Page 50 of Pressure Head
I wasn’t working on Saturday, so I had plenty of time to wonder what the hell I thought I was doing, agreeing to go out with Phil. I cleaned the house a bit, did some food shopping, watched the football on the telly. By six o’clock, the butterflies in my stomach had mutated into flying elephants all flapping around like Dumbo drunk on champagne. It was daft—after all the time I’d spent in Phil’s company over the last couple of weeks. But that had been business—his business, at any rate. This . . . this was dinner, with a chance of sex.
At least, I hoped there was a chance of sex.
Well . . . I thought that was what I hoped. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure what the best-case scenario was in this situation. Phil was . . . well, basically I fancied the pants off him, but every time we spent more than half an hour in each other’s company, we ended up yelling at each other. And not in the porno way. It was so bloody frustrating—every time I got a hint he might actually like me, it all seemed to go tits up the next time we met.
I wasn’t even sure what to wear. He’d only seen me in my work clothes—scruffy jeans and dusty shirts. Would he be disappointed if I dressed up? Did he like to see me as his little bit of rough? Then again, if I turned up like that and he was all smart in his posh shoes and his cashmere, wouldn’t it just look like I couldn’t be arsed to make an effort?
It was weird—back in school,he’dbeen the bit of rough. Maybe he’d had a taste for the good life back then, but his parents certainly hadn’t had the money to indulge it. My dad had made bank manager by the time I was in my teens, so my stuff was always brand-new. God, I hoped this wasn’t just some twisted way of getting his own back on me, of rubbing it in how well he’d climbed the social ladder, while I’d slipped down a rung or two.
In the end, I went for a fairly new pair of jeans and a lambswool sweater Gary always tells me makes my shoulders look bigger. Of course, sod’s law it’d be warm in the restaurant so I’d end up taking it off, and be back to my usual skinny-runt-in-a-T-shirt look, but at least I’d tried. Then I gave the cats an early tea and set off on foot.
Phil’s flat was just up from the old Odyssey on London Road. They’d tarted the outside of the cinema up a bit recently—supposed to be restoring the inside as well. I wasn’t holding my breath, but at least they weren’t just letting the place fall down anymore. I’d even chipped in the odd fiver to the fundraising myself. From the location, I’d expected Phil to be living above a shop, but as it happened, the whole building had been converted into flats. His was on the top floor—in fact, when the house had been built, it would’ve been the attic. I wondered how he was getting on with the sloping ceilings—at his height, I’d have thought they’d have been a bit of a challenge. I grinned to myself. Maybe that was why he was so grumpy all the time—he had a permanent headache from constantly banging his head on the ceiling.
It looked like I wasn’t going to have to wait to find out, as he buzzed me in on the first ring and opened the door to his flat just as I reached the top of the stairs. He smiled when he saw me, which sent the butterflies into overdrive. He looked relaxed, in jeans and a soft blue shirt the colour of his eyes. “Want to come in for a drink before we head out?”
Dutch courage? I was all in favour of that. “Yeah, sounds good.” I stepped inside and looked around. The place had been modernised recently—it was all open-plan, with bright-white decor and pale-coloured wood, making the most of the space. In daylight, it’d probably be bright and airy, but the downside was a faint smell of fresh paint which didn’t seem to sit too well with my empty stomach.
It was also . . . bare. And full of boxes, many of them open at the top and showing signs of frustrated rummaging. “Still not unpacked yet?” I asked, because there’s a rule you have to state the obvious in this sort of situation.
“Not even close.” He grimaced. “Half the trouble is, I’ve got no cupboards or shelves to store stuff when I unpack it—the London flat was furnished, and I’ve been concentrating on buying the essentials. Like a bed.” It was good to know he had one of those. A decent night’s kip is very important. “I’ve got a sofa on order,” he carried on, oblivious to my filthy mind filling in what else his new bed might be good for, “but for now, you’ll have to park your arse on the garden furniture.”
There were a couple of folding chairs and a wobbly-looking table next to a large, square window, all of them covered in either boxes or the contents of boxes. I shifted a few things and pulled up a chair, glad to sit down. “I’m guessing you don’t do a lot of entertaining?”
“Not as such, no. Beer? Or would you rather have wine?”
“Whatever you’re having,” I said, his uncharacteristic politeness obviously having rubbed off on me. “Beer, for preference, but I’m not that fussy,” I added a bit more honestly.
“Beer it is, then.” He grabbed a couple of bottles from the fridge, opened them, and handed me one.
“Cheers,” I said and took a swallow—realising too late the gassy stuff wasn’t really what my stomach was set up for right now. Maybe it was just nerves, but something was definitely making me feel queasy. “Mind if I open a window?”
“Be my guest.”
Even though it was fully dark and had been for an hour or two, Phil hadn’t drawn the curtains. I supposed that this high up, he wasn’t worried about people looking in. I leaned on the windowsill and drew in deep breaths of fresh, cold air, but the nausea didn’t go away.
“Are you all right?” Phil asked, looming over me, which didn’t help me feel any better.
“Yeah . . . uh, well, I’m feeling a bit off. Maybe I’m coming down with something.” I turned from the window and paced through the room. Was this just nerves? As I tried to walk it off—whateveritwas—I trailed my fingers along a stack of boxes against the wall. “Maybe dinner’s not such a great— Bloody hell!”
I snatched my hand away from the boxes. It felt like I’d had an electric shock, one that sent greasy jolts right into my heart.
“Tom? What the hell happened?”
“I don’t know. I think . . .” Almost without meaning to, I let down my barriers and listened. The pulse of guilt and shame that slammed into me brought me to my knees, my stomach turning and a white hot ache in my head.
“Tom!” Phil was by my side, was helping me up. “Christ, what is it?”
“Something . . . something in one of those boxes,” I managed. “Bloody hell, Phil, have you got a dismembered corpse in there?” I was joking. It wasn’t that kind of feeling at all.
“You’re . . . reacting to some of my stuff?” His bewilderment seemed genuine, but the greasy darkness from the boxes was calling him a liar.
“Yeah.” I tried to smile. “Badly.”
“I can bloody well see that. Come on, come and sit down.” He parked me in the one free chair, then marched over to the boxes I’d touched. “Which one was it?”
“The one on the top—third stack along. But you don’t have to show me. It’s not like I go round telling you all my dirty little secrets.”
“That what you think this is?” Phil’s fist clenched, and for a moment, I thought the offending box was about to be pummelled within an inch of its cardboard life. At least, I hoped it’d be the box. “I’m not having you thinking I’ve got kiddie porn in there.”
