Mark Billingham - Lazybones

Please do.

Please don't stop doing..

Please me. Pleasure me. Please…

Pleading for it.

As he brought the lamp down with every ounce of strength he had, he thought that, all in all, it was a pretty appropriate word. For her very last. At least, the way she meant it now, it was honest. With each successive blow he became more focused, his thinking becoming less cluttered until finally, when she was unrecognisable, he could remember where in the garage he'd last seen the tow rope.

That dreadful hiatus between arriving, and anything actually happening…

The cling-film, they were assured, would be coming off the buffet platters very shortly, and the DJ wouldn't be too long setting his gear up. Until then, there was a hundred and fifty quid behind the bar, so everybody could get a couple down them and toast the bride and groom one more time while they were waiting for the fun to start. Everyone could mingle…

Tragically, there weren't quite enough people in the rugby club bar for a significant hubbub to develop; there was no comforting blanket of noise for Thorne to hide under. He got a pint of bitter for his dad, half a Guinness for himself, and looked for the nearest corner. He sat sipping his beer and tried to summon up the necessary enthusiasm for Scotch eggs and pork pie and cold pasta salad. Raised his glass to anyone whose eye he caught and tried not to look too bored or miserable or, God forbid, in need of cheering up.

His father was certainly in no need of it. Jim Thorne sat on a chair at the bar holding court. Telling jokes to a couple of teenage boys who sniggered and sipped their shandies. Informing any woman who would listen that he had a memory like a goldfish, because he had that disease with the funny name. He'd forgotten, what was it called again? Asking With a twinkle to be forgiven if he'd slept with any of them and couldn't remember.

Thorne was delighted to see his dad on such good form. To see him enjoying himself. It was a huge relief after the phone call twenty-four hours earlier that had put paid to his evening with Eve Bloom… The large, stripped-pine table in the kitchen had been set for four. Thorne had yet to encounter anybody else. Eve turned from the cooker.

'In case you're wondering, they're in her room.' She spoke at the level of a stage whisper. 'Denise and Ben. I think they've had a row…'

Thorne was pouring wine into two of the glasses. He whispered back. 'Right. Was it a big one? Should I start clearing away a couple of these place settings…?'

Eve moved over to the table and picked up her wine. 'No chance. Ben won't let an argument get in the way of his dinner. Cheers.' She took a sip and carried the glass back across to where several large copper pans sat on the halogen hob. She nodded towards the door at the sound of footsteps and raised voices coming from elsewhere in the flat 'Those two enjoy a good row anyway. They're pretty violent, but usually short-lived…'

Thorne tried to sound casual. 'Violent?'

'I don't mean like that. Just a lot of shouting. Bit of throwing stuff, but never anything breakable…'

Thorne glanced across at her. She was busy at the cooker again, her back to him. He stared at the nape of her neck. At her shoulder blades, brown against the cream linen of her top.

'I'm more of a seether myself,' she said.

'I'll watch out for that.'

'Don't worry, you'll know it when it happens…'

Thorne looked around the kitchen. A couple of framed black and white film posters. Chrome kettle, toaster and blender. A big, expensive-looking fridge. It looked like the shop was doing pretty good business, though he couldn't be sure which things were Eve's and which belonged to her flatmate. He guessed that the vast array of herbs in terracotta pots were probably down to Eve, as were the scribbled Latin names of what Thorne presumed to be flowers on the enormous blackboard that dominated one wall. He was pleased to see his own name and mobile-phone number, scrawled in the bottom left hand corner.

'So, what are they arguing about? Your friends. Nothing serious…?'

She turned, licking her fingers. 'Keith. Remember? The guy that helps me out on a Saturday. He was here when Ben arrived. Ben reckons he's got a bit of a thing for Denise, and Denise told him not to be such an idiot…'

Thorne remembered the way Keith had looked at him when he was talking to Eve in the shop. Maybe Denise wasn't the only one he had a bit of a thing for…

'What do you think?' he asked. 'About Keith and Denise…'

A door squeaked and slammed and a moment later the door to the kitchen was pushed open by a slim, fair-haired woman. She was barefoot, wearing baggy, combat-style shorts and a man's black vest. She marched up behind Eve and gave her backside a healthy tweak.

'That smells fucking gorgeous!'

She turned and beamed at Thorne. Her hair was a little shorter and a shade lighter than Eve's. Though she seemed slight, the vest she was wearing showed off well-defined arms and shoulders. Her delicate features sharpened as an enormous smile pushed up cheekbones you could slice bacon on.

'Hello, you're Tom, aren't you? I'm Denise.' She all but ran across the kitchen, grabbed his outstretched hand and flopped down in a chair on the other side of the table. 'So, Tom? Thomas? Which?' She reached for the wine bottle and began pouring herself a very large glass.

'Tom's fine…'

She leaned across the table and spoke as though they were old friends. 'Eve's been going on at nauseating length about you, do you know that?' Her voice was surprisingly deep and a little theatrical. Thorne couldn't think of anything to say. Took a sip of wine instead.

'Bloody full of it, she is. I'm guessing that the only reason she is resolutely refusing to turn around from the oven, at this very moment, is that she's gone bright red…'

'Shut your face,' Eve said, laughing and without turning round. Denise swallowed a mouthful of wine, gave Thorne another massive smile. 'So, in the flesh,' she said. 'A man who catches murderers.'

Thorne needed to relax after the morning he'd spent: in Soho. Now, he was starting to enjoy himself. This woman was clearly as mad as a hatter but likeable enough.

'Right at this very minute, I'm a man who isn't catching them…'

'We all have off days, 'Tom. Tomorrow you'll probably catch a bagful.'

'I'll settle for just the one…'

'Right.' She raised her glass as if in a toast. 'A really good one.'

Thorne leaned back on his chair and glanced across at Eve. As if she sensed him looking, she turned, caught his eye and smiled. Thorne turned back to Denise. 'What about you? What do you do?' He stared at the tiny, glittering stud in her nose, thinking, Actress, poet, performance artist…

She rolled her eyes. 'God, IT. Sorry. Dull as fuck, I'm afraid.'

'Well…'

'Don't bother, I can see your eyes glazing over already. Bloody hell, how d'you think I feel? All day surrounded by Lord of the Rings readers, making jokes about floppy this and hard that. PCs going down on them…'

At the cooker, Eve laughed. Thorne knew straight away that she was thinking the same thing that he was. 'I know,' he said. 'Where I work, having a PC go down on you means a very different thing…'

When the man whom Thorne presumed to be Ben strolled into the kitchen, it was Denise who stopped laughing first. He walked over, leaned against the worktop next to where Eve was cooking and began chewing a fingernail. He tilted his chin towards Thorne. 'Hiya…'

Thorne nodded back. 'Hi. Are you Ben?'

Denise spoke pointedly over the noise of the wine slugging into her glass. 'Oh yes, he's Ben.' Ben looked none too pleased at the horribly fake smile she gave him as she spat out his name. Eve lobbed a tea-towel at her. 'All right you two, stop it.' She leaned across and kissed Ben on the cheek. 'This'll be ready in about five minutes…'