Page 7 of Pressure Head
“Crisis?” My flabber was well and truly ghasted.
“The homelessness charity,” he supplied impatiently.
“I know what it is, all right? I just wouldn’t have imagined you playing the Good Samaritan to a bunch of tramps.” Then again, I’d never have imagined anyone telling me Phil Morrison was queer either.
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Paretski.”
Not as much as you think.I found myself giving him an appraising look and wondering what kind of bloke he liked, and if he was seeing someone at the moment. Then I gave myself a mental shake. Still perving over Phil Morrison after all these years, for God’s sake?
Trouble was, he was just the sort of bloke I go for. Always had been. He’d filled out a bit since his school days, but then so had my image of the perfect man. Physically, obviously, because personality-wise, I still couldn’t stand the git.
At least, that was what I’d thought. In the light of all these revelations, I wondered if I ought to revise my opinion.
He heaved a heavy sigh, his arms rising and falling with his chest. “Look, can we focus on what’s important here? Graham’s in trouble. Are you going to help, or not?”
“I . . .” I had to look away. “It’s not that I won’t help. I just don’t see how I can, that’s all.”
“Fine.” His jaw set, Morrison unfolded his arms and marched towards the door.
“Oh, for— Hang on a minute, okay?” I found myself chasing after him and grabbing hold of one granite forearm, only to drop it like a ton of, well, granite when he turned and glared at me. “I didn’t say I wouldn’t go and see them. I just don’t see how it can help. I don’t know anything. I just find stuff.”
He drew in a breath as if about to say something, then stopped and shook his head. “Okay, then. I’ll pick you up here at seven o’clock tonight, all right?”
“Okay,” I said, regretting it already. What would it do except raise hopes I couldn’t fulfil?
I felt in dire need of someone to talk to after that, but work came first, seeing as mortgage companies tend to get a bit nasty if you don’t cough up each month. But I called my mate Gary and asked him to meet me for lunch up the Dyke between jobs.
The Devil’s Dyke pub in Brock’s Hollow is actually named after the Iron Age earthworks still visible nearby, but you could be forgiven for thinking the place took its name from its landlady. Henrietta “Harry” Shire is over six feet tall and built like the proverbial outhouse. She might have hung up her boxing gloves, following not inconsiderable success on the amateur ladies’ circuit, but it’d still be a brave man who dared cause trouble in her pub. The place is staffed by a gaggle of pretty young girls who all seem to live in and never, ever have boyfriends. They’re referred to locally as Harry’s harem, but only when the speaker is one hundred and ten percent certain the Devil’s Dyke herself isn’t listening.
Anyway, they do decent pub grub up there. It’s down a quiet country lane, and there’s a large garden on one side of it, so summer weekends it gets pretty busy with kiddies playing football while their parents enjoy a pint. On a Wednesday lunchtime in November, there was still a respectable crowd, although we were all over school age and we stayed in the public bar and kept warm by the fire. The Devil’s Dyke is an old-fashioned country pub and still has two bars: the public bar and the lounge bar, only the latter of which they let the kiddies into. As is usual in these places, it’s the nicest one that’s adults only. It’s a shame, really, as Harry’s border collie Flossie makes her home in the public bar, whereas all the lounge bar has to recommend it is a secret passageway in the walk-in fireplace which is, in any case, locked and markedPrivate.
Flossie likes to lie down on top of the covered-up well. What a pub wants with an in-house well is beyond me—personally, I’d have thought they’d want to discourage the drinking of water—but maybe they had their reasons back in Ye Olde Times. Anyway, all that’s left now is a circular plinth about two feet high, with a glass cover you can look down to see that yes, it really does go all the way down. It keeps Flossie’s tail safe from being trodden on and gives her a vantage point from which to fix a beady eye on anyone daring to eat meat in the place. I generally go for fish when I have a meal there.
There are plenty of low beams, none of which I have to duck for, and the walls are tobacco-coloured, maybe to compensate for the fact you’re not allowed to smoke inside any longer. Pride of place on the walls is given to Harry’s collection of exotic beer bottles, with a few horse brasses tucked in apologetically here and there.
Gary was currently ruffling Julian’s neck fur as we waited for the food to arrive—Julian being his big Saint Bernard that’s as soft as he is, and who he treats like a furry baby. “Who’s Daddy’s sweetie, then?” he cooed.
“That’s a good question,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “What happened to that bloke you met in London?”
Gary made a face. He’s one of those blokes who are not exactly fat but still soft all over, like an overstuffed teddy bear, although in his case it conceals a quite respectably muscled upper body. He works from his house in Brock’s Hollow, doing something in IT—or as the website has it, “implementing software solutions for the forward-looking business.”
“Turned out to be a totalcow. We shall not speak of him. No wewon’t.” The last bit was to the dog. “And how’s your love life, darling?” That was to me, Julian’s love life having long been consigned to the vet’s dustbin.
“Dead as a dodo,” I admitted sadly. “Just don’t seem to meet any decent blokes these days.”
“Well, that’s a disappointment. I thought you’d dragged me up here to tell me all about your latest conquest.”
No one pouts like Gary, and I had to smile. “If only. Although I did have breakfast with a tall, well-built blond this morning . . .”
“Tom! I amagog!” He was too. His eyes were practically popping out on stalks. Even Julian was looking up at me, his tongue hanging out like a slice of Spam as he panted out bone-breath. “Tell me more. At once.”
I laughed. “Not nearly as good as it sounds. Sorry. He turned up on my doorstep before eight.”
“Now that’s just rude. Nobody’s got their face on at that hour.” Gary sat back in his seat, looking horrified on my behalf. Made me wonder just how much of a beauty routine he went through every morning.
“Yeah, well, that’s him all over. Bloke I knew at school. Phil Morrison.” I half wondered if Gary might have heard something about him. I don’t often meet a gay bloke from around here who Gary doesn’t know.
“Unlike yours truly, it doesn’t ring a bell.” Gary’s a campanologist. He likes to tell people he took up bell-ringing because he’s always up for anything withcampin the name. Some people even think he’s joking. “Old boyfriend?”
