Page 51 of Pressure Head
Actually, I’d been thinking more along the lines of BDSM and/or amputee fetishes, but yeah, kiddie porn could have accounted for the way it’d hit me.
Possibly.
I’d never reacted toanythingthis badly before. I didn’t say anything more, because despite what I’d said, I was bloody desperate to see just what it was.
Phil turfed through the contents of the box, laying them out on the boxes to either side. There were ancient packets of photos, what looked like school books—why the hell would anyone keep those?—and then an envelope. A bog-standard brown manila envelope that nearly made me throw up at the sight of it.
“That’s it,” I rasped.
He was looking at the envelope like he’d never seen it before—and I saw the exact moment when he realised what it was. His eyes widened—then narrowed dramatically. “Okay. I know what this is. It’s not porn. Can I put it away?”
“It’s your stuff. You can do what you want.” My voice was strained.
He gave me a sharp look. “It’s still bothering you?”
“Yeah. Still hidden, see?” I nodded at the envelope and nearly fell off my chair.
Phil stared at me for a long, long moment. “Fucking hell.” His tone was resigned as he opened up the unsealed flap of the envelope and drew out a few bits of paper. He handed them to me, and the relief was so great it felt like euphoria. I couldn’t even focus for a moment.
“Oh God, that’s so much better,” I breathed.
“Well, take a look at them; you might as well.” Phil turned abruptly away and strode over to the window I’d opened, staring out into the darkness.
I looked. Then I looked again. There wasn’t much there. The first was a clipping, yellow with age, from a newspaper:Local boy in serious car accident. I read on automatically.Thomas Paretski, 17, was seriously injured when he was hit by a car . . .I put it down. I didn’t need to relive that story. The next was a grainy photo. Of me. Or rather, of my teenaged self, badly cut hair, less-than-perfect skin and all. The last was a picture of the school under-eighteen football team. I’d played in defence. We were all grinning madly and gurning for the camera—looked like we’d just won a match.
I didn’t even remember the occasion. But Phil had kept these mementos.
“Why?” I asked, my tone overloud and harsh in the tingling silence.
“You mean, why did I keep those?” Phil was talking to the window, his tired voice making a circle of condensation on the glass. “What do you think?”
“You felt . . . guilty about the accident?Reallyguilty?” I couldn’t believe that was all it was.
Phil turned, his face dark. “Oh, for— Yes, I felt guilty. But I fancied you, all right? Back in school.”
“But . . . I thought you hated me!”
It was like lighting a firework. In your living room. Phil exploded, and it wasn’t pretty. “Ididfucking hate you, okay? I hated the things you made me feel, made me want . . . Christ, don’t you realise I didn’t have a bloody clue I was gay until I noticed you drooling over me after games? I wanted to fuckingkillyou for making me feel that way.”
He was breathing hard, his fists clenching and unclenching. I got slowly to my feet, then wondered if that just made me a bigger target. “Um, I think I’d better go,” I said uncertainly. I realised I was still holding the photos and stuff, so I put them down on the chair. This was just too weird.
Phil had fancied me—by the sound of it, as much as I’d fancied him. Maybe more, even. And he’d kept the photos, the clipping, for a dozen years, even through a move.
But he’d still hated me.
Halfway to the door, I turned. “Why did you keep them?”
“Because I never wanted to forget the way I felt when that car hit you.”
I swallowed. “That wasn’t— I’m hoping that wasn’t because it was such agoodfeeling?”
“No. It wasn’t.” He gave a tired smile. “You’re right. This was a crap idea. I’m sorry. I’ll see you, Tom.”
Now, of course, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go. I was pretty certain Phil didn’t want me to stay, though, so I nodded and closed the door behind me.
I called up Gary on my way back into town and begged him to meet me up the Dyke. For one thing, I was starving, and if I tried cooking with all this on my mind, I’d probably end up burning the house down. For another, I couldn’t face going home alone, where I’d just sit on the sofa and obsess about the god-awful bloody failure of my date with Phil. I needed distracting, and Gary was nothing if not that.
Of course, I hadn’t realised that these days, Gary was a buy-one-get-one-free offer. When I got to the Dyke, an ache starting in my head to match the one in my hip, he was curled up in a corner seat gazing at a certain market trader like the sun shone out of his proverbial. I got myself a pint, gave Flossie a pat in passing, and joined them, trying not to let my smile curdle on my lips. “All right, Gary? Darren?”
