derelict having caught fire with suspicious regularity. They carried on to Brighton Pier, formerly the Palace, but now renamed as it was the only functioning pier the city had left. Thorne sulked all the way there.
Bingo. It was right up there with karaoke and poking red-hot needles into your eyes.
'Two little ducks, twenty-two.'
Now that he was playing, though, the excitement of the game was getting to him. Even though the prizes on offer an oversized teddy-bear and a giant, inflatable hammer hardly justified his increased heart rate.
'On its own, number seven.'
'Bingo!'
The call came from an old woman sitting a few feet away. Thorne swore under his breath and sat back hard in his chair at the same time as everybody else. He slid back the blue plastic squares that had been covering all but two of his numbers.
He was sitting next but one to his father.
The old man leaned across Eileen and grinned. 'If you've got a hundred old women, how d'you make ninety- nine of 'em shout 'fuck'?' Thorne shook his head. 'Don't know.'
'Get the other one to shout 'Bingo'.' Thorne had heard the joke before, but laughed anyway like he always did.
'How many numbers did you need?' Eileen asked.
'Just the two,' Thorne said.
'Imagine what it's like in a big hall. Tens of thousands of pounds they play for sometimes. More on a national game.' Thorne decided immediately that he'd best not venture into one of those places. If the excitement was relative to the money up for grabs, he'd probably drop dead on the spot.
Where they were, in an arcade at the end of the pier, couldn't have been much different to one of the grand bingo halls that were still dotted around London. Most were former cinemas, but several still retained the grandeur of the Victorian music halls from which they'd been converted. Thorne and the others sat on uncomfortable moulded chairs around a small podium with the plastic grids in front of them, and slots into which to shove their pound coins. It was quick and easy. There was no cash to be won. It was bingo-lite.
'Your next full house in just one minute.' The caller's voice echoed through the cheap sound system.
Thorne looked up at him. He was stick-thin and balding. The huge microphone that was pressed against his mouth masked the bottom half of his face. The oversized sunglasses hid the rest of it. Shoddy as the set-up was, the concession to form in the shape of a frilly shirt and wilting bow-tie was something to be admired.
Thorne put his coin into the slot for the next game.
'Come along now, ladies and gents, only a few places left.' Thorne looked around. There were no more than half a dozen people in the whole place. The bloke had more front than Brighton.
'Eyes down for your first number. 'Thorne leaned forward, fingers hovering, ready to flip back the plastic squares. A few feet to his right, he could hear that his father was still laughing at his 'bingo' joke. He saw Eileen lean over and whisper, then pick up a coin and push it into the slot for him.
'Five and six, fifty-six.'
Thorne's father began to laugh louder. The old woman who'd won the previous game shushed them and shook her head. There were increasingly loud mutterings and murmurs from Thorne's right. He turned at the same moment as Eileen reached for his hand and implored him for some help.
'Two and four,' his father shouted suddenly, 'your mother's a whore!' Victor giggled, and Thorne saw the colour drain from Eileen's face. He reached across and took hold of his father's arm. 'Dad.'
'Three and six, cocks and pricks!'
Thorne stood up and stepped around the back of Eileen towards his father. He heard sniggering, then a voice of encouragement from somewhere behind him. 'Go on, mate, why don't you get up there and have a go?'
Thorne lowered his head until it was close to his father's. The look of excitement, of glee, that he saw on the old man's face made him catch his breath.
'Two fat ladies,' his father announced, 'I wouldn't fuck either of them!'
There was a whistle of feedback as the caller put down his microphone. Thorne was shocked to see that the man had no teeth and was at least twenty years older than he'd taken him for. From the corner of his eye, Thorne could see a man in a dark suit the manager, he guessed marching towards them with a walkie-talkie in his hand. Thorne knew he should compose himself, should prepare the usual excuses and explanations, but he was far too busy laughing.
The coffee he'd bought at Brighton station had gone cold. Thorne stared out of the carriage window into the blackness as the train moved far too slowly back towards London. He let his head drop back and closed his eyes, wondering why it was that he so rarely felt this tired in bed, when he should sleep.
He pictured his father and Victor, lying in twin beds in Eileen's spare room and talking about the day they'd had. Laughing about what had happened on the pier. In truth, he had no idea whether his father knew what he was doing at moments like that. Were they events he could objectively look back on and enjoy? Thorne hoped that they were, and imagined his father struggling to hold on to the memory of his bingo-calling exploits before it slipped away from him. Whoosh, it's gone. Excellent. Goldfish brain. Earlier in the day, Thorne had imagined himself as a child with a gaggle of eccentric adults. He knew of course that this was a momentary illusion, that in reality the reverse was true that trying to look after his father was as close as he'd come, as close as he might ever come, to being a parent.
He didn't bother stifling an enormous yawn. When he'd finished, he caught the eye of a woman sitting opposite and smiled. She looked equally knackered and smiled back.
He'd heard plenty about parenting. From seasoned campaigners like Russell Brigstocke and Yvonne Kitson. From Dave Holland, who still had milky sick-stains on his lapels. Everything they'd told him seemed suddenly relevant to his situation.
Nobody could prepare you for it.
You never stopped learning.
There was no right way and no wrong way.
Thorne knew from talking to these people, from listening to their conversations, that there were times when you needed to come down hard. And times when you did, only to feel shitty later, when you realised that you'd got it wrong. Now, Thorne understood what they meant. Sometimes, though they might not like what their children were doing, or the effect that their behaviour was having on other people, it was important to accept that the child was simply having fun. He pictured the look on his father's face as he was shouting out obscenities. Thorne wondered if it was too late to call Alison Kelly. He decided it probably was. Then he reached for his phone and dialed anyway.
'Hi, it's Tom. Hello.?'
'Hi.'
'Sorry if it's late. I was wondering how you were.'
'I'm tired.'
'Me too. It was quite a night.'
She laughed. 'Yes, it was, wasn't it?' Thorne pictured her naked. Pictured her crying. Pictured her turned away from him, trying to take in what he'd said. 'I was wondering how you were about what I told you.'
Static crackled on the line. Thorne thought he'd lost the signal, looked at the screen on his phone.
'I'm fine about it,' she said finally. 'I'm.. grateful.'
'I shouldn't have said anything.'
'You told me the truth.'
'You were upset.'
'I needed the truth. I need the truth.' Thorne noticed the woman opposite turning her head away. He lowered his voice. 'Some truths are harder to handle than others.' There was silence.
'Alison?'
'I'm a big girl,' she said. Another laugh, humourless. 'At least I got to be a big girl.'
'Do you want to do it again? Go out?' He heard a breath let out slowly. 'Why do I think you're just being nice?'
'No, really.'
'Let's give it a few days, shall we?' she said. 'See how we feel.'
