Page 11 of Pressure Head
I’d taken his silence for simple grief—but yeah, thinking about it, there could have been hostility in there too. God, what amess.
When we got back to my house, it wasn’t yet nine o’clock, but I felt like I’d been up for a week.
“Can I come in?” Morrison asked.
“Why?”
“To talk.”
“Fine. But that’s all you’re getting,” I quipped without a lot of humour.
The cats had come back in from wherever they spent their days and sent suspicious glares Morrison’s way before greeting me effusively. Probably because I hadn’t had time to put their food out earlier. I rectified this whilst waiting for the kettle to boil, then made a cafetière of coffee while they scarfed down their Fisherman’s Choice. It occurred to me I hadn’t asked Morrison if coffee was what he wanted, but then it further occurred to me that actually, if he was going to be fussy, he could make his own drinks. I was too bloody knackered. I sloshed in some milk and handed him the mug.
“Thanks,” he said.
“So talk,” I told him.
“Can’t we take this somewhere more comfortable?”
Grudgingly, I made my way into the living room and slumped into an armchair. Morrison parked his arse on the sofa without waiting for an invitation, leaning back and resting his ankle on the opposite knee. Making himself at home, and incidentally providing me with a view of his crotch I tried very hard not to stare at. Even if he did improve the look of my battered old sofa by several hundred percent.
“What did Southgate tell you about me?” he asked, his tone and expression neutral. I bet he practised that sort of thing in front of the mirror.
“All he said was that you’re an ex-copper and you’re queer. Oh, and a pain in the bum. But I knew that already.” I reached down to fondle Arthur, and he jumped up onto my lap and kneaded it into submission before graciously deigning to curl up and purr. Merlin, the little traitor, went over and rubbed his chin all over Morrison’s trousers. “So, this being a poof. How’s that working out for you?”
“Could be better,” he said frankly. “Look, Tom—all right if I call you Tom?”
“You did earlier. Phil,” I added pointedly.
“Right. Look, school wasn’t an easy time for any of us.”
“Yeah, being the leader of a gang of thugs can’t have been easy for a sensitive little flower like you.”
“Like we ever laid a finger on you. All right, maybe there was a bit of pushing and shoving—”
“It’s not all about the physical stuff!” I’d have stood up, but Arthur was restraining me. As it was, he opened one sleepy eye to reproach me for disturbing his rest. I lowered my voice. “Have you got any idea what it was like for me, everyone calling me names, laughing at me—to my face?”
“Water off a duck’s back,” he said, but he wasn’t sounding as certain as a moment ago.
“Oh, so now you’re the mind reader, are you? Let me tell you, you big bloody hypocrite—” I broke off as he stood and crossed the room to loom over me. His expression was unreadable, and I wondered if I’d pushed him too far. My heart was racing, and to my shame, my cock stirred, which, when you’ve got a cat on your lap, feels beyond wrong.
Morrison—Phil—bent down and reached out to cup my face with a hand. “Always did know how to wind me up, didn’t you, Tom?”
What? It was the other way round, wasn’t it?
Wasn’t it?
Phil straightened and walked out without so much as a good-night kiss.
