He had settled into the abnormally pleasurable rut of pre-trial preparation; had caught three more murder cases; had got back to work.
He had told Eileen that he and Louise would be coming to her on Boxing Day, if that was OK.
He had not returned the missing training shoe he had promised to Anthony Yashere.
Thorne picked up his glass and walked into the kitchen, while Emmylou’s voice soared above a wash of guitar and Neil Young’s keening harmonica, telling someone exactly what they’d lost when they left this sweet old world.
He watched Louise at the cooker for a minute, took a swig of wine and said, ‘I don’t think it’s a completely stupid idea.’
‘I know.’
‘I just can’t promise to be any good at it.’
She nodded without turning round, kept on stirring.
‘Plus, there’s the whole age thing,’ he said. ‘By the time any kid’s a teenager, I’ll be pushing sixty. I’ll be fucked.’ Another swig. ‘I’m already fucked.’
‘Nobody’s arguing.’
‘So long as you know.’
She turned then and laid down the spoon; leaned against the edge of the worktop. ‘Look, I know you think you’ll be shit, and you don’t think you’ve got any patience and whatever, but I’m really not bothered. And I’m not convinced you’ll even make sixty, so I wouldn’t worry too much about that.’ She took a step towards him. ‘The side of you that still cares about that old man, that got upset telling me about it, that’s the side I’m interested in. That’s why I know you’ll be fine. Better than fine…’
Another step, and he opened his arms as she reached him. It was only for a few seconds, though, before she eased away again, and went back to check the sauce wasn’t boiling.
Thorne watched her flick the kettle on. Saw her pour oil then salt into a pan to cook the pasta.
There are other sides, he thought.
EPILOGUE
The Vulnerable Prisoners Wing didn’t house too many prisoners, with no more than sixty heading down to the servery come meal-time. It was certainly a more orderly process than that taking place elsewhere in the prison. But whatever the size of the queue at the hot-plate, Nicklin always wanted to be first.
He hated waiting, watching while others were served before him. He imagined that they were getting more than their fair share, that he would get second best when his turn came. He’d always been the same way when it came to food. With any of his appetites, come to that.
Dinner was dished out between six and seven, but Nicklin had been there since a quarter to. Clutching his tray and listening to the kitchen staff making banal conversation behind the metal shutter.
He banged on the shutter at one minute past. There were a dozen more in the queue behind him by now.
‘Stop pissing in the soup and open up, will you?’
Laughter from the kitchen, and from behind him. ‘It’s the meatballs you should be worried about,’ someone said.
The shutter was raised and Nicklin moved forward, taking his dinner in silence. Lasagne and chips. A pudding, as usual – apple crumble on a Tuesday – and two slices of bread. Orange juice and bottled water.
‘Nice today,’ said the fat rapist in chef’s whites.
Nicklin moved away from the hot-plate while the ex-magistrate behind him said something sarcastic about Michelin stars, and the chef told him where he could stick them.
He carried the tray up the two flights of metal stairs to his cell, nudged open the door and sat down at his desk to eat. He opened the orange juice, took off the plastic lid that barely kept the food lukewarm.
Fucking lasagne…
He wasn’t in the best of moods anyway; hadn’t been since he’d heard that Marcus Brooks had been caught. Since he’d heard that Tom Thorne’s queer friend had not been among those Brooks had been charged with killing.
It had taken the excitement, such as there was, out of his day. Left him with nothing to root for when the cell door clicked open first thing; to smile about come lights-out. There were only basic pleasures left now. Of the flesh and of the belly; limited as they both were.
He poked his fork through the crust of hardened pasta and fished around, then caught movement from the corner of his eye and looked up. A prisoner stood in the doorway, staring.
‘What?’
The man shrugged. Askins: a druggie who’d touched up a fifteen-year-old girl. Not someone Nicklin made a habit of passing time with.
‘Why don’t you just fuck off?’ Nicklin said. He took a mouthful of the mince. ‘Freak somebody else out-’ He stopped suddenly and cried out, spitting a string of blood down on to his plate and reaching into his mouth for the piece of glass.
‘It’s a message,’ Askins said.
Nicklin swore and spat, lifting up the stiff sheet of pasta and pushing his fork through the watery mince. The tines clicked gently against each sauce-coated sliver. He looked up, pale and open-mouthed, at the man in the doorway.
Askins was smiling as he turned away. ‘From someone with very long arms…’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Gangs and Gangland Britain by Tony Thompson have once again been an invaluable source of information, but on this occasion I am indebted to Tony personally, for his time, good advice and worryingly detailed insights into the workings of biker gangs.
From the Met, I must once again thank Detective Chief Inspector Neil Hibberd, and I am especially grateful to Sergeant Georgina Barnard for her endless patience and the information that got me over a great many brick walls.
Most of the best stories are hers.
I also have to thank Anne Collins from the Crown Prosecution Service, Victoria Jones from HMP Birmingham and, as always, any number of comedians for the liberties I have taken with their names.
If I was as lucky at poker as I have been in more important matters, I wouldn’t have to write for a living; no author could wish for an editor or an agent any better than Hilary Hale or Sarah Lutyens. On the subject of poker, I must assure those closest to me that the hours spent playing online were purely in the course of research, and send out a greeting to my real-time friends: The Admiral, The Junkie, Bagels, El Guapo, The Painter and Special Boy. And yes lads, I know that poker is very important…
Thanks to Ursula Mackenzie, Alison Lindsay, Nathalie Morse, David Kent, Robert Manser, Tamsin Kitson, Andy Coles, Miles Poynton, Melanee Winder, Richard Kitson, Roger Cazelet, Thalia Proctor, Terry Jackson, Duncan Spilling, Melanie Rogers, Nicola Hill, David Shelley and everyone else at Little, Brown for their support, enthusiasm and hard work.
And to those that are always here: Paul, Alice, Wendy and Michael.
Mark Billingham
Mark Billingham was born and brought up in Birmingham. Having worked for some years as an actor and more recently as a TV writer and stand-up comedian his first crime novel was published in 2001.
Sleepyhead was an instant bestseller in the UK. It has been sold widely throughout the world and will be published in the USA in the Summer of 2002.
Though still occasionally working as a stand-up comic, Mark now concentrates on writing the series of crime novels featuring London-based detective Tom Thorne. The second novel, Scaredy Cat is published in July 2002 and will be followed in 2003 by Lazybones…
Mark lives in North London with his wife and two children.
