Buried-6 by Mark Billingham Page A

he’d proved their point.
    ‘Shal we eat this outside?’ Thorne asked.
    Hendricks was already picking at pepperoni slices. ‘Are you kidding? It’s even colder now. I’m young, free and single, mate, and if I’m going out on the pul , the last thing I need is my knob shrinking to the size of an acorn.’ He picked up his pizza box and wandered into the living room.
    Thorne was about to shout after him, ask if he fancied putting some music on, then thought better of it. Hendricks might have been gagging it up, but the pain hadn’t gone anywhere.
    He would almost certainly pul out an album with at least one unsuitable track on it; the makeup of Thorne’s col ection would make it hard not to. It was, as people never seemed to tire of tel ing him, the problem with country music: too many songs about dead dogs and lost love.
    ‘Stick the TV on,’ he shouted as an alternative. ‘See if there’s a game on Sky.’
    He stepped back outside to bring in the kitchen chairs. It was a clear night, but there was no guarantee it wouldn’t piss down before morning. He thought through what he’d said to Brigstocke about not feeling excited, and about what it might take to start the blood pumping that little bit faster. He wondered how bad he’d real y feel if the body so many people accused him of wishing for turned up. He just hoped to Christ that if it did, it wasn’t Luke Mul en’s.
    He looked up as a plane passed, winking and droning overhead. The sky was the colour of a dusty plum, and spattered with stars. He carried the chairs inside and shut the door.
    Hendricks was already shouting at the television.
    In spite of his bad back, of the boredom and the morbid thoughts, Thorne was feeling pretty good. Relative to the recent past, at any rate. Al the same, it was a welcome diversion to spend a few hours with someone who – if only for the time being – was in worse shape than he was.

    CONRAD
    The kid was clever, no doubt about that. A bit of a smartarse, in fact, but it didn’t matter how brainy you were if you weren’t the one in the driving seat. The kid had probably passed a ton more exams than he ever had, but it didn’t count for much now, did it? Clever didn’t mean a lot with a bag over your head.
    Because he was the one cal ing the shots.
    Even as the words formed in his mind, it struck him as a smart way of putting things. ‘Shots’ as in guns, and ‘shots’ like when you give someone an injection.
    He’d always been tal and wel built, and he’d always looked after himself, but he’d never been given any real respect. Not when he was younger, anyway. Back then he’d lacked the
    ‘necessary’, the something in the eyes or whatever, that made people take you seriously; that made them back off, try to smile, and say, ‘Al right, mate, whatever you want.’ He’d wanted to make someone react like that ever since his bal s had dropped, and he could stil remember when it had happened for the first time. It was a few years ago now, but he could remember every single detail of it. It was like watching a film that he was starring in.
    A poxy red Fiesta.
    The spiky-haired ponce behind the wheel had cut in front of him at the lights, swerved across into his lane instead of turning right like he should have done. Then, to top it off, the arsehole had given him the finger when he’d leaned on his horn, as he’d every bloody right to do!
    So he’s chased the fucker. He’s right up his arse, doing fifty and sixty through Dalston and Hackney, al the way to Bow. There’s big puddles on the streets and precious little traffic around that time of the morning; just night buses and the odd dodgy minicab getting out of the way seriously fast.
    The Fiesta pul s up hard and sharp somewhere round the back of Victoria Park, and the bloke gets out and starts waving a basebal bat around. Shaking his head and pointing a finger. Shouting his mouth off as he walks towards the car.
    The next bit’s in slow motion and the