Page 9 of Pressure Head
Morrison knocked on my door on the dot of seven that evening, which meant that, as a job had overrun, I was still shovelling pasta into my gob at the time. I answered the door, plate in hand, and gazed up at his bulky figure, still chewing. He’d dressed up to go and see the Porters, even put a jacket and tie on. He looked good—but it made him seem more remote, more dangerous, without his hard lines softened by cashmere. I jerked my head to indicate he should come in. It’s rude to talk with your mouth full.
“Do you ever stop eating?” he asked, once again following me into the kitchen like he owned the place.
I was stung and swallowed my mouthful a bit more quickly than I really wanted to. “Do you ever stop to consider it might be someone’s mealtime before you start beating down their door?”
He went to fold his arms, then obviously remembered it’d crumple his expensive jacket, and put his hands on his hips instead. The gesture could have looked camp but somehow, on him, it really didn’t. “First, do you think you could stop being so sodding touchy about everything? And second, we had an appointment.”
“Oh, excuse me. I suppose I should have left the lady with water dripping through her ceiling and told her I’d come back tomorrow, because sorry, I’ve got anappointment.” I rolled my eyes, shoving the plate back on the kitchen counter. I’d had enough anyway.
Morrison sort of huffed. “Does everything have to be such a bloody production with you?”
“Comes of being queer, I expect. Wouldn’t you say?” I put a bit of emphasis on theyou, narked he was making me out to be such a drama queen. Anyway, it was about time we got it all out in the open.
He stilled. “Who told you?”
I wasn’t about to drop Dave in it, even though he probably couldn’t give a monkey’s if Morrison was pissed off with him. “Maybe I read your mind,” I joked weakly. “Maybe there’s no end to my psychic powers.”
For a split second, he actually looked worried. Then his expression relaxed. “Stop trying to mess with my head, Poof— Shit.” He looked away and didn’t say anything more.
I took a couple of deep breaths. I was about to say,Look, let’s just leave it, okay—but he beat me to it. “Sorry,” he said, like it caused him physical pain to say it. “That wasn’t— I didn’t mean anything by it.”
There was a short silence. I didn’t know what to say, so I just nodded curtly. Acknowledging his apology, although not necessarily accepting it.
Morrison spoke again. “I checked up on you today. Apparently you’ve got previous, on the finding-things front. Doesn’t mean I believe in all this mumbo jumbo.”
Bloody fantastic. He’d checked up on me—so now he knew which porn I watched and had read all the rubbish I’d posted on Facebook after a few beers too many. “If you’re not going to believe what I say,” I said slowly, to make sure he was really listening, “then what’s the point of asking me questions?”
“Are you going to come with me to the Porters or not?” he asked, sidestepping the issue.
I sighed. “Let’s get this over with.”
This being late November, it was dark and beginning to get a bit nippy as we drove off in Morrison’s silver VW Golf. The car wasn’t new, but the interior was impersonal, devoid of any touches of personality like the “ironic” retro furry dice I had swinging from the rearview mirror of my Ford Fiesta like a couple of cubist bollocks. As we passed under a streetlamp, something glinted, and I noticed for the first time that Morrison was wearing a wedding ring.
“You’re married?” I blurted out, just managing to stop myself carrying on with,To a man?
Morrison’s gaze flickered over at me. For a moment, I thought there was something like hurt in his eyes, but it was gone before I could tell for sure, and he turned his attention back to the road. “No.”
“But you wear a ring.”
There was a pause before he answered. “People are more ready to trust a married man.”
God, and here I’d been thinking . . . I don’t know what I’d been thinking. But not this. “So it’s just a prop? For fuck’s sake, that’s so bloody cynical.” Disappointment sharpened my tone. “I suppose you’d do anything, say anything to get what you want.”
“And you’ve never told a customer work needs doing when it doesn’t, or got them to pay for fancy copper pipes when plastic would do?”
“No, actually, I haven’t. And I fucking well resent you even suggesting it.” I folded my arms and glared out of the window. I could see this being a very long evening. Why the hell hadn’t I brought my own car?
“Look,” Morrison said after a painful silence. “If I’m going to do my job—the job my clients pay me to do—sometimes I need to get people to trust me. So maybe some of it’s an act—but don’t go telling me you don’t do the same thing in your line of work.”
“What, lie to people? No, I don’t.”
“And I suppose you’ve never flirted with a housewife? Just so she won’t argue about the bill, or to make sure it’ll be you she calls in next time some work needs doing?”
“That’s different, and you know it.”
“Is it? Didn’t notice any rainbow stickers on your van.”
“Yeah, well, for some reason, I thought it might be safer not to advertise I’m queer. Can’t imagine where I got that impression, can you?”
