Mark Billingham: Sleepyhead

Candles by the bed, for Christ's sake…

Jan said later that she never understood why Thorne hadn't hit him. He never told her. Even as the scrawny bastard had leaped from the bed, his cock flapping, scrabbling for his glasses, Thorne knew that he wasn't going to hurt him. As he let the pain wash over him, he knew that, reeling and raw as he was, he couldn't bear to hear her scream, see the flash of hatred in her eyes, watch her rushing to comfort the little smartarse as he sat slumped against the wardrobe, moaning and trying to stop the blood. A few weeks later he'd waited outside the college and followed him. Into shops. Chatting with students on the street. Home to a small flat in Islington with multicoloured bicycles chained up outside and posters in the window. That had been enough for him. That simple knowing. You're mine if l ever decide to come and get you.

But after a while even that seemed shameful. He'd let it go. Now it was the stuff of late nights and red wine and singers with dark, dangerous voices.

Yes, he'd brought the job home – especially after Calvert, when things had slipped away from him for a time – but they'd got married far too young. That was all, really. Perhaps if they'd had kids…

Thorne scanned the TV pages of the Standard. Tuesday night and bugger all on. Even worse, Sky had shown the Spurs-Bradford game at eight o'clock. He'd forgotten all about it. At home against Bradford – should be three points in the bag. Teletext, the football fan's best friend, gave him the bad news.

She was slumped, her back against his legs, buttocks pressing down on her heels and knuckles lying against the polished wooden floorboards. He stood behind her, both hands on the back of her neck, readying himself. He glanced around the room. Everything was in place. The equipment laid out within easy reach.

Her mouth fell open and a wet gurgling noise came out. He tightened his grip, ever so slightly, on her neck. There was really no point in trying to talk and, besides, he'd heard quite enough from her already.

An hour and a half earlier, he'd watched as the group of girls had begun to thin out. A couple had wandered off towards the tube and a couple more to the bus stop. One tottered off down the Holloway Road. Local, he guessed. Perhaps she'd like to join him for a drink. He'd taken a left turn and driven the car round the block, emerging on to the main road twenty yards or so ahead of her: He'd waited at the junction until she was a few feet away then got out of the car.

'Excuse me… sorry.., but I seem to be horribly lost.'

Slurring the words ever so slightly. Just the right side of pissed. And so well-spoken.

'Where are you trying to get to?'

Wary. Quite right too. But nothing to worry about here. Just a tipsy hooray lost on the wrong side of the Archway roundabout. Taking off his glasses, looking like he's having trouble focusing…

'Hampstead… sorry.., had a bit too much… Shouldn't be driving, tell you the truth.'

'That's OK, mate. Hammered meself as it goes…'

'Been clubbing?'

'No, just in the pub – mate's birthday.., really brilliant.'

Good. He was glad she was happy. All the more to want to live for. So…

'I don't suppose you fancy a nightcap?' Reaching through the car window and producing it with a flourish.

'Blimey, what are you celebrating?'

Christ, what was it with these gifts and a bottle of fizz?

Like a hypnotist's gold watch.

Just pinched it from a party.' Then the giggle. 'One for the road?'

About half an hour. Thirty minutes of meaningless semi-literate yammering until she'd started to go. She was full of herself. Nita's boyfriend… Linzi's problems at work.., a couple of dirty jokes. He'd smiled and nodded and laughed, and tried to imagine how he could possibly have been less interested. Then the nodding-dog head and the sitcom slurring, and it was time for the innocuous looking man to tip his paralytic girlfriend into the back of his car and take her back to his place.

Then he'd made the phone call, and put her in position. And now Helen wasn't quite so gobby.

Again the gurgling, from somewhere deep down and desperate.

'Ssh, Helen, just relax. It won't take long.'

He positioned his thumbs, one at either side of the bony bump at the base of the skull and felt for the muscle, talking her through it… 'Feel these two pieces of muscle, Helen?'

She groaned.

'The sternocleidomastoid. I know, stupidly long word, don't worry. These muscles reach all the way down to your collar-bone. Now what I'm after is underneath…' He gasped as he found it. 'There.'

Slowly he wrapped his fingers, one at a time around the carotid artery and began to press.

He closed his eyes and mentally counted off the seconds. Two minutes would do it. He felt something like a shudder run through her body and up through the thin surgical gloves into his fingers. He nodded respectfully, admiring the Herculean effort that even so tiny a movement must have taken.

He began to think about her body and about how he might have touched it. She was his to do with as he pleased. He could have slipped his hands from her head and slid them straight down the front of her and beneath her shirt in a second. He could turn her round and penetrate her mouth, pushing himself across her teeth. But he wouldn't. He'd thought about it with the others too, but this was not about sex.

After considering such things at length he'd decided that his was a normal and healthy impulse. Wouldn't any man feel the same things with a woman at his mercy? So easily available? Of course. But it was not a good idea. He did not want them.., classifying this as a sex crime. That would be easy, would throw them too far off the scent. And he knew all about DNA.

A growl came from somewhere deep in Helen's throat.

She could feel everything, was aware of everything and still she fought it.

'Not long now… Please be quiet.'

He became aware of a drumming noise and, without moving his head, glanced down to where her fingers were beating spastically against the floorboards. Adrenaline staging a hopeless rearguard action against the drug. She might make it, he thought, she wants to live so much. One minute forty-five seconds. His fingers locked in position, he leaned down, his lips on her ear, whispering: 'Night-night,…'

She stopped breathing.

Now was the critical time. His movements needed to be swift and precise. He eased the pressure on the artery and pushed her head roughly forward until chin was touching chest. He let it rest there for a few seconds before whipping it back the same way so that he was staring down at her face. Her eyes were open, her jaw slack, spittle running down her chin. He dismissed the urge to kiss her and moved her head back into the central position. Back into neutral. Then he took a firm grip and entwined his fingers in her long brown hair before twisting the head back over the left shoulder. And holding it.

Then the right shoulder. Each twist splitting the inside of the vertebral artery. Now it was up to her. He laid her down gently and placed her body in the recovery position. He was sweating heavily. He reached for a glass of cold water and sat down on the chair to watch her. To wait for her to breathe.

His mind was empty, as he focused, unblinking, on her face and chest. The breaths would be short and shallow, and he watched and willed the smallest movement. Every few seconds he leaned forward and felt for a pulse. Helen's body was unmoving.

He reached for the bag and mask. It was time to intervene. Ten minutes of frantic squeezing, shouting at her:

'Come on, Helen, help me!' Screaming into her face. 'I need you to be strong.'

She wasn't strong enough.

He slumped back into the chair, out of breath. He looked down at the lifeless body. A button was missing from her shirt. He looked across at the plain black shoes, neatly placed one next to the other by her side. The small pile of jewelry in a stainless-steel dish next to them.