Mark Billingham - Lazybones

Ben moved across to the fridge, opened it and took out a can of lager. He turned to Thorne, held it up. 'Want one?'

Thorne lifted his glass of wine. 'No, thanks…'

Ben moved round behind his girlfriend and sat next to Thorne. He was tall and well built, with fair, wavy hair, a gingerish goatee beard and neatly trimmed, pointed sideburns. Although in his thirties, and clearly fifteen years too old for it, he was wearing what Thorne guessed was skateboarding gear. He stuck out a hand, introduced himself. 'Ben Jameson…'

Thorne did the same, suddenly feeling a little awkward, and some what overdressed in his chinos and black M amp; S polo shirt…

'I'm starving,' Ben said.

Eve carried four plates across to the table. 'Good. There's loads…'

For half a minute there was only the sound of china and glassware clinking. Of cutlery scraping against dishes, and chairs against the quarry-tiled floor as the meal was dished up.

'This looks amazing,' Thorne said.

Nods and grunting from Denise and Ben, a smile from Eve and then silence. Thorne turned to his right. 'You in IT as well, Ben?'

'Sorry?'

'I wondered if the two of you had met up at work…?'

'God, no. I'm a filmmaker.'

'Right. Anything I might have seen?'

'Only if you watch a lot of corporate training videos,' Denise said. Thorne could feel his foot pressing against something underneath the table. He pushed, hoping it was Eve's foot. She looked up at him. ..

'Yeah, that's what I'm doing at the moment,' Ben said. He drummed his fork against the edge of his plate. 'But I've got some stuff of my own I'm trying to get off the ground as well.'

Denise reached across and laid a hand across Ben's, stilling the movement of the fork. Her tone was blatantly patronising. 'That's right, darling. Course you have…'

Ben pushed his pasta around a little, spoke without looking up from the plate. 'So, what's new at your place, then, Den? Any riveting system crashes? Any interesting computer viruses to tell us about…?'

Thorne took his first mouthful, caught Eve's eye. She smiled and gave a small shrug. He glanced across at Denise and Ben who were looking anywhere but at each other. The row might be officially over, but they were clearly intent on scoring a few points off each other.

'Right.' Eve folded her arms. 'If you two don't kiss and make up, you can luck off next door and ring out for pizza. Fair enough?'

First Denise and then Ben raised their eyes to Eve, who was doing her best to look serious. The antipathy between the couple seemed to melt away in the face of her mock-annoyance, the two quickly shaking heads and nuzzling necks and saying sorry for being stupid. Thorne watched all three clutching hands – apologising without embarrassment to him and to each other – and he was struck by the dynamic between these people who were clearly great friends, by the warmth and strength of it.

He smiled, waving away their apologies. Impressed by them, and envious…

When his phone rang, Denise leaned forward, seeming genuinely excited. 'This could be the first of those murderers, Tom…'

Something tightened inside Thorne when he saw the name come up on the phone's display. For a second he thought about leaving the room to take the call, maybe even pretending it was work. He decided he was being over-dramatic, mouthed 'sorry', and answered the phone.

'This is bad, Tom. Very bad. I've been getting my things ready for tomorrow. Ready for the trip. Laying it all out on the bed, trying to choose and there's a problem with this blue suit…'

Thorne listened, watching Eve and her friends pretending not to, as his father moved from panic to complete hysteria at frightening speed. When all he could hear down the phone was sobbing, Thorne pushed back his chair, dropped his eyes to the floor and stepped away from the table.

'Dad, listen, I'll be there first thing in the morning, like I said I would.' He moved across to the kitchen window, stared out across London Fields. The light at the top of Canary Wharf winked back at him as he stood, wondering if Eve and the others could hear the crying, and trying to decide what to do.

Eve stood and moved across to him. She put a hand on his arm.

'It's all right, Dad,' Thorne said. 'Look, I'll have to go home first, all right? To get my stuff and pick up the hire car. Calm down, OK? I'll be there as soon as I can…'

The snotty cow behind the reception desk looked at Welch like she thought he was going to nick something. Like he was a piece of shit that one of those businessmen laughing loudly in the bar had brought in on their shoes. It wasn't like it was the fucking Ritz either…

'I rang a couple of days ago to book,' Welch said. The receptionist stared at her computer screen, plastered on a smile that was fake and frosty at the same time. 'So you did,' she said. 'Just the one night, is it?'

Welch felt like reaching across the desk and slapping her. He had half a mind to ask for the manager, to demand the level of service and fucking courtesy to which he was entitled. 'Yeah, one night. I get breakfast, don't I?'

The girl didn't look up. 'Yes, sir, breakfast is included in your room rate.'

Welch suddenly wondered what would happen if there were two of them coming down in the morning. He didn't know if she would want to stay for breakfast. He thought about asking, decided to leave it.

'I won't keep you a second, sir…'

While the receptionist punched her keypad, Welch stared around the lobby. The plants were plastic. The grey carpet looked like it would take your skin off if you fell on it. There was a sign next to the desk which said The Greenwood Hotel, Slough, Welcomes Thompson Mouldings Ltd…

'There we go, sir. If you could just fill that in.' She slid the booking form across to him. He had to think for a few seconds before he could remember the address of the hostel. 'I'll need an imprint of a credit card. Nothing will be charged to it, but…'

'No need. I'm paying cash.' He signed the form and reached into the pocket of his jacket for the roll of tenners.

'That's fine, sir…'

Welch took out the money. He had a card he could have used if he'd felt like it, but he wanted her to see the cash. He slipped off the elastic band, started counting it out. The hostel was fucking horrendous, but being released NFA – having No Fixed Abode – did have its advantages. The discharge grant was more than double what you'd get normally.

'No payment in advance, sir. You settle the bill when you check out.'

She placed a key card on top of the pile of cash and pushed the lot back towards him. 'Room 313. Third floor.'

He grabbed his money, tried not to shout. 'I do bloody well know. I know what you're supposed to do, all right?'

The receptionist reddened and turned away from him.

Welch picked up the plastic bag that contained a toothbrush, condoms, clean pants and socks for the morning. He thought about joining the gang from Thompson Mouldings in the bar, having a quick one. On second thoughts, he'd go straight to the room, maybe have a shower, try to enjoy every single minute of it… Grinning at nobody in particular, he walked towards the lift. This was stuff that only went on at family weddings. That Thorne knew could never happen anywhere else: an old woman, seventy if she was a day, dancing awkwardly in the corner with a small boy; two women in their forties shouting at each other across the table, raising their voices so that their comments about the food/dress/service could be heard above the Madonna/Oasis/George Michael; small children sliding on their knees across the polished dance floor, while smaller ones screamed or struggled to stay awake in spite of the loud music.

Some related by blood, for ever, and some for only an hour or two. Eyeing each other up and staring each other out. A fuck or a fight not much more than a look or a lager away…