Buried-6 by Mark Billingham Page B

moment to work out what she was talking about; a moment before deciding he would not answer.
    ‘Mum and Dad watched it this morning, before they cal ed Porter. Just the once, I think, but it was enough. Obviously they wouldn’t let me see it. And they didn’t want to talk about it afterwards, so . . .’
    ‘So?’
    ‘So . . . I thought it couldn’t hurt to ask.’
    Thorne watched her draw her knees up, shrinking into the corner of the room. He couldn’t help but be reminded of the previous evening with Phil Hendricks. Now, as then, he could see the pain and the longing beneath the pose; the anguish, raw behind the flippant remark. It couldn’t hurt to tel her.
    ‘It was Luke. Just Luke on the tape.’
    She nodded quickly, as though something she already knew had been confirmed. It was a mature gesture, self-possessed, but in the next instant a tremor in the soft flesh around her mouth turned her back into a child again. ‘What did he say? Did he say anything?’
    ‘Juliet, I can’t—’
    ‘They were crying after they’d watched it, the pair of them. They pretended they weren’t, which was a bit bloody pointless, if you ask me. I mean, I knew what it was, you know? I didn’t think they were watching porno at nine o’clock in the morning.’
    ‘They didn’t want you to get upset,’ Thorne said.
    ‘Right, that’s bril iant. So now al I can think about is what might have been on the tape. What whoever’s got Luke might have been doing to him. How much pain he might have been in.’
    ‘He’s doing OK. Honestly.’

    ‘Define “OK”.’
    Thorne took a deep breath.
    ‘“OK” as in having a whale of a time?’ She began plucking at the pile of the carpet. ‘Or “OK” as in stil breathing?’
    It was as tough a question as had been thrown at Thorne in a long time. ‘Nobody’s hurting him.’
    Her head dropped to her knees. When she heaved it up again fifteen or twenty seconds later, the eyeliner was beginning to run. ‘He’s got a year and a bit on me, but sometimes it’s like I’m the older sister.’ Her eyes roamed from one part of the room to another, like she was searching to prove her point. ‘I have to look after him in loads of ways. You know what I mean?’
    Thorne stepped across and sat down on the edge of the bed. The duvet was dark blue and neatly squared away. He guessed that Luke had probably made the bed himself before leaving for school on Friday. ‘Yeah, I think I do,’ he said.
    She sniffed. ‘Pain in the fucking arse . . .’
    The silence that fol owed was probably more uncomfortable for the girl than it was for Thorne. It was less than half a minute before she pul ed herself to her feet. ‘Right . . .’ Like she had a lot to be getting on with.
    Thorne stood, too. He cocked his head towards the doorway, towards the rest of the house. ‘It’s good that you’re al so . . . close. At a time like this, you know?’
    Juliet Mul en nodded, pushed her hair back behind her ears.
    ‘What did they argue about?’ Thorne walked back to the workstation and looked at the photograph pinned to a corkboard above it: Luke on his father’s shoulders, eyes wide behind orange swimming goggles; the pair of them grinning like idiots and the sun bouncing off the blue water around them. ‘Luke and your dad, last Friday morning.’
    ‘Stupid stuff about school.’
    ‘Work stuff?’
    ‘About Luke not making the rugby team or something. It wasn’t a big deal.’
    ‘Your dad seems to think it was.’
    ‘That’s just because of what’s happened. Because he’s feeling guilty. Because the last time he saw Luke, the two of them were shouting at each other.’ She took a pace towards the bed and leaned down to smooth out the duvet where Thorne had been sitting. ‘Luke was already feeling bad about it by the time we got to school. He told me he was going to say
    “sorry” when he got home, that it was al his fault for being cheeky or whatever.’
    ‘Was it?’ Thorne asked.
    ‘I