TT12 The Bones Beneath

by Mark Billingham

  ‘No? Jeff beat an innocent boy to death with his bare hands.’

  Fletcher looked at Jenks. ‘You fancy swapping, Alan?’

  ‘I’m fine as I am,’ Jenks said.

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Thorne said. ‘I’ll share with Nicklin, OK?’

  Fletcher nodded, satisfied.

  ‘You take the other single room.’ Thorne tossed his holdall into the bedroom. ‘And all doors to stay open, OK?’

  The arrangements hammered out, they all trooped into the room that Jenks and Batchelor would be sleeping in. While Fletcher stayed close to Nicklin, Thorne and Holland assisted in getting Jenks’s prisoner into bed. It was a fairly straightforward procedure, certainly once everyone had agreed that it was cold enough to necessitate sleeping fully dressed. Batchelor’s jacket and shoes were removed and as soon as he was beneath the blankets, one handcuff was unfastened and swiftly attached to the metal bedstead.

  Batchelor immediately turned on to his side, face to the wall, and did his best to get comfortable. Jenks asked him if he was OK and he grunted, tugging at the blanket with his free hand.

  Nicklin said, ‘Sleep well, Jeff.’

  Batchelor nodded and did not move again.

  Thorne asked Fletcher and Holland if they would get Nicklin bedded down in the other room, while he went downstairs to make a final check on security arrangements.

  ‘Try not to be too long,’ Nicklin said.

  Thorne turned for the door. ‘And don’t worry about being gentle with him.’

  ‘Oh, and a glass of water would be nice…’

  Thorne could not find any kind of key, but made sure that the heavy bolt on the front door was pulled across. He did the same with the back door, but not before he had opened it and stood for a few minutes, shining a torch into the rear garden.

  Everything seemed as it should be. The wind had died down a little, but the rain looked to have settled itself in nicely. Leaning out and peering back towards the chapel, he could see light flickering behind the stained glass windows and leaking from the Chapel House just beyond it. He doubted very much that any of those inside would be going to bed any time soon. He wondered how strong the Blacks’ home-made wine was and what state Bethan Howell and the rest of them would be in the following morning.

  Moving back through the house, Thorne checked all the windows, before ending up in front of the fire that Markham had lit an hour or so before. It was little more than glowing embers now, the occasional flicker as a small flame licked for a few seconds from beneath a partially burned log.

  Thorne blinked, saw a shaft of browned bone emerging from black earth.

  I’ve got nice and comfy with bones and blood…

  He turned to head back upstairs and noticed a large, leather-bound notebook that he had not seen before, on a table near the door.

  A visitors’ book.

  He opened it and slowly turned the pages, read through the comments.

  Never been anywhere like this!

  As magical as everyone told me it would be.

  I’m no saint but I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be buried.

  Thorne did not have a pen and would probably not have used it even if he had, but just for a moment or two, he imagined turning to a nice, clean page and scrawling a heartfelt ‘sorry’.

  Holland and Fletcher had done as they were asked and were waiting for Thorne in the bedroom. Nicklin lay in the bed nearest the door, the arm that was now handcuffed to the metal bedstead stretched out behind him, as though he were casually reaching for something.

  Thorne told Holland and Fletcher to get some sleep, and reminded them to leave their doors open. ‘Anything you’re not happy with,’ he said, ‘I want to know about it.’

  ‘There’s plenty I’m not happy with,’ Fletcher said.

  ‘You know what I mean. Anything moving that isn’t a mouse, you come and tell me.’

  When Holland and Fletcher had gone, Thorne removed his jacket and muddy boots. He pulled off the damp fleece he had been wearing all day and replaced the T-shirt that was underneath with a fresh one from his bag. He turned his back on his room-mate while he changed, but guessed that Nicklin was watching. He lay down on the bed, exhausted suddenly, laced his fingers behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. There was wallpaper coming away in one corner and filaments of cobweb swayed around the light-fitting.

  Not enough money, mate…

  Fletcher was a moaning pain in the arse, but Thorne could hardly blame him for not fancying this.

  The lantern still sputtering on a shelf near the window was not exactly bathing the bedroom in light, but Thorne decided to leave it burning nonetheless. He knew that Nicklin had been secured, but that did not mean Thorne was looking forward to spending the night just a few feet away.

  He was certainly not going to do so in the dark.

  ‘This is probably as much for me as it is for you,’ Nicklin said.

  Thorne turned his head, watched Nicklin make a song and dance out of rattling the handcuffs.

  ‘To protect me from myself.’

  ‘Go to sleep,’ Thorne said.

  ‘You in bed over there… just a few feet away.’ Nicklin puffed out his cheeks and shook his head in mock relief. ‘I really don’t know if I’d be able to control myself.’

  Thorne turned away again and closed his eyes.

  FIFTY-TWO

  The man who – unbeknown to himself – had been christened ‘Adrian’ by the only other person in the house sat in the small kitchen watching television and eating toast. He slathered peanut butter over the latest piece and put two more slices of bread under the grill.

  He checked his watch.

  Another ten minutes and he’d go in to clear the prisoner’s dinner things away, see if he needed the bucket. That was the bit he really disliked, all the messy stuff. Making meals and dealing with piss and shit like he was just some nurse or something. Couldn’t be helped though. He had known this would be part of the job when he’d taken it on, so there was no point in complaining – even if there’d been anyone around to complain to – and the fact was he was happy enough to do the job, menial stuff included, because at the end of the day it was an honour.

  The others had felt the same way, the couple he’d taken over from.

  ‘We’re lucky,’ the girl had said. ‘Plenty of other people would jump at the chance.’

  He wasn’t sure there were plenty, but he knew what she was getting at. He guessed there would be a good few people keen to seize an opportunity like this one. It was as close as they were likely to get to a celebrity and, if the worst happened, they might get a taste of it themselves. In newspapers and books, maybe even movies one day. That was what you called a silver lining!

  So, there was cooking and there was cleaning up, but the part he liked best of all was when he spent time in the room with the prisoner. Just sitting there reading or whatever, watching him and listening to all the desperate rubbish he came out with. Those were the times when he knew he’d done the right thing, because it was a buzz he couldn’t remember getting from anything else he’d ever done. Not from games, and that was probably what came closest. However many aliens or cops or hookers you were wasting, only the real saddos actually got off on it. Only the proper losers imagined they were doing it for real. He enjoyed playing, no mistake about it, but they were just games.

  This was something altogether different. This was genuine power over another person. It was life and death, simple as that, and that was a rush you didn’t get every day. Certainly not working in telesales.

  The man, whose name was actually Damien, turned his toast over and reached for the wooden knife block next to the cooker. He drew out the biggest knife and touched a finger to its edge. Not for the first time, he wondered whose place this was. It didn’t appear very lived in, that was for sure. It didn’t feel like the knife he was holding had been used for a while.

  He thought about what he’d told the prisoner about the scalpel, the gir
l leaving it behind. It wasn’t true of course, he’d just wanted to scare him, but the fact was there were loads of other knives knocking around, if he chose to use them.

  He smelled the burning a second too late and quickly pulled the blackened toast from beneath the grill. He tossed it on to a plate and finished the piece he was eating while he waited for it to cool.

  It had done the trick, that stuff about the scalpel. It had scared him. He’d seen the colour go out of the cocky bastard’s face, drain away just like that and he hadn’t said a great deal since.

  He sat and chewed his toast and thought about other things he could do.

  If just watching him was this exciting, he wondered how it would feel to take things a step or two further…

  He couldn’t be sure how it would go down with whoever was running things, him doing anything he hadn’t been specifically told to do. He would be careful, obviously. He knew that the prisoner had to be kept alive.

  It would all be over soon enough anyway.

  If everything went according to plan – whatever the plan was – he’d be out of the house by the end of the day. So, it couldn’t really hurt if, between now and then, he used a bit of initiative, could it? Beyond the job he’d been given – to watch the prisoner, to keep him fed and watered until the time came – he didn’t know any of the details, none of them did. But there was always a chance it might actually help, doing a tiny bit more damage.

  Something creative.

  He picked up a slice of the burned toast and used the knife to scrape away the charcoal.

  Maybe he’d see how things were when he went into the bedroom to clear the stuff away. See if there were any more smartarse digs about who was in charge, about how he got on with girls, all that.

  He scraped harder, watched the flakes and puffs of black dust drift into the sink, and imagined the knife working at a shin, or on the back of a hand.

  Yeah, he’d see if the man on the bed had anything else to say to him, and decide then.

  FIFTY-THREE

  ‘I can’t sleep.’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘I think it’s because I’m too excited.’

  ‘What the hell have you got to be excited about?’

  ‘Well, I know this isn’t exactly the lap of luxury, but it’s still the first night I’ve spent in ten years that isn’t behind bars. The first room I’ve slept in that doesn’t have a lock on the door.’

  ‘Make the most of it.’

  ‘Oh, I intend to. Bed’s pretty nice, actually, not too soft. What about yours?’

  ‘Make the most of it, because it’s strictly a one-night deal.’

  ‘Oh I know. Stroke of luck and all that.’

  ‘Not for me.’

  ‘Any news on Huw’s father, by the way?’

  ‘Like you give a toss.’

  ‘Just wondered if it was anything serious. You didn’t say.’

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘There’s no point blaming yourself for any of this, you know.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  ‘What can you do? I mean, you can’t control the weather, can you? Mind you, you can see why we Brits love to talk about the bloody weather so much, can’t you? I mean, it’s one of the few things in the world that’s still unpredictable these days, isn’t it? That keeps things interesting. See, we like to think that we can control our lives, that we’re on top of everything with all our technology, but it’s only really the trivial things we’ve got any sort of handle on or say in. No amount of flashy gadgets or apps are any good when it comes to shit like the weather. You think you’ve got it covered, don’t you? You check all the forecasts or whatever and then bang, it surprises you. Lets you know who’s boss. Same thing with illness or accidents or what have you. Same thing with death…’

  ‘You going to keep talking shit all night?’

  ‘Take murder for a kick-off.’

  ‘I’ll gag you if I have to, you know that, right?’

  ‘I bet you’d love to.’

  ‘These are special circumstances. I can do whatever I want, if I think the situation merits it.’

  ‘It’s the same as the weather, that’s all I’m saying, Tom. Murder is. You know it’s coming, because it always has, but you don’t know what and exactly when and basically there’s sod all you can do about it. You know better than most why most murders happen. People kill each other because they’ve had one glass too many or because they fancy someone they shouldn’t. Because they’re greedy or getting their own back or because someone looked at their other half the wrong way in the pub. They snap one day after too many years being bullied or belittled or passed over. Ordinary, dull, stupid reasons. So, you know why murders happen, but it doesn’t make it any easier to stop them happening, does it? Harder, if anything. I mean, yes, it might make the killers a bit easier to catch, but those same reasons for doing it in the first place are going to be there year after year, century after century. Making more work for priests and gravediggers and people like you.’

  ‘You’ve clearly got far too much time to think.’

  ‘And whose fault is that?’

  ‘Maybe you should be spending a bit more of it doing things. Making yourself useful.’

  ‘What, you think I should be getting busy in the prison workshop? You think I need a hobby?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You wouldn’t let me have a spoon. You really think the Fletchers of this world want to let me loose with power tools? Now… in terms of weather, your ordinary murderers, your drunks and jealous husbands and skint smackheads… they’re just like… drizzle, or whatever. They’re everyday, much-as-we-expected. They’re bog-standard. No challenge at all for someone like you, am I right?’

  ‘You think it’s a game?’

  ‘Far from it. I’m just saying, not exactly taxing, is it? When the wife who’s been having an affair is lying on the kitchen floor with her brains bashed in and her old man’s done a runner. When the arsehole who likes to knock his girlfriend around gets a bread knife stuck in his chest while he’s asleep and there’s a blood-soaked nightie in the washing basket. Even a copper like that retard you’ve stuck in the chapel could crack cases like that, right? That’s just normal weather conditions. But then there’s the freak stuff that you can never see coming. The tsunamis and the tornados. The deadly weather.’

  ‘And that’s killers like you, is it? The special ones. That what you’re saying?’

  ‘I’m saying… not run of the mill.’

  ‘You’re every bit as ordinary. Every bit as stupid.’

  ‘You know that’s not true.’

  ‘You’re a bog-standard nutter who makes a splash and gets ideas above his station.’

  ‘A splash?’

  ‘A few books and TV documentaries and thinks he’s way more important than he actually is.’

  ‘Karim could never have caught me though, could he?’

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘Course you know. You know it’s the likes of me that get your blood jumping. Same as those idiots that get off being in the middle of hurricanes, the ones that go looking for them.’

  ‘I need to get some sleep…’

  ‘Come on, be honest, just for once. If you had a choice between solving a hundred ordinary murders… catching a hundred examples of drizzle on two legs, or one of me, what would you choose?’

  ‘This is stupid.’

  ‘Admit it, Tom, you’re a storm-chaser.’

  ‘Go to fucking sleep.’

  ‘I told you —’

  ‘Try.’

  Thorne closed his eyes, but they were quickly open again. Wide and unblinking. Watching the cobwebs dance in slow motion just below the ceiling and struggling suddenly to hear the sea above the roaring of his blood.

  Asking himself a question that Nicklin had already answered.

  What the hell have you got to be excited about?

  FIFTY-FOUR

  It might have been an h
our later, or perhaps it was two, and Thorne was listening to the low rattle and wheeze of Nicklin snoring, when he heard footsteps on the landing. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor just as Fletcher appeared, putting on his jacket, in the bedroom doorway.

  ‘Batchelor needs the toilet.’

  Thorne saw Jenks arrive at Fletcher’s shoulder, Batchelor with his handcuffs back on, pale suddenly and haggard.

  ‘You want to take a radio?’ Thorne asked.

  ‘He’s not going to be long.’ Fletcher turned to Batchelor. ‘Are you, Jeff?’

  Batchelor shook his head.

  ‘Take Holland with you, if you like.’

  ‘I think we can manage,’ Fletcher said. ‘This one’s no trouble.’

  ‘Long as he has no trouble doing what he needs to do.’ Jenks grimaced and hunched his shoulders, fastened the top button on his jacket. ‘Still pissing down out there.’ He ushered Batchelor away towards the top of the stairs and Fletcher followed a few seconds later.

  Thorne listened to the steps as Batchelor and the prison officers descended. Their voices muffled, then barely audible at all. The dull, distant clatter as the bolt on the back door was thrown back. Becoming aware that the snoring had stopped, Thorne turned to see that Nicklin was wide awake and watching him.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Batchelor sits on a cold wooden seat and does what he was only ever supposed to be pretending to do, but which has now become something he needs more than he can ever remember. He sits and empties his bladder and bowels and listens to Fletcher and Jenks talking outside the door, the rise and fall of their exchange just audible above the clatter of the rain on the corrugated iron roof. Fletcher, who had told him ‘not to make a meal of it’. Jenks, who had always treated him decently enough, who had taken one look at the spartan facilities and shuddered and said, ‘Wouldn’t be able to go, myself. No bloody chance. Need a few more of the home comforts, mate. Proper bog paper for a kick-off and something decent to read.’