Mark Billingham: Sleepyhead

No, it isn't fucking no. Two blinks is usually no but when I'm doing this it means 'repeat'. Didn't Anne tell you any of this?

'Or do you mean two Es? Yes? Right. S, L, E, E… sleep? Do you want to go to sleep, Alison?'

Fuck, fuck, fuck…

Two strong blinks. One, two.

No. L Don't. Have you got any idea how hard this is?

He raised the pointer again. Point. Stop. Look. Point. Stop. Look. Point. Stop… a blink. No question about it. A big fat positive Y.

'You're sleepy? I'm sorry, Alison, I can come back when…'

She was blinking quite rapidly now. Repeatedly. Do I look fucking sleepy? Well, do I? Come on, Thorne, sort it out…

The sweat was running off him. He was making a complete mess of it. One more try and then he'd go and get somebody. Back with the pointer. And Alison blinked. And blinked again.

An H. Another E…

And the word became obvious.

And a firework went off in Thorne's stomach. A memory file, a tiny sound bite was pushed forward in his brain and something pressed the button marked 'play' and lit the fuse. The charge began to churn through his guts and the explosions rang in his ears and the sparks were dancing behind his eyes, green and gold and red and silver, and he was squeezing Alison's hand. And he was scrabbling in his pockets for change for the phone.

Running from the room.

'Bishop? This is Thorne…'

'What?' Weary, but also frightened.

'I know what you said to her. I know what you said to Alison before you stroked her out. What you said to all of them?

'What are you talking about?'

'"Night-night,." Same thing you said to me when you put me out for that hernia operation last year.'

His tongue heavy in his mouth, his voice growing weaker as he counts backwards from twenty, wondering if it will hurt when he wakes up, and seeing the smiling face of the anaesthetist looming above him. Murmuring…

'Is there a point to any of this, Thorne? I'm expecting somebody.'

'The same thing you said to me, Bishop. "Night-night,.'"

'Look, if it helps you, yes, I say that to patients sometimes when they're going under and I say, "Wake up,," when they're coming round from the anaesthetic. It's a silly catchphrase.. A superstition. For God's sake, I used to say it to my children when I put them to bed at night. Is this helping you, Thorne? Is it?'

'I was about to let it go, do you know that? You were so close to walking away. I thought I was wrong, but I wasn't, was I? Now I'm fucking certain…'

'You need help, Thorne. Serious professional help…'

'You're the one who needs help, Jeremy. I'm coming for you. I'm coming for you right now.'

Jesus… Jesus… Jesus…

I thought he was never going to get it.

I thought maybe it would be important, you know, because I'd heard it when I woke up as well as when he was doing it to That same word.

I thought it was probably significant and as soon as I heard Thorne outside the door I knew I wanted to try to tell him, but I hadn't expected him to shoot out of here quite like that. Like shit off a shiny shovel, my old man would have said. He was obviously still worked up after punching Anne's old man.

Like a blow-up doll with a pulse. What a fucking charmer. I hope Thorne knocked his teeth down his throat. So it has to be that doctor who brought me round. The anaesthetist who came in here with Anne a couple of times is Champagne Fucking Charlie. The one who's her friend. The one Thorne had the photo of. He obviously suspected him all along.

How can you be a doctor and do… this?

Jesus, though, I thought that was going to take for ever. That's the best I've ever done. Anne would have been dead proud, I reckon. I was fucking spot on.

Blinking for England. I said I would, didn't I?

It was so hard, though.

Now I really am sleepy…

Dave Holland stared at the film Sophie had rented, not taking in a single word. He pushed bits of cold lasagna round his plate, not really hungry.

Thinking about Tom Thorne.

He hadn't been there that morning when Thorne had stormed out of the office at Edgware Road. He was still trying to bring himself round after the night before when he'd drunk far too much trying to forget about Helen Doyle's parents. They'd made quite a night of it, him and Thorne. Even though he'd been pissed, and asleep some of the time, he could remember a lot of what Thorne had been saying. Lying on the settee late into the night, eyes closed, head spinning, while Thorne talked about blood and voices. Things Dave Holland wouldn't forget in a long time. Now nobody seemed to know where Thorne was, or even if he'd be back at all.

Those who had been there, this morning and seen the state of the DI as he'd walked into the lift, Staggered, somebody had said, had been only too keen to pass on the details when Holland eventually got into work. 'You'll be interested in this…' they said sarcastically. It seemed that a line of inquiry, developed by Detective Inspector Thorne, had now been officially discredited.

It sounded like he'd had the shit kicked out of him. Holland had gone quietly back to work. Every half an hour or so since, he'd checked his mobile, looking for a message.

Suddenly he noticed that the picture on the TV screen was frozen. Paused. He turned to see Sophie, the remote in her hand, talking to him. Was there really any point in her going to the video shop? Or cooking dinner? Or bothering to talk to him?

He apologised and told her that he was still feeling a bit rough, the worse for wear after his drinking session with the lads last night. Sophie had a go at him, but secretly she didn't really mind. She didn't begrudge him a night out on the beer with the lads. As long as he didn't make a habit of it and had worked out which side his bread was buttered oil.

As long as he'd finally decided against throwing in his lot with that loser Thorne.

Anne was annoyed. She had a bag full of shopping – food for the dinner she was going to cook for Jeremy – it was pouring with rain, and she couldn't find a single parking spot on his street. She eventually squeezed into a tight space round the corner and ran back, doing her best to avoid the rapidly growing puddles.

She was amazed to see him sitting in the car outside the house.

She tapped quickly on the glass and laughed as he jumped. The electric window on the Volvo slid down and she leaned in. 'What are you doing sitting out here?'

'Just thinking about things. Waiting for you.' The rain was blowing in through the open window on to his face.

Anne grimaced, confused. 'It's a lot warmer in the house.' He said nothing, staring blankly forward through a windscreen running with rainwater. Anne moved the handles of the plastic shopping-bag round in her hand. It was starting to get heavy. 'Are you coming inside?'

'Can you get in here first? Please, Anne, I need to talk to you about something. Just for a minute.'

Anne wanted to go into the house. She was wet, and very cold. She wanted a cup of tea or, even better, a large glass of wine before she got started on dinner. Still, he seemed upset about something. She hurried round to the passenger side and, dropping the shopping bag on to the floor at her feet, got into the car.

It was nice and warm: the heater had obviously been on for a while. He didn't look at her. She began to think something was seriously wrong.

'Is everything all right? Has something happened?'

He didn't answer and instinctively she began to look around her. Was the answer to whatever was going on here with them in the car? There was something on the back seat, covered with a tartan picnic blanket. She looked at him. 'What's…?'

Instinctively she knew that she wasn't going to get an answer and, with a grunt of effort, she lifted herself off her seat, reached across into the back of the car and pulled off the blanket.