Page 24 of Pressure Head
Dave gave my lime and soda a dirty look when I put it on the table next to his pint. “What the hell’s this? Are you on a diet or something?”
“Got to drive home, haven’t I? I don’t want to get on the wrong side of the law.”
He laughed again. “Yeah, some of those coppers are right bastards. Cheers. Hey, hang on—isn’t it time for the match? Oi, Jon,” he called to the barman. “You want to switch that telly on so we can watch Spurs getting their arses kicked?”
We didn’t talk about the case anymore, which was probably just as well. Dave’s drinking slowed down a bit too, which I was equally relieved about. The poor sod was already a heart attack waiting to happen; he didn’t need liver failure on top.
We stayed for the match, had a few more drinks, and then I offered Dave a lift home. I dropped him off just as he was getting to the emotional stage. “Y’re a good mate, Tom,” he slurred, fumbling in his pocket for his door key. “Even—’scuse me—if you are a poofter. Don’t care what anyone says; you’re all right by me.”
“Thanks, Dave,” I said, secure in the knowledge he was too far gone to recognise sarcasm. I went in with him and made sure he had a pint of water to drink, then I legged it before he started telling me he loved me. I was pretty sure our friendship wouldn’t survive something that traumatic.
When I got home myself, the cats showed how much they’d missed me by royally ignoring me for the rest of the evening. And a text turned up from Phil, saying he’d pick me up tomorrow at 9 a.m. Assuming that meant to go and see Mrs. East, rather than to take me out for a cappuccino and a croissant, I texted back,OKand went to bed.
I’d like to say I slept the deep sleep of the just, but in fact I kept waking up from nasty little dreams of an upset Dave accusing me of cheating on him with Phil.
