Lifeless

TWENTY-NINE

There were no more cans in the bag.

Though Thorne-as far as he could work out- had drunk as many as Hendricks, he felt none the worse for it. He was still worn out and frightened; he was still lost. But for that moment at least he wasn’t alone, and he welcomed the clear understanding of his place in the world that chance, or cheap lager, had lent him. It wasn’t exactly a pleasant place to be; not where he was in the life he was pretending to have, and certainly not in the life that was truly his to live with. The life that sooner or later he would have to go back to. Face up to.

His place in two worlds…

“I think I should make a move,” Hendricks said. Thorne grunted, waited, but it looked as though thinking about it was as far as his friend was going to get for a while. The rain had stopped, but water was running off the roof of the covered walkway, falling on three sides of him as he sat back against the wall.

He saw something else clearly, something that most people-even if they knew the truth of it-were happier to ignore. He saw the dreadful ease with which the line separating two worlds could be breached. He had chosen to take that step, and could retrace it, but he knew that for those with no choice at all, it was usually a one-way crossing.

“We’re only two paychecks from the street,” he said.

Hendricks turned his head. “Right…”

“Two paychecks. A couple of months. That’s all that separates a lot of us from sleeping in a doorway.”

Thorne had heard Brendan talking about this, so he knew it was likely that Hendricks had heard it many times. But he wasn’t talking for Hendricks’s benefit, and besides, the man who was now lying next to him seemed perfectly content to listen.

“I mean, obviously it depends on circumstances,” Thorne said. “On having the right sort of family, or more likely the wrong sort of family. It comes down to not having the support when you need it most. You see what I’m saying? You’re earning enough to pay the rent, or make the mortgage repayments, right? You make enough money to eat and have a social life. But you’ve got no capital of any sort, you’ve got decent lumps owing on your Visa, and on a few store cards, and you’re paying for a car on tick or whatever. You get two months’ notice and you’re fucked. Really, it sounds unbelievable, but you could easily be comprehensively fucked. You might not realize that straightaway, but your whole life can go down the toilet in those eight weeks.

“And this is not a fantasy, Phil. This is how a lot of people live. And I’m not talking about poor people either, or drug addicts, or pissheads. These are not people on Channel Four documentaries. These are average people. These are average families a lot of the time, who can find themselves homeless very bloody quickly. Living in hostels and care homes before you can say P45.

“You’ve got two months. Normal notice period. Now, the council might pay your rent, but by the time those payments come through, your landlord’s thrown you out on your ear because he can’t be arsed waiting for his money, right? They might pay the interest on your mortgage, but there’s a limit on that depending on how generous your local council is, and banks get stroppy pretty bloody quickly when the checks start bouncing.

“Two months…

“You still owe money on your cutup credit cards, and you lose the car sharpish because you can’t make the payments on that, and it’s weeks before the DSS gives you anything. So, bit by bit, you lose everything: job, car, house, credit rating. Wife and kids, if it all goes really tits up. It all just slips away; or it’s taken away by force. If you’ve got good friends or close family who are there for you when this happens, then fine. Likely as not, you’ll be all right. You might not fall too far or too hard. But if you haven’t…

“I’ve met people, Phil… Most of them haven’t finished falling yet.

“You’d be amazed how quickly good friends can become distant acquaintances. How fast close family just become people with the same surname. If you’re unlucky, you find that blood means fuck-all when you’re in the shit. When you stink of failure…”

Hearing footsteps, Thorne looked up and saw a young man walking past on the far side of the street, swinging an orange-striped traffic cone at his side. He watched as the man leaned against a shopfront, heaved the cone up to his mouth, and made his own Friday-night entertainment by blowing trumpet noises through it.

Thorne looked to his right and saw that Hendricks’s eyes were closed. “Are you tired or am I boring?” he said.

A smile spread slowly across Hendricks’s face, then, with one of those sudden bursts of energy unique to men under the influence, he climbed rapidly to his feet and slapped his hands together. “Right. I’m away…”

“How you getting back?” Thorne asked.

“I’ll pick up a cab.” Hendricks squinted across the street at the cone trumpeter.

“He’s great, isn’t he?”

Hendricks turned back to Thorne. “We must do this again. Well, not this, but when you’re back, you know, let’s have a proper night out. The four of us maybe. You, me, Brendan, and Dave. Brendan likes Dave. Actually, I think he fancies him a bit, but he always denies it.”

“That would be good,” Thorne said.

Hendricks was ready to go. He looked from one end of the street to the other.

Thorne pointed to the right. “Kingsway.”

“Kingsway,” Hendricks repeated. He turned and pointed himself toward the main road. Walking quickly, like someone trying too hard to look sober.

Thorne shouted after him. “Cheers, Phil…”

Hendricks raised a thumb, without turning round.

The drunk with the traffic cone was now playing something vaguely recognizable, though Thorne couldn’t put a name to it. Wondering if the man did requests, Thorne toyed with shouting across; asking if he knew the horn part to “Ring of Fire.”

He took out his sleeping bag and tried to get settled for the night. Opposite, the man with the cone grew in confidence and technique. He played “Mack the Knife” and “When the Saints Go Marching In.”

After five minutes, Thorne stood up and shouted at him to piss off.

His eyes snapped open and he stared at the figure standing above him: a shape stooping out of shadow. Thorne cried out and kicked his legs forward, pushing himself away from danger, driving himself back against the wall.

“What’s the matter with you, you daft fucker?” the man said.

Thorne gulped up his heart. Felt it thump against his teeth.

“For fuck’s sake, you silly twat!”

The breath he’d been holding exploded from Thorne’s mouth. “Oh Christ, it’s you.”

Jim Thorne chuckled. “You thought I was the killer, didn’t you?”

“What am I supposed to think?” Thorne gestured angrily at his father. “Standing there in the dark…”

“Standing in the dark and pissing myself laughing, watching you scuttle away like a fucking girl.”

Thorne was still breathing heavily. He shuffled forward and moved to one side. His father stepped forward and sat beside him, groaning with the effort as he lowered himself onto the concrete.

“Anyway, son, I’m the one person you can be pretty sure isn’t the killer, right? You’ve not sussed much of anything out so far, but I should hope you’ve worked that much out at least. Yes?”

Feeling like a kid, answering the question quietly, the sarcasm sounding childish and petulant as he spoke. “Yes. I know that much.. .”

“You know all sorts of things. All sorts. You know who the killer really is, for a kickoff.”

Thorne stared. His father’s face was expressionless. “You’ve got worse since you died.”

“You know his name, son.”

“Tell me…”

“Hold your horses. Let’s have some fun with it.”

Thorne saw where it was going. “Oh, please God, no. Not a fucking quiz.”

“Don’t be so boring. Right, list all the people who it might be.” He leaned over and tapped at the side of his son’s head. “You’ve got all the names up there.”

“I’m tired,” Thorne said.

“Come on, I’ll give you the first couple to start…”

Thorne listened as his father gave him the first name, paused, and then gave him a second. Thorne was impatient. He couldn’t help asking, though he knew his father would say nothing until he was good and ready. “Is either of those the man behind the camera? Is one of them the killer, Dad?”

The old man smiled, enjoying his secret. He began to list more names, and with each one Thorne felt himself drifting further toward sleep…

Then back toward consciousness. And by the time he’d woken up, thickheaded and shivering, Thorne couldn’t remember a single name.