Page 60 of Pressure Head
At half past ten on Sunday evening, I was just puttering around, getting ready for bed—had an early drain next day—when the doorbell rang. Generally, when that happens, you don’t expect good news—but when my heart sped up a little as I went to answer it, it wasn’t only for the bad reasons. There was a little voice in my head saying maybe, just maybe it was Phil.
It wasn’t. It was Merry, in mufti—at least, he’d left off the dog collar—looking about as relaxed as, well, a closeted gay vicar visiting a bloke who knew all his dirty secrets.
Or, say, a murderer about to commit crime number two. I suddenly wished I’d thought to put the chain on. “Er, hi, Merry. Bit late, isn’t it?” I managed to get out without too much stuttering.
Merry glanced around furtively, which didn’t do a lot for my nerves. “Please, can I come in? Just—just for half an hour.”
I couldn’t think what to do—but he looked like he was at the end of his tether. His skin was paler than ever, with an unhealthy sheen, and his hands were shaking. “All right. But just for half an hour.” I opened the door fully, Phil’s inevitable verdict ofYou twatringing in my ears, and motioned him in. “You can go through to the living room,” I said, gesturing at him to go in front, partly because I was brought up right and partly because that meant I’d be able to keep him in sight.
“Um, I’d offer you a coffee, but . . .”But I’d like you to go as soon as possible.All right, maybe the upbringing didn’t take all that well.
The Rev, halfway through parking his bum on my sofa, made a jerky motion with his hand that presumably meantNo, ta, it keeps me awake this time of night.At least, I hoped it meant that, and notActually,I’d rather not leave DNA traces on your cups. “I need to speak with you,” he said once he was fully seated. “About this morning.”
I perched on the arm of the chair opposite him. The illusion of superior height would have been more comforting if it hadn’t been just that—an illusion. “What, in particular?” I asked cautiously.
Merry looked like he was about to cry. “What do you want?”
“I . . . What?”
“You brought him there to—to denounce me. To expose me.” Merry gave a sickly smile. His hair was plastered to his forehead in thick, greasy strands, and his top lip glistened. “I’ll do anything you want, you know that, don’t you? Anything.”
“What? No!” I leaned forward. Christ, had he meant . . .? I hoped he hadn’t meant what I thought he’d meant. I folded my arms, trying to hide a shudder. “You’ve got it all wrong. You don’t have to do anything. Darren was there for Gary. They’re an item. No one’s going to expose you.” I thought about it a bit. “Although, you know, you could save yourself an awful lot of grief if you just came out. What is it the Good Book says?Christians aren’t perfect, they’re just forgiven?”
Merry was obviously relieved enough to give a pedantic little frown. “That was a car bumper sticker, actually.”
“Ah. Sorry. But wouldn’t Jesus approve, you know, of the sentiment?” I stood up and rubbed my hip. Then I realised Merry’s eyes had fixed a bit manically on my pelvic area, and I sat down again hurriedly.
“I can’t come out,” Merry muttered, his hands wringing one another damply. “You don’t understand. I did terrible things when I was younger.”
I stood up again. “Crimes?” I asked, my voice a bit high.
“Against God, yes.”
I wished I hadn’t turned the dimmer switch down. In the low lighting, his face was marred by sinister shadows. “But . . . would they be things you’d go to prison for?” I prodded, moving so the armchair was between me and him. Darren’s party hadn’t gotthatwild, had it?
“The conscience . . . the conscience is its own prison,” he mumbled vaguely.
Did I have my phone in my pocket? Maybe I could call Phil. Or Dave.
I cursed under my breath as I realised I’d left it charging in the kitchen. “But you don’t do that kind of thing anymore, do you?” I said as soothingly as I could manage.
“But I want to!” he said so fiercely I jumped. His eyes glittered darkly.
Maybe some straight talking was called for. “Have you ever considered that maybe, just maybe, you’re not really cut out to be a vicar?” I asked.
“Leave the priesthood?” Merry sounded like the idea had never even occurred to him. But at least it seemed to have got him thinking of something other than his dark, forbidden lusts.
“Well, yeah. Because you don’t seem all that happy right now. Maybe you’re just asking too much of yourself. Maybe,” I added, inspired, “God doesn’t want you to suffer so much. He’s supposed to be loving, isn’t he?”
“But my vocation . . .”
“There’s other stuff you could do, isn’t there? And still be, you know, serving God and all that? There’s . . . charity work. Or missionaries,” I added eagerly, because somewhere like Africa would be nicely far away from Regal Road, St. Albans.
Merry stood. I edged away a little bit. “You . . . you’ve given me much to think about. Thank you.”
“You’re going to do it?” I asked, now worried I’d gone a bit too far with the careers advice to a bloke I hardly knew and didn’t want to.
“There are things . . . I need to put things straight. Yes. The path is clear now. Thank you.” He smiled, his face transformed. I’d never seen anyone look at one and the same time so innocent and so bloody scary. “God truly works in mysterious ways.” He carried on smiling and muttering to himself as he walked out of the house.
