Chapters (73)
- Rabbit Hole
- Also by Mark Billingham
- Title Page
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- Preface
- PART ONE
- ONE
- TWO
- THREE
- FOUR
- FIVE
- SIX
- SEVEN
- EIGHT
- NINE
- TEN
- ELEVEN
- TWELVE
- THIRTEEN
- FOURTEEN
- FIFTEEN
- SIXTEEN
- SEVENTEEN
- EIGHTEEN
- NINETEEN
- TWENTY
- TWENTY-ONE
- TWENTY-TWO
- TWENTY-THREE
- TWENTY-FOUR
- TWENTY-FIVE
- TWENTY-SIX
- TWENTY-SEVEN
- TWENTY-EIGHT
- TWENTY-NINE
- THIRTY
- THIRTY-ONE
- THIRTY-TWO
- THIRTY-THREE
- PART TWO
- THIRTY-FOUR
- THIRTY-FIVE
- THIRTY-SIX
- THIRTY-SEVEN
- THIRTY-EIGHT
- THIRTY-NINE
- FORTY
- FORTY-ONE
- FORTY-TWO
- FORTY-THREE
- FORTY-FOUR
- FORTY-FIVE
- FORTY-SIX
- FORTY-SEVEN
- FORTY-EIGHT
- FORTY-NINE
- FIFTY
- FIFTY-ONE
- FIFTY-TWO
- FIFTY-THREE
- FIFTY-FOUR
- FIFTY-FIVE
- FIFTY-SIX
- FIFTY-SEVEN
- FIFTY-EIGHT
- PART THREE
- FIFTY-NINE
- SIXTY
- EPILOGUE
- ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
- Back Cover
I wait until he does a funny shift in his chair and clears his throat. Until he thinks he’s done an ex-boyfriend’s duty. Until he’s about to say, ‘Well, I’d best be off’ or ‘OK, I’ll leave you to it’.
‘So, you been seeing anyone else?’
‘What?’
‘Getting any action, now I’m safely out of the way?’
He ums and shakes his head. I can’t tell if he means no or if he’s just finding it hard to believe I’m really asking. It doesn’t make a lot of difference.
‘Don’t panic, Andrew,’ I say. ‘I’m only making conversation.’ I’m not.
‘OK.’
‘I don’t really give a shit.’ I do.
There’s that shift again. ‘Listen, I think I should probably—’
‘No,’ I say. ‘I’m the one who decides when it’s time for you to go.’ I manage a pretty decent impression of the woman who saw impostors on EastEnders and enjoyed slicing up her arms. I roll up the sleeves of my shirt to make the poor sod’s predicament even clearer. The woman who fought him over possession of the kitchen knives and smashed his head open with a bottle.
‘Yeah, that’s . . . no problem.’ He looks at his watch. ‘I’m not in a rush.’
‘Great,’ I say.
I see him glance at the door, like he’s praying a nurse might come in and give him the chance to make a dash for it. They don’t, so I sit there and say nothing, watching him squirm and hoping that, if these stupid blackouts do carry on, this doesn’t turn out to be a moment I forget.
FORTY-EIGHT
FORTY-EIGHT
At lunchtime, I eat crisps in my room and think about my conversation with Andy. I can still remember every wonderful moment, thank God. It’s obvious that I’m not the only one thinking about it, because by dinner time the Fleet Ward bitches are all a-twitter.
They want details and they want dirt.
It’s like we’re back at school and they’ve just found out I was fingered behind the bike sheds by the captain of the football team.
Which I was, obviously . . .
‘You didn’t tell me he was that good-looking,’ L-Plate says.
I try to look offended. ‘So what, you think I’d be shacked up with some munter?’
‘No, but he’s still a bit out of your league,’ Donna says.
Big Gay Bob is the token bloke at the table. ‘With birds, I always prefer it if I’m the one who’s out of their league,’ he says. ‘There’s way more chance of getting your leg over.’
Everyone ignores him, though I can’t be alone in trying to picture the unfortunate woman who thinks that Bob is a step up. A blind pensioner with low self-esteem, at a push.