Page 58 of Pressure Head
“And I don’t like telling the whole bloody world about me and Mark, all right?”
“I’m not the whole bloody world!” I snapped, stung.
Phil rubbed his face with both hands. “No. You’re not . . . now. But back then, you might just as well have been. For all I knew, you still hated me for what happened when we were seventeen.”
Had I hated him? I wasn’t sure anymore. “You don’t like it, do you? Letting people in. Letting them find stuff out about you.”
Phil looked up but couldn’t seem to meet my eyes. “Knowledge is power.”
“Bollocks. That’s just what people say when they’re paranoid Google’s logging their porn.”
“Is it?” Phil took a step forward, and for a moment, I thought he was about to grab me by the shoulders, but then he let his hands fall. Just as well—I didn’t fancy getting into a knock-down fight with him. I had a feeling it’d be me who’d end up getting knocked down. “You’re telling me if no one had ever found out about you being queer at school, you’d still be walking with a limp?”
It hit me like a body blow. “I don’t limp,” I said weakly.
His face was screwed up in what looked like anger, but his eyes were lost, somehow. “Yeah, right. Ever seen yourself on CCTV?” He looked like he wanted to kill someone, and I realised with a shock it wasn’t me.
My stomach felt hollow. “It’s all right. It doesn’t even ache, much, in the summer. And it wasn’t your fault. It just happened.”
He didn’t say anything.
“Look, I don’t blame you for it,” I said. “Everyone does stuff they regret when they’re young.” He was doing his made-of-granite act, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. Well, he wasn’t fooling me, at any rate. I stepped up to him and lifted a hand to his face.
Phil twisted away from me. He didn’t actually tell me to bugger off, but then he didn’t need to. I sighed. “Fine. I’ll see you around, all right?”
I went home to the cats, hoping for some simple, uncomplicated affection, but they were facing off in the hall, hissing and spitting at one another. It looked like Merlin had got on all six of Arthur’s kitty tits this time. I grabbed Merlin and carried him out of harm’s way, sitting on the sofa and stroking him until he started to purr.
Then I remembered I hadn’t given Phil Gary’s address. I picked up my phone to call him—then thought better of it. He knew where I was if he wanted to ask me.
I wasn’t trying to avoid Phil by going to the Rats for a bit of Sunday roast. I just didn’t have anything in the fridge I fancied eating.
Honest.
I was surprised to see Dave there, sitting in a corner with his paper and a plate of fish and chips. The Rats was a bit off the beaten track for him. I gave him a friendly wave, and he beckoned me over. “Tom? I was hoping to catch you here. A word, if you wouldn’t mind.”
I could tell by the serious tone he wasn’t just after help with theMail on Sundayscrabblegram. “Course, mate. What’s up?”
“Branching out, are you? Your job got a bit boring, so you’re trying to do mine as well?”
Shit. “Has someone been saying stuff about me?” I pulled up a stool and sat down.
Dave wagged his fork in my direction. “I’ve been getting all kinds of grief about you and your mate Phil bloody Morrison harassing witnesses in the Melanie Porter case.”
“Harassing . . . We went to talk to a few people, that’s all.” I hoped I didn’t look as guilty as I felt. If it was the Rev who’d complained, he might actually have a point—but would he really risk letting the cat out of the bag like that? “Who’s been giving you grief?”
“Lionel Treadgood. Said you’ve been pestering his wife too.”
“Pestering? I asked her for a bloody recipe! Now come on, no way did Mrs. T. complain about me—and Phil didn’t even speak to her.”
“That’s not what her husband says.”
“Well, have you tried asking her about it?”
“No, because then he’d be onmyback about police harassment.” At least Dave was looking less pissed off and more amused now. “Seriously, Tom, swapping recipes? Did you ask her where she got her hair done too?”
“No, but we’re going shopping on Saturday, and then we’re going to do each other’s nails. You know, there are plenty of straight blokes around who don’t think it’s sissy to cook. Try telling Gordon Ramsay only nancy boys hang around the kitchen—he’d panfry your nuts and serve them up as a starter.”
“Yeah, well, that’s different. He’s a chef.”
