by J. L. Merrow
“Did my best. Trouble was, then she gets it into her head I’m part of the Polish mafia, scouting out the territory, ready to murder her in her bed.” He was laughing again, the sod.
“Argh!” I flopped back on the pillow and scrubbed both hands over my face. “If I ever meet my great-grandad in the afterlife, we’re going to have serious words over this Polish bollocks.” Great-grandad—or step-great-grandad, as I supposed I should probably call him these days—had toddled over from Germany to Britain sometime before 1914 and decided he liked it. When World War One broke out and being called Thomas Patschke started to seem like a bit of a bad idea—and not just because nobody could spell it, either—old great-gramps decided, like a whole load of other immigrants over the ages, to change his name.
Unlike everybody else in the history of immigration, though, he didn’t go for something British. Say, I don’t know, Patterson or something. Maybe he still had a strong foreign accent and didn’t reckon he could carry it off, who knows? And, let’s face it, your average Brit in the early twentieth-century street was decades away from being able to tell one brand of “foreign” from another. But anyway, Thomas Patschke disappeared from public record, and up popped one Thomas Paretski. Just to be on the safe side, when his first son was born in 1917, six months after old Tom got married to a Derbyshire lass called Ethel, they named the lad George, after the one currently warming the throne.
Which was ironic, really, seeing as George V came from a long line of Germans, but there you go.
Phil prodded me in the stomach, and I jumped, batting his hand away and opening my eyes. “Oi, less of that.”
“Thought you’d gone to sleep. Or started astrally projecting yourself onto the spirit plane to have a moan at your great-grandad.”
“I was thinking. You should try it sometime. Oi, less of that and all.” He’d given up on prodding and started tickling. It turned into a bit of a wrestling match, which, as usual, I was losing badly, until I got in a lucky grab to an area that would have had the Marquess of Queensberry screaming for the smelling salts. It could have developed into something he really wouldn’t have been happy seeing in a boxing ring, but we both decided we were too hot and too bloody knackered, and flopped back down on the bed, chests heaving.
“God, that’s me done for the day,” I panted.
“Thank Christ for that.” Phil grabbed a bottle of water from the floor on his side of the bed, took a swig, and passed it over.
“Cheers.” I took a long swallow. “Hey, did you get down to Docklands? Any luck there?”
“Bit,” Phil said. “Had some news from another quarter too.” Then he fell silent, the git.
“Well?” I prompted.
“Get this—Mortimer’s out on appeal. Seems his lawyer managed to dig up some new evidence. And guess what? They just happened to let him out of prison shortly before Carey turned up here.” Phil gave a grim little laugh. “Puts a new perspective on Carey’s undying love for Marianne, doesn’t it?”
I thought about it. Then I thought about it some more. “You reckon Carey’s running scared? Thinks his sins are about to catch him up, and wants to stop her telling anyone what she told us? Shit—you think he knows we know?” All the hairs on the back of my neck started to prickle. “Bloody hell. You don’t think he’s seriously dangerous, do you?”
Phil showed his teeth like a big, blond pit bull terrier about to savage someone. “You’d better be watching your step for the foreseeable.”
“What about you?” I countered. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m all in favour of digging up the dirt on the bastard, but you’re the one doing the actual spadework. What if he tries to, well, take you out?” It might have been hotter than your average sauna in here, but all of a sudden, I felt cold.
“Doesn’t need to, does he?”
“What?”
Now he was a world-weary pit bull exasperated with the naivety of younger dogs. “Think about it. The little prick’s half my size. Physical intimidation isn’t going to work. On the other hand, he knows my weak spot.”
“Which is?”
“You, you moron.”
“Oh.” I lay back and stared through the skylight in the bedroom ceiling. The sky was an inky blue-black, a couple of faint stars twinkling away like there was no tomorrow. Not likely to be any rain tonight, then. Again.
“Yeah. Oh. So don’t go taking any chances, all right? No running off to see what you can turn up on the bastard on your own or anything like that. Leave it to the professionals.”
Not that I wasn’t touched by his concern, but I was starting to get a bit narked by his attitude. “Right. Because those extra few inches you’ve got on me and him make all the difference, right? Does Darren know you’re so bloody heightist?”
“It’s got sod all to do with your sodding height, all right?”
“Yeah, right.” Pull the other one; it’s held together with metal pins and sticky tape.
I wished I’d said that last bit out loud when he fixed me with a patronizing look, the smug git. “It’s about whether you’re used to dealing with his sort. When it comes down to it, if I had to back either you or Darren against Carey, I know who my money’d be on.”
Fucking marvellous. “Thanks so much for the vote of confidence.”
He grinned and squeezed my arse. “You’ve got other qualities.”
I rolled away from his grasp and got out of bed. “What am I, a sodding blow-up doll? Worried I’ll get popped?” Jeans. Where were my jeans? Right. Living room.
“Where are you off to?”
“Home. Got to wrap myself in cotton wool and bung myself in a cupboard. Unless you think bubble wrap would be safer?” Underwear? That must be in here somewhere. Nah, sod it. Quicker to go commando.
“What the fuck are you on about?”
“What the . . .? You. I’m on about you, treating me like I’m made of sodding glass. Cheers, mate. Really good for the ego, that is.”
“Oi. Tom. Come back here.” He huffed a sigh. “Please? Stop being so bloody touchy, all right? So I worry about you getting hurt—it’s not like it’s never bloody happened before, is it? You think I want any more times on my conscience?”
Now my conscience was poking me. “You know I don’t blame you for the hip,” I muttered, parking my still-naked arse on the bed. Phil pulled me down to lie next to him, but didn’t say anything, just ran his hands gently up and down my side.
After a moment, I realized he was stroking the scars left by the surgery to rebuild my hip when I was seventeen.
Shit. I twisted around in his arms. “I don’t, all right? Wasn’t your fault. It was an accident.” Maybe I had been running away from Phil and his gang of bullies at the time, but hey, he couldn’t have known I’d run straight into traffic.
I couldn’t read his expression. “Yeah,” he said. “You staying, then?”
“Yeah.”
“Good. Go to sleep.”
When I woke up at Phil’s on Sunday morning, the sun was streaming through the thin curtains he had at the windows of his attic flat, giving me a whole new appreciation of the phrase heat rises. And not in a good way. I was sweating like I’d just got back from a five-mile run, and I hadn’t even moved yet. My dick was all keen to get up close and personal with the six-foot hunk of lean muscle lying next to me, but the rest of me was saying no sodding way.
“Bloody hell,” I grumbled, flinging an arm up over my eyes. That sun was vicious. “Too hot for sex. That’s just sad. And, Christ, it’s first thing in the morning. What’s it going to be like at noon?”
Phil huffed. “Pretty similar to this, I’d say. It’s ten to twelve, Sleeping Beauty.”
“Oi, what is it with all these princess references? I’m telling you now, if you’re hoping to get me into a poofy dress and a tiara, you’re in for a big disappointment.”
“Don’t worry. I like you better in what you’re wearing right now.”
“Yeah, well, you can look, but don’t touch.”
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That pretty much set the tone for the rest of the day, unfortunately. How is it a lie-in can make you feel even more tired than you were the night before? With hindsight, hanging around Phil’s little oven of a flat all day probably wasn’t the smartest idea we’d ever had. Trouble was, neither of us could face going out to frazzle even more in the direct sunlight. The news on the telly was full of dire warnings of what the heat wave was going to do to our reservoirs, our rivers, and our lily-white English skin, and the air quality was so bad it was off the scale. Oh, and my hip was playing up. Basically, there was zero incentive to move, especially as I’d already given Sharon at number twelve a bell and asked her to pop in and feed the cats.
But yeah, in retrospect, it would’ve been better to make the effort to get out of there. We were snippy with each other all day, and it came to a head just as we flopped into bed.
“Before I forget,” Phil said as he turned out the light, “we’re meeting up with Darren and Gary for lunch next Sunday. Soon as Gary’s finished his church stuff.”
I blinked into the darkness, not having got my night vision yet. “What? Next Sunday? Since when?” Next Sunday—that was ringing a bell, for some reason. And not the way Gary did.
“Since a couple of nights ago. I met up with Darren for a drink.”
The little cogs whirred into place, and I remembered why Sunday was sounding iffy. “Shit. Sorry, but I sort of booked us up already. I told Cherry we’d go round to Greg’s for Sunday lunch.” I wiped my forehead with a hand, then dried my hand off on my hip. Then I wondered why I hadn’t just used the sheet, seeing as I’d probably be sweating buckets into it tonight anyway. Jesus, it was hot. The air was so bloody still it was an effort to breathe.
Phil was frowning. “When was this?”
“Er . . . Monday? Tuesday? Yeah, Tuesday night, that was it. When she came over to talk about my dad. So, yeah, we can’t really cancel.”
He huffed. “And you were going to tell me about this when?”
“It slipped my mind, didn’t it?”
“Bloody marvellous.” He heaved himself out of bed and grabbed his phone from where it’d been charging. “Guess I’d better text Darren our excuses, then.” He stood there, starkers, jabbing at the screen like a pissed-off Greek statue.
I sat up, narked he was making such a palaver about it. I mean, how much notice did he reckon Darren needed, for fuck’s sake? “Oi, hang about. What you’re basically saying is, you’re pissed off with me for making arrangements without consulting you that bugger up the arrangements you made without consulting me.” I folded my arms.
Phil threw his phone on the bed and folded his arms. Someone told me once—probably Phil, now I came to think of it—that mirroring posture’s generally a good thing. I had a feeling this was one of the exceptions that proved the rule.
“No, what I’m basically saying is, I’d never have sodding well made those arrangements if you’d taken the time out of your busy schedule to let me know about yours.”
“I just did, all right? Jesus, am I supposed to check with you before I do anything? Is that it? You’re not my mum, for fuck’s sake.”
“No. I’m your partner. Last I heard, that was supposed to mean something.”
“Yeah, it’s supposed to mean you go along to family dinners without having a bloody hissy fit over it.” I wasn’t even going to get into what a seriously crap word partner was.
The Mysterious Mark had been his partner. Not me. They’d had it on a bloody certificate and everything.
“It’s got nothing to do with your sodding family, all right? Just— Oh, for Christ’s sake, forget it. I’m going to sleep.” He dropped his bulk down on the bed, pulled up the sheet, and rolled over, leaving his back to me.
I got up.
I needed a glass of water, all right? I even managed to drink it, rather than throwing it all over the pigheaded git.
It was a bloody close one, mind.
That night, we had the thunderstorm from hell. And let me tell you, forked lightning takes on a whole new dimension when you’re lying on the sofa looking up at it through a skylight. Yeah, the sofa. Not because me and Phil had had words before turning in—well, not entirely, at any rate. It was more that I couldn’t sleep, and I didn’t want to risk waking Phil with all my tossing and turning. We might have ended up having more words.
God, I wished I’d just gone back home for the night. I even considered making a late dash for it, but seeing as it was already 4 a.m. and the rain was coming down in sheets, it didn’t seem entirely sensible. Also, it would have involved moving. I finally dozed off sometime after six, only to be woken at seven by my phone alarm, which I’d set deliberately early so I could sneak out before breakfast. I staggered around Phil’s flat, managed to find nearly all my clothes (who needs socks, anyhow?), and left him a note saying I had an early job.
Which was true, anyway. Just . . . not that early.
The sun was already scorching away all signs of last night’s storm when I hit the pavement, and the air was getting heavy and muggy again, not fresh like you’d expect. Everywhere smelled damp and woodsy, mixed in with the fumes from the traffic that built up noticeably as I walked the half mile to my house.
By the time I got back to Fleetville, it was gone half seven and the local baker’s was doing a brisk trade in bacon butties and cups of tea and coffee. I joined the queue, had a brief conversation about football with a bloke I’d seen down the Rats Castle a few times, then headed off home to munch on my sausage in a bun and try to wake myself up with my Americano. Oh, and put some Band-Aids on my blisters, because it turned out that socks were pretty essential after all when wearing heavy boots.
Work was going to be a bugger today.
What with one thing and another—all right, just one thing in particular, and that being a certain pigheaded git who was too stubborn to make a sodding phone call and apologise—I was pretty glad when Gary’s Donna Summer ringtone blared out on Monday evening.
“Tom, darling, you have to come out with me tonight. I’m at a total loose end. Darren’s abandoned me for the Cunning Linguists.” This was Darren’s GLBT Spanish conversation group. Which, by my book, meant that only around half of them were actual cunning linguists, but it seemed they were all pretty attached to the name. Apparently, your average language course didn’t cover the sort of specialised vocab required by the modern queer abroad, although I’d always managed pretty well with a combination of English and hand gestures.
And stick-figure diagrams drawn on a beer mat on one occasion, as I vaguely recalled through a haze of time and alcohol. Fond memories.
“Haven’t you got bell-ringing practice tonight?” I glanced at the calendar and, yep, it was still Monday. They’d used to meet on Wednesday but had to change to Mondays a couple of months ago on account of the new vicar in Brock’s Hollow wanting the church for services or meetings or, I dunno, bingo or something. From what I’d heard, the replacement rev was a bit of a new broom and not everyone wanted to be swept, although Gary seemed to be pretty chummy with the new management.
“Cancelled,” Gary said in the sort of tones usually used to announce someone’s death. “Due to ill health.”
All right, so he hadn’t been so far off with the funereal tones. “Whose? Not yours, is it? ’Cos if it is, you probably shouldn’t be drinking.”
“Moi? I’m in the rudest of health, darling. Which cannot be said for Treble, Four, and Seven, who have all been laid low with food poisoning.”
“Yeah?” I said it maybe a bit sharper than I should have, poison still being a bit of a touchy subject for me.
“Mmm. Everyone’s saying it’s just one of those things, but between you, me, and the News of the World, blame is being laid firmly at the feet of Mrs. Four. Homemade mayonnaise, need I say more? Left out in the sun a tad too long at yesterday’s barbecue. So the rest of us are just bereft.”
“Can’t the rest of you practice without them? Or, you know, double up or
something?”
Gary sniffed. “Clearly you have no understanding of the noble art of campanology.”
“Yeah, well, you know me. You’ve always been way ahead of me at anything camp.”
“For that, darling, the first round is on you. I’ll see you at the Dyke. Eight o’clock. Do not be late.”
“Would I?” I asked, but he’d already hung up.
I was well in demand that evening. Five minutes after I’d got off the phone with Gary, Dave Southgate, our friendly neighbourhood detective inspector, rang and asked if I fancied a pint down the White Hart.
Dave’s so straight you could use him as a spirit level and definitely not the sort to pansy around (his words) calling a spade an earth-moving implement, but he’s an all right bloke really. Been a good mate of mine for a few years now, so I was sorry to have to let him down.
“Sorry, mate. I’m meeting Gary up at the Dyke. Still, more the merrier—want to join us?” I wasn’t holding my breath. Dave and Gary had met before on a few occasions, and they hadn’t exactly got on like bosom buddies. The phrase “handbags at dawn” had been uttered more than once.
“Do I sound like I’ve got a death wish? Persona non bleedin’ grata around the Dyke these days, aren’t I?”
“Why? What did you do? Make a pass at one of the barmaids?”
“Har bloody har. I had to send someone round to read ’em the riot act the other day. All thanks to a little slimeball who used to go out with one of the barmaids and is far too well acquainted with his bloody rights for my liking. If we go up there for a drink, the best I can hope for is Harry’ll spit in my pint.”
I winced. “Fair point. Another night, then, yeah? Oh, and how’s the missus?”
“Jen?” Dave swore under his breath, but he sounded fond. “Swollen up like the bloody Michelin Man in this heat, and that’s her words, not mine.”
“What, already? I thought she was only four or five months gone?” It couldn’t have been more than a couple of months ago Dave had dragged me out on the piss to celebrate the fact his gun still worked. Jen had been well impressed when I’d poured him out of the taxi and onto the doormat at 1 a.m. Not.
