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Authors: Mark Billingham
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He’d given what was left of them up as a bad lot the same time they’d turned their backs on him. If they couldn’t be bothered, then he sure as hell wasn’t going to try too hard.
You got back what you put in, that was the way he saw it.
He drives out through Shepherd’s Bush towards the Westway, first time he’s seen the place in thirty-odd years. He knocked around here a fair bit as a younger man, back when you could still see speedway or greyhound racing at White City Stadium and the BBC made shows at the Empire and Lime Grove studios, where the Beatles recorded their first-ever broadcast. He recalls some of the scrapes in the Springbok or the Crown and Sceptre, the odd spot of argy-bargy with the QPR boys on match days, and he remembers plenty of more serious business done later on. Here and in Chiswick. In the West End too, of course. Not better days, necessarily, he’s not soft about it, not sentimental. Different, though, no arguing with that.
He was sentimental, he’d hardly have that bag sitting on the back seat, would he? He wouldn’t be bowling along the A40 on his way to use what was in it.
Thinking about how this one’s likely to play out, he can’t even remember why he chose to do things this way, why he wanted to make each one different. It was probably just because he’d had so much time to sit on his backside and think about it. He’d made a plan, so he was going to stick to it, simple as that. It wasn’t even as if one method was any more or less enjoyable than another, because enjoyment didn’t enter into it, not really. No question it made things a bit more interesting though, added a bit of mustard to the proceedings. Variety might well be the spice of life, but it definitely made death a bit more interesting too.
He pulls across into the inside lane, in no great hurry. Singing that Beatles song about lonely people and funerals nobody goes to, and thinking that the music definitely
was
a damn sight better back then.
Thinking that variety is something he hasn’t had in a long time.
TEN
‘I’d only have thrashed you anyway,’ Hendricks said.
‘Yeah, course you would.’
‘And it really upsets me when you cry like a girl.’
Thorne was bemoaning the fact that they could no longer play pool in the Grafton Arms. The room upstairs where they had spent many evenings playing for beer was now a multi-purpose ‘function suite’. Salsa classes, birthday parties and a comedy night once a month, to which Hendricks had insisted on dragging Thorne a few weeks earlier. Thorne had made the mistake of sitting near the front and been mercilessly picked on by a hectoring compère. He was still not sure how the comic had found out he was Old Bill – the smart money was on Hendricks, of course – but the ribbing had carried on for most of the evening, the man milking as many cheap laughs as possible from asking, ‘Can I smell bacon?’ every time he came on stage.
After the show, Thorne had sought the comic out at the bar and congratulated him on doing a good job. The comic had shrugged and said, ‘No hard feelings, mate.’ Thorne said what he thought he should say, that he didn’t know how anyone could get up there in front of all those people, hardest job in the world. The comic had grinned and said, ‘Money for jam, mate. Hundred and twenty quid, cash in hand.’
‘I hope you’re declaring that,’ Thorne had said. As the comedian’s mouth fell open, Thorne had leaned closer and said, ‘Oink!’ before sauntering away.
‘So, curry back at yours, is it?’ Hendricks asked. He raised a bottle of Czech lager and put a third of it away.
Thorne swallowed a mouthful of Guinness. ‘Sounds good,’ he said. ‘At least you can walk home now, instead of stinking up the sheets on my sofa bed.’
‘We’ll see what kind of state I’m in, shall we?’
Hendricks had recently moved into a flat in Camden, which was no more than a ten-minute walk from Thorne’s in Kentish Town. The
You got back what you put in, that was the way he saw it.
He drives out through Shepherd’s Bush towards the Westway, first time he’s seen the place in thirty-odd years. He knocked around here a fair bit as a younger man, back when you could still see speedway or greyhound racing at White City Stadium and the BBC made shows at the Empire and Lime Grove studios, where the Beatles recorded their first-ever broadcast. He recalls some of the scrapes in the Springbok or the Crown and Sceptre, the odd spot of argy-bargy with the QPR boys on match days, and he remembers plenty of more serious business done later on. Here and in Chiswick. In the West End too, of course. Not better days, necessarily, he’s not soft about it, not sentimental. Different, though, no arguing with that.
He was sentimental, he’d hardly have that bag sitting on the back seat, would he? He wouldn’t be bowling along the A40 on his way to use what was in it.
Thinking about how this one’s likely to play out, he can’t even remember why he chose to do things this way, why he wanted to make each one different. It was probably just because he’d had so much time to sit on his backside and think about it. He’d made a plan, so he was going to stick to it, simple as that. It wasn’t even as if one method was any more or less enjoyable than another, because enjoyment didn’t enter into it, not really. No question it made things a bit more interesting though, added a bit of mustard to the proceedings. Variety might well be the spice of life, but it definitely made death a bit more interesting too.
He pulls across into the inside lane, in no great hurry. Singing that Beatles song about lonely people and funerals nobody goes to, and thinking that the music definitely
was
a damn sight better back then.
Thinking that variety is something he hasn’t had in a long time.
TEN
‘I’d only have thrashed you anyway,’ Hendricks said.
‘Yeah, course you would.’
‘And it really upsets me when you cry like a girl.’
Thorne was bemoaning the fact that they could no longer play pool in the Grafton Arms. The room upstairs where they had spent many evenings playing for beer was now a multi-purpose ‘function suite’. Salsa classes, birthday parties and a comedy night once a month, to which Hendricks had insisted on dragging Thorne a few weeks earlier. Thorne had made the mistake of sitting near the front and been mercilessly picked on by a hectoring compère. He was still not sure how the comic had found out he was Old Bill – the smart money was on Hendricks, of course – but the ribbing had carried on for most of the evening, the man milking as many cheap laughs as possible from asking, ‘Can I smell bacon?’ every time he came on stage.
After the show, Thorne had sought the comic out at the bar and congratulated him on doing a good job. The comic had shrugged and said, ‘No hard feelings, mate.’ Thorne said what he thought he should say, that he didn’t know how anyone could get up there in front of all those people, hardest job in the world. The comic had grinned and said, ‘Money for jam, mate. Hundred and twenty quid, cash in hand.’
‘I hope you’re declaring that,’ Thorne had said. As the comedian’s mouth fell open, Thorne had leaned closer and said, ‘Oink!’ before sauntering away.
‘So, curry back at yours, is it?’ Hendricks asked. He raised a bottle of Czech lager and put a third of it away.
Thorne swallowed a mouthful of Guinness. ‘Sounds good,’ he said. ‘At least you can walk home now, instead of stinking up the sheets on my sofa bed.’
‘We’ll see what kind of state I’m in, shall we?’
Hendricks had recently moved into a flat in Camden, which was no more than a ten-minute walk from Thorne’s in Kentish Town. The
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