Lazybones

'It was more violent than most, I agree, but rape's hardly delicate, is it?'

An old man waiting at a zebra crossing to cross the road caught just enough of the conversation. He jerked his head around and, ignoring the signal to cross, watched them walk away. A frustrated driver waiting at the crossing glared at the old man and leaned on his horn.

'I'm not sure why it bothers me,' Thorne said. 'It's a murder investigation but it's the rape part that feels significant…'

'You think the Miler was making a point?'

'Don't you?' Hendricks shrugged and nodded, heaved the bag up and slid a protective arm underneath. 'Right,' Thorne said. 'So why is the simple grudge scenario not playing out…?'

They walked on past the sandwich bar and the bank. Music was coming from behind open windows, drifting out of bars and down from roof terraces. Rap and blues and heavy metal. To Thorne, the atmosphere on the street seemed as relaxed as he could remember. Warm weather did strange things to Londoners. On sweaty, rush-hour tubes, tempers shortened as temperatures rose. Later, When it got a few degrees cooler and people had a drink in their hands, it was a different story…

Thorne smiled grimly. He knew it was only a small window of opportunity. Later still, when darkness fell and the booze began to kick in, the Saturday night soundtrack would become a little more familiar.

Sirens and screaming and breaking glass…

As if on cue, as Hendricks and Thorne walked past the late-night grocers, two teenagers, standing outside, began to push each other. It might have been harmless, it might have been the start of something. Thorne stopped, took a step back. 'Oi…'

The taller of the two turned and looked Thorne up and down, still clutching a fistful of the other's blue Hilfiger shirt. He was no more than fifteen. 'What's your fucking problem?'

'I don't have a problem,' Thorne said.

The shorter one shook himself free and turned square on to Thorne. 'You will have in a minute if you don't piss off…'

'Go home,' Thorne said. 'Your mum's probably worried.'

The taller one sniggered; but his mate was less amused. He looked quickly up and down the street. 'You want me to smack a couple of your teeth out?'

'Only if you want me to nick you,' Thorne said. Now they both laughed. 'You a fucking copper, man? No way…'

'OK,' Thorne said. 'I'm not a copper. And you're just a couple of innocent young scallywags minding your own business, right? Nothing I should have to worry about, you know, if I were a police officer, in any of your pockets.' He saw the eyes of the taller boy flick towards those of his friend. 'Maybe I should check though, just to be on the safe side…'

Thorne leaned, smiling, towards them. Hendricks stepped forward and hissed in his ear. 'Come on, Tom, for fuck's sake…'

A girl, two or three years older, walked out of the shop. She handed each of the boys a can of Tennent's Extra, opened one herself. 'What's going on?'

The boy in the blue shirt pointed at Thorne. 'Reckons he's a copper, says he's going to arrest us.'

The girl took a noisy slug of beer. 'Nah… he's not going to arrest anybody.' She pointed with the can towards the bag Thorne was holding.

'Doesn't want to let his fucking dinner go cold…'

More laughter. Hendricks put a hand on Thorne's shoulder.

Thorne carefully put the bag on the ground. 'I'm not hungry any more. Now turn out your pockets…'

'You love this, don't you?' the girl said. 'Have you got a hard-on?'

'Turn out your pockets.'

The boys stared at him, cold. The girl had another swig of beer. Thorne took a step towards them and then they moved. The shorter boy stepped round his friends and away, running a step or two before slowing, regaining his composure. The girl moved away more slowly, dragging the taller of the boys by the sleeve. They stared at Thorne as they went, walking away backwards up the street. The girl lobbed her empty can into the road and shouted back at Thorne..

'Poofs! Fucking queers…'

Thorne lurched forward to chase after them but Hendricks's hand, which had never left his shoulder, squeezed and held on. 'Just leave it.'

'No.'

'Forget it, calm down…'

He yanked his shoulder free. 'Little fuckers…'

Hendricks stepped in front of Thorne, picked up the bag and held it out to him.

'What are you more pissed off about, Tom? The fact that I was called a queer? Or that you were?'

Unable to answer the question, Thorne took the bag and they carried on walking. They veered almost immediately right on to Angler's Lane, a one-way street that would bring them out close to Thorne's flat. This narrow cut-through to Prince of Wales Road had once been a small tributary off the River Fleet, now one of London's 'lost' underground rivers. Here, when Victoria took the throne, local boys would fish for carp and trout, before the water became so stinking and polluted that no fish could survive, and it had to be diverted beneath the earth, confined and hidden away in a thick iron pipe. Now, as Thorne walked home along the course of the lost river, it seemed to him that nearly two centuries later the stench was just as bad.

By a little after ten, Hendricks was fast asleep on the sofa, and likely to remain so well into Sunday morning. Thorne tidied up around him, switched off the TV and went into the bedroom. He got no reply from the flat. She answered her mobile almost immediately.

'It's Thorne. I hope it's not too late. I remembered from the sign on the door of the shop that you weren't open on Sundays, so I thought you might…'

'It's fine. No problem…'

Thorne lay back on the bed. He thought that she sounded pretty pleased to hear from him.

'I wanted to say thanks,' he said. 'I enjoyed today.'

'Good. Me too. Want to do it again?'

During the short pause that followed, Thorne looked up at the cheap, crappy lampshade, listened to her laughing quietly. There was a noise he couldn't place in the background. 'Bloody hell,' he said. 'You don't waste a lot of time…'

'What's the point? We only saw each other a few hours ago and you're ringing up, so you're obviously pretty keen.'

'Obviously…'

'Right, well, tomorrow's for sleeping and I'm busy in the evening. So, how keen would you say you are, really? On a scale of one to ten…'

'Er… how does seven sound?'

'Seven's good. Any less and I'd've been insulted and more would have been borderline stalker. Right then, what about breakfast on Monday? I know a great caff..'

'Breakfast?'

'Why not? I'll meet you before work.'

'OK, I'll probably have to be at work about nine-ish, so…'

Eve laughed. 'I thought you were keen, Thorne! We're talking about when I start work. Half past five, New Covent Garden flower market…'

17 JULY, 1976

It was more than half an hour since he'd heard the noises. The grunting and the shouting and the sounds of glass shattering. He heard her footsteps as she moved around, from her bedroom across that creaky floorboard that he'd never got around to fixing, into the bathroom and back again. He spent that half-hour willing himself to get up off the settee and see what had happened. Not moving. Needing to build up some strength, some control before he could venture upstairs…

Sitting in front of the television, wondering how much longer this was going to go on. The doctor had said that if she kept taking the tranquilisers, then things would settle down, but there was no sign of that happening. In the meantime, he was having to do all the stuff that needed doing. Everything. She was in no state to go to the shops or to the school. Christ, it had been 'over a week since she'd last come downstairs.

Walking across to the foot of the stairs, stiff and slow as a Golem… Listening to it, watching it, feeling it all come apart. They'd given him the time off work, but the sick pay wasn't going to last for ever and she was contributing nothing and now the debts were growing as thick and fast as the suspicion. Mushrooming, like the doubts that sprouted in every damp, dark corner of their lives; had been, ever since that moment when the foreman of the jury had stood and cleared his throat. He walked into the bedroom, feeling the carpet crunch beneath his feet. He glanced down at a dozen, distorted reflections of himself in the shards of broken mirror, then across to where she lay, no more than a lump beneath the blankets. He turned and walked back the way he'd come. Back across the creaky floorboard.