Part 19 (1/2)

”Not enough.” Thorne could feel the weight of the cans in his rucksack. ”Plenty more, though . . .”

Walking hadn't done the trick, so he'd gone straight into the nearest Tesco Metro and handed over a quarter of his weekly money in exchange for eight cans.

”You should save a couple,” Caroline said.

He'd met up with Spike and Caroline on Bedford Street and they'd walked aimlessly around Covent Garden ever since. Thorne had announced that he wanted to go to sleep an hour before, that he had to get back to his theater, but somehow he never quite kept going in any one direction and it seemed stupid to doss down anywhere while there was still a can open.

”Have one!” Thorne tried to reach behind into the rucksack, his arm flailing.

”I keep telling you, I don't want one,” Spike said. ”I'll take one off you to sell, mind you . . .”

”You can p.i.s.s off,” Thorne said.

Caroline pulled a face. ”That stuff tastes f.u.c.king horrible . . .”

”I don't understand why you two don't drink.” Thorne held up the gold-and-red can and read the writing; the By Royal Appointment. ”If it's good enough for the Danish court . . .”

”Prefer to save our money, like,” Spike said. ”Spend it on the good stuff.”

Caroline took Thorne's arm and hooked her own around it as they walked. ”I'll have a vodka, mind you, if there's one on offer.”

”I bet f.u.c.k-all gets done in Denmark,” Thorne said.

Spike cackled.

”Be nice to get dressed up one night, wouldn't it?” Caroline reached out her other arm and drew Spike toward her. ”Go out somewhere and dance, and drink vodka and tonic or a few c.o.c.ktails . . .”

Spike leaned over to kiss her and Thorne pulled away from them.

He whistled. ”Give her a snog, for Christ's sake, and tell her you love her.” He was aware of how he sounded: the words not slurred exactly, but slow and singsong; emphasized oddly, like he was speaking through a machine. ”Go on, put your arms round her . . .”

Put your arms round them . . . Give the f.u.c.kers a cuddle.

Thorne stopped dead and shut his eyes. The can slipped out of his hand on to the pavement. ”f.u.c.k . . .”

Caroline and Spike walked over.

”We need to get you bedded down,” Caroline said.

Thorne looked down at the thick, golden liquid running away across the curb. He pushed the toe of his boot into it. His stomach lurched as he watched it spread and darken, leaking from the wound and staining the sand.

”I want to go to sleep,” he said.

Spike pushed him forward. ”I thought you boozers were supposed to have some kind of tolerance . . .”

Sleep hung around, but refused to settle. Instead, thoughts collided inside his thick head like oversize b.u.mper cars moving at half speed . . .

Atrocious was a meaningless, f.u.c.ked-up word. A c.r.a.ppy meal could be atrocious, yes, or a s.h.i.+t football team or a bad movie. Atrocious didn't come close to describing the thing itself: the atrocity. That's what they were calling it. Brigstocke and the rest of them. Not murder. An atrocity. All about the context, apparently . . .

There were rats in the skip around the corner. He could hear them digging into the bin bags. Chewing through Styrofoam for crusts, and wrappers slick with kebab fat.

He'd probably seen things as bad in Surbiton semis and Hackney tower blocks, or at least the aftermath of such things. He'd certainly known of worse-of acts that had left a greater number dead-happening in that war and in others. He'd watched them on the news. Weren't those things atrocities, too?

He belched up Special Brew, tasting it a second time. Moaning. Biting down into each sour-sweet bubble.

Why was what he'd seen on that piece-of-s.h.i.+t tape any worse than when a bomb fell through the red cross daubed on a hospital roof? These were not civilians, were they? This was soldiers killing soldiers. Yet somehow it was worse. You knew perfectly well that things went wrong, that machines went wrong, and that people f.u.c.ked up. But this wasn't f.u.c.king up; this was basic b.l.o.o.d.y horror. This was inhuman behavior from those who'd been there-who were supposed to have been there-in defense of humanity.

He s.h.i.+fted, driving an elbow into the rucksack behind him and pulling at the frayed edge of the sleeping bag. He could smell himself on the warm air that rose up from inside.

If anything, what he'd seen on that tape, what had happened at the end, was more terrible than the executions themselves. But whoever was behind the camera hadn't filmed the actual shootings. There was no way, from seeing the tape, of knowing if each of the four soldiers had done his bit.

If each one of ours had killed one of theirs . . . He hoped it hadn't been the case. Hoped that one soldier, or at worst two, had done all the killing. He pictured one of the soldiers lining up the prisoners and trying to kill as many as he could with one shot. If those heavy heads were close enough together, if all those ducks were in a row, would the bullet pa.s.s straight through one and into the next? Through two or three maybe . . . ?

Now the soldiers themselves were being hunted down and killed. It was hard to feel too sorry for them, though, kicked to death or not. They weren't s.h.i.+tting themselves, were they? Sitting there, watching it happen, and waiting their turn.

He lay down flat and turned his head. The stone felt wonderfully cool against his face.

It had to be the man who'd shot the video, didn't it? Surely. That's what he felt in his guts, swilling around with the beer and the tea and the sandwiches. They'd know soon enough; they'd know what was happening when they found the other two soldiers. If they were alive, they could identify whoever had been pointing that camera.

Somebody shot soldiers shooting.

f.u.c.king tongue twister . . .

Thorne smelled something familiar and opened his eyes.

He had no idea how many hours it had been since Spike and Caroline had dropped him at his doorway and left. He was equally clueless as to how long Spike had been back, sitting there on the steps with a skinny joint in his hand. Without a watch, Thorne relied on his mobile phone to tell him the time. Even if he could have dug it out now in front of Spike, he wouldn't have bothered . . .

”When d'you come back?”

”Just.” Without turning, he offered Thorne the joint. ”Want some?”

Thorne groaned a negative. ”Where's Caroline?”

From the back, Thorne could see the shrug, and shake of the head, but not Spike's expression. ”Busy . . .”

Thorne's eyes had closed for what seemed like no more than a second when he heard something smack against the wall above him and felt something hit his face.

”f.u.c.k's that?”

He sat up, wiping his mouth, and saw the messy remains of a burger scattered on the floor and across his sleeping bag. He saw Spike standing and moving toward two men in the middle of the street.

”What d'you think you're f.u.c.king doing?” Spike asked.

The man who answered was wearing a green parka and a blank expression. He slurred, mock apologetic. ”Sorry, mate, I thought this was a rubbish tip . . .”

The second man was bald and thin-faced. He laughed and casually lobbed something else, whistling as if he'd launched a grenade. Spike stepped aside and watched the cup explode, sending ice cubes and whatever drink was inside spilling across the pavement.