” Thorne said. “I didn’t know what I…
NINETEEN
Spike had found him within half an hour of Thorne’s…
TWENTY
Over the years, Thorne had felt more than his fair…
TWENTY-ONE
“Dan Britton’s not here,” McCabe said. “In case you’ve come…
TWENTY-TWO
“Where’ve you been?” Holland asked. He stepped into a shop…
TWENTY-THREE
As a trainee detective constable, Jason Mackillop was desperate for…
TWENTY-FOUR
Thorne had parted company from Spike, Caroline, and Terry T…
PART THREE
LUCK OF THE DEAW
TWENTY-FIVE
Holland and Stone stood on the platform at Stockport Station,…
TWENTY-SIX
Thorne tried and failed to make himself comfortable in the…
TWENTY-SEVEN
DS Sam Karim, who took responsibility for such things, had…
TWENTY-EIGHT
“Good of you to have made an effort,” Thorne said.
TWENTY-NINE
There were no more cans in the bag.
THIRTY
There was nothing like a grisly death or two for…
THIRTY-ONE
Thorne sprang for a couple of tube tickets and he…
THIRTY-TWO
Maxwell found the page he was looking for and passed…
THIRTY-THREE
Fucked-up weather and busybodies. Jason Mackillop reckoned they were both…
THIRTY-FOUR
The Latest Victim. The First Picture…
PART FOUR
FINISHED FALLING
THIRTY-FIVE
At first, so he told everyone later, he thought that…
THIRTY-SIX
He heard the man coming long before he saw him.
THIRTY-SEVEN
Alan Ward nudged his glasses, then reached to grab a…
THIRTY-EIGHT
If the sea down below him wasn’t quite as smooth…
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
PRAISE
OTHER BOOKS BY MARK BILLINGHAM
COPYRIGHT
ABOUT THE PUBLISHER
Prologue
January 12
I won’t waste any time asking how you’ve been, because I know, and I don’t much care. I’m sure you care even less about me, plus you’d have to be stupid not to figure out that things have been less than rosy for some of us. You’d have to be stupid (which I know you’re not), not to work out what I want.
I don’t think I’m better than you. How could I? But I’m guessing you’re a bit better off. So that’s basically why I’m asking. I just need a bit of help. I don’t have a lot left aside from unpleasant memories. Oh, and the one, more concrete reminder of course. The “evidence” that I’m sure each of us still has.
I can’t afford to care how despicable it makes me sound, having to come to you like this. Desperation drives a steamroller across self-respect. Besides, you could never hate me more than I hate myself for what happened back there. For dredging it all up again now in search of a few hundred quid.
That’s all I need…
You’ll notice a lack of address. I’m not being mysterious; I just don’t really have one at the moment. I’m busy wearing out the welcomes of what few friends and family I’ve got left.
I’ll write again to fix up the where and when. We can arrange a time and place to meet then, okay?
Anonymity is all very well, of course, all very James Bond, but unless you’ve been keeping tabs on each of us, I can’t see why you should have a bloody clue who I am. Which one, I mean. You’ll find out soon enough, obviously, but it can’t hurt to keep the suspense going for a bit, can it?
Could be any one of four, right? Any member of the crew. I’d be amazed if a single one of us is particularly well-off.
So…for now,
Happy New Year
Part One
Breakfast and Before
The first kick wakes him and shatters his skull at the same time.
He begins to drift back toward unconsciousness almost immediately, but is aware of the intervals between each subsequent kick—though actually no more than a second or two—warping and stretching. It gives his brain, which is itself already beginning to swell, the time for one final, random series of thoughts and instructions.
Counting the kicks. Counting each smash of boot into flesh and bone. Counting the strange and, oh God, the glorious spaces in between.
Two…
Cold, in the early hours of the morning and damp. And the attempt to cry out is agonizing as the message from the brain dances between the fragments of bone in what had once been his jaw.
Three…
Warm, the face of the baby in his hands. His baby. The face of the child before it grew and learned to despise him. Reaching in vain for the letter, dog-eared and greasy, in the inside pocket of his coat. The last link to the life he had before. Groping for it, his flappy fingers useless at the end of a broken arm.
Four…
Turning his head, trying to turn it away from the pain toward the wall. His face moving against the floor, the stubble-rasp like the breaking of faraway waves. Feeling the blood, warm and sticky between his cheek and the cold cardboard beneath. Thinking that the shadow he’d glimpsed, where the face of his attacker should have been, looked blacker than black. Slick, like tarmac after a shower. Thinking that it was probably a trick of the light.
Five…
Seeming to feel the tip of the boot as it breaks through the delicate network of ribs. Aw
are of it in there, stamping around, distorting his organs. Kidneys—are they his kidneys?—squeezed out of shape like water-filled balloons.
Sinking fast through six, seven, and eight, their impact like crashes at a distant front door, vibrating through his shoulder and his back and the tops of his legs. The grunts and growls of the man standing above him, of the man who is kicking him to death, growing quieter and farther away.
And, Christ, what a jumble, such a scramble of words. Riot of colors and sounds. All slipping away from him now. Fuzzing and darkening…
Thinking. Thinking that this was a terrible and desperate kind of thinking, if it could still be called such a thing. Sensing that the shadow had finally turned away from him. Luxuriating then, in the bliss as the space grew, as the knowing grew that, sweet Jesus, the kicking had finally stopped.
Everything so strange now, and shapeless and bleeding away into the gutter.
He lies quite still. He knows there’s little point in trying to move. He holds on tight to his name and to the name of his only child. Wraps what’s left of his mind around these two names, and around the name of the Lord.
Prays that he might cling on to the shape of these few, precious words until death comes.
ONE
He woke up in a doorway opposite Planet Hollywood, with a puddle of piss at his feet that was not his own and the sickening realization that this was real, that there was no soft mattress beneath him. He exchanged a few words with the police officer whose heavy hand had shaken him roughly awake. Began to gather up his things.
He raised his face slowly skyward as he started to walk, hoped that the weather would stay fine. He decided that the emptiness at the center of him, which might have been simple fear, was probably even simpler hunger.
He wondered whether Paddy Hayes was dead yet. Had the young man charged with making the decision pulled the plug?
Moving through the West End as it shook away the sleep and slowly came to life was always a revelation. Each day he saw something he had never seen before.
Piccadilly Circus was glorious. Leicester Square was better than it looked. Oxford Street was even shittier than he’d thought it was.
There were still plenty of people about, of course. Plenty of traffic. Even at this time the streets were busier than most others in the country would be during the rush hour. He remembered a film he’d seen on DVD, set in London after most of the population had been turned into crazed zombies by some plague. There were bizarre scenes where the whole city appeared to be utterly deserted, and to this day he didn’t really know how they’d managed to do it. Computer tricks, like as not. This—the hour or so when the capital showered, shaved, and shat—was about as close as it ever came. Far from deserted, but quite a few zombies shuffling about.
Most of the shops would be shut for another few hours yet. Very few opened their doors before ten these days. The caffs and sandwich bars were already up and running, though. Hoping to pull in passing trade for tea and a bacon sandwich, for coffee and croissants, in much the same way that the burger vans and kebab shops had tempted those weaving their way home only a few hours earlier.
Tea and a sandwich. Normally he’d have spent the previous night gathering enough together to get himself something to eat, but today someone would be buying him breakfast.
Halfway along Glasshouse Street, a man in a dark green suit stepped out of a doorway in front of him and tried to pass. They moved the same way across the pavement, and back again. Smiled at each other, embarrassed.
“Nice morning for a dance…”
The sudden knowledge that he’d clearly encountered a nutcase caused the smile to slide off the man’s face. He turned sideways and dropped his head. Shuffled quickly past, muttering “Sorry” and “I can’t…”
He hoisted his backpack higher onto his shoulder and carried on walking, wondering just what it was that the man in the suit couldn’t do.
Return a simple greeting? Spare any change? Give a toss…?
He walked up Regent Street, then took a right, cutting through the side streets of Soho toward Tottenham Court Road. A strange yet familiar figure, stepping in unison alongside him, caught his eye. He slowed then stopped, watching the stranger do the same thing.
He took a step forward and stared into the plate glass at the reflection of the man he’d become in such a short time. His hair seemed to be growing faster than usual, the gray more pronounced against the black. The neatish goatee he’d been cultivating had been subsumed under the scrubby growth that sprouted from his cheeks and spilled down his throat. His red nylon backpack, though already stained and grubby, was the only flash of real color to be seen in the picture staring back at him from the shop window. The grease-gray coat and dark jeans were as blank, as anonymous, as the face that floated above them. He leaned toward the glass and contorted his features; pulling back his lips, raising his eyebrows, puffing out his cheeks. The eyes, though—and it was the man’s eyes that told you everything—stayed flat and uninvolved.
A vagrant. With the emphasis on vague…
He turned from the window to see someone he recognized on the other side of the road. A young man—a boy—arms around his knees, back pressed against a dirty white wall, sleeping bag wrapped around his shoulders. He’d spoken to the boy a couple of nights before. Somewhere near the Hippodrome, he thought. Maybe outside one of the big cinemas in Leicester Square. He couldn’t be certain. He did remember that the boy had spoken with a thick, northeast accent: Newcastle or Sunderland. Most of what the boy had said was indecipherable, rattled through chattering teeth at machine-gun speed. Head turning this way and that. Fingers grasping at his collar as he gabbled. So completely ripped on Ecstasy that it looked as though he was trying to bite off his own face.
He waited for a taxi to pass, then stepped into the road. The boy looked up as he approached and drew his knees just a little closer to his chest.
“All right?”
The boy turned his head to the side and gathered the sleeping bag tighter around his shoulders. The moisture along one side of the bag caught the light, and gray filling spilled from a ragged tear near the zip.
“Don’t think there’s any rain about…”
“Good,” the boy said. It was as much a grunt as anything.
“Staying dry, I reckon.”
“What are you, a fucking weatherman?”
He shrugged. “Just saying…”
“I’ve seen you, haven’t I?” the boy asked.
“The other night.”
“Was you with Spike? Spike and One-Day Caroline, maybe?”
“Yeah, they were around, I think…”
“You’re new.” The boy nodded to himself. He seemed pleased that it was coming back to him. “I remember you were asking some fucking stupid questions…”
“Been knocking about a couple of weeks. Picked a fucking stupid time, didn’t I? You know, with everything that’s going on?”
The boy stared at him for a while. He narrowed his eyes, then let his head drop.
He stood where he was, kicking the toe of one shoe against the heel of the other until he was certain that the boy had nothing further to say. He thought about chucking in another crack about the weather, making a joke of it. Instead, he turned back toward the road. “Be lucky,” he said. He moved away, his parting words getting nothing in return.
As he walked north it struck him that the encounter with the boy had not been a whole lot friendlier than the one earlier with the man in the green suit who’d been so keen to avoid him. The boy’s reaction had been no more than he’d come to expect in the short time he’d spent living as he was now. Why should it have been? A wariness—a suspicion, even—was the natural reaction of most Londoners, whatever their circumstances. Those who lived and slept on the city’s streets were naturally that bit more cautious when it came to strangers. It went without saying that anyone who wasn’t abusing or avoiding them was to be viewed with a healthy degree of mistrust until they’d prov
ed themselves. One way or another…
It was a lot like prison. Like the way a life was defined behind bars. And he knew a fair bit about how that worked.
Those who slept rough in the center of London had a lot in common, he decided, with those sleeping in whitewashed cells at Her Majesty’s pleasure. Both were communities with their own rules, their own hierarchies, and an understandable suspicion of outsiders. If you were going to survive in prison you had to fit in; to do what was necessary. You’d try not to eat shit, of course you would, but if that’s what it took to get by, you’d tuck right in. What he’d seen of life since he began sleeping rough told him that things were pretty much the same on the streets.
The café was a greasy spoon with ideas above its station. The sort of place that thought a few cheap sandwich fillings in Tupperware containers made it a delicatessen. The reaction, within a minute or two of him shambling in, sitting down, and showing no obvious intention of buying anything, was predictable.
“Hey!”
He said nothing.
“You going to order something?”
He reached across for a magazine that had been left on an adjacent table and began to read.
“This is not a doss-house, you know?”
He smiled.
“You think I’m joking…?”
He nodded toward a familiar figure outside the window as the fat, red-faced proprietor came around the counter toward him. With impeccable timing, the man he’d been smiling at pushed through the door, just as the café owner was leaning in menacingly.
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