Page 72 of Blow Down (The Plumber's Mate)
Fine. I handed Liz the phone. She listened for a moment, then looked up at me. “Arlo thinks you should go now,” she said, her voice holding a faint hint of triumph, as if that settled the matter.
Which was odd in itself—did she think I wouldn’t leave if it was only her who’d asked?
Still, message received and understood.
So I went.
All in all, it was on the late side of early evening when I started on my way home from St. Leonards. The skies weren’t dark yet, but it was that stage of twilight when it’s harder to see than in full dark, ’cos your brain reckons your eyes just aren’t trying hard enough and your headlights have about as much effect as a kiddie’s nightlight.
I should’ve given Phil a bell before I set off back, I realised. We hadn’t made plans for the evening, and now I wasn’t sure if he’d be over at mine, wondering whether to make a start on dinner (I hope he wouldn’t get that desperate; I fancied something decent for tea) or back at his flat with his feet up and a microwaved ready meal on his lap. Or, you know, somewhere else entirely. I mean, it wasn’t like he didn’t have a life apart from me.
He might even have gone to visit his mum, although I personally wouldn’t have bet my shirt on it.
I briefly considered pulling over into an upcoming lay-by to make the call. Very briefly. That would just be sad. Which was my main consideration, obviously, rather than the way the lay-by itself was shielded from the road by overhanging trees that cast it into gloomy shadow and looked well creepy. Not to mention, an ideal spot for a murder.
Then my phone rang, and I ended up pulling in anyway. It wasn’t Phil, though.
It was Vi. “Yeah?” I said cautiously.
“Um.” Her voice was uncharacteristically hesitant. Uncertain, even. “I owe you an apology. For being so rude the other night. Sorry.”
Oh. “Uh, that’s okay.” I paused. “Does that mean you want to take back the firing-us thing?” Not that I was making any promises, mind.
“Um. Well, actually . . . Can you come over?”
“What? Why?”
“It’s just . . . We’ve got a leak in one of the pipes, and there’s water all over the floor, and Daddy’s gone out for dinner.”
“You’re kidding, right? I mean, seriously?” Christ, she had a nerve.
“Look, I know it’s a cheek, all right? But I’ll pay you. I don’t know any other plumbers—”
Why did that not surprise me?
“—and I’m really worried about the floors. They’re going to be ruined. I mean, I’ve tried mopping up, but it just keeps coming.”
Great. Those antique wood floors had probably thought they were safe now that Thoroughly Modern Amelia had popped her ironically retro clogs. “Have you tried turning the water off?” I thought about jamming the phone between my shoulder and my ear and setting off, but it’d be just my luck to get nicked for driving while using my mobile to talk to Vi bloody Majors.
“I don’t know how.”
“Have a look under your kitchen sink. There should be a tap there.” Although in an older property like that . . .
There was a pause, enlivened by a few bumps and some heavy breathing. “There’s loads of taps. Which one should I turn?”
I closed my eyes briefly, then opened them quick ’cos it was still pretty creepy and deserted in this lay-by. No sense in pushing my luck. “Just give all of ’em a go. Clockwise to close, yeah?”
There was a shorter pause. More heavy breathing. Some grunting. “It’s really stiff.”
I resisted the urge to say That’s what he said.
“I’ll have to put you down,” she carried on.
More grunts.
Bang.
“Oh, bugger.”
