Page 33 of Pressure Head
“Through church.” He said it like it should have been obvious. Maybe it was—I couldn’t think of many other places people from such different backgrounds could get to know each other. Work, maybe, but he didn’t have a job. I was still having trouble picturing Graham as a God-botherer, though.
“Yeah, how did you get into that?”
“You know I was living on the streets in London, for a bit? And the drugs?”
“Yeah. Phil said that was how you and him met—met again, I mean. Through Crisis.”
Graham nodded. “There’s a lot of Christians who help out there. Phil was great, but they made me feel . . . They were like a family. Do you see what I mean?”
“Yeah, mate, I do.” Poor sod—he’d never had a family of his own. “So have they been looking after you since, well, since it happened?”
He was silent for a while, and I glanced over, but we were in traffic, and I had to keep my eyes on the road. “Graham?”
“It’s not the same here. People aren’t the same. I stopped going to church. People around here don’t understand; their lives are too safe and cosy, like they’re wrapped in cotton wool. They just get embarrassed when they meet someone with real problems.” He hunched down farther in his seat. “I don’t want their help, their sodding casseroles. All they ever did was take Melanie away from me.”
My hands tensed on the wheel—then I realised he was just talking about all those evenings at prayer group and doing the parish paperwork. Still, it bothered me, finding out he had all this resentment bubbling under the surface. He didn’t sound like the Graham I’d known. But then he wasn’t the Graham I’d known, was he? He was twelve years down the road from that shy, nerdy kid—and by the sound of it, those years hadn’t been good ones.
“Well, here we are,” I said brightly, pulling up the hand brake. I’d slipped into jolly-the-bloke-along mode again, I realised. “Come on in.”
Both cats were there to greet us as we stepped through the front door. “Hello, boys,” I greeted them, bending down to stroke one furry back and then the other. Graham stood stiffly by the door, and my heart sank. “Shit—you’re not allergic, are you?”
“Just . . . not very fond of cats, that’s all.”
Not fond of cats? How couldanyonenot like cats? “Well, they don’t bite,” I reassured him cheerily. This evening was going to be even more of an ordeal than I’d thought. “The fat one’s Arthur, and the skinny one’s Merlin. Come on through and I’ll get you a drink. Beer all right?”
“Just a glass of water, please. I don’t drink.”
Right. So heroin was just fine and dandy, but not alcohol? Then again, maybe he’d been hooked on that too, back in the day. I got him a glass of water—from the tap, because I pay enough on my water rates already, I’m not shelling out for bottles of the stuff on top—then checked what was in the fridge. “Do you fancy pasta? I can do a carbonara, or something with tomatoes if you’d rather.”
“Whatever you want.” He didn’t offer to help, so I sent him to the living room and got some water on to boil, then chopped up an onion as quickly as I could before I keeled over with hunger.
I’ve always quite liked cooking. It’s all self-taught, but you can pick up bits and pieces if you watch cookery programmes on the telly. I’ve even tried making my own pasta a couple of times, since seeing a bloke onMasterChefmake his own ravioli from scratch, but it’s a bit of a faff unless there’s someone you’re trying to impress. And even then, most people can’t tell it from store-bought stuff. That’s if you buy a decent brand, obviously—I’m not talking Tesco Value dried wallpaper paste, here. But I didn’t reckon Graham would be handing out any Michelin stars tonight whatever I served him—he probably wouldn’t even notice if I opened a can of Heinz spaghetti hoops and dumped it on his plate—so I just concentrated on getting something tasty and filling on the table as quick as possible.
I made a simple salad with rocket and parmesan—can’t stand lettuce that doesn’t taste of anything—and called out, “Grub’s up.”
Graham poked his head warily around the door.
“Here you go, mate—dinner is served.” We dug in, which was fine for a while, but to be honest, I prefer my meals with a little more conversation, if I’m not actually on my own. What the hell had we used to talk about, when we were at school together? Computer games, probably. Oh—and girls. Graham, like a lot of sixteen-year-old boys, had been a bit obsessed with the relative bust sizes of the girls in our class. And while I might not have had his level of interest in the subject, I’d argued and joked along with him because, well, you did, didn’t you? Hmm. Maybe it wasn’t so surprising he’d thought I was straight.
I tried to remember what other sorts of thing he’d been into back then. “Still playing chess?” I asked.
“No. Not for years.” He looked down at his plate for a moment, then roused himself to make an effort. “Are you still playing football?”
I grimaced. “Nah—not since the accident.” I gave my hip a slap, to show it I hadn’t forgiven it for letting me down. It twinged right back, as if to say,Oi, you’re the one who ran out in front of a four-by-four. “I’m in the darts team at the Rats, though.”
“The Rats?”
“Rats Castle—it’s my local.” There’s no apostrophe in the name; I’ve always assumed the greengrocer round the corner nicked it for his grape’s. “We passed it on the way in; it’s on Hatfield Road. We could go for a drink there sometime—um, if you go to pubs?”
Graham stared at the few congealed bits of pasta left on his plate. “Not really.”
Bugger. “Nah, s’pose not . . . Seen any good films, lately?”
The conversation limped on, worse than a one-legged man at a dance marathon. I’d never been so relieved in my life to hear the doorbell ring. “Better get that,” I said, trying not to look too eager for an interruption as I jumped up from the table. If it was the Jehovah’s Witnesses again, maybe they’d be able to make a better job of talking to Graham than I was.
It wasn’t them. It was Phil. I blinked up at his tall, broad-shouldered figure in surprise, and realised he was holding a bottle of wine. “Did we have a date or something?” I blurted out. Wishful thinking, maybe.
His expression, which had been warily optimistic before I spoke, hardened. “Come at a bad time, have I?”
