Mark Billingham: Buried

The sixth book in the Tom Thorne series, 2006

You think about the kids.

First and last, in this sort of situation, in this sort of state ; when you can’t decide if it’s anger or agony that’s all but doubling you up, and making it so hard for you to spit the words across the room. First and last, you think about them…

‘Why the hell, why the fuck , didn’t you tell me this earlier?’

‘It wasn’t the right time. It seemed best to wait.’

‘ Best? ’ She takes a step towards the man standing on the far side of her living room.

He moves back instinctively until his calves are squashed against the edge of the sofa and he almost topples back on to the carefully plumped cushions. ‘I think you should try to calm down,’ he says.

The room smells of pot pourri. There are lines on the carpet showing that it has recently been vacuumed, and the carriage clock that can be heard ticking loudly when the shouting stops sits on a highly polished pine mantelpiece.

‘What do you expect me to do?’ she says. ‘I’d really be interested to know.’

‘I can’t tell you what to do. It’s your decision.’

‘You think I’ve got a choice?’

‘We need to sit down and talk about the best way forward-’

‘Christ Almighty. You just march in here and tell me this. Casually, like it’s just something you forgot to mention. You walk in here and tell me all this… shit!’ She’s begun to cry again, but this time she does not lift a hand to her face. She shuts her eyes and waits for the moment to pass. For the fury to return, undiluted.

‘Sarah-’

‘I don’t know you. I don’t even fucking know you!’

For a few seconds there’s just the ticking, and the distant traffic, and the noise bleeding in from a radio in the kitchen, turned down low when she’d heard the doorbell. Inside, the central heating’s working overtime, but there’s still plenty of sun streaming into the room through the net at the windows.

‘I’m sorry.’

‘You’re what? ’ But she’s heard him well enough. She smiles, then laughs. She gathers the material of her dress between her fingers as her fists clench at her sides. There’s something starting to twitch in her belly now; a spasm takes hold at the top of her leg. ‘I need to get to the school.’

‘The kids’ll be fine. Honestly, love. Absolutely fine.’

She repeats his last word; and then again, in a whisper. There’s no stopping the tears this time or the scream that comes from deep inside; or the swell and the surge that take her fast across the room, her hands clawed and flying at the man’s face.

The man raises his arms to protect himself. He grabs the fingers that stab at his eyes, and, once he has them, as soon as he is in control of her, he tries to keep her still; to guide her firmly away. ‘You’ve got to stay calm.’

‘You. Rotten. Fucker.’ She snaps back her head.

‘Please listen-’ The spit hits him just above the lip and starts to run into his mouth. He swears at her; a word he rarely uses.

And he pushes her…

And suddenly she’s dead weight, falling back, opening her mouth to cry out, and smashing down through the glass of the coffee table.

A few seconds’ ticking. And traffic. And the buzz from the kitchen.

The man takes a step towards her, then stops dead. He can see what’s happened straight away.

Her back hurts, and her ankle, where she’s caught them on the edge of the table as she’s fallen. She tries to sit up, but her head is suddenly as heavy as a wrecking ball. The moan rattles from her chest, and her shoulders grind glass into the carpet beneath her. She lies, breathless, across the ragged jewels and slivers, recognising a song from the distant radio at the same moment that she feels the warmth and the wetness at the back of her head. Spreading at her throat, and creeping down inside the neck of her sweater.

Shard…

She thinks for a second or two about that word; about what a stupid word it is when you say it to yourself repeatedly. About her bad luck. How bloody unlucky can you get? Must have caught an artery, or maybe two. And, though she can hear her name being spoken, though she is well aware of the desperation, of the panic , in the voice, she is already starting to fade and to focus; concentrating only on the faces of her children.

First and last.

As her life ebbs quickly away – running red across smoked glass – her final thought is a straightforward one. Simple and tender and vicious.

If he’s touched my kids, I’ll kill him.

‘I suppose all I’m really saying is try not to worry. OK, Mum? That you don’t have to, I mean. Even sitting here saying that, I know how pointless it is, because it’s something you’ve always done. Juliet and me reckon that if you weren’t worried about something, you’d probably feel odd, or under the weather, like part of you wasn’t working properly. You’d be disconcerted. Like when you know there’s something important you’ve forgotten to do, or when you can’t remember where you’ve put your keys, you know? If you weren’t worried, we’d be worried that you weren’t!

‘It’s all right, though. I’m doing pretty well. Better than “pretty well” actually. I’m not saying it’s five-star or anything, but the food could be a damn sight worse, and they’re being fairly nice to me. And it’s only the second most uncomfortable bed I’ve ever slept in. Remember when we stayed in that shitty guest house in Eastbourne that time, when Juliet had her hockey tournament, and the bed felt like it had rocks in it? I’m even managing to get some sleep, amazingly enough.

‘I don’t really know what else to say. What else I’m supposed to say…

‘Except… If you want to video the comedy shows I like, that’d be cool. And don’t rent my room out straight away, and please tell everyone at school not to be too devastated. See? Well fed, sleeping OK, and I’ve still got my sense of humour. So, really, there’s nothing to get yourself worked up about, all right, Mum? I’m fine. Tell you what – when this is all finally sorted out, how about that PS2 game I’ve been going on about? Can’t blame a lad for trying, can you?

‘Look, there’s loads of other things to say, but I’d better not go on too long, and you know the stuff I mean anyway. Mum? You know what I’m trying to say, yeah?

‘Right. That’s it…’

The boy’s eyes slide away from the camera, and a man carrying a syringe steps quickly towards him. He sits up, tenses as the man reaches across, driving the bag down over the boy’s head in the few seconds before the picture disappears.

There was humour, of course there was; off colour usually, and downright black when the occasion demanded it. Still, the jokes had not exactly been flying thick and fast of late, and none had flown in Tom Thorne’s direction.

But this was as good a laugh as he’d had in a while.

‘Jesmond asked for me? ’ he said.

Russell Brigstocke leaned back in his chair, enjoying the surprise that his shock announcement had certainly merited. It was an uncertain world. The Metropolitan Police Service was in a permanent state of flux, and, while precious little could be relied upon, the less than harmonious relationship between DI Tom Thorne and the Chief Superintendent of the Area West Murder Squad was a reassuring constant. ‘He was very insistent.’