Mark Billingham - Scaredy cat

Thorne nodded at Holland. Time to make a move. 'Thanks Mr. Bowles.' Thorne handed over a card, which Bowles took without looking at it. 'If there's anything else that occurs to you…'

'I taught myself to juggle when I was younger,' Bowles announced.

'I'd do a bit for the class. Last day of term, that sort of thing. I can remember doing it for their class – Palmer and Nicklin's class. Cascade of five balls, six on a good day. Balancing a chair…' He pointed at a heavy looking wooden chair behind the desk on the platform. '… One of those chairs, on my chin. Do you know that Marsden's younger than I am?'

Thorne was itching to get away. 'Sorry, sir?'

'Headmaster. They brought Marsden in a couple of years ago, from outside. I'm ten years older than he is.' He threw his arms wide, as if the sense of what he was saying was obvious for all to see. 'Be glad to get out of here to tell you the truth. Can't even manage three balls these days…'

Holland opened the door, and Thorne gratefully took a few steps towards it. 'We'll be on our way, sir.'

Bowles nodded and spoke quietly. 'What's Nicklin done?'

'I'm afraid we can't…'

'Of course not, I'm sorry I asked. Do you know, I hadn't thought about either of those boys in years until I was told it was them you wanted to talk to me about? I've taught hundreds of boys. I can't remember most of them to be honest. I can recall the work sometimes, but not faces. Ever since I heard those two names again, I've been thinking about them a good deal. Thinking about him. There's a look on your face, Inspector Thorne, whenever you talk about him, did you know that?'

Thorne knew it would be pointless to deny it, to express surprise. His face hid nothing. It never had. Not the scorn he felt for some, not the pity for others. The creases in his face folded as naturally into genuine expressions of horror, disgust and rage as those of a bad actor might shape themselves into their phony counterparts. His face fell easily into darkness; the scowl more at home there than the smile. Though the smile was the rarer, it was arguably the more powerful. Both had got him into plenty of trouble.

Bowles moved to the door to show them out. 'I suspect that now I shall be thinking about Stuart Nicklin often.' The watery eyes studied Thorne's face. 'The boy's moved on from air pistols, hasn't he?'

Thorne thought about Rosemary Vincent: the memory of an argument on the phone, the photograph turned over and over in her hand that day at the press conference. The hole in her precious daughter's head. The shadow moved across Thorne's face as he answered the teacher's question.

'Yes. He's moved on.'

He was thinking about something that had happened a long time ago. Years earlier, back when he'd still been Stuart Nicklin and supporting himself by tossing off sad old men and confused young ones, he'd learned about making the appropriate response to a situation. Another rent boy, a spiteful little prick who was older and uglier, had stolen some of his customers. Not his regulars, they were loyal, but some of the passing trade. The fucker was undercutting, a tenner here, twenty notes there, a bit more cash and we'll forget about the condom poaching punters to make some last ditch money before his looks went altogether. Understandable, but very bloody annoying. He was furious. He wanted to do something to punish the thieving toe rag, the little bitch, but he knew that the sensible thing, the appropriate thing to do would be to ignore it. Let it go and move on. There were plenty of punters to go around and there was no need to risk trouble with the police. No need to rock the boat. That would be stupid.

He was also thinking about what was happening right now. They were afraid he was going to disappear. Scared shitless that, with his partner taken, he would pack up and head for the hills. If that was what they were afraid of, he knew that it was exactly what he should do. It was the appropriate response. They didn't want him to melt away and then resurface when the time was right to start again. So, that was the right thing for him to do. It was simple and sensible. It was self-preservation.

It would be hard, there was no question of that. He loved what he was doing. He was very good at it and he loved that too. It was a rush like nothing he could remember, and even without the added buzz of the other, even without Palmer playing along for real, he knew that not doing it would be like dulling all his senses. Stopping would be like cutting off the oxygen to the very best part of himself. Giving it up would be like going to sleep for a while. It wouldn't be for ever, it might not even have to be for very long, but it would be very bloody hard. Still, it made sense. It was the appropriate thing to do, so he would have to try.

He would try to stop.

Years earlier, back when he'd still been Stuart Nicklin, having decided not to do anything stupid, he'd made a few calls and lured the thieving rent boy to an empty flat he sometimes used off Glasshouse Street. It was February and freezing. From the small window he could see the crowds in scarves and heavy coats, moving across Piccadilly Circus. He could just make out the icicles dangling from the bow of Eros and the frost on the steps leading up to the statue, sparkling in the multicoloured neon from the vast signs above. When the boy arrived, Nicklin beat him unconscious with a house brick, stuck a funnel in his mouth and poured a gallon of bright blue anti-freeze down his throat.

In its own way, an appropriate response. After all, it was a very cold night.

He was thinking.

He would try to stop…

Thorne, too, was thinking about something that had happened a long time ago…

The boy he'd last seen trudging towards school sporting a feather cut, though he wasn't an awful lot taller, had at least filled out a little. It was three years later. It was twenty-five years ago. Boxing Day. Nineteen seventy-six. A two-all draw at home against Arsenal, ground out on a snowy pitch with an orange ball. An acceptable result in a season that was going from bad to worse. His dad had stayed up near the ground for a pint with his mates, leaving him to make his own way back He trudged up the Seven Sisters Road, the dark slush soaking through his boots, filling his turn-ups. The blue and white scarf worn as much for warmth as to declare allegiance. They looked like grown men from a distance, but as they got close, he could see that they were only a year or two older than he was. They were bigger too, with green Harrington jackets, and red and white scarves.

He brushed shoulders with one as they passed and a look was exchanged. He had shrugged slightly and smiled. Two apiece. A fair enough result, don't you reckon?

A few minutes later he heard the footsteps thumping behind him and before he had a chance to react, the first of them was on his back, an arm around his neck, driving him face first on to the icy pavement. Cars roared past, spraying water and light across the three figures, but not slowing down.

He pushed himself up on to his knees and got the first of several punches in the face. As the fists came down, he deflected some with his arms, feeling something crack in his hand at the same time as something long and heavy smashed across his shoulder blades. He was crying and straining to get down on to the floor so he could pull his knees up to his chest. He could no longer tell which were the grunts of pain and which were the dull sounds of fists clubbing into cheekbone and shoulder.

He heard a voice and saw the shadow of an arm reaching across him. The biggest of the Arsenal fans stepped over him, cursing, and finally, he was free to drop back to the floor. He rolled over, moaning, and as he began to crawl away, he turned to see them laying into an older man in shirt sleeves. One of them had him by the hair while the other casually brought his forehead down into the man's face. The man was Greek, he thought, maybe Cypriot. Difficult to tell with all the blood. Perhaps he was a shopkeeper who had heard the noise and stepped out to intervene. He shouted and swore as the two thugs pushed him down into the wet gutter and drew back their feet. Tom Thorne began to shout too, then, for someone to come. Shouting for help as the first kicks went into the groin and stomach. Shouting even louder than the man on the floor as the boots flew in again and again. Shouting for help and running away, fast… He moved around the flat, turning off the lights, very ready for bed. He smiled, remembering the way his dad had ranted from the terraces: foul-mouthed and usually wide of the mark. 'Hoddle, you're fucking useless?