The Burning Girl

SEVEN

Thorne cut up Royal College Street, where a faded plaque on a flaking patch of brickwork identified a house where Verlaine and Rimbaud had once lived. By the time he came out on to Kentish Town Road it had begun to drizzle, but he was still glad he'd refused Tughan's offer of a lift.

As Thorne walked past some of the tat tier businesses that fringed the main road, his thoughts returned to Billy Ryan. He wondered how many of the people who ran these pubs, saunas and internet cafes were connected to Ryan in some way or another. Most probably wouldn't even recognise the name, but the working lives of many, honest or not, would certainly be touched by Ryan at some stage.

He thought of those who looked up to Ryan. Those in the outer circles who would be looking to move towards the centre. Did those likely lads, keen to trade in their Timberland and Tommy Hilfiger for Armani, have a clue what they might be expected to do in return? Could they begin to guess at what the softly spoken ballroom dancer had once been might still be capable of?

"I've seen some shocking things."

Just before the turning into Prince of Wales Road, Thorne nipped into a small supermarket. He needed milk and wine, and wanted a paper to see what the Monday night match was on Sky Sports. Queuing at the till, he became aware of raised voices near the entrance and walked over. A uniformed security guard was guiding a woman of forty or so towards the doors, trying to move her out of the shop. He was not taking any nonsense, but there was still some warmth in his voice: "How often do we have to do this, love?"

"I'm sorry, I can't help it," the woman said. The security guard saw Thorne coming over and his eyes widened. We've got a right one here.

"Do you want a hand?" Even as Thorne said it, he hadn't quite decided who he was offering the help to.

Though the woman had three or four fat, plastic bags swinging from each hand, she was well dressed. "It's something I feel compelled to do," she said, revealing herself to be equally well spoken.

"What?" Thorne asked.

The security guard still had a hand squarely in the middle of the woman's back and was moving her ever closer to the door. "She pesters the other customers," he said.

"I tell them about Jesus." The woman beamed at Thorne. "They really don't seem to mind. Nobody gets annoyed."

Thorne slowly followed the two of them, watching as they drifted towards the pavement.

"People just want to do their shopping," the security guard said.

"You're holding them up."

"I have to tell them about Him. It's my job."

"And this is mine."

"I know. It's fine, really. I'm so sorry to have caused any trouble."

"Don't come back for a while this time, OK?" With a shrug and a smile, the woman hoisted up her bags and turned towards the street. Thorne moved to the exit and watched her walking away.

The security guard caught his eye. "I suppose there are worse crimes."

Thorne said nothing.

He'd arrived home to a note from Hendricks saying that he was spending the night at Brendan's. Thorne had put the frozen pizza he'd picked up from the supermarket in the oven. He flicked through the Standard, watched Channel Four News while it was cooking. Now, five minutes into the second half, Newcastle United and Southampton appeared to have settled for a draw. It was chucking it down on Tyneside and the St. James' Park pitch was slippery, so there were at least the odd hideously mistimed tackle and some handbags at ten paces, but that was as exciting as it got.

Thorne snatched up the phone gratefully when it rang.

"Tom?"

"You not watching the football, Dad?" Time was, the TV coverage of a match would be swiftly followed by ten minutes of amateur punditry over the phone with the two of them arguing about every dodgy decision, every key move. That all seemed a lifetime ago.

"Too busy," his dad said. "Different game I'm concerned about, anyway. You got your thinking cap on?"

"Not at this very moment, no."

"All the ways you can be dismissed at cricket, if you please. I've made a list. There's ten of them, so come on." Thorne picked up the remote, knocked the volume on the TV down a little. "Can't you just read them out to me?"

"Don't be such a cock, you big fucker." He said it like it was a term of endearment.

"Dad."

"Stumped and hit wicket, I'll give you them to start." Thorne sighed, began to list them: "Bowled, LBW, caught, run out. What d'you call it… hitting the ball twice? Touching the ball?"

"No. Handling the ball."

"Right. Handling the ball. Listen, I can't remember the other two."

His father laughed. Thorne could hear his chest rattling. "Timed out and obstructing the field. They're the two that people can never remember. Same as Horst Bucholz and Brad Dexter."

"What?

"They're the two in The Magnificent Seven that nobody can ever remember. So, come on then. Yul Brynner, I'll give you him to start."

Southampton scrambled a late winner five minutes from the final whistle, just about the time when Thorne's dad began to run out of steam. Not long after, he put down the handset, needing to fetch a book, to check a crucial fact. A minute or two into the silence that followed, Thorne realised that his father had forgotten all about the call and wasn't coming back. He'd maybe even gone upstairs to bed. Thorne thought about shouting down the phone, but decided to hang up instead.