Read Online Bloodline-9 by Mark Billingham - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Mark Billingham
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other direction and started picking them up, col ecting them in his palm.
‘I honestly wouldn’t have minded if you ’d told anyone,’ Louise said.
‘I did think about it.’
‘Who would you have told?’
Thorne smiled. ‘Probably Phil.’
They moved back to each other and Thorne asked if she’d mind if he turned off the TV and put a CD on. Normal y she might have rol ed her eyes and insisted that it was one of hers, or repeated a joke she’d heard from Hol and or Hendricks about Thorne’s dubious taste in music. Tonight she was happy enough to nod and stretch out. Thorne put on a Gram Parsons anthology and returned to the sofa, lifted up Louise’s legs and slid in underneath. They listened to ‘Hearts on Fire’ and ‘Brass Buttons’, poured out what was left of the wine.
‘So, what did Phil say?’
‘Stuff you’d expect, real y,’ Louise said. ‘How there’s usual y a good reason for these things and how the body knows what it’s doing. Knows when there’s something wrong.’ She took a healthy slurp of wine and was struggling suddenly to keep a straight face.
‘What?’
‘He said it might wel have been because the baby was going to look like you.’ She was laughing now. ‘That a miscarriage was the preferred option.’
‘Cheeky bastard.’
‘He made me laugh,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘I needed that.’
She began to drift off soon after that and Thorne was not too far behind. He was sound asleep before ten-thirty, with Gram and Emmylou singing ‘Brand New Heartache’, the clink of cutlery from the kitchen as Elvis licked the plates clean, and Louise’s feet in his lap.
The band playing at the Rocket earlier that evening had been fantastic, easily as good as any of the so-cal ed indie bands Alex had heard in the charts recently. They had something to say, and decent songs, and there was a bit more about them than the right kind of skinny jeans and nice arses. Of course, it didn’t hurt that the guitarist was a dead ringer for the lead
say, and decent songs, and there was a bit more about them than the right kind of skinny jeans and nice arses. Of course, it didn’t hurt that the guitarist was a dead ringer for the lead singer from Razorlight . . .
She loved the heat and the noise; how it felt being in a crowd. She’d been soaked in sweat each time she’d gone outside for a cigarette, and shivering by the time she’d finished it.
Afterwards, when the band had packed up, they’d set up some decks and the dance music had started. Some of her friends had stayed on, and were stil there as far as she knew, but she’d been about ready to head home by then.
What was it Greg had said about caning it?
She pushed open the door to the flat and listened for voices.
Alex had seen her brother earlier in the bar, but only for a few minutes. Long enough for him to tel her he’d rather die than watch a band cal ed The Bastard Thieves, and for her to clock the figure with whom he was exchanging the lingering, lustful stares. There’d been no sign of him once the gig had finished, but she wasn’t surprised.
She guessed he’d decided to get an early night.
There were lights on upstairs, but she couldn’t hear anything and wondered if perhaps she’d interrupted something. If they’d heard her coming in and were lying there in Greg’s bed, giggling and whispering to each other.
She climbed the stairs, singing softly to herself and keeping a good grip of the handrail. At the top, she threw her coat across the banister then stood there for a few moments, pissed and stupidly gleeful.
Then she crept along the corridor to Greg’s door.
There was no light coming from underneath. She pressed her ear to the flaking wood, but couldn’t hear anything: no giggles and certainly no creaking bed-springs. She reached down and slowly turned the handle. The door was locked.
Alex turned and walked back towards the kitchen, her steps not quite as gentle as she thought they were, trying
‘I honestly wouldn’t have minded if you ’d told anyone,’ Louise said.
‘I did think about it.’
‘Who would you have told?’
Thorne smiled. ‘Probably Phil.’
They moved back to each other and Thorne asked if she’d mind if he turned off the TV and put a CD on. Normal y she might have rol ed her eyes and insisted that it was one of hers, or repeated a joke she’d heard from Hol and or Hendricks about Thorne’s dubious taste in music. Tonight she was happy enough to nod and stretch out. Thorne put on a Gram Parsons anthology and returned to the sofa, lifted up Louise’s legs and slid in underneath. They listened to ‘Hearts on Fire’ and ‘Brass Buttons’, poured out what was left of the wine.
‘So, what did Phil say?’
‘Stuff you’d expect, real y,’ Louise said. ‘How there’s usual y a good reason for these things and how the body knows what it’s doing. Knows when there’s something wrong.’ She took a healthy slurp of wine and was struggling suddenly to keep a straight face.
‘What?’
‘He said it might wel have been because the baby was going to look like you.’ She was laughing now. ‘That a miscarriage was the preferred option.’
‘Cheeky bastard.’
‘He made me laugh,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘I needed that.’
She began to drift off soon after that and Thorne was not too far behind. He was sound asleep before ten-thirty, with Gram and Emmylou singing ‘Brand New Heartache’, the clink of cutlery from the kitchen as Elvis licked the plates clean, and Louise’s feet in his lap.
The band playing at the Rocket earlier that evening had been fantastic, easily as good as any of the so-cal ed indie bands Alex had heard in the charts recently. They had something to say, and decent songs, and there was a bit more about them than the right kind of skinny jeans and nice arses. Of course, it didn’t hurt that the guitarist was a dead ringer for the lead
say, and decent songs, and there was a bit more about them than the right kind of skinny jeans and nice arses. Of course, it didn’t hurt that the guitarist was a dead ringer for the lead singer from Razorlight . . .
She loved the heat and the noise; how it felt being in a crowd. She’d been soaked in sweat each time she’d gone outside for a cigarette, and shivering by the time she’d finished it.
Afterwards, when the band had packed up, they’d set up some decks and the dance music had started. Some of her friends had stayed on, and were stil there as far as she knew, but she’d been about ready to head home by then.
What was it Greg had said about caning it?
She pushed open the door to the flat and listened for voices.
Alex had seen her brother earlier in the bar, but only for a few minutes. Long enough for him to tel her he’d rather die than watch a band cal ed The Bastard Thieves, and for her to clock the figure with whom he was exchanging the lingering, lustful stares. There’d been no sign of him once the gig had finished, but she wasn’t surprised.
She guessed he’d decided to get an early night.
There were lights on upstairs, but she couldn’t hear anything and wondered if perhaps she’d interrupted something. If they’d heard her coming in and were lying there in Greg’s bed, giggling and whispering to each other.
She climbed the stairs, singing softly to herself and keeping a good grip of the handrail. At the top, she threw her coat across the banister then stood there for a few moments, pissed and stupidly gleeful.
Then she crept along the corridor to Greg’s door.
There was no light coming from underneath. She pressed her ear to the flaking wood, but couldn’t hear anything: no giggles and certainly no creaking bed-springs. She reached down and slowly turned the handle. The door was locked.
Alex turned and walked back towards the kitchen, her steps not quite as gentle as she thought they were, trying
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