by JL Merrow
Graham shrugged, his hands deep in his pockets. “You know. Dog shit through the letterbox a couple of times.”
“Bloody hell—have you told the police?”
“What for? They think I killed her too.” His shoulders hunched up even further, and he watched his feet like he was worried they might turn against him as well.
We were halfway to St. Albans before he spoke again. “I never believed it, you know.”
“Believed what?” I asked, pulling out to pass a cyclist.
“About you being a homosexual.”
I turned to stare at him before remembering I really ought to keep my eyes on the road. “Graham, I am a, er, homosexual. I thought you knew that.” Although now I came to think about it, I wasn’t sure just how he’d have known—unless Phil had told him, which apparently he hadn’t. Bloody ironic he’d suddenly started worrying about my reputation now, when I couldn’t give a monkey’s. I wondered what Phil was up to right now. Working? Just because he’d spent a lot of time on the murder lately didn’t mean he might not have other cases on the go.
I realised Graham hadn’t said anything more. “Does that bother you?” I asked. “Me being gay?”
“No, it’s fine.” He stared straight ahead at the lights of St. Albans, his face as unreadable as Phil at his stoniest. “Are you in a relationship?”
“Nah—footloose and fancy-free, I am.” I gave him my stock answer for that kind of question, then cringed as I realised how it must sound to a bloke who’d just lost his fiancée. I felt like a total tosser. “Shit—sorry.” I took a deep breath. “Do you, um, want to talk about Melanie? Or would you rather not?” Please, God, let him go for the second option.
Graham made a funny little snorting sound. “Sometimes I think I dreamed it all. Her and me, I mean. And sometimes I think I only dreamed she died—but she’s gone. Really gone.”
“How did you two meet?” I asked, tapping my fingers on the wheel as I waited for the traffic lights to turn green.
“Through church.” He said it like it should have been obvious. Maybe it was—I couldn’t think of many other places people from such different backgrounds could get to know each other. Work, maybe, but he didn’t have a job. I was still having trouble picturing Graham as a God-botherer, though.
“Yeah, how did you get into that?”
“You know I was living on the streets in London, for a bit? And the drugs?”
“Yeah. Phil said that was how you and him met—met again, I mean. Through Crisis.”
Graham nodded. “There’s a lot of Christians who help out there. Phil was great, but they made me feel . . . They were like a family. Do you see what I mean?”
“Yeah, mate, I do.” Poor sod—he’d never had a family of his own. “So have they been looking after you since, well, since it happened?”
He was silent for a while, and I glanced over, but we were in traffic, and I had to keep my eyes on the road. “Graham?”
“It’s not the same here. People aren’t the same. I stopped going to church. People around here don’t understand; their lives are too safe and cosy, like they’re wrapped in cotton wool. They just get embarrassed when they meet someone with real problems.” He hunched down farther in his seat. “I don’t want their help, their sodding casseroles. All they ever did was take Melanie away from me.”
My hands tensed on the wheel—then I realised he was just talking about all those evenings at prayer group and doing the parish paperwork. Still, it bothered me, finding out he had all this resentment bubbling under the surface. He didn’t sound like the Graham I’d known. But then he wasn’t the Graham I’d known, was he? He was twelve years down the road from that shy, nerdy kid—and by the sound of it, those years hadn’t been good ones.
“Well, here we are,” I said brightly, pulling up the hand brake. I’d slipped into jolly-the-bloke-along mode again, I realised. “Come on in.”
Both cats were there to greet us as we stepped through the front door. “Hello, boys,” I greeted them, bending down to stroke one furry back and then the other. Graham stood stiffly by the door, and my heart sank. “Shit—you’re not allergic, are you?”
“Just . . . not very fond of cats, that’s all.”
Not fond of cats? How could anyone not like cats? “Well, they don’t bite,” I reassured him cheerily. This evening was going to be even more of an ordeal than I’d thought. “The fat one’s Arthur, and the skinny one’s Merlin. Come on through and I’ll get you a drink. Beer all right?”
“Just a glass of water, please. I don’t drink.”
Right. So heroin was just fine and dandy, but not alcohol? Then again, maybe he’d been hooked on that too, back in the day. I got him a glass of water—from the tap, because I pay enough on my water rates already, I’m not shelling out for bottles of the stuff on top—then checked what was in the fridge. “Do you fancy pasta? I can do a carbonara, or something with tomatoes if you’d rather.”
“Whatever you want.” He didn’t offer to help, so I sent him to the living room and got some water on to boil, then chopped up an onion as quickly as I could before I keeled over with hunger.
I’ve always quite liked cooking. It’s all self-taught, but you can pick up bits and pieces if you watch cookery programmes on the telly. I’ve even tried making my own pasta a couple of times, since seeing a bloke on MasterChef make his own ravioli from scratch, but it’s a bit of a faff unless there’s someone you’re trying to impress. And even then, most people can’t tell it from store-bought stuff. That’s if you buy a decent brand, obviously—I’m not talking Tesco Value dried wallpaper paste, here. But I didn’t reckon Graham would be handing out any Michelin stars tonight whatever I served him—he probably wouldn’t even notice if I opened a can of Heinz spaghetti hoops and dumped it on his plate—so I just concentrated on getting something tasty and filling on the table as quick as possible.
I made a simple salad with rocket and parmesan—can’t stand lettuce that doesn’t taste of anything—and called out, “Grub’s up.”
Graham poked his head warily around the door.
“Here you go, mate—dinner is served.” We dug in, which was fine for a while, but to be honest, I prefer my meals with a little more conversation, if I’m not actually on my own. What the hell had we used to talk about, when we were at school together? Computer games, probably. Oh—and girls. Graham, like a lot of sixteen-year-old boys, had been a bit obsessed with the relative bust sizes of the girls in our class. And while I might not have had his level of interest in the subject, I’d argued and joked along with him because, well, you did, didn’t you? Hmm. Maybe it wasn’t so surprising he’d thought I was straight.
I tried to remember what other sorts of thing he’d been into back then. “Still playing chess?” I asked.
“No. Not for years.” He looked down at his plate for a moment, then roused himself to make an effort. “Are you still playing football?”
I grimaced. “Nah—not since the accident.” I gave my hip a slap, to show it I hadn’t forgiven it for letting me down. It twinged right back, as if to say, Oi, you’re the one who ran out in front of a four-by-four. “I’m in the darts team at the Rats, though.”
“The Rats?”
“Rats Castle—it’s my local.” There’s no apostrophe in the name; I’ve always assumed the greengrocer round the corner nicked it for his grape’s. “We passed it on the way in; it’s on Hatfield Road. We could go for a drink there sometime—um, if you go to pubs?”
Graham stared at the few congealed bits of pasta left on his plate. “Not really.”
Bugger. “Nah, s’pose not . . . Seen any good films, lately?”
The conversation limped on, worse than a one-legged man at a dance marathon. I’d never been so relieved in my life to hear the doorbell ring. “Better get that,” I said, trying not to look too eager for an interruption as I jumped up from the table. If it was the Jehovah’s Witnesses again, maybe they’d be able to make a better job of talking to
Graham than I was.
It wasn’t them. It was Phil. I blinked up at his tall, broad-shouldered figure in surprise, and realised he was holding a bottle of wine. “Did we have a date or something?” I blurted out. Wishful thinking, maybe.
His expression, which had been warily optimistic before I spoke, hardened. “Come at a bad time, have I?”
“No! God, no—come in. Graham’s here. I asked him round for a meal—thought sitting alone every night with a takeaway couldn’t be good for him.”
The tension around Phil’s eyes relaxed, and he nodded. “Decent of you. I’ll leave you to it, then.” He thrust the bottle of wine at me. “Here. I wanted to apologise for yesterday.”
“Oh, right.” I didn’t quite know what to say.
“You know. In the car. I know I pissed you off. It’s just . . . There’s stuff you don’t know about me . . .” He half shrugged. “Anyway, I’ll get out of your face now.”
“Don’t be daft!” Okay, so maybe I was just a little bit desperate not to be left on my own with Graham any longer. I grabbed Phil by the arm not holding the bottle and practically dragged him inside—dropping his arm in a hurry when it occurred to me he might mistake my eagerness for something it wasn’t. Honest. “Graham will be pleased to see you,” I added.
I led him through the hall and into the kitchen. Graham had got up from the table, probably because Arthur, the big bully, had scented weakness and jumped up on top of it. “Arthur!” I yelled, clapping my hands. “Get down!” Haughtily, and in his own good time, Arthur left off hissing at Graham and jumped down via one of the chairs.
“Sorry about that,” I said. “If he does it again, just shove him off, all right? Actually, why don’t we go through to the living room?”
“Want me to open this?” Phil asked, holding up the wine. It was a French Merlot; looked expensive, like his leather jacket. Looked tasty too.
The wine, I meant.
Honest. Again.
“Um—best not, maybe.” I glanced over at Graham. He roused himself to say, No, go ahead, but of course we didn’t. “I’ll put the kettle on,” I offered.
We all ended up sitting in a row on the sofa, with Graham in the middle like a Victorian chaperone, although I wasn’t sure quite whose virtue he was protecting. His own, most likely. Arthur jumped on my lap (he winded me, but I was used to it) and Merlin again flirted shamelessly with Phil.
It ought to have been easier to find stuff to talk about with three of us here, but somehow it was even harder. I realised all Phil and I ever did was talk about the case, argue, or swap innuendo, none of which seemed very appropriate with Graham here. Luckily I remembered there was a League Cup match on telly tonight. I grabbed the remote and switched it on to find Chelsea had scored already. I groaned. “Come on, you Reds,” I muttered despairingly.
Phil gave me a dirty look. “I might have known you’d be a Man U. supporter.”
“And I might have known you’d be a fan of the boys in blue. But what was that supposed to mean?”
“Have you ever been up to Manchester in your life?”
“Yeah, I’ve been there. I’ve even seen a home match or two.”
“But basically, you’ve got about as much connection to the place as my left nut.”
I grinned. “I wouldn’t know. You tell me what your left nut’s been up to these last twelve years.” I wouldn’t have minded listening to the edited highlights, anyway.
Graham stood up suddenly, startling Arthur off my lap. “I ought to go.”
“Nah, it’s early yet,” I protested, feeling guilty but at the same time, a little bit miffed. Phil and I weren’t being that gay.
“Thanks, but . . . I think I’d like to go home. Thank you for the meal.”
Phil got up, and then both of them were looming over me, one skinny and scruffy if freshly washed, and the other big and bulky in all the right places. “I’ll drop you off,” Phil said. “No need for Tom to turn out again.”
“Okay. Bye, Tom.” They trooped off, leaving me with two cats, a load of washing up, and a bottle of wine I wasn’t sure whether to open or not. Was Phil coming back? He hadn’t said either way. But it really was early yet, so maybe . . .
I washed up, bunged some clothes in the wash, watched the rest of the match (United won three goals to one—take that, Phil Morrison), took the laundry out, bunged it in the dryer, and eventually had to accept I was on my own for the rest of the night.
So I took my nagging sense of failure upstairs and went to bed.
I’d arranged to meet Gary outside the Merchants Café in St. Albans at eleven the next day, so he could show me his new light of love. He was ten minutes late, and I was about to nip inside for a cappuccino when I saw his cuddly teddy-bear figure lumbering towards me. “All right, Gary?” I called, waving. He gave a cheery grin and let Julian drag him in my direction.
“Fantastic, darling. Found anything interesting in the drains this morning?”
I’d had a loo to unblock. “Only a toilet duck and half an Action Man,” I said, hampered by the huge, hairy paws that had landed on my chest. Julian’s paws, that was, not Gary’s. “God, you’re a ton weight,” I told the dog. “What has your daddy been feeding you?”
“Tender young virgins, of course. It helps keep his coat glossy. Shall we?”
Leaving the café behind us, we elbowed our way through the crowded streets of market-day St. Albans. The market’s a jumbled mix of food and clothing, leather goods and bolts of fabric—something for everyone, and everyone seems to turn out for it. We passed a fishmonger’s stall and were nearly knocked flat by the whiff—the cats would have been in ecstasy. Stall holders assaulted our ears with cries of “Two fer a pahnd, when they’re gone they’re gone,” and I felt a sudden burst of nostalgia for my London childhood.
“So are you going to tell me about this bloke of yours?” I asked, dodging a couple of tracksuited mums pushing armoured buggies.
“Darren? Oh, he’s just adorable. You’ll love him. Very good-looking. Actually—” Gary broke off and glanced around furtively before whispering in my ear. “He’s an ex-porn star.”
“Yeah?” I tried not to sound too staggered. Gary’s a great bloke, and I love him to bits, but I’d never have expected him to land a porn star. “Oi, I hope you’re using protection,” I added.
“Sweetie! We’ve hardly done more than kiss, so far.”
“And how long’s that going to last? Make sure you’ve got some on you at all times, then you won’t be tempted to take a risk.”
“Tommy, darling, I may be besotted, but I’m not silly. Of course I’ll use protection. Scout’s honour.”
“You were a Boy Scout?” I was having a lot of trouble picturing it. Girl Guides, maybe, but Boy Scouts?
“For about a month. The uniform was lovely, but the other boys were terribly rough. And going camping wasn’t nearly as much fun as I’d thought it would be. Here we are,” he added, his voice suddenly breathless. “This is Darren’s stall.”
Even though I was gagging to see what the porn star looked like, something about the way Gary said it made me glance over at him, instead of at the stall. There was a faint flush on Gary’s cheeks, and his eyes were shining, his lips parted in a tender smile.
Bloody hell. I’d never seen him like this before. It must be love. I stared for a moment, then dragged my eyes round to the stall.
Gary’s bloke was currently selling fruit and veg to an old dear with a bag on wheels. As she shuffled away, her place was taken by a Boden-wearing lady who looked at the bowls of mixed veg (“pahnd a bowl, three bowls for two pahnd”) as if she’d found a cockroach in one of them. “I really only want a cauliflower,” she said doubtfully, in ringing middle-class tones.
“Here you go, love,” he said, his tones slightly nasal as he unabashedly tipped the contents of the bowl into a paper bag, twirled it shut, and handed it to her. “That’ll be a pound for the cauli, and just for you, I’ll throw the carrots in free.”
&n
bsp; She paid up, either overpowered by the force of his personality or just not too strong on logic.
I studied Darren carefully. He had dark hair swept back from his face, and a neatly trimmed goatee. There was certainly something arresting about his looks. I could see why he’d got a job in film—although to be honest, I reckoned a handsome face was probably an optional extra in the sort of films he’d been in. He towered over us from behind the stall, but I got the weirdest feeling something wasn’t quite right. It took me a moment to work out what it was. His proportions were all wrong, for a big bloke. His arms were too short, and his torso was as well, unless . . . unless he was standing on a box.
A big box, I decided. “Gary!” I hissed furiously. “You didn’t tell me he was a dwarf!”
Gary looked like he was about to pitch a fit. “Well, if that’s all you can think of to say—”
He was interrupted with a cheery call of, “Gary! All right, mate?” We’d been spotted. Gary’s face transformed as he turned to the (fresh, juicy, four-for-a-pahnd) apple of his eye.
“Darren, sweetie, this is Tom,” he said, having apparently forgotten he was pissed off with me.
I was given a brief but thorough inspection by the undeniably good-looking man behind the counter. “This the one you was telling me about?”
“The same,” Gary cooed. “Thomas Paretski, plumber extraordinaire.”
Darren’s eyes narrowed. “Bit of a short-arse, ain’t he?”
My jaw dropped, as Gary shrieked with laughter beside me.
Sod Rome—apparently these days, all roads led to Brock’s Hollow. At least, I found myself driving through the village again that afternoon, after a sandwich lunch in the Merchants with Gary, taking the not-quite-direct route to a cracked kitchen sink in Harpenden.
I wasn’t the only one paying the place a visit. Dave Southgate and his boys in blue were parked in the lay-by outside the church, the one the hearses always parked in so they could take the coffin in through the lychgate. Looked like today it was Robin East’s funeral. He crossed the road between Dave and a uniformed officer, his face flushed but his head held high. George Clooney starring in a remake of Papillon, maybe.
