Heat Trap

by J. L. Merrow

  “I’m sure he’ll come and visit you again soon,” she said, and plumped up my pillows for me.

  I thought, seeing as Phil hadn’t come to visit in the afternoon, that he’d be here in the evening, but he was a no-show. I even dragged myself out to the public payphones next to the caff to give him a ring, just in case he’d, you know, forgotten I was here or something, but his phone went straight to voice mail.

  The way back to my bed seemed a lot longer than it had this morning. My head was aching again, what with the clangs and the thuds, the constant bustle, and the occasional bursts of muffled laughter from the nurses. I suppose in their line of work, you have to take the lighter moments when you can.

  I climbed back into bed, wondering how anyone ever got to sleep in hospital. Then I shut my eyes and went out like a light.

  I was a bit hacked off, to be honest, when Wednesday morning rolled around and there was still no word from Phil. I’d tried ringing him again, but his phone was still going to voice mail.

  It was a bit embarrassing, as the doctor said she wouldn’t let me go if I didn’t have someone with me. I ended up having to give Gary a ring to come and get me—Cherry, and pretty much everyone else for that matter, would be at work, and I really didn’t fancy explaining everything to Mum and Dad. Gary works his IT wizardry from home, and he’s always happy to take a break to help out a mate in need, bless him.

  Course, as things were, he was a bit of a mixed blessing.

  “You’ll notice I’m not saying one word about the absence of a certain blond behemoth,” he said as he breezed into my room. “Not one word. Not a syllable. My lips are sealed. Tighter than a gnat’s derrière.”

  I sighed. “Can we get out of here?”

  “Of course we can. Look, I’ve brought you your favourite T-shirt.” It was the zombie one he’d bought me, which, given how much he’d gone on about me nearly dying, seemed a bit close to the bone. “And a decent pair of trousers, although, let me tell you, it took some searching in that offspring of an Oxfam shop you call your wardrobe.”

  He’d brought my pulling jeans, which were a total bastard to get on.

  “Cheers,” I said, because it’s the thought that counts, and started to strip out of my hospital gown.

  “Should I avert my gaze?” Gary asked, with a hint of an ogle in his eye.

  I was feeling about as far from ogle-worthy as possible, but if that was what floated his boat, I wasn’t going to deny it was giving my ego a much-needed boost. “Nah, knock yourself out,” I said—and then we both burst out laughing. “Maybe not literally, though,” I added. “It hurts like hell.”

  “Of course not, darling. I wouldn’t want to steal your thunder.” Gary frowned. “Do you need some help with those jeans? This sedentary lifestyle of yours may be beginning to take its toll.”

  “One day I’ve been laid up in bed. One day, all right? And no, they’ve always been this tight.” I yanked the jeans up over my arse, the sudden motion making me feel a bit dizzy, not that I’d have admitted it to any passing medical staff in case they grounded me for a week. “There. They’re on, see? And no, I’m not going to give you a twirl.”

  “Spoilsport. Now, have you got all your things?”

  I stared at him. “This is a hospital, not the Waldorf bloody Astoria. I came here in an ambulance. I didn’t stop to pack a suitcase.”

  “Where are the clothes you arrived in? Or did your evening get a lot more interesting after I left?” Gary’s eyes lit up, presumably at the image of me prancing around starkers outside the Dyke before getting that bop on the head. At least, I hoped that look of relish didn’t come from picturing whoever had laid me out nicking the shirt off my unconscious back as a souvenir. Not to mention the pants off my unconscious arse.

  “Har bloody har. Phil took all my kit back with him when he visited, so what you see is what you get.” I shoved my feet into my trainers, glad I didn’t have to bend down to tie my laces up. I had a nasty feeling my breakfast might have made an appearance if I had.

  Gary gave me a disapproving look. “I hope you’re not planning to leave little Tommy to languish here.”

  “Uh . . .” I frowned at him. “Little Tommy’s safe in my pants where he usually is, thanks.”

  “I wasn’t talking about that, darling.” Gary picked up the teddy he’d brought me. “See? He’s even wearing a little lumberjack shirt, just like his daddy.”

  “Gary, I’m nobody’s daddy. And no one notices the shirt when they look at that ted. They get too hung up on the leather posing pouch.” The nurses had been having a right giggle over it.

  “That wasn’t my fault. It’s sewn on.”

  “Sounds painful.” Not to mention frustrating for poor little Tommy. “Where’d you get him, anyway? Bondage Toys‘R’Us?”

  “Darren found him for me. Isn’t he adorable?” From the misty look in his eye, I was betting Gary was talking about his fiancé, not the cuddly toy. “He said if I’d given him another day, he could have found a little toy sink plunger for him to hold.”

  Well, there was a small mercy to be thankful for. “I’ll be sure to buy him a drink next time I see him. Can we go now?”

  “Of course, darling. I’m not the one who’s holding us up.”

  Naturally, it wasn’t as simple as just walking out of there. I mean, I’d got myself signed out and everything before Gary got there, but he insisted we said goodbye to the nurses, who all seemed to adore Gary. Some of ’em even remembered who I was too. By the time I’d finally managed to get out of that hospital and into the passenger seat of Gary’s Toyota RAV4, I felt like my nonexistent suitcase. After it’d been treated to the tender mercies of Gatwick’s baggage handlers.

  “Go easy on the corners, yeah?” I said as I buckled my seat belt.

  “Don’t fret, Tommy dear. Your ride will be smoother than a freshly waxed chest.”

  “Cheers.” I leaned my head back on the headrest, carefully avoiding the bruised bit, and closed my eyes.

  Gary pulled out of the car park. “No need to thank me. I’m not being entirely altruistic. You’ve no idea how snippy some car valeting services get when asked to clean bodily fluids off leather seats.”

  “Yep, and I’m pretty happy keeping it that way,” I muttered.

  You’ve got to hand it to Gary: when he says he’ll drive smoothly, he means it. I didn’t look, but I could imagine we were leading a tailback of cars halfway to Hemel by the time he took the final corner and purred to a halt in front of my house. I opened my eyes. The parking space was empty, which reminded me the Fiesta must still be up at the Dyke. Great. Another thing to deal with.

  Phil’s Golf wasn’t there either. Not that I’d been expecting it, or hoping it would be, or anything. Obviously.

  “Somebody,” Gary said as he unbuckled his seat belt, “is going to have to have words with that man of yours. Neglecting you in your hour of need. Do you think it bodes well for the future? Because I, darling, am having serious forebodings.”

  I was really not up for all this.

  “Look, cheers for the lift. I’d ask you in, but I’d be pretty crap company right now. And I’m sure you’ve got work to do.”

  “Nice try, Tommy dear, but nobody’s hit me on the head, and I distinctly remember you getting strict instructions from our Florence Nightingales not to be on your own for the next twenty-four hours. I’ve got my laptop in the back.”

  “I could give Phil another ring . . .” I said tiredly, and all right, not all that convincingly.

  “No, you couldn’t.” He patted my knee and beamed at me. “Uncle Gary’s going to take good care of you. Now, come on, let’s get you in the house.”

  As we walked in my front door, I wondered if I should give Phil a bell anyway. Let him know I was out of hospital, at least. Even if he wasn’t answering, I could leave him a voice mail. Or a text, maybe. Yeah, a text would be better.

  I didn’t want to seem, you know, desperate or anything. Plus, to be honest, I was s
tarting to get a bit uneasy. This really wasn’t like Phil. Even if he was pissed off with me. And let’s face it, we already knew there was someone going around attacking people. What if Phil had fallen foul of him too? Only he hadn’t been lucky enough to come a cropper somewhere public, like I had?

  Jesus, my head was throbbing. I hobbled over to the sofa, where I managed a controlled collapse, the sort that wouldn’t lead to either further agony in the head region or unpleasant reactions from the stomach area. For one thing, Arthur was milling around the coffee table, having jumped off the sofa like a lumberjack who’d seen which way the tree was falling, and if I chucked on him, he’d never speak to me again.

  “Have the cats been fed this morning?” I asked, my eyes shut. God, I hoped the answer would be either yes or I’ll do it now. The thought of moving from this sofa and opening up a can of cat food almost made my breakfast do a runner for the carpet. Maybe the cats would be satisfied if I gave them a couple of toes to chew on each.

  “Do I look like the sort of man who neglects pussies?” Gary called back from the kitchen over the sounds of opening and closing cupboard doors.

  “You really want me to answer that?” I managed weakly.

  “I have the utmost affection for all our furry friends,” Gary said reprovingly around the doorframe. “Except, perhaps, for the ones currently developing their own ecosystem in your bread bin. You really ought to pop your perishables in the fridge if you’re going to be away for a day or two.”

  “Yeah, well, I’ll try and remember that next time I go out to get my head bashed in.”

  Gary put on a sorrowful expression. “This head injury’s making you a little tetchy, isn’t it?”

  I waved a couple of fingers in his general direction.

  “Anyway, darling,” Gary said brightly, “seeing as there’s nothing in your kitchen that’s fit to feed a rat, I’ll just pop down the road and get some rolls or something. Maybe a muffin or two. Bye-ee!”

  He disappeared, leaving a faint whiff of Givenchy Gentlemen Only and a sad little silence.

  Sighing, I closed my eyes again and melted into the sofa cushions.

  Then Merlin jumped on my stomach, and I threw up on the floor.

  Gary was not impressed when he got back from the shops.

  By midafternoon, I felt a whole lot better. Which was lucky, seeing as just as I was finishing up a very late lunch of chicken soup (Gary’s Jewish great-grandmother apparently swore by it, and seeing as she made it to ninety-seven, I wasn’t going to argue) there was a knock on the door. More to the point, it was the sort of knock they drum into the raw recruits at the police academy. Either that, or they pick it up from watching too many American cop shows.

  It made my pulse jump for a moment, and I almost spilled my last spoonful of soup.

  Gary came back from answering the door with a sour expression. “Your tea-addicted friend is here. I use friend in the loosest possible sense, of course. He still hasn’t brought you any flowers.”

  I mustered up a smile with a lot less effort than I’d have thought possible a few hours ago. “Yeah, well, flowers for blokes aren’t really Dave’s thing. Go on, show him in.”

  If it was Dave, then odds-on it was either a social call or something about my little bop on the head. Nothing to do with Phil at all.

  Except, if something had happened to him, wouldn’t Dave stop by to tell me in person?

  Shit.

  “You’re looking better,” Dave said approvingly as he stomped into the living room. “Mind you, everyone looks like shite in hospital. It’s the paint they put on the walls.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m feeling a lot better,” I said, putting my bowl down and waving him to a seat.

  Dave sat, and then he sniffed. “Someone chucked up in here?”

  “It was one of the cats,” I said truthfully if misleadingly.

  Dave nodded. “You know, I could murder a—”

  “The kettle,” Gary interrupted pointedly, “is in the kitchen. Feel free to avail yourself of it.” He flounced out of the room and up the stairs.

  “Staying with you, is he?” Dave asked, with a jerk of his head in the direction Gary had disappeared to.

  “Just for today. The hospital wouldn’t let me go otherwise. And Gary does all his work out of his laptop and phone, so it’s no skin off his nose.” I waited for Dave to smirk and ask if Phil had done a runner, seeing as they weren’t exactly bosom buddies, but it didn’t come.

  That prickle of unease I’d felt earlier came back with interest. I opened my mouth to ask Dave what he was here for, but he beat me to it. “Want a cup of anything?”

  “Nah, I’m good, thanks.”

  Dave sat there for a moment. It looked like he was deciding whether a cup of tea would be worth the bother of getting up and making it. Inertia won.

  “Dave? Not that I’m not touched by getting two visits in two days, but . . .”

  “But you want to know what I’m here for, right?” Dave sighed. “I just got a call from the boys down in Docklands. Wanted to know what I could tell ’em about one Philip Morrison, currently gracing their cells.”

  “What? Why?” And, fucking hell, thank God.

  He was all right.

  “Seems he’s been throwing his weight around. They got a call from a local businessman, and I bet you can’t guess who that was. In fear of his life, apparently, due to a certain private investigator turning up at his place of work and making threats.” Dave paused. “In front of witnesses, the fucking stupid sod.”

  “Oh Christ.”

  “Tell me about it. Actually, no, don’t tell me about it, because I’ve had it up to here with your boyfriend for tonight. Just tell him, next time he wants someone to vouch for him with the local constabulary, he can drop someone else’s name and leave me out of it. Got it?”

  “Shit. I’m sorry, Dave.”

  “Yeah, yeah. Not your fault.” At least Dave sounded a bit less pissed off now.

  “Are they charging him?”

  “Dunno. Up to them, innit?” He sighed heavily. “Did what I could. Harped on about the once-a-copper-always-a-copper bit. Told ’em Carey’s a little shite, which, as it happened, wasn’t news to ’em. Mentioned he’s been causing trouble up here.”

  “Cheers, Dave. I owe you.” I meant it too. Having to talk Phil up must have gone well against the grain for Dave—they always gave the impression of having a mutual agreement not to waste bodily fluids if one happened upon the other doing Guy Fawkes impersonations. I hoped he hadn’t given himself an ulcer.

  “No you fucking don’t. It’s your bloody boyfriend who owes me, and don’t you let him forget it.”

  “Yeah, well. Drinks are on me next time. And cheers for letting me know about it, yeah? I was wondering where the hell he’d got to.”

  “Had a hot date, did you? Christ, I must be tired. Don’t tell me. I do not want to know.” Dave rubbed the back of his neck. “You all right, then? Your mate looking after you?”

  “Yeah, Gary’s been great.” I smiled, but shit, I was coming over all emotional again. Bloody concussion.

  “You and him ever . . .?”

  Okay, that startled me out of the emo overload pretty effectively. “What, Gary? No. Seriously, no. He’s just a mate.”

  Dave frowned. “How’s that work, then?”

  I gave him a sidelong look. “It’s like you and me, innit? We’re mates.”

  “Yeah, but I’m not a poof.”

  “Yeah, and?”

  Dave shifted in his seat. “Well . . . it’s like, you and me, right, that’s never going to happen. Right? ’Cos I’m straight.”

  “Yeah,” I said cautiously.

  “But you and him, now, that’s different, innit? It’s always there. In the background.”

  “What is?”

  “Bloody hell, you know. Sex.”

  I stared at him. “No, it’s not.”

  “Come off it. You’re queer, he’s queer. Nothing stopping you, is there
?”

  “Apart from the fact we don’t like each other that way? Seriously, Dave, just because we’re both gay doesn’t mean we want to shag each other. I mean, come on, you don’t want to shag all the women you meet, do you?”

  Dave looked uncomfortable. “Well, course not. Jen’d have my bollocks if she ever found out.”

  “Yeah, but say you and her had never got back together. You wouldn’t want to jump into bed with every woman you met, would you? It’s a, whatsit. Compatibility thing.”

  There were deep furrows ploughed into Dave’s forehead. “Yeah, but you and that Gary get on all right, don’t you? Are you seriously telling me that in all the years you’ve known him, you’ve never once thought about doing the nasty . . .? You know what? I have no idea why we’re even talking about this.”

  “Oi, you started it.”

  “And I’m bloody well stopping it now.” He stood up. “Right. Some of us have jobs to get back to. Try not to get yourself killed in the next week or so, will you? It’s bollixing up my schedules something chronic. I’m supposed to be at a seminar right now. Sexual harassment in the sodding workplace. I ask you. Chance’d be a bloody fine thing.”

  I grinned. “I’ll put a note in my diary. Stay alive until July. And cheers for helping Phil out, all right?”

  “Don’t mention it. And I mean that most sincerely.”

  The thing about being worried about people is, while you’re still worried, you think everything’ll be peachy if only they’re okay. But once you know they’re all right, you start thinking how bloody hacked off you are that they got into the situation in the first place.

  I mean, seriously, what the bloody hell had got into Phil? Marching over to Carey’s place and chucking his weight around? Like that was ever going to end well. Carey must have thought it was Christmas. He didn’t even have to bother trying to stitch Phil up for something—the stupid sod had gone and done it all by himself.

  By the time Phil finally rang, I was so far beyond tetchy that Gary was tiptoeing around me. Literally, which didn’t help my mood any. I’d already gone through my diary rearranging this week’s jobs and calling clients to apologise for no-shows, and was now sitting on the sofa going through VAT invoices, because apparently I wasn’t hacked off enough already. I always hated percentages at school, so trying to grapple with them while concussed was probably not my smartest idea ever.