Page 40 of Pressure Head
I think I must have texted him to ask him at some point, because when I looked blearily up at the shadow falling over my sixth or seventh or eighth pint, I saw it was Phil.
“What do you think you’re doing, Tom?” He had a smooth voice. Flowed all over me like whiskey. No ice, just tingling warmth.
“Turning it off. See?” I held up my pint, struggling to work out whether to focus on the glass or Phil, and eventually giving it all up as a bad job. A fair amount of beer sloshed onto the table, ran along the surface, and started dripping onto my jeans. “Buggrit. ’S working, though. Couldn’t find the Thames right now from a standing start in Docklands.” I laughed. All right, maybe I chortled. “Couldn’t find my arse—” I belched “—with my elbow.”
“Yeah, well, I think you’d find most people have a problem with that one. Come on, I think it’s time you went home.”
“Am home,” I protested. “An Englishman’s pub is . . . is his castle,” I said, sweeping my arm to indicate the interior of the Rats. My jeans got even wetter, and I was worried for a moment I might have embarrassed myself, until I realised I was still holding my pint. What was left of it, anyway. “Oops.” I was about to move the beer to the safety of my stomach, but it disappeared. I looked around for it and saw Phil was holding a glass. I frowned. “Did you just nick my pint?”
“Trust me, you don’t need it.” He put it on the table and reached down to grab my arm. “Come on, time for bed.”
I sniggered. “Think I’m easy, do you?”
“No, I just think you’re rat-arsed.”
“Rat-arsed. In the Rats.” I sniggered again. “That’s a . . . that’s a . . . Whassat?”
“It’s about time you got some fresh air. Not to mention fresh jokes.” Phil took a firmer hold of my elbow. “This way.”
It got cold, suddenly, and I realised that somehow we’d left the pub and gone outside. “’S cold,” I muttered, shivering.
Phil heaved a sigh, and then something warm yet light draped itself around my shoulders. It smelled nice. Woodsy. Like Phil. I pulled it closer around me and breathed in deeply. “’S nice.”
“You throw up over my gilet and you’re buying me a new one.”
“Gilet?” I snorted in laughter. “Nobody saysgilet. How bloody gay is that?”
“Probably just gay enough to get us a kicking around here, so how about you watch your mouth, all right?”
“You dissing my neighbourhood?” I frowned blearily up at him. “When was the last time you got a kicking, anyway? You’re all . . . big and butch and ’timidating.”
“On the other hand, I’ve got my hands full at the moment, haven’t I?”
“I bet you’ve got a handful and a half,” I said, batting my eyelashes at him. Then I laughed so hard I nearly pissed myself.
Phil didn’t join in. “Come on, let’s get you home and you can tell me what’s brought this on.”
Was he stupid or something? “I think,” I said slowly and clearly, “it might have been the beer.” I belched, just in case he still hadn’t got the point.
“You don’t say? Right—here we are. Where’s your key?”
“’S in my pocket.” I sniggered. “Is that a key in my pocket, or am I just pleased to see you?” Phil rummaged around in my jeans, the randy bugger, and I laughed some more. “Tickles.”
“Turns out it was a key.” Phil held it up. “See?”
He opened the door. “’S dark,” I said. Then it wasn’t. “Ow.” I blinked.
“Let’s get you on the sofa. Here you go. Now, don’t go to sleep yet.”
“Got plans for me, have you?” I tried to look flirtatious, but it was a bit hard as both of him kept slipping off to one side.
Then he left. “He’s left me, Arthur,” I said sadly. Arthur didn’t reply, so I prodded him and realised I’d been talking to one of the sofa cushions.
“Not yet, I haven’t,” a blurry shape said in Phil’s voice. “Drink this. All of it.”
“Had ’nuff,” I muttered into the pint glass under my nose.
“Not of this, you haven’t. It’s water. Trust me, you’ll thank me for this in the morning.”
