Read Online Death Message by Mark Billingham - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Mark Billingham
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was hard to make out exactly what he said. ' What ?'Or ' who ?' maybe. Definitely a question.
He held up the plastic bag he was carrying. Laid it down gently on the edge of the bed and began to delve inside.
'Here you go,' he said.
When he'd first seen what had happened, he'd been afraid that the accident was going to do the job for him. He'd written one of his letters, telling her just how furious and frustrated he was. But once it became clear that the situation was improving, that Hodson's condition wasn't life-threatening, he began to think that it might have done him an enormous favour. Now, looking at the state Ricky Hodson had been left in, he knew that he'd been spot on.
There were wires running all over the shop; machines either side of the bed with bags hanging off them. There were dressings along both of Hodson's arms where he'd taken the skin off and a brace around his neck. He'd punctured a lung, apparently, as well as shattering his hip and pelvis, and one leg had been smashed up so badly that he'd been lucky to keep it, by all accounts.
'Jesus, Ricky. What a mess.'
Hodson's eyes were moving back and forth quickly now. A beam of panic cutting through the fog of sedation; allowing out a few sputtered words, slurred and hoarse. 'You're in the wrong room, mate . . .'
He took out a sorry-looking bunch of grapes and held them up for inspection. Then went back into the bag and produced a paperback book. He put them both on the table then reached across to rub the back of his hand across Hodson's unmarked face. It rasped against the man's stubble.
'At least you were wearing a helmet,' he said.
He took the rag from his pocket and pushed it quickly into Hodson's mouth, forcing his head down into the pillow. He winced as his fingers caught on the teeth, before bringing the bag around and slipping it over Hodson's head. He gathered up the plastic, wrapped the handles around his fingers and squeezed, tightening his hands below the jaw to get a decent seal.
The metal bed-head rattled, but not for very long.
He watched as the thin, crappy plastic was sucked in, as it wrapped and crinkled around the nose. He waited until it slowed, then turned his eyes to the window; looked out at the distant lights, his hands still clamped tight above the neck-brace.
It was probably Watford . . .
He turned back again and leaned in, as the bag slapped gently one last time against Ricky Hodson's face. 'That black ice is a bastard, eh?'
Thorne had been leaving messages for Louise since early afternoon, but she hadn't called back until he'd been on his way home.
He'd told her that he'd had an 'interesting' day. Said he'd give her the gory details later if she fancied it, that he'd be happy to get over to her place. Louise had confirmed she wouldn't be working horrendously late, but that she really ought to get an early night, if that was OK. She'd said she would call him if she changed her mind; if she found herself utterly unable to get through the night without him. Thorne had told her he'd be waiting for the call.
The Bengal Lancer had been about to close, but, as a favoured customer, the manager was happy to let Thorne sit at the bar with a couple of the waiters and work his way through a plate of onion bhajis and lamb tikka while the cleaners carried on around him. It did the trick. When he'd walked in, Thorne was still pissed off with Louise, but two pints of Kingfisher and a few off-colour stories had put him in a far better mood by the time he got home, just before ten-thirty.
He fed Elvis, stuck some washing in and caught the end of Wednesday Night Football on Sky. He was about to log on to Poker-pro when he noticed that he'd got email. Hendricks had clearly not had the busiest of days and had spent far too much of it thinking up names for their new 'gay pathologist' drama. In his email he'd suggested Poof-Mortem and Mincing in the Morgue before deciding that perhaps they could spin off into a talk-show format in a
He held up the plastic bag he was carrying. Laid it down gently on the edge of the bed and began to delve inside.
'Here you go,' he said.
When he'd first seen what had happened, he'd been afraid that the accident was going to do the job for him. He'd written one of his letters, telling her just how furious and frustrated he was. But once it became clear that the situation was improving, that Hodson's condition wasn't life-threatening, he began to think that it might have done him an enormous favour. Now, looking at the state Ricky Hodson had been left in, he knew that he'd been spot on.
There were wires running all over the shop; machines either side of the bed with bags hanging off them. There were dressings along both of Hodson's arms where he'd taken the skin off and a brace around his neck. He'd punctured a lung, apparently, as well as shattering his hip and pelvis, and one leg had been smashed up so badly that he'd been lucky to keep it, by all accounts.
'Jesus, Ricky. What a mess.'
Hodson's eyes were moving back and forth quickly now. A beam of panic cutting through the fog of sedation; allowing out a few sputtered words, slurred and hoarse. 'You're in the wrong room, mate . . .'
He took out a sorry-looking bunch of grapes and held them up for inspection. Then went back into the bag and produced a paperback book. He put them both on the table then reached across to rub the back of his hand across Hodson's unmarked face. It rasped against the man's stubble.
'At least you were wearing a helmet,' he said.
He took the rag from his pocket and pushed it quickly into Hodson's mouth, forcing his head down into the pillow. He winced as his fingers caught on the teeth, before bringing the bag around and slipping it over Hodson's head. He gathered up the plastic, wrapped the handles around his fingers and squeezed, tightening his hands below the jaw to get a decent seal.
The metal bed-head rattled, but not for very long.
He watched as the thin, crappy plastic was sucked in, as it wrapped and crinkled around the nose. He waited until it slowed, then turned his eyes to the window; looked out at the distant lights, his hands still clamped tight above the neck-brace.
It was probably Watford . . .
He turned back again and leaned in, as the bag slapped gently one last time against Ricky Hodson's face. 'That black ice is a bastard, eh?'
Thorne had been leaving messages for Louise since early afternoon, but she hadn't called back until he'd been on his way home.
He'd told her that he'd had an 'interesting' day. Said he'd give her the gory details later if she fancied it, that he'd be happy to get over to her place. Louise had confirmed she wouldn't be working horrendously late, but that she really ought to get an early night, if that was OK. She'd said she would call him if she changed her mind; if she found herself utterly unable to get through the night without him. Thorne had told her he'd be waiting for the call.
The Bengal Lancer had been about to close, but, as a favoured customer, the manager was happy to let Thorne sit at the bar with a couple of the waiters and work his way through a plate of onion bhajis and lamb tikka while the cleaners carried on around him. It did the trick. When he'd walked in, Thorne was still pissed off with Louise, but two pints of Kingfisher and a few off-colour stories had put him in a far better mood by the time he got home, just before ten-thirty.
He fed Elvis, stuck some washing in and caught the end of Wednesday Night Football on Sky. He was about to log on to Poker-pro when he noticed that he'd got email. Hendricks had clearly not had the busiest of days and had spent far too much of it thinking up names for their new 'gay pathologist' drama. In his email he'd suggested Poof-Mortem and Mincing in the Morgue before deciding that perhaps they could spin off into a talk-show format in a
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