Pressure Head

by JL Merrow

  “So basically,” Phil said, a frown creasing his forehead and an edge to his tone I didn’t much like, “what you’re saying is, my job disgusts you.”

  “That’s not what I . . .” I trailed off. Maybe it was what I’d meant. “I don’t know, all right? All I know is, I don’t feel comfortable doing it.”

  “Feel more comfortable watching Graham go down for his girlfriend’s murder, would you? While the bastard who did it looks on and laughs? Would that be all right with your holier-than-fucking-thou conscience?”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake! That’s not what I’m bloody saying, and you know it.” We’d turned onto Brock’s Hollow road, and I’d had enough. “You can let me out here. I’ll get a bus back or something.”

  “Don’t be so bloody stupid. I’m not leaving you stranded here on your own,” Phil snapped, as if I were a none-too-bright ten-year-old who’d never quite got the message about stranger danger.

  “Worried the Rev’s going to pop up to have his way with me and bury me in the churchyard? Actually, hang on a minute,” I said, my anger draining away as I thought about it. “If the Rev killed Melanie, why wouldn’t he do just that? Why not hide a body with a whole lot of other bodies? Wouldn’t it be way riskier taking the body somewhere else? I mean, he’d have to get it there, and it was always going to get found eventually, up on Nomansland Common. The whole bloody village walks their dogs up there. Even the Girl Guides go up and build dens there.”

  Phil’s knuckles were still white on the steering wheel, and he took a couple of deep breaths before he answered. “You might have a point,” he said, like it was being dragged out of him along with his fingernails. “But you’ve got to remember, people don’t always do the logical thing when they’ve got a body on their hands. Most murderers don’t plan to kill.”

  “Yeah, but you said this one did, didn’t you? The phone call, I mean. That had to be planned in advance.”

  “If it was the murderer who made the call.”

  “Oh, come on—it’d have to be a bit of a coincidence, otherwise.”

  “Coincidences happen. That’s why there’s a word for them.”

  “There’s a word for unicorns too, but I haven’t seen a right lot of them prancing down the high street lately.”

  “There’s a word for smart-arses, come to that.” Phil’s tone was still grim, but he’d eased up on the death glares, and he was keeping to the speed limit as we drove into the village.

  I relaxed a bit. “Only one? I thought you had a better vocabulary than that. You need to stop reading the Sun and start buying yourself a proper paper. You know, one where you don’t just look at the pictures.”

  “I can find all the words I need to describe you in the Sun, thanks.”

  “What, like cor, what a stunna? I’m flattered—I never knew you saw me that way.”

  Phil just shook his head, but he was smiling.

  “Hey, are you doubting my abilities as a glamour model?”

  “You do seem to be lacking a couple of essential qualifications,” he said, glancing at my chest.

  “You haven’t seen me with my kit off. At least, not since school. I like to think I’ve filled out a bit since then.”

  Now he was laughing. “To page three model standards? I bloody well hope not.”

  “If you hate tits that much, how come you spent so much time at school hanging around with Wayne Hills and that crowd?”

  “God knows.” There was a beat. “You know I—”

  “Don’t,” I said. It was all water under the bridge, now. “That was a long time ago, all right? You’re not the same bloke you were then, and neither am I.”

  He glanced at me as we turned into Four Candles Lane. “You reckon? Because I don’t think you’ve changed all that much.”

  “Great, so now you think I never grew up.” And presumably, never got over that stupid crush I’d had on him.

  “No, that’s not what I mean. You just . . . Forget it.” I opened my mouth, about to push him on it, when he beat me to it. “Do you— Fuck.” He shook his head again. “Sod it . . . I know this is a daft idea, but do you want to get dinner some time?”

  I stared at him. After about a minute, I realised I still had my mouth open, so I shut it, quick. Then I opened it again. “You what? Are you asking me out?”

  “Maybe.”

  I couldn’t seem to get my head around the idea.

  I think my silence got to Phil. “Look, forget it, I said it was a daft—”

  “No!” I blurted. “I mean, yeah, I’ll go out with you. Um. For dinner, you know. I’m not saying I want to be your boyfriend, because obviously . . .” My mouth still wasn’t working properly. Or my brain, come to that, so I shut the one and hoped the other would sort itself out PDQ.

  Phil looked a bit shell-shocked. I wasn’t sure if it was down to my babbling, the fact he’d asked me out, or that I’d said yes. It was probably just as well we’d got to the Four Candles, as I had a nasty feeling if we talked any longer, we’d bugger it all up again.

  “Right,” he said, as he parked the car next to my van. “Tomorrow all right?”

  Probably didn’t want to give either of us too long to have second thoughts. “Yeah, that’s fine. Why don’t I come out to yours, for a change, and we can walk into town from there?”

  “My place is a bit of a mess . . .”

  “So? What am I, a domestic goddess? Have you got any pets?”

  “What? No.” He sounded baffled.

  “So you win over me on the cat-hair factor, at any rate.”

  “Fine, fine. Just don’t expect much, all right? I’ve only just moved in. You still got the address?”

  “Yes, Mum.”

  “Call me that while we’re out and you’ll be paying for your own dinner.”

  I’d thought I would be anyway. God, this really was going to be a date. Phil Morrison was Taking Me Out For Dinner. An embarrassing little shiver ran through me at the thought, as if I were still at school, lusting after him from afar. Bloody hell, I was going to have to watch myself. At this rate, I was going to start doodling little hearts on my invoices and putting Tom loves Phil inside. I shook my head to clear it of the frightening image.

  “Are you all right?” Phil asked.

  “Yeah—fine. Um. See you around seven, seven thirty?”

  He nodded. “Whenever you can get there.”

  “Right. I’ll see you then, then.” I got out of the car, still not quite believing it. Me and Phil, going on a date.

  I might even have something to tell Gary about, next time I saw him.

  I wasn’t working on Saturday, so I had plenty of time to wonder what the hell I thought I was doing, agreeing to go out with Phil. I cleaned the house a bit, did some food shopping, watched the football on the telly. By six o’clock, the butterflies in my stomach had mutated into flying elephants all flapping around like Dumbo drunk on champagne. It was daft—after all the time I’d spent in Phil’s company over the last couple of weeks. But that had been business—his business, at any rate. This . . . this was dinner, with a chance of sex.

  At least, I hoped there was a chance of sex.

  Well . . . I thought that was what I hoped. To be honest, I wasn’t entirely sure what the best-case scenario was in this situation. Phil was . . . well, basically I fancied the pants off him, but every time we spent more than half an hour in each other’s company, we ended up yelling at each other. And not in the porno way. It was so bloody frustrating—every time I got a hint he might actually like me, it all seemed to go tits up the next time we met.

  I wasn’t even sure what to wear. He’d only seen me in my work clothes—scruffy jeans and dusty shirts. Would he be disappointed if I dressed up? Did he like to see me as his little bit of rough? Then again, if I turned up like that and he was all smart in his posh shoes and his cashmere, wouldn’t it just look like I couldn’t be arsed to make an effort?

  It was weird—back in school, he’d been the bit of rough. Maybe h
e’d had a taste for the good life back then, but his parents certainly hadn’t had the money to indulge it. My dad had made bank manager by the time I was in my teens, so my stuff was always brand-new. God, I hoped this wasn’t just some twisted way of getting his own back on me, of rubbing it in how well he’d climbed the social ladder, while I’d slipped down a rung or two.

  In the end, I went for a fairly new pair of jeans and a lambswool sweater Gary always tells me makes my shoulders look bigger. Of course, sod’s law it’d be warm in the restaurant so I’d end up taking it off, and be back to my usual skinny-runt-in-a-T-shirt look, but at least I’d tried. Then I gave the cats an early tea and set off on foot.

  Phil’s flat was just up from the old Odyssey on London Road. They’d tarted the outside of the cinema up a bit recently—supposed to be restoring the inside as well. I wasn’t holding my breath, but at least they weren’t just letting the place fall down anymore. I’d even chipped in the odd fiver to the fundraising myself. From the location, I’d expected Phil to be living above a shop, but as it happened, the whole building had been converted into flats. His was on the top floor—in fact, when the house had been built, it would’ve been the attic. I wondered how he was getting on with the sloping ceilings—at his height, I’d have thought they’d have been a bit of a challenge. I grinned to myself. Maybe that was why he was so grumpy all the time—he had a permanent headache from constantly banging his head on the ceiling.

  It looked like I wasn’t going to have to wait to find out, as he buzzed me in on the first ring and opened the door to his flat just as I reached the top of the stairs. He smiled when he saw me, which sent the butterflies into overdrive. He looked relaxed, in jeans and a soft blue shirt the colour of his eyes. “Want to come in for a drink before we head out?”

  Dutch courage? I was all in favour of that. “Yeah, sounds good.” I stepped inside and looked around. The place had been modernised recently—it was all open-plan, with bright-white decor and pale-coloured wood, making the most of the space. In daylight, it’d probably be bright and airy, but the downside was a faint smell of fresh paint which didn’t seem to sit too well with my empty stomach.

  It was also . . . bare. And full of boxes, many of them open at the top and showing signs of frustrated rummaging. “Still not unpacked yet?” I asked, because there’s a rule you have to state the obvious in this sort of situation.

  “Not even close.” He grimaced. “Half the trouble is, I’ve got no cupboards or shelves to store stuff when I unpack it—the London flat was furnished, and I’ve been concentrating on buying the essentials. Like a bed.” It was good to know he had one of those. A decent night’s kip is very important. “I’ve got a sofa on order,” he carried on, oblivious to my filthy mind filling in what else his new bed might be good for, “but for now, you’ll have to park your arse on the garden furniture.”

  There were a couple of folding chairs and a wobbly-looking table next to a large, square window, all of them covered in either boxes or the contents of boxes. I shifted a few things and pulled up a chair, glad to sit down. “I’m guessing you don’t do a lot of entertaining?”

  “Not as such, no. Beer? Or would you rather have wine?”

  “Whatever you’re having,” I said, his uncharacteristic politeness obviously having rubbed off on me. “Beer, for preference, but I’m not that fussy,” I added a bit more honestly.

  “Beer it is, then.” He grabbed a couple of bottles from the fridge, opened them, and handed me one.

  “Cheers,” I said and took a swallow—realising too late the gassy stuff wasn’t really what my stomach was set up for right now. Maybe it was just nerves, but something was definitely making me feel queasy. “Mind if I open a window?”

  “Be my guest.”

  Even though it was fully dark and had been for an hour or two, Phil hadn’t drawn the curtains. I supposed that this high up, he wasn’t worried about people looking in. I leaned on the windowsill and drew in deep breaths of fresh, cold air, but the nausea didn’t go away.

  “Are you all right?” Phil asked, looming over me, which didn’t help me feel any better.

  “Yeah . . . uh, well, I’m feeling a bit off. Maybe I’m coming down with something.” I turned from the window and paced through the room. Was this just nerves? As I tried to walk it off—whatever it was—I trailed my fingers along a stack of boxes against the wall. “Maybe dinner’s not such a great— Bloody hell!”

  I snatched my hand away from the boxes. It felt like I’d had an electric shock, one that sent greasy jolts right into my heart.

  “Tom? What the hell happened?”

  “I don’t know. I think . . .” Almost without meaning to, I let down my barriers and listened. The pulse of guilt and shame that slammed into me brought me to my knees, my stomach turning and a white hot ache in my head.

  “Tom!” Phil was by my side, was helping me up. “Christ, what is it?”

  “Something . . . something in one of those boxes,” I managed. “Bloody hell, Phil, have you got a dismembered corpse in there?” I was joking. It wasn’t that kind of feeling at all.

  “You’re . . . reacting to some of my stuff?” His bewilderment seemed genuine, but the greasy darkness from the boxes was calling him a liar.

  “Yeah.” I tried to smile. “Badly.”

  “I can bloody well see that. Come on, come and sit down.” He parked me in the one free chair, then marched over to the boxes I’d touched. “Which one was it?”

  “The one on the top—third stack along. But you don’t have to show me. It’s not like I go round telling you all my dirty little secrets.”

  “That what you think this is?” Phil’s fist clenched, and for a moment, I thought the offending box was about to be pummelled within an inch of its cardboard life. At least, I hoped it’d be the box. “I’m not having you thinking I’ve got kiddie porn in there.”

  Actually, I’d been thinking more along the lines of BDSM and/or amputee fetishes, but yeah, kiddie porn could have accounted for the way it’d hit me.

  Possibly.

  I’d never reacted to anything this badly before. I didn’t say anything more, because despite what I’d said, I was bloody desperate to see just what it was.

  Phil turfed through the contents of the box, laying them out on the boxes to either side. There were ancient packets of photos, what looked like school books—why the hell would anyone keep those?—and then an envelope. A bog-standard brown manila envelope that nearly made me throw up at the sight of it.

  “That’s it,” I rasped.

  He was looking at the envelope like he’d never seen it before—and I saw the exact moment when he realised what it was. His eyes widened—then narrowed dramatically. “Okay. I know what this is. It’s not porn. Can I put it away?”

  “It’s your stuff. You can do what you want.” My voice was strained.

  He gave me a sharp look. “It’s still bothering you?”

  “Yeah. Still hidden, see?” I nodded at the envelope and nearly fell off my chair.

  Phil stared at me for a long, long moment. “Fucking hell.” His tone was resigned as he opened up the unsealed flap of the envelope and drew out a few bits of paper. He handed them to me, and the relief was so great it felt like euphoria. I couldn’t even focus for a moment.

  “Oh God, that’s so much better,” I breathed.

  “Well, take a look at them; you might as well.” Phil turned abruptly away and strode over to the window I’d opened, staring out into the darkness.

  I looked. Then I looked again. There wasn’t much there. The first was a clipping, yellow with age, from a newspaper: Local boy in serious car accident. I read on automatically. Thomas Paretski, 17, was seriously injured when he was hit by a car . . . I put it down. I didn’t need to relive that story. The next was a grainy photo. Of me. Or rather, of my teenaged self, badly cut hair, less-than-perfect skin and all. The last was a picture of the school under-eighteen football team. I’d played in defence. We were
all grinning madly and gurning for the camera—looked like we’d just won a match.

  I didn’t even remember the occasion. But Phil had kept these mementos.

  “Why?” I asked, my tone overloud and harsh in the tingling silence.

  “You mean, why did I keep those?” Phil was talking to the window, his tired voice making a circle of condensation on the glass. “What do you think?”

  “You felt . . . guilty about the accident? Really guilty?” I couldn’t believe that was all it was.

  Phil turned, his face dark. “Oh, for— Yes, I felt guilty. But I fancied you, all right? Back in school.”

  “But . . . I thought you hated me!”

  It was like lighting a firework. In your living room. Phil exploded, and it wasn’t pretty. “I did fucking hate you, okay? I hated the things you made me feel, made me want . . . Christ, don’t you realise I didn’t have a bloody clue I was gay until I noticed you drooling over me after games? I wanted to fucking kill you for making me feel that way.”

  He was breathing hard, his fists clenching and unclenching. I got slowly to my feet, then wondered if that just made me a bigger target. “Um, I think I’d better go,” I said uncertainly. I realised I was still holding the photos and stuff, so I put them down on the chair. This was just too weird.

  Phil had fancied me—by the sound of it, as much as I’d fancied him. Maybe more, even. And he’d kept the photos, the clipping, for a dozen years, even through a move.

  But he’d still hated me.

  Halfway to the door, I turned. “Why did you keep them?”

  “Because I never wanted to forget the way I felt when that car hit you.”

  I swallowed. “That wasn’t— I’m hoping that wasn’t because it was such a good feeling?”

  “No. It wasn’t.” He gave a tired smile. “You’re right. This was a crap idea. I’m sorry. I’ll see you, Tom.”

  Now, of course, I wasn’t sure I wanted to go. I was pretty certain Phil didn’t want me to stay, though, so I nodded and closed the door behind me.