Mark Billingham - Lazybones

There was a row of shops just past the Imperial War Museum: a Turkish grocer's, a paper shop and an off-licence. As Holland pulled over to the kerb, he began to ache with the realisation that it was getting hard to remember what things were like before Sophie became pregnant.

The good things, anyway.

It never took him very long to get ready.

He didn't dress up in anything special. There were no pointless rituals, no periods of intense mental preparation, none of that rubbish.

He thought about what he was doing, of course he did. He was sensible, he went over it all, but that took no more time than it did to pack his bag.

There wasn't very much to carry. Nothing that wouldn't fit into a small rucksack. Previously, with the ones in the hotel rooms, he'd taken something bigger, a bag he could stuff the sheets and bedclothes into. That wouldn't be necessary this time.

The gloves, the hood, the weapons…

He'd already sharpened the knife, then used it to cut off a length from the reel of washing line. He coiled it up and stuffed it into a pocket at the front of the black, leather rucksack. It was funny, the things people carried around with them in bags. Who knew what secrets, what glimpses into people's lives, might come tumbling out if you could empty their backpacks and briefcases, their plastic sports bags and canvas holdalls? For sure, you'd need to sift through a mountain of files and folders, of newspapers, and sandwiches in cling-film, before you found anything of interest. A ransom note or a blackmail demand. Perhaps the odd dirty mag or pair of handcuffs. Then, if you were luck), you might find the one bag in ten thousand or a thousand or less that contained a gun, or a bloodstained hammer or a severed finger…

You'd almost certainly be surprised if it was a woman's handbag. He smiled as the last thing went in, and he fastened the strap. Anybody rooting through the bag he was packing would probably just be very embarrassed.

Thorne stood staring at himself in the full-length mirror on the back of his wardrobe door. He was trying to decide whether to stick with the plain white shirt or go back to the blue denim when the doorbell made his mind up for him.

On the way to the door, he nudged the volume of the music down just a little. He'd decided, after much soul-searching, that George Jones would suit any mood that might be required. He had some of the quirky, fifties songs lined up for now, but was ready to bring out the Billy Sherill stuff from two decades later when the time came. There was surely no more romantic song ever recorded than 'He Stopped Loving Her Today'…

Eve marched into the centre of the room, cast a quick eye over the place, then over Thorne. 'You look very summery,' she said. She was wearing a simple, brown cotton dress that buttoned up the front. 'So do you,' Thorne said. He looked down at his white shirt. 'I thought about wearing a tie…'

She took a step towards him. 'God, we're not going anywhere posh, are we?'

'No…'

'Good. I like the shirt open-necked anyway…'

They kissed, their hands growing busier with every few seconds that passed. As Thorne's fingers engaged with the second button on her dress, Eve broke off and stepped away, smiling. 'Now, I don't necessarily think that wild, gymnastic shagging on a full stomach is a good idea,' she said. 'But I could eat something, and I'd definitely like a drink…'

Thorne laughed. 'Right, is it a bit warm to eat curry?'

'Curry's good any time.'

'There's a fantastic Indian round the corner.'

'Sounds perfect.'

'Or there's any number of great places in Islington or Camden. Loads of nice restaurants in Crouch End. You haven't been in my new car yet…'

Eve walked across to the window, fastening her buttons. 'Let's go local. It won't be fair if only one of us has had a drink.'

'No argument from me. Let me grab a jacket…'

'Don't bother, we're not going anywhere just yet.'

'No?'

Eve turned from the window, raising her hands to adjust the clips in her hair. Her breasts pushed against the front of her dress, and Thorne could see the redness where she'd shaved under her arms. 'I've got something in the van,' she said. 'I'll need a hand bringing it in.'

It wasn't until Holland looked at the clock on the dash that he realised it had been ten minutes since he'd pulled up outside the flat It was just after seven o'clock.

Ten minutes and more of sitting, clutching the plastic bag with the wine inside it, unable to get out of the car. It was a few minutes after that, when Holland stared, confused for a moment at the small, dark patches appearing on his trousers, and realised that he was crying. He lifted his head and squeezed his eyes shut, the next breath a sigh which caught in his throat and became a sob.

Then a series of them, like punches to the heart. For want of anything else, he wrapped his forearms around the bag, the wine bottle between his face and the steering wheel as his head dropped slowly forward. Hi felt the pressure of the bottle through the bag, cold against his cheek, and then, within a few minutes, the bag began to grow warm and slippery with tears, each desperate gasp between sobs sucking the clammy plastic into his mouth… Like the puking wretch he'd been seven days before, Holland could do nothing but let it come, and wait for it to finish. He cried for himself, and for Sophie, and for the child that would be theirs in five weeks. He wept, guilty and sorry and stupid and scared. The tears whose sting was sharpest though, that were squeezed out faster and bigger than most, were those he shed in anger at the spineless, selfish tosser he knew he had become.

When it was over, Holland lifted his sticky face up just enough to slide a sleeve across it, like a child. He sat, sniffing and staring up at the flat Before, a general confusion and some pathetic, nameless fear had been twin hands pressing him down into his seat, preventing him from going inside. Now, although there was nothing vague about the shame he was feeling, like a welt across his gut, it was equally effective.

He couldn't go inside, not yet.

Holland looked down at his briefcase in the passenger footwell. He knew that even if he took work upstairs, tried to get straight into it, the first smile from Sophie would be enough to set him off again. Maybe he could just drive around…

He reached down and grabbed the case, rummaged inside until he found the sheet of paper he was looking for. He cleared his throat as he took out his phone and dialed the number. Even so, when it was answered, the first word or two he spoke sounded choked and heavy.

'Mrs. Noble, it's Dave Holland here again. I know it's an odd time, but I was wondering if now might be a good time to pop over and pick up those photos…?'

Holland made it to Romford in a notch under forty minutes, and stepped out of the car to find Irene Noble waiting on her doorstep. She marched down the path towards him. 'You did that pretty quickly. It usually comes down to the traffic fn the Blackwall Tunnel. This is probably the best time, actually…'

She was wearing a cream trouser-suit and full make-up. Holland saw her glance towards the houses on either side. He guessed that she was hoping to see the twitch of a net curtain, a sign that one of the neighbours might be watching the young man walking towards her door.

'It was fairly easy,' Holland said. 'There wasn't much traffic at all…'

He followed her inside, where he was enthusiastically greeted by a small, off-white dog. Its fur was matted and smelly, but Holland tried his best to make a fuss of it, as it yapped and licked and scrabbled at his shins.

Mrs. Noble shooed the dog into the kitchen. 'Candy's knocking on a bit now,' she said. 'Actually, she was Roger's dog, once upon a time. She was still only a puppy when he passed away.'