Sleepyhead

by Mark Billingham

  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. Joke!

  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 I 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. If 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 been pissed he might have seen it coming. He might have turned round a second earlier and he’d have had him. He might, at 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 I 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 if—’

  ‘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.

  They’d probably see what he’d done to Thorne as a warning. Let them. Thorne would know it was something . . . other than that. He’d know a challenge when he saw one. When he felt one. He’d been personally involved since the first time he’d laid those big brown eyes on Alison. The sentimental idiot had felt sorry for her, hadn’t he? He couldn’t see beyond the machines. He couldn’t­ smell the freedom. And he really cared about the dead ones. Oh, he really minded about those.

  All in all it had worked out quite well and the business with Anne was a lovely bonus.

  He stopped to look through the window of a bathroom shop. Mock antique mixer taps and other such shit. Baths with seats in and handles for the old and infirm.

  Stupid.

  He thought about Thorne’s tiny flat. There was the home of a lonely man for sure. No, not a home. Neat and tidy, though, he’d give him that – apart from the empty wine bottles. He knew he’d have the edge on him that night on the doorstep. If Thorne had been sober he wouldn’t have fancied his chances.

  It was starting to get cold. He pulled down his hat and moved towards the entrance to the tube. Now he wanted some progress. He’d shaken things up for sure and they had to have come up with something. And let the profilers, or whatever those over-qualified ponces called themselves, talk about a ‘cry for help’ or a ‘desire to be stopped’, if that’s what paid their mortgages. Not that Thorne would have any time for psychobabble, he was pretty sure of that. And now that he knew what it felt like, now he knew how those women had felt before he’d laid hands on them, he’d be committed.

  He’d known kids like Thorne at school. They just needed to be provoked and there’d be no containing them. Mad kids who would throw a desk out of the window or kill squirrels in the playground if you pushed them a bit – if you punched the right buttons. Thorne was no different. And now he’d kicked him in the shins. He’d rabbit-punched him. Now Thorne wouldn’t stop.

  A tall skinny woman with a pushchair beat him to the ticket machine. He stared at the back of her slender neck as she fumbled for change in her cheap plastic purse and stared at the station names as if they were printed in Chinese. Single mother, probably. The poor cow wrung out and desperate for a little comfort. Forty fags a day and a couple of Valium to numb the pain and get her through the afternoons.

  He thought about any woman he saw now. He considered them all. He could see what each of them needed. Every one was . . . feasible.

  ‘Good to have you back, Tom.’

  Tughan’s thin lips arranged themselves into what might pass as a smile. Thorne thought he looked like a gargoyle. Holland made himself scarce and Thorne settled into a chair opposite his fellow DI. The comments of other officers were acknowledged with a nod and a light-hearted comment, and some of the smiles were undoubtedly sincere, but there were other faces he was less pleased to see again.

  ‘How’s the head, Tommy? Now you know how it feels, mate . . .’

  His calendar girls.

  Yes, he knew what it felt like to have the power over your own body taken away. He’d been out of control so many times that it was almost familiar, but that loss went hand in hand with a warm, sleepy feeling that the booze threw in for good measure. The wine came with a little something special to ease the pain of smashed furniture or grazed knuckles. But the drug had taken him to places he never wanted to see again.

  ‘He took away everything we had, Tommy . . .’

  ‘I wanted to struggle . . .’

  ‘We all did . . .’

  ‘. . . to fight for my life, Tommy.’

  Tughan’s mouth was moving but the sound was coming from a long way away.

  Christine. Susan. Madeleine. And Helen. Drugged into oblivion and confronted by a monster. He’d confronted nothing but ghosts. The memories of ghosts. He thought about Alison. He needed to see her. He was still around and he wanted her to know that. He was still around only because that had been what the fucker wanted. He’d realised that straight away and hated the fucker for having the power to spare him. He’d chosen to give him his life.

  He had made a mistake.

  He should have killed me.

  ‘Don’t say that, Tommy. Who would we have left to talk to?’

  ‘Tom? Are you feeling all right? You shouldn’t have come in.’

  Thorne turned his eyes from the wall. He stood up and walked around the desk, catching Holland’s eye as he put his hand on Nick Tughan’s shoulder. ‘Not caught him yet, then, Nick?’

  Tughan laughed. Nails on a blackboard. ‘I’ll leav
e that to you, Tom. You’re the one with the instincts, aren’t you?’ Thorne stiffened. ‘The one with experience.’ He spoke the word as if he were naming a child molester. ‘We’re just getting on with the job, following leads. One or two of them yours, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Tom . . . .’

  Keable was speaking from the doorway of his office. Thorne looked up and he retreated, the invitation to join him unmistakable.

  ‘I’ll catch up with you later, Nick. Why don’t you email me what you’ve got?’

  Thorne walked across to Keable’s office. He could hear Holland and one of the other DCs laughing as he went. Business as usual. But not for him.

  Anne wanted to talk to Alison. Her workload meant that it was becoming increasingly difficult to spend a significant amount of time with her every day and they had stuff to catch up on.

  He joined her a second or two after she stepped into the lift.

  ‘David.’

  ‘On the way up to see your locked-in case, I suppose. Any developments?’

  ‘Do you care?’

  He pressed the button and the doors started to close. There really wasn’t a great deal to look at as a tactic to avoid what was sure to be an unpleasant encounter. She wondered instead if it was possible to escape from a lift using a trap-door in the roof as she had seen people do so often in films.

  ‘I was sorry to hear about the attack on your policeman friend.’

  They’d certainly done it in The Towering Inferno.

  ‘Just after your cosy dinner à trois with Jeremy, wasn’t it?’

  And Hannibal Lecter did it in Silence of the Lambs. Just after he’d cut that man’s face off. Hmm.

  ‘Anne?’

  ‘Yes, it was, and no, you’re not sorry, you’re just a twat.’

  The lift reached the second floor and Anne stepped out the moment the doors opened. Higgins stood preventing them from closing. ‘Hanging around with police officers is obviously doing marvels for your vocabulary, Anne.’

  ‘You’re awfully well informed about what I’m up to, David. Using our daughter as a spy is rather pathetic, though.’