Heat Trap

by JL Merrow

  He flashed me another rueful, boyish smile and left. I stood there for a moment, then sank onto the sofa. It was still warm where he’d been sitting. Arthur gave me a snotty look, like I was a poor substitute for his new best friend, but grudgingly allowed me to stroke him.

  That little visit had seriously done my head in. Carey had seemed so genuine. Was it possible we’d got him wrong?

  No doubt about it, I knew where he was coming from. It’s not always easy being a physically small bloke in a male-dominated line of business. Let alone a gay bloke—and yeah, Carey might not be gay, but you could bet your life a lot of blokes of the so-called macho variety would just assume he was. He had that manner about him—something about the voice and his fussy little gestures.

  I’d had to endure a fair few jokes at my expense when I’d started out in the plumbing trade—stuff like Are you sure that wrench isn’t too heavy for you? and You want to get a man to help you with that, love. Even customers, sometimes, when I was wrestling with a total bastard of a tap that didn’t want to break free from decades-worth of limescale, would stand there watching me for a while then suggest helpfully that maybe I knew someone with a bit more muscle who might be able to get it done.

  God knows what it’s like for women. I’ve never actually met a female plumber, but ever since doing an internet search in an idle moment and finding there’s a group of ’em called Stopcocks, I’ve decided it’s probably safer that way.

  So, yeah, I could get why he might think he had to come out with all guns blazing when someone like Phil seemed to threaten him. Because, yeah, it’s okay for big blokes like Phil to make a whole song and dance about fighting fair, but if the other guy’s a foot taller and a few stone heavier, what’s fair about that? It’s not just about thinking the other guy’s going to deck you either. It’s about respect. Because when the macho posturing starts in earnest, your average short bloke doesn’t get a right lot of that.

  Like we were all a bunch of bloody cavemen beating our chests and competing to drag off the best-looking lovers by the hair.

  I still did a sweep of the house with my spidey-senses, mind. Not a thing.

  Well, unless you counted the freshly dead mouse under the fridge that would’ve stunk the place out in a day or so. I gave Merlin a stern look as I carried the sad little corpse off for flushing. He tried to stare me out, but I had him bang to rights.

  There had been some well guilty vibes coming off that mouse.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “So basically it was an epic waste of time,” I said, and took another swig of my beer. Phil was round at my house by then, and we were sitting at opposite ends of the sofa. I had a fat cat on my lap and my feet up on the coffee table.

  I’d taken my shoes off, obviously. I’m not a slob. Actually, I’d got changed too. Didn’t feel right, lounging round the house in a smart pair of trousers. I’d have been constantly worrying about spilling something down them. It was after dinner—ham salad, since you ask. I’d got some proper thick-sliced ham in from the organic butcher’s in Brock’s Hollow—cost me an arm and a leg, but seeing as the pig was a lot worse off, I couldn’t grumble. Tasted bloody good with the Spiced Carrot and Pumpkin Chutney they’d flogged me on the side, although I’d had to bully Phil into trying it. And then wrestle the jar back from him before he scoffed the lot.

  Fun times. Good thing we didn’t have to worry about the food going cold.

  “Worth a try.” Phil smirked at me from the other end of the sofa. “Told you she fancied you, though.”

  I’d been giving him a rundown of my little tryst with Mrs. M. I hadn’t mentioned Carey’s visit yet, and wasn’t exactly in a hurry to. Phil was only going to get all uptight about it and, well, it wasn’t like he’d threatened me or anything. Total opposite, in fact.

  I wasn’t sure what it meant about who was responsible for my little tap on the head earlier in the week either. If you’d asked me before today, I’d have had Carey as odds-on favourite, but now I wasn’t so sure. I mean, yeah, maybe he liked to mess with people’s heads, but was he really the sort to bash them in with a cricket ball? Marianne’s thug of a brother, on the other hand, I wouldn’t trust any farther than I could throw him.

  “Yeah, well, it isn’t mutual.” I frowned. “Still feel sorry for her, mind.” Although less so, since talking to Carey. And her little dig about Marianne.

  Phil gave me an assessing look. “When she met you in the park, how was she dressed? Put on a frock, did she? Bit of makeup?”

  I frowned. “Skirt and top, actually, whatever the bloody hell that’s got to do with anything.”

  He huffed a cynical laugh. “Thought so. Want to know what your type of woman is? That’s your type. Pretty and girly and innocent, so you can put them up on a pedestal and come riding in to save them like Sir Prancelot on your bloody white charger.”

  I stared at him. “I’m gay, you twat! I’m not into”—twat, my mind supplied helpfully—“women like that.”

  “Never said you wanted to get them off the pedestal, did I?”

  “Yeah, well, whatever. Met someone else today you might be interested in. Well, interested in avoiding at any rate. Marianne’s big brother, Kev. He was making a nuisance of himself in the Dyke at lunchtime, trying to talk her into going back out west and leaving all the queers behind her.”

  Phil gave me a look. “Has he seen the number of gay bars in Bristol?”

  “Yeah, well, I don’t think logic is his strong point. Anyway, he definitely gave me the impression he’d be happy to see her back together with Carey—you know, in a normal relationship—so watch out for those two chumming up.”

  Phil huffed dismissively. “If he’s built like his sister, I don’t think I’ll need to worry too much.”

  “He’s built like around ten of his sister. Arms like a gorilla and a brain to match, so watch out, yeah? About your height, shaved head—all the better to nut you with—and a snarl. You can’t miss him. He’s too bloody broad in the shoulder. Spent some time inside too. Housebreaking. Probably just head-butted his way in.”

  “I’ll look out for him.” Phil pursed his lips thoughtfully. “So you say he knows Carey?”

  “Well… He never actually said so. Just that he was happier when she had a bloke. Then there was all this stuff about how their dad needed looking after, ’cos it wasn’t right him having to do his own cooking, what with him being a bloke and all. Although if he’s been trying to cook with his dick, I can sort of see why he’s having trouble. Harry chucked him out,” I added. “So I guess we’ll find out if he’s with Carey. You know, if that comes back to bite her on the bum.”

  “Thanks for the mental image,” Phil said drily.

  I grinned. “You’re welcome.” I hesitated, but I guessed I’d have to tell him about Carey’s visit. I mean, I’d be pretty pissed off if I found out Phil was keeping secrets from me. “Um. Look, don’t get all in a flap about it, but Carey was here earlier.”

  Phil’s face went granite-hard. “Here. In your house.”

  “Yeah, he—”

  “You let Grant Carey in your bloody house? Jesus, didn’t you learn anything from having your sister’s poisoner round here?”

  “Oi! I didn’t let him in, all right? Sharon at number twelve did. I was out.”

  “Christ, you want to tell me what’s the sodding use of locking your door, if you’re going to give spare keys to the whole bloody neighbourhood?”

  “It’s not the whole bloody neighbourhood. It’s just Sharon. And anyway, you had Carey round yours too,” I reminded him pointedly.

  Phil huffed a heavy sigh. “Please tell me you at least made a sweep afterwards for any little presents he might have left you.”

  “Course I did. I’m not daft. And nope, no nasty surprises there. Although I had to have a few words with the cats about the dead mouse under the fridge.”

&
nbsp; “Lovely. So what did Carey want, anyhow?” Phil’s eyes went even sharper. “Did he threaten you?”

  “No, nothing like that. Dunno what he came for, really. Just to give his side of the story, I s’pose.”

  Phil laughed. “What, that he’s just misunderstood and stalking is such a strong word? Manage to keep a straight face, did you?”

  “Yeah, just about. He didn’t stay long, anyway. You have any better luck with stuff today?” Which was my way of (a) changing the subject and (b) asking what he’d been up to while I’d been running all over the place working his case for him.

  “Wrapped up the infidelity case.”

  “Yeah? Guilty or not guilty?”

  “Not guilty, far as I could tell.”

  “Yeah? Satisfied client, then?”

  Phil grunted. “He wasn’t exactly cracking open the champagne. Didn’t argue the bill, though, at any rate.”

  “You’d think he’d be happy the missus wasn’t putting it about.”

  “Not always that simple, is it?” Phil took a long swig of beer. “When a marriage goes sour, sometimes it’s easier if there’s an excuse. If she’d been having an affair, he could have just blamed her for it all. Now he’s got to face facts. She hasn’t fallen in love with someone else—just fallen out of love with him.” He stared out of the window.

  I wondered if we were still talking about Mr. and Mrs. C, or if a bit of Phil’s short-lived civil partnership with The Mysterious Mark had crept in there when I wasn’t looking.

  “’Nother beer?” I asked, scooping armfuls of Arthur off my lap and onto the cushion next to me. I managed to escape major bloodshed in the process, so clearly he was feeling pretty lazy too. I stood up and stretched.

  Phil snapped out of whatever bittersweet memories he’d got lost in, and turned back to me. “Wouldn’t say no.”

  It wasn’t the only thing he didn’t say no to that evening either.

  Sod’s law, I had an early job next morning—Mrs. Z just down the road from me who worked all week and wanted the new washer plumbed in before she had to take the twins to football—so I didn’t get to reap the benefits of having Phil in my bed when I woke up. It’s a bugger, this having-to-make-a-living lark. I left him with instructions to meet me up the Dyke for lunch. Well, all right, the Dyke had been his idea, seeing as he wanted to fill Harry in on developments anyway.

  I’d have made a few innuendos about filling people in at that point, but it was too bloody early for sparkling repartee.

  Mrs. Z was petite and pretty in her colourful headscarf, her big brown eyes outlined with enough kohl to keep a power station burning for a week. She looked far too young to be the mother of two strapping ten-year-olds who were already as tall as she was. Let alone financial director of a local company.

  She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow when I told her that. “Am I paying extra for the flattery, or is it all part of the service?”

  “Flattery?” I winked at her from under the kitchen worktop. “Don’t know the meaning of the word. Just telling the truth as I see it, that’s all.”

  “Sara warned me about you.” She sounded amused. “Can I get you a cup of tea?”

  Sara, I guessed, was her neighbour, Mrs. P, who I’d done some work for in the past. Nice to get a recommendation, ’specially when it’s someone local. “Number seven? Lovely lady, she is. Tea’d be great, love. White, no sugar, ta.”

  “Sara also said could I ask you to pop next door when you’ve finished here, if you’ve got a moment. I think she wanted a quote for a new kitchen sink.” Mrs. Z gave me a knowing smile as she handed me a mug. The tea inside was just the right colour.

  “Cheers, love.” I took a sip. “Ah, that hits the spot. Right, how much of a hurry are you in? ’Cause your stand pipe’s clogged up something chronic. No point me hooking up the new machine before it’s cleaned out, or you’re just going to end up with water all over the floor again.”

  Mrs. Z muttered something I didn’t catch, which was probably just as well. “That husband of mine! He swore it was the machine, not the pipe.”

  “Men, eh?” I said. “Can’t live with ’em, can’t flog ’em on eBay. Right, I’ll be quick as I can.”

  It took a while, getting rid of the mess of soap scum, limescale and fluff that had gummed up the stand pipe, and by the time I’d finished, the lads were bouncing off the walls while Mum hissed down her phone at their dad in angry Farsi.

  “All done, love,” I said, scribbling down an invoice. “Shouldn’t be a problem now, but maybe run it empty on a hot wash every now and then, yeah? It’ll help clear the pipes.”

  “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver. Goodness knows what I’d have done with no washing machine, what with these two. And at least you don’t cost me the earth.” She said something vicious down the phone, then hung up and smiled at me again. “Don’t forget to call on Sara.”

  I grinned. “Me, let a lady down? Never.”

  I had a couple of other jobs after that—well, another one was just doing a quote, but I still had to drive there, and it was right out in the old part of Hatfield—so I was a bit late getting to the Dyke for lunch. Phil had already got the first round in by the time I got there, and had bagged a shady table outside in the beer garden. I sat down and took a grateful swallow of cool beer. “Cheers, mate. Have you ordered the food yet?”

  “Didn’t know what you’d want.”

  “This weather? Salad. With a side order of salad. Well, maybe make it a ploughman’s. Same for you?”

  He nodded. “Ham, not cheese.”

  “Wouldn’t want all those muscles to waste away from a lack of red meat. Right, I’ll go and order. Have you spoken to Harry yet?”

  “No. Marianne said she hasn’t gone out, but unless she’s down the bloody well, she’s not in the bar.”

  “I’ll see if I can scare her up for you.” I ambled in the back door, intending to order the food and then ask about Harry, but Marianne was busy with some bloke who wanted to try every beer in the place before he took the dangerous step of committing himself to actually buying a pint. I thought I might as well try and find the boss myself while I was waiting. After I’d stuck my head in the lounge bar and found it deserted, no surprise there—it was a completely separate bar that was only ever used by families, and no parents were going to keep the kiddies cooped up indoors in weather like this—I unhitched the chain across the bottom of the stairs and wandered up, the wooden treads creaking under my feet.

  “Harry?” I called out, mindful of what Harry had said earlier about uninvited guests. I’m very attached to my bollocks and I’d like to keep it that way. “You up there? It’s Tom.”

  There was a pause, an odd noise, and then Harry appeared at the top of the staircase, looming over me like the angel of death.

  She didn’t look all that pleased to see me. “What is it?” she asked gruffly, pulling down her tank top over her belly where it’d got rucked up a bit. She’d left the men’s shirt off entirely today. Actually, when I looked closer, I saw her close-cropped hair was as messed up as it ever gets, so maybe she’d been having a nap. I felt a bit guilty for disturbing her—chances were she wasn’t getting a lot of sleep at night right now.

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt your break. It was just that Phil wanted a word.”

  “What about?”

  “You know. The case.” What did she think he’d want to talk to her about? The weather?

  There was a noise from behind her. Harry looked round, then back at me. “I’ve got to go,” she said curtly. “I’ll be down in ten minutes.”

  “Right. Okay,” I told her broad, retreating back, and ambled back down the stairs feeling a bit bemused.

  Marianne had managed to sweet-talk the bloke with the beer into finally making a choice, so I was able to give her my food order. “How are you keeping, love?” I asked he
r when she’d written it down, all big curly letters and circles over the i’s.

  “I’m fine, thanks. How are you?” She didn’t look fine. Her eyes had a pinched look about them, and even her hair wasn’t as bouncy as usual.

  “I’m good, cheers, love.” I hesitated, but there wasn’t any reason not to tell her. “Met up with Alan Mortimer’s missus yesterday. That’s one woman who’s seriously delusional about her bloke—thinks he’s pure as the driven snow, and I don’t mean the sort they nicked him for selling either. She’s pretty down on Carey and all.”

  Marianne gave me a wobbly smile. “She’s nice, though, ain’t she?”

  Not to you, love, I could have said, but didn’t. “Er, yeah.”

  “I met her a few times,” Marianne said while I was still wondering whether to mention the other person I’d been chatting to. “We went out for dinner and that—me and Grant, and her and Alan. Dead posh places. The food was lush. She showed me pictures of her kiddies.”

  “Yeah, they’re great kids, aren’t they?” I said quickly, glad there was something I could be sincere about.

  She nodded. “I thought, see, she’d be all stuck up, what with me being so much younger and her being all posh, but she weren’t like that at all.”

  “Nobs oblige and all that,” I said. “That brother of yours given you any more hassle?”

  “Kev? No, ain’t seen him again.” She paused, her smile all gone. “We used to be that close when we was kids, me and him. He just got in with a bad lot when he was older. Well, and the drinking hasn’t helped. But he’s still my brother, see?”

  I nodded. “Blood’s thicker than a lot of stuff, innit?”