Page 39 of Pressure Head
It had been bugging me, not being able to check out those vibes at the vicarage. The one time I’d known there was something to find—and I hadn’t been able to get to it. I needed to get back there and see what it was. The trouble was, how?
I wasn’t proud of what I came up with, but I just couldn’t think of any other way. I thought about telling the Rev I was offering a free plumbing checkup to houses in the area, but trouble was, people who wear shirts with frayed cuffs are generally of the if-it-ain’t-broke-don’t-fix-it persuasion. He’d just have told me thanks, but no thanks, and I’d have burned my boats for any other kind of approach. So I went the God-bothering route. I had a look at the church website—got to be a first time for everything, hasn’t there?—and gave the Rev a ring, saying I’d like to have a talk with him about the Alpha course they were running for new Christians.
He seemed glad to hear from a possible new recruit and asked me over the following afternoon. Like I’d thought, mornings and evenings were his busy time. So I stood on his doorstep at half past two, wiped my palms on my jeans, and rang the doorbell.
The Rev’s ferrety face lit up like a baptismal candle when he saw me. “Tom, so good to see you again,” he said, ushering me in, his hands all a-flutter.
“Good to see you too, Merry,” I told him with the sort of smile I usually save for the housewives.
He went bright pink. “Let me put the kettle on.”
“Cheers. Actually, mind if I use your loo? I’ve just come from a job.” Was lying to a vicar in his vicarage as bad as lying in church, or only as bad as any other lie? I’d have crossed my fingers, but I didn’t want Jesus thinking I was taking the mick.
“Oh—of course, go ahead. I’ll make the drinks—coffee again? White, no sugar?”
“You remembered. Cheers, Rev, that’ll be lovely.”
He disappeared down the hall to the kitchen. I bypassed the downstairs loo and legged it upstairs, trying to keep my steps as light as possible. I was on the right track—I could feel it. Smell it, almost. A thick, greasy, shameful trail of repressed desire and guilt.
Luckily, the Rev wasn’t one for keeping bedroom doors shut, so I could see at a glance which was his room. The others were either bare, or half-full of boxes, presumably of church stuff. It seemed a shame, all this space going to waste, but I supposed the Rev wouldn’t stay here forever, and the next bloke might have a family to fill the place up a bit.
Of course, Phil might have been wrong about old Merry, and he might one day have a family of his own. I wouldn’t be holding my breath, though.
The trail led straight under Merry’s bed. I brushed aside a couple of crumpled-up tissues and socks in a sad state of repair—clearly holeyness really was next to Godliness. There was a shoebox that had once held a cheap pair of unbranded trainers, half price in the sale. Bingo. I opened it up and stared at the contents.
Outmagazine from July 2010. Some dry-looking book about ancient Greeks. A copy ofMaurice, looking fairly well-thumbed, and one ofThe Lord Won’t Mind. A few faded snapshots, the most risqué of which featured a pigeon-chested bloke with his shirt off. Some old letters—way too old to have anything to do with Melanie.
This was it? This was the Rev’s secret shame? Poor sod—all that guilt over this? Anyway, it was time I went back downstairs. I put the lid carefully back on the box and was about to slide it back under the bed when a floorboard creaked behind me. I spun round guiltily, the box still in my hands.
Merry was standing in the doorway, and he wasn’t living up to his name. “You didn’t come here to talk about the Christian faith, did you?” he said quietly and with a sort of sad dignity. “May I ask why you wish to expose me in this manner?” His voice shook, and I realised his hands were shaking too.
I felt like the lowest form of pond scum, crouching down there rooting through his private life. I stood up, my stomach queasy. “I’m not going to expose anything. I’m sorry.” I took a couple of deep breaths as he just stood there, staring at me. “I was just curious, that’s all. I thought—last time I was here, with Phil, I thought maybe you were interested in me. But I wasn’t sure, you know? I just wanted to . . . check out the theory.” My heart was pounding in my ears, and Jesus and all his angels were probably busy right now preparing a special hell just for me.
“Why?” the Rev asked and gave that nervous laugh of his. Somehow it didn’t seem quite so slimily funny anymore. “Because you were . . . interested in me too?”
I drew a breath, but I didn’t get to answer.
“No,” he said, turning away from me. “No, that’s not it, is it? How silly of me, to suppose someone like you . . .” His thin lips wobbled, then turned white as he got them under control, pressing them even thinner.
Shit.“I’m sorry,” I said helplessly. “I just— I’m a mate of Graham’s, all right? I don’t want to see him go down for something he didn’t do. And I could tell you were hiding something, so I wanted to see what it was. That’s all. God’s truth.” I was silent for a moment, but he didn’t say anything, and the words came bursting out of me, unstoppably. “But for fuck’s sake, why don’t you just come out and be honest about it? Even I know you’re not the only gay priest in the Church of England. It’s supposed to be all right, isn’t it? As long as you don’t, you know, do anything about it. I mean, reading a couple of books, that’s nothing, is it?”
The Rev gave a deep, deep breath and let it out again audibly. “I hope you won’t take it amiss if I ask you to leave.” His voice was barely more than a whisper.
“Course not. And, look, mum’s the word, all right?” I clapped him on the shoulder as I walked out of the room and felt even shittier when he flinched away from my touch.
I thought about checking Pip was okay, so after I’d left the vicarage, I drove down the village high street and parked in a lay-by. But although we were heading for dusk, the estate agent’s window was unlit, and there was a sign on the door that saidClosed due to unforeseen circumstances.
It was probably just as well. I’d most likely have buggered that up as well.
I knocked off early that day, had beans on toast for supper, and headed straight down to the pub.
There were a few old regulars in the Rats Castle, plus some loud lads from an office somewhere. I ignored them as best I could, and they bogged off just after seven, which left me in peace to get rat-arsed.
How did Phil do this? All the lying, the sneaking around behind people’s backs?
I suppose I’d got pretty good at switching off my dubious talent over the years. Ignoring all the stuff I didn’t want to know about. Even when it’s mates—especially when it’s mates—there’s always stuff they don’t want you to know about, and generally speaking, they’re right. Some things you’re just better off not knowing.
But Phil’s job was to rake up all that dirt, just on the off chance it might have some bearing on the case. How could he do this, day after day?
