Lazybones by Mark Billingham Page A

phone.
    It didn’t matter that it was late. His father’s body clock was only one of the systems that had broken down.
    In some ways, the Alzheimer’s diagnosis had come as something of a relief. The eccentricities were now called symptoms and, for Thorne, the vagaries of old age becoming certainties, however unpleasant, had at least provided a focus. Things had to be done, simple as that. Thorne still got irritated with the terrible jokes and the pointless trivia, but the guilt didn’t last as long as it had before. Now he just got on with it, and the shape of the guilt had changed. Hammered into something he could recognize as anger, at an illness that took father and son and forced them to swap places.
    There was a financial burden now that wasn’t always easy to meet, but he was getting used to it. Jim Thorne was, at least physically, in pretty good shape for seventy-one, but still, a carer needed to visit daily and there was no way an old-age pension was going to cover it. His younger sister, Eileen, to whom he had never been close, traveled up from Brighton once a week, taking care tokeep Thorne well informed of his dad’s condition.
    Thorne was grateful, though it seemed like a terribly British thing to him. Families eventually behaving well when it was practically too late.
    â€œDad…”
    â€œOh, thank Christ, this is driving me mad. Who was the first Doctor Who? Come on, this is doing my head in…”
    â€œWas it Patrick somebody? Dark hair…”
    â€œTroughton was the second one, the one before Pertwee. Oh shit and bloody confusion, I thought you might know.”
    â€œLook in the book. I bought you that TV encyclopedia…”
    â€œFucking Eileen’s tidied it away somewhere. Who else might know…?”
    Thorne started to relax. His father was fine.
    â€œDad, we need to start thinking about this wedding.”
    â€œWhat wedding?”
    â€œTrevor. Eileen’s son. Your nephew…”
    His dad took a deep breath. When he breathed out again, the rattle in his chest sounded like a low growl. “He’s an arsehole. He was an arsehole when he got married the first time. Don’t see why I should have to go and watch the arsehole get married again.”
    The language was unimaginative, but Thorne had to admit that his father had a point.
    â€œYou told Eileen you were going.”
    There was a heavy sigh, a phlegmy cough, and then silence. After a few seconds, Thorne began to think his father had put the phone down and wandered away.
    â€œDad…”
    â€œIt’s ages. It’s ages away, isn’t it?”
    â€œIt’s a week on Saturday. Come on, Eileen must have talked to you about it. She talks to me about nothing else.”
    â€œDo I have to wear a suit?”
    â€œWear your navy one. It’s light and I think it’s going to be warm.”
    â€œThat’s wool, the navy one. I’ll bloody roast in the navy.”
    Thorne took a deep breath, thinking, Please your bloody self. “Listen, I’m going to come and pick you up on the day and we’re stopping the night down there…”
    â€œI’m not going down there in that bloody death trap you drive…”
    â€œI’ll hire a car, all right? It’ll be a laugh, we’ll have a good time. Okay?”
    Thorne could hear a clinking, the sound of something metallic being fiddled with. His dad had taken to buying cheap secondhand radios, disassembling them, and throwing the pieces away.
    â€œDad? Is that okay? We can talk about the details closer to the day if you want.”
    â€œTom?”
    â€œYeah?”
    To Thorne, the silence that followed seemed like the sound of thoughts getting lost. Slipping down cracks, just beyond reach and then gone, flailing as they tumbled into darkness. Finally, there was an engagement, like a piece of film catching, regaining its proper speed. Holes locking onto