Mark Billingham - Scaredy cat

'It's fine…' Thorne had actually been carrying a half-empty wine bottle and dirty glass back to the kitchen when the phone went. Now, he sat down on the sofa, stuck the bottle between his knees and yanked out the cork again.

'So how are you love?' She spoke as if he was ill, or a little slow. Thorne was about to fill his glass when he decided that, actually, he was in no mood to have this conversation. He knew what she wanted and he couldn't be arsed waiting for her to say it. Christ, how long had it been since he'd seen this woman? It was certainly before Jan had left. A funeral, but he couldn't remember whose. Maybe one of Eileen's husband's parents…

'Listen, Auntie Eileen-'

'I was sorry to hear about you and your wife…'

So Thorne poured the wine and made the tedious small talk, and waited for her to get to the point; to say what she'd obviously called to say. He'd warned his dad against ringing her, silly old bastard. Now it was going to be embarrassing. He started prompting her, getting tetchier, waiting to hear that she was ever so sorry but she really couldn't have Jim at Christmas. She had a houseful after all, and there wasn't the room to put him up and maybe if he'd given her a bit more notice…

Stuff you, Thorne thought. We'll be fine, the two of us…

'So we've talked about it and decided that your dad's coming to us this year.'

Thorne held the wine glass halfway between his knee and his mouth. He knew he'd heard correctly, but couldn't think of anything to say. 'Sorry? But…'

'If you drop him at Victoria, we'll pick him up at the other end.'

Thorne felt himself starting to redden a little. 'Listen, maybe I'd better have a word with dad…'

'Don't worry, it's all been organised, love.'

'But you'll have a houseful. You haven't got the room…'

'We'll be free. Look, we'd love to have him and I dare say it'll be a bit of a break for you.'

Then five minutes more of this and that, until Thorne heard the call-waiting signal on the line and dropped a hint. Auntie Eileen took it, announcing that now it was past her bedtime and telling Thorne how lovely it would be to see him sometime, too… Thorne had told Phil Hendricks the whole thing before he'd really had a chance to decide how he felt about it. It was probably rash of Hendricks to make the invitation and Thorne couldn't decide whether it was stupidity or desperation that made him accept, but either way, two days later, here he was…

Christmas Eve. Playing gooseberry. Sitting in a pub and not listening.

'Tom? For fuck's sake…'

Thorne felt as if he were emerging at speed from a long, long tunnel. Gold, silver and red coming into focus. Cheap decorations, catching the light, dangling from fake wooden beams. He blinked.

'Sorry Phil. Is it my round, mate?'

Hendricks stared at him. 'Hello! Brendan's up there, getting them in. You haven't heard a word, have you?'

Thorne downed the last of his pint. 'Yes, I have.'

'So? What d'you reckon?'

Thorne puffed out his cheeks, just needing a second or two. He began to recall bits of a one-sided conversation. Brendan and Phil were an item again. Yes, that was it. Hendricks wanted to know whether taking Mr. Didn't-Turn-Out-To-Be-A-Bastard-After-All back was a good idea.

'What's definitely not a good idea,' Thorne said finally, 'is having me dossing on your sofa like a spare prick at a wedding.'

Hendricks sighed. 'Look, we've been through this. It's not a big deal.'

Thorne looked around. The place was packed. It was hard to make themselves heard over the hubbub and the loud Christmas music. Slade, Wizzard, Mud. Utterly predictable and hugely reassuring. He glanced towards the bar where Brendan was handing over money for the drinks. 'Have you asked him?'

'It's fuck all to do with him. I'm not daft anyway – I know he's only back because he can't face being at home. His mum and dad don't know he's gay and he's got nowhere else to go…'

'None of us is exactly spoilt for choice.'

'Don't go on about it, all right? You're staying. It's either you for Christmas or some old tramp from outside the soup kitchen.'

Thorne grinned. 'Wouldn't the smell bother you?'

Hendricks gleefully supplied the punch line. 'I'm sure you can clean yourself up.'

They were still laughing as Brendan arrived with the drinks, but as soon as he put the glasses down on the table, Thorne was out of his seat and pulling on his jacket.

'Listen, I'm going to get out of your way…'

Brendan held up Thorne's new pint. He looked pissed off and was about to say something, but Hendricks put a hand on his arm to stop him. He knew there was little point in arguing.

'See you later, yeah?'

Thorne said nothing. He squeezed round the table, put a hand on Brendan's shoulder. 'I'm sorry about the beer…'

'Tomorrow for lunch, then?' Hendricks asked. Thorne nodded, but knew instantly that his friend could tell he didn't mean it. He took the hand from Brendan's shoulder and held it out towards Hendricks. 'Have a good one, Phil.'

Hendricks stood, took the hand and pulled Thorne into a slightly awkward hug.

'You too. Now, fuck off…'

So, Thorne did.

A DC answered the door and Thorne held up his warrant card. If the officer, who was ginger, pudgy and only an inch or so above minimum height, could smell the beer on Thorne's breath, his face wasn't letting it show. It showed only the same blank truculence that Thorne had seen on the faces of the two moppets in the car outside. Parents coming.., the cottage.., the kid's first Christmas…

'I'll not be long.' Thorne nodded back over his shoulder towards the chair in the hallway. The officer stepped outside and sat down, muttering and disgruntled. Thorne shut the front door behind him. He probably had smelt the booze. It didn't matter. Thorne noticed a copy of the Sun on the table just inside the door. He opened the door and offered it to the constable who took it with a grunt. Fuck you, Thorne thought, pulling the door shut again. He turned and walked through into the living room. Palmer stepped out of the kitchen carrying a mug of tea. He had evidently not heard the knock on the door and started slightly when he saw Thorne. They looked at one another for a few seconds. Then Palmer spoke, his voice deep and slightly nasal. 'Has something…?' Thorne shook his head.

Palmer held up his mug, the steam fogging his glasses for a second or two. 'Can I get you one?'

Thorne said nothing, walked across to where the computer sat on a small desk near the window. It was logged on to a server twenty-four hours a day. The second Nicklin got in touch, they'd know about it. Thorne stared at the screensaver – a series of multicoloured clocks which swam about, bouncing all over the screen, buzzing and ticking, chiming on the hour. He leaned forwards and moved the mouse so that the clocks disappeared. He pulled the chair away from the desk, turned it round so that it faced into the room and sat down. He hadn't taken his jacket off.

'What d'you do? Surf the Net? Chat? Play Scrabble on it?'

Palmer sat straight-backed on the sofa. He held his mug of tea in two hands against his chest. 'Yes. The Net. Sometimes.'

'And…?'

'Well, with a police officer in constant attendance, I'm hardly likely to spend the hours of darkness trawling through porn sites, am I?'

'But if you were on your own?' Thorne asked, quickly. Palmer stared down into his tea. 'I see. What would a filthy degenerate seek out? Well, I'd be looking for something perverse, almost certainly. You know, sick.' He looked up and across at Thorne. His head was tipped slightly back, his nose wrinkling slightly to stop his glasses sliding off. 'Bodies perhaps. Autopsy photographs, they're out there if you know where to look.' He started to talk faster, his voice getting louder, his breathing harsh and faintly wheezy; the best impression he could do, he could give, of excitement. 'Perhaps even a video or two, with sound if at all possible to pick up the noise.., the howl of the buzz saw. You know the sort of thing, danger and dissection, the usual saucy mix for the pathetic, the sexually dysfunctional-'