Pressure Head (15 page)

“Interesting.”

“Which bit?”

“The bit where he just assumed there was something funny going on as soon as he saw you together.”

“Ah. Well, I sort of had my arm in hers at the time, so I s’pose it did look a bit suspect.”

There was a stifled sound on the other end of the line. “Christ, Tom, do you ever stop?”

“I never even started! I was just looking after her, that’s all. She was in a right state.”

“Fine. I’ll believe you; thousands wouldn’t. Right—I’ve got stuff to do. Thanks for calling; I appreciate it.” He hung up before I even had a chance to suggest we meet up for a pint or something.

Feeling a bit let down, I put the van in gear and headed over to Harpenden.

Where I found a pissed-off Post-it on the front door, with
Waited over an hour for you. Don’t bother to call again,
scrawled on it in angry biro
.

Swearing under my breath, I dug in my pocket until I found a stubby pencil. I wrote
Sorry
at the bottom of the note, then I turned back around and headed home.

Chapter Eleven

It had been bugging me, not being able to check out those vibes at the vicarage. The one time I’d known there was something to find—and I hadn’t been able to get to it. I needed to get back there and see what it was. The trouble was, how?

I wasn’t proud of what I came up with, but I just couldn’t think of any other way. I thought about telling the Rev I was offering a free plumbing check-up to houses in the area, but trouble was, people who wear shirts with frayed cuffs are generally of the if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it persuasion. He’d just have told me thanks, but no thanks, and I’d have burned my boats for any other kind of approach. So I went the God-bothering route. I had a look at the church website—got to be a first time for everything, hasn’t there?—and gave the Rev a ring, saying I’d like to have a talk with him about the Alpha course they were running for new Christians.

He seemed glad to hear from a possible new recruit and asked me over the following afternoon. Like I’d thought, mornings and evenings were his busy time. So I stood on his doorstep at half-past two, wiped my palms on my jeans and rang the doorbell.

The Rev’s ferrety face lit up like a baptismal candle when he saw me. “Tom, so good to see you again,” he said, ushering me in, his hands all a-flutter.

“Good to see you too, Merry,” I told him with the sort of smile I usually save for the housewives.

He went bright pink. “Let me put the kettle on.”

“Cheers. Actually, mind if I use your loo? I’ve just come from a job.” Was lying to a vicar in his vicarage as bad as lying in church, or only as bad as any other lie? I’d have crossed my fingers, but I didn’t want Jesus thinking I was taking the mick.

“Oh—of course, go ahead. I’ll make the drinks—coffee again? White, no sugar?”

“You remembered. Cheers, Rev, that’ll be lovely.”

He disappeared down the hall to the kitchen. I bypassed the downstairs loo and legged it upstairs, trying to keep my steps as light as possible. I was on the right track—I could feel it. Smell it, almost. A thick, greasy, shameful trail of repressed desire and guilt.

Luckily, the Rev wasn’t one for keeping bedroom doors shut, so I could see at a glance which was his room. The others were either bare, or half full of boxes, presumably of church stuff. It seemed a shame, all this space going to waste, but I supposed the Rev wouldn’t stay here forever, and the next bloke might have a family to fill the place up a bit.

Of course, Phil might have been wrong about old Merry, and he might one day have a family of his own. I wouldn’t be holding my breath, though.

The trail led straight under Merry’s bed. I brushed aside a couple of crumpled-up tissues and socks in a sad state of repair—clearly holeyness really was next to Godliness. There was a shoebox that had once held a cheap pair of unbranded trainers, half price in the sale. Bingo. I opened it up and stared at the contents.

Out
magazine from July 2010. Some dry-looking book about ancient Greeks. A copy of
Maurice
, looking fairly well-thumbed, and one of
The Lord Won’t Mind
. A few faded snapshots, the most risqué of which featured a pigeon-chested bloke with his shirt off. Some old letters—way too old to have anything to do with Melanie.

This was it? This was the Rev’s secret shame? Poor sod—all that guilt over this? Anyway, it was time I went back downstairs. I put the lid carefully back on the box and was about to slide it back under the bed when a floorboard creaked behind me. I spun round guiltily, the box still in my hands.

Merry was standing in the doorway, and he wasn’t living up to his name. “You didn’t come here to talk about the Christian faith, did you?” he said quietly and with a sort of sad dignity. “May I ask why you wish to expose me in this manner?” His voice shook, and I realised his hands were shaking too.

I felt like the lowest form of pond scum, crouching down there rooting through his private life. I stood up, my stomach queasy. “I’m not going to expose anything. I’m sorry.” I took a couple of deep breaths as he just stood there, staring at me. “I was just curious, that’s all. I thought—last time I was here, with Phil, I thought maybe you were interested in me. But I wasn’t sure, you know? I just wanted to…check out the theory.” My heart was pounding in my ears, and Jesus and all his angels were probably busy right now preparing a special hell just for me.

“Why?” the Rev asked and gave that nervous laugh of his. Somehow it didn’t seem quite so slimily funny anymore. “Because you were…interested in me too?”

I drew a breath, but I didn’t get to answer.

“No,” he said, turning away from me. “No, that’s not it, is it? How silly of me, to suppose someone like you…” His thin lips wobbled, then turned white as he got them under control, pressing them even thinner.

Shit
. “I’m sorry,” I said helplessly. “I just—I’m a mate of Graham’s, all right? I don’t want to see him go down for something he didn’t do. And I could tell you were hiding something, so I wanted to see what it was. That’s all. God’s truth.” I was silent for a moment, but he didn’t say anything, and the words came bursting out of me, unstoppably. “But for fuck’s sake, why don’t you just come out and be honest about it? Even I know you’re not the only gay priest in the Church of England. It’s supposed to be all right, isn’t it? As long as you don’t, you know, do anything about it. I mean, reading a couple of books, that’s nothing, is it?”

The Rev gave a deep, deep breath and let it out again audibly. “I hope you won’t take it amiss if I ask you to leave.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.

“Course not. And look, mum’s the word, all right?” I clapped him on the shoulder as I walked out of the room and felt even shittier when he flinched away from my touch.

I thought about checking Pip was okay, so after I’d left the vicarage I drove down the village High Street and parked in a lay-by. But although we were heading for dusk, the estate agent’s window was unlit, and there was a sign on the door that said
Closed due to unforeseen circumstances.

It was probably just as well. I’d most likely have buggered that up as well.

I knocked off early that day, had beans on toast for supper and headed straight down to the pub.

There were a few old regulars in the Rats Castle, plus some loud lads from an office somewhere. I ignored them as best I could, and they bogged off just after seven, which left me in peace to get rat-arsed.

How did Phil do this? All the lying, the sneaking around behind people’s backs?

I suppose I’d got pretty good at switching off my dubious talent over the years. Ignoring all the stuff I didn’t want to know about. Even when it’s mates—especially when it’s mates—there’s always stuff they don’t want you to know about, and generally speaking, they’re right. Some things you’re just better off not knowing.

But Phil’s job was to rake up all that dirt, just on the off chance it might have some bearing on the case. How could he do this, day after day?

I think I must have texted him to ask him at some point, because when I looked blearily up at the shadow falling over my sixth or seventh or eighth pint, I saw it was Phil.

“What do you think you’re doing, Tom?” He had a smooth voice. Flowed all over me like whiskey. No ice, just tingling warmth.

“Turning it off. See?” I held up my pint, struggling to work out whether to focus on the glass or Phil, and eventually giving it all up as a bad job. A fair amount of beer sloshed onto the table, ran along the surface and started dripping onto my jeans. “Buggrit. ’S working, though. Couldn’t find the Thames right now from a standing start in Docklands.” I laughed. All right, maybe I chortled. “Couldn’t find my arse”—I belched— “with my elbow.”

“Yeah, well, I think you’d find most people have a problem with that one. Come on, I think it’s time you went home.”

“Am home,” I protested. “An Englishman’s pub is…is his castle,” I said, sweeping my arm to indicate the interior of the Rats. My jeans got even wetter, and I was worried for a moment I might have embarrassed myself, until I realised I was still holding my pint. What was left of it, anyway. “Oops.” I was about to move the beer to the safety of my stomach, but it disappeared. I looked around for it and saw Phil was holding a glass. I frowned. “Did you just nick my pint?”

“Trust me, you don’t need it.” He put it on the table and reached down to grab my arm. “Come on, time for bed.”

I sniggered. “Think I’m easy, do you?”

“No, I just think you’re rat-arsed.”

“Rat-arsed. In the Rats.” I sniggered again. “That’s a…that’s a… Whassat?”

“It’s about time you got some fresh air. Not to mention fresh jokes.” Phil took a firmer hold of my elbow. “This way.”

It got cold, suddenly, and I realised that somehow we’d left the pub and gone outside. “’S cold,” I muttered, shivering.

Phil heaved a sigh, and then something warm yet light draped itself around my shoulders. It smelled nice. Woodsy. Like Phil. I pulled it closer around me and breathed in deeply. “’S nice.”

“You throw up over my gilet and you’re buying me a new one.”

“Gilet?” I snorted in laughter. “Nobody says
gilet
. How bloody gay is that?”

“Probably just gay enough to get us a kicking, around here, so how about you watch your mouth, all right?”

“You dissing my neighbourhood?” I frowned blearily up at him. “When was the last time you got a kicking, anyway? You’re all…big and butch and ’timidating.”

“On the other hand, I’ve got my hands full at the moment, haven’t I?”

“I bet you’ve got a handful and a half,” I said, batting my eyelashes at him. Then I laughed so hard I nearly pissed myself.

Phil didn’t join in. “Come on, let’s get you home and you can tell me what’s brought this on.”

Was he stupid or something? “I think,” I said slowly and clearly, “it might have been the beer.” I belched, just in case he still hadn’t got the point.

“You don’t say? Right—here we are. Where’s your key?”

“’S in my pocket.” I sniggered. “Is that a key in my pocket, or am I just pleased to see you?” Phil rummaged around in my jeans, the randy bugger, and I laughed some more. “Tickles.”

“Turns out it was a key.” Phil held it up. “See?”

He opened the door. “’S dark,” I said. Then it wasn’t. “Ow.” I blinked.

“Let’s get you on the sofa. Here you go. Now, don’t go to sleep yet.”

“Got plans for me, have you?” I tried to look flirtatious, but it was a bit hard as both of him kept slipping off to one side.

Then he left. “He’s left me, Arthur,” I said sadly. Arthur didn’t reply, so I prodded him and realised I’d been talking to one of the sofa cushions.

“Not yet, I haven’t,” a blurry shape said in Phil’s voice. “Drink this. All of it.”

“Had ’nuff,” I muttered into the pint glass under my nose.

“Not of this, you haven’t. It’s water. Trust me, you’ll thank me for this in the morning.”

I sniggered, spluttering water. “That good, are you?” Then I yawned. “Sleepy.”

“I’m not surprised. You lie down, and I’ll get you a blanket. And a bucket, if I can find one, just in case.”

“Don’t go.” I had to tell him something. It was really important. Couldn’t remember what it was, but I had to tell him. I grabbed his arm. “Phil?”

“Yeah?”

I blinked at him. “I’m not Polish. Not even a little bit.”

“Well, I’m sure England’s vastly relieved we can justly claim you for our own. Now go to sleep.”

“Yes, Mum.” I closed my eyes. Just as I was about to drift off, I thought I felt the touch of his lips on my forehead. “Love you too,” I muttered.

Chapter Twelve

I was lying on my back underneath a bath in Jersey Farm—that’s a big council estate between St Albans and Sandridge, by the way, not an actual farm—when he rang me next day. “Paretski Plumbing,” I answered chirpily, recognising his number.

“You don’t sound Polish,” Phil’s voice rumbled in my ear, its tone light. Flirtatious, even—or was I just reading too much into it? I hoped not.

“Would you like me to?” I countered, hoping the customer was still busy downstairs and wouldn’t (a) hear me flirting back or (b) come up and notice I was semi-aroused. I’d had a restless night—sleeping on the sofa has never done wonders for my hip—with a certain PI playing a prominent role in my dreams. I’d finally woken up late, feeling horny as hell and with no time to do anything about it.