Pressure Head

by JL Merrow

  It hit me like a body blow. “I don’t limp,” I said weakly.

  His face was screwed up in what looked like anger, but his eyes were lost, somehow. “Yeah, right. Ever seen yourself on CCTV?” He looked like he wanted to kill someone, and I realised with a shock it wasn’t me.

  My stomach felt hollow. “It’s all right. It doesn’t even ache, much, in the summer. And it wasn’t your fault. It just happened.”

  He didn’t say anything.

  “Look, I don’t blame you for it,” I said. “Everyone does stuff they regret when they’re young.” He was doing his made-of-granite act, but he wasn’t fooling anyone. Well, he wasn’t fooling me, at any rate. I stepped up to him and lifted a hand to his face.

  Phil twisted away from me. He didn’t actually tell me to bugger off, but then he didn’t need to. I sighed. “Fine. I’ll see you around, all right?”

  I went home to the cats, hoping for some simple, uncomplicated affection, but they were facing off in the hall, hissing and spitting at one another. It looked like Merlin had got on all six of Arthur’s kitty tits this time. I grabbed Merlin and carried him out of harm’s way, sitting on the sofa and stroking him until he started to purr.

  Then I remembered I hadn’t given Phil Gary’s address. I picked up my phone to call him—then thought better of it. He knew where I was if he wanted to ask me.

  I wasn’t trying to avoid Phil by going to the Rats for a bit of Sunday roast. I just didn’t have anything in the fridge I fancied eating.

  Honest.

  I was surprised to see Dave there, sitting in a corner with his paper and a plate of fish and chips. The Rats was a bit off the beaten track for him. I gave him a friendly wave, and he beckoned me over. “Tom? I was hoping to catch you here. A word, if you wouldn’t mind.”

  I could tell by the serious tone he wasn’t just after help with the Mail on Sunday scrabblegram. “Course, mate. What’s up?”

  “Branching out, are you? Your job got a bit boring, so you’re trying to do mine as well?”

  Shit. “Has someone been saying stuff about me?” I pulled up a stool and sat down.

  Dave wagged his fork in my direction. “I’ve been getting all kinds of grief about you and your mate Phil bloody Morrison harassing witnesses in the Melanie Porter case.”

  “Harassing . . . We went to talk to a few people, that’s all.” I hoped I didn’t look as guilty as I felt. If it was the Rev who’d complained, he might actually have a point—but would he really risk letting the cat out of the bag like that? “Who’s been giving you grief?”

  “Lionel Treadgood. Said you’ve been pestering his wife too.”

  “Pestering? I asked her for a bloody recipe! Now come on, no way did Mrs. T. complain about me—and Phil didn’t even speak to her.”

  “That’s not what her husband says.”

  “Well, have you tried asking her about it?”

  “No, because then he’d be on my back about police harassment.” At least Dave was looking less pissed off and more amused now. “Seriously, Tom, swapping recipes? Did you ask her where she got her hair done too?”

  “No, but we’re going shopping on Saturday, and then we’re going to do each other’s nails. You know, there are plenty of straight blokes around who don’t think it’s sissy to cook. Try telling Gordon Ramsay only nancy boys hang around the kitchen—he’d panfry your nuts and serve them up as a starter.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s different. He’s a chef.”

  “Oh, I see—it’s all right, as long as you’re wearing a silly hat and getting paid for it. Not every single bloke likes to live on a constant diet of pub grub and takeaways, you know.” I felt a bit bad for him even as I said it—although on the other hand, maybe Mrs. S. wouldn’t have been so quick to skip out on him if he’d been a bit keener to help with the cooking. “I bet I could even teach you a few meals, you know,” I added.

  Dave shuddered. “Thanks—but old dogs, new tricks. I can manage beans on toast; that’ll do me.”

  He was probably right. Plus, if his mates on the force ever found out I was giving him cookery lessons, the poor sod would never live it down. “So anyway,” I said, hating to get back to the subject but knowing I had to. “Has anyone else complained?” I crossed my fingers.

  Obviously Jesus was the forgiving sort, as Dave shook his head. “No, but I don’t like seeing you get mixed up in this kind of thing.”

  “You’re the one who called me in to find her,” I reminded him.

  “Yeah. Find her. And then leave the rest of it to the professionals.”

  “Phil’s a professional,” I said slyly.

  “He’s a loose bloody cannon, that’s what he is. Trampling all over my investigation.”

  “Bit hard for a cannon to trample. No feet.”

  Dave’s eyes swept briefly heavenwards. “Fine. He’s rolling all over my investigation, then. With his cast-iron bloody wheels. Crapping out cannonballs.”

  “Sounds painful.”

  “Trust me, it will be if I find out he’s bollocksed up my case.”

  “So have you got a case, then?” I asked innocently. “Is it against Robin East?”

  “Nice try, sunshine. You’re not getting word one out of me—not while you’re in bed with the bloody enemy. I wouldn’t even give you the time of day.”

  I was a bit miffed. I’d thought we were mates. “Anyone would think we weren’t on the same side here.”

  “And I wonder why that might be?”

  “Hey, we all want justice for Melanie, don’t we?”

  “The best way of getting that is by letting the police do their job. Not by running around putting people’s backs up.”

  “The only one that’s happened to is Lionel Treadgood. And I reckon his back’s permanently up.” I hesitated, then plunged on. “Dave, why have you never got me in when you’re searching a suspect’s house? You know, looking for evidence.”

  “Because there’s no point finding stuff if we can’t use it to get a conviction. There are rules about conducting searches, and they’re there for a reason.” Dave put down his fork. “Look, Tom, I’m getting enough bloody grief with this one going cold on me. Don’t make it worse, all right?”

  It sounded like he wasn’t going to be arresting either Graham or Robin for it in a hurry, which was good, wasn’t it? Wasn’t Graham’s safety all I was after? It didn’t feel right, though—leaving Melanie unavenged. Maybe Phil was right, and I was getting too close to it all. I nicked one of Dave’s chips while I thought about it.

  “Oi! That’s my dinner.”

  “Thought you’d finished,” I said with a grin. “So how come you’re not having the roast, then? Do you know something I don’t?”

  “Gravy.” Dave sighed. “No one makes gravy like my Jenny used to.”

  Jenny was the ex-Mrs. S. It looked like Dave still missed her, poor sod. “Guess I’ll join you in the fish and chips, then,” I said to show solidarity. “Another pint?” He nodded, and I went off to the bar to place my order.

  I half expected the pub lunch with Dave to turn into a whole afternoon, but after he’d finished his second pint, he stood up and belched. “Right, I’m off. Got better things to do than sit about drinking all afternoon like a bloody layabout.”

  “Oh, yeah?” I teased. “Hot date, is it?”

  To my delight, he blushed. “Maybe.”

  “You can’t leave it at that!” I protested. “Who is she, then, and how long have you known her?”

  “First: none of your beeswax, and second”—Dave went even redder—“I don’t know her yet. Met her on one of these online dating sites, and if you breathe a word about this to anyone, I’ll bleedin’ kill you.”

  “Better watch out,” I warned. “She’ll probably turn out to be at least ten years older and three stone heavier than her profile picture.”

  “Yeah, but everyone does that, don’t they?” He gave an embarrassed smile. “It’s practically compulsory. I put in my profile I was late
thirties, with an athletic build.”

  God help the both of them, I thought, but I just raised my glass and wished him luck.

  At half past ten on Sunday evening, I was just puttering around, getting ready for bed—had an early drain next day—when the doorbell rang. Generally, when that happens, you don’t expect good news—but when my heart sped up a little as I went to answer it, it wasn’t only for the bad reasons. There was a little voice in my head saying maybe, just maybe it was Phil.

  It wasn’t. It was Merry, in mufti—at least, he’d left off the dog collar—looking about as relaxed as, well, a closeted gay vicar visiting a bloke who knew all his dirty secrets.

  Or, say, a murderer about to commit crime number two. I suddenly wished I’d thought to put the chain on. “Er, hi, Merry. Bit late, isn’t it?” I managed to get out without too much stuttering.

  Merry glanced around furtively, which didn’t do a lot for my nerves. “Please, can I come in? Just—just for half an hour.”

  I couldn’t think what to do—but he looked like he was at the end of his tether. His skin was paler than ever, with an unhealthy sheen, and his hands were shaking. “All right. But just for half an hour.” I opened the door fully, Phil’s inevitable verdict of You twat ringing in my ears, and motioned him in. “You can go through to the living room,” I said, gesturing at him to go in front, partly because I was brought up right and partly because that meant I’d be able to keep him in sight.

  “Um, I’d offer you a coffee, but . . .” But I’d like you to go as soon as possible. All right, maybe the upbringing didn’t take all that well.

  The Rev, halfway through parking his bum on my sofa, made a jerky motion with his hand that presumably meant No, ta, it keeps me awake this time of night. At least, I hoped it meant that, and not Actually, I’d rather not leave DNA traces on your cups. “I need to speak with you,” he said once he was fully seated. “About this morning.”

  I perched on the arm of the chair opposite him. The illusion of superior height would have been more comforting if it hadn’t been just that—an illusion. “What, in particular?” I asked cautiously.

  Merry looked like he was about to cry. “What do you want?”

  “I . . . What?”

  “You brought him there to—to denounce me. To expose me.” Merry gave a sickly smile. His hair was plastered to his forehead in thick, greasy strands, and his top lip glistened. “I’ll do anything you want, you know that, don’t you? Anything.”

  “What? No!” I leaned forward. Christ, had he meant . . .? I hoped he hadn’t meant what I thought he’d meant. I folded my arms, trying to hide a shudder. “You’ve got it all wrong. You don’t have to do anything. Darren was there for Gary. They’re an item. No one’s going to expose you.” I thought about it a bit. “Although, you know, you could save yourself an awful lot of grief if you just came out. What is it the Good Book says? Christians aren’t perfect, they’re just forgiven?”

  Merry was obviously relieved enough to give a pedantic little frown. “That was a car bumper sticker, actually.”

  “Ah. Sorry. But wouldn’t Jesus approve, you know, of the sentiment?” I stood up and rubbed my hip. Then I realised Merry’s eyes had fixed a bit manically on my pelvic area, and I sat down again hurriedly.

  “I can’t come out,” Merry muttered, his hands wringing one another damply. “You don’t understand. I did terrible things when I was younger.”

  I stood up again. “Crimes?” I asked, my voice a bit high.

  “Against God, yes.”

  I wished I hadn’t turned the dimmer switch down. In the low lighting, his face was marred by sinister shadows. “But . . . would they be things you’d go to prison for?” I prodded, moving so the armchair was between me and him. Darren’s party hadn’t got that wild, had it?

  “The conscience . . . the conscience is its own prison,” he mumbled vaguely.

  Did I have my phone in my pocket? Maybe I could call Phil. Or Dave.

  I cursed under my breath as I realised I’d left it charging in the kitchen. “But you don’t do that kind of thing anymore, do you?” I said as soothingly as I could manage.

  “But I want to!” he said so fiercely I jumped. His eyes glittered darkly.

  Maybe some straight talking was called for. “Have you ever considered that maybe, just maybe, you’re not really cut out to be a vicar?” I asked.

  “Leave the priesthood?” Merry sounded like the idea had never even occurred to him. But at least it seemed to have got him thinking of something other than his dark, forbidden lusts.

  “Well, yeah. Because you don’t seem all that happy right now. Maybe you’re just asking too much of yourself. Maybe,” I added, inspired, “God doesn’t want you to suffer so much. He’s supposed to be loving, isn’t he?”

  “But my vocation . . .”

  “There’s other stuff you could do, isn’t there? And still be, you know, serving God and all that? There’s . . . charity work. Or missionaries,” I added eagerly, because somewhere like Africa would be nicely far away from Regal Road, St. Albans.

  Merry stood. I edged away a little bit. “You . . . you’ve given me much to think about. Thank you.”

  “You’re going to do it?” I asked, now worried I’d gone a bit too far with the careers advice to a bloke I hardly knew and didn’t want to.

  “There are things . . . I need to put things straight. Yes. The path is clear now. Thank you.” He smiled, his face transformed. I’d never seen anyone look at one and the same time so innocent and so bloody scary. “God truly works in mysterious ways.” He carried on smiling and muttering to himself as he walked out of the house.

  Once he’d gone, I bolted the door, put on the chain, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

  Then I grabbed my phone from the kitchen and called Phil.

  He didn’t bother with hello. “What is it, Tom?”

  “I— Uh, can you come round? Sorry.”

  “Tom? Has something happened?”

  “Yeah, kind of . . .” Now I had to explain it, I felt stupid. “No, I’m just being daft. Forget I called.”

  “I’ll see you in five minutes.” He hung up.

  This time when the knock came on the door, I didn’t take the chain off until I was sure it was Phil.

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said ominously.

  “Either that, or just narrowly missed becoming one,” I muttered. Phil didn’t laugh—if anything, his frown deepened—so I hurried on. “I just had a visit from the Rev. It freaked me out a bit, that’s all. I shouldn’t have bothered you about it, though. Sorry.”

  “Stop fucking apologising. What happened? And how did he know where you live, anyhow?”

  I stood back so Phil could get his broad shoulders inside and wipe his size-eleven feet on my doormat. “From the phone book, maybe?” I tried to rein in the sarcasm. “I do have a business to run here. Are you telling me you’re ex directory? Do your clients have to hire someone just to find you?”

  “I’ve got an office on Hatfield Road.” Phil stayed put, just inside the house, so I had to sidle past his reassuring bulk to shut the front door. I wasn’t complaining.

  “With a sexy secretary in six-inch heels and bright-red lipstick?” I quipped, feeling better already for his presence.

  He folded his arms, but it didn’t come across as a defensive gesture. It came across more as a just in case you’ve forgotten the size of my biceps gesture. I hadn’t forgotten, but the reminder didn’t hurt one bit. “No, as it happens. Why? You want to apply for the job?”

  “Heels, with my hip? And red’s really not my colour. No, ta. Look, come in properly.” I shepherded him through to the living room. “Do you want a drink?”

  He nodded. “I’ll have a beer, if you’ve got some.”

  I got us a bottle each, opened them up. Nearly dropped them when I looked up and realised Phil had followed me into the kitchen in those stealth moccasins of his. I flushed and waited for the sarcastic
comment. It didn’t come, so I handed him his beer.

  “That’s better,” he said after a long swallow. “Want to tell me all about it, now?”

  Somehow it was easier to talk to him in the kitchen, leaning against the counters opposite one another while the cats milled around our legs. Where had they been when Merry was here? Staying out of the way due to some sixth sense of their own? Thanks, guys. Trading them in for a pair of Rottweilers was looking more appealing all the time. “You know what I said about Darren recognising him? Well, he came round in a right paddy. The Rev, I mean, not Darren. He thought I’d set it up, thought I was after something.”

  “And?”

  “I told him I wasn’t, obviously. Then he went on and on about the terrible things he’d done when he was younger—that was his words, terrible things—and how he still wanted to do them. And that he knew what he had to do now.” I shook my head, not looking at Phil. “Go on, rub it in about how bloody certain I was this morning he hadn’t done it.”

  There was a clunk as he put down his beer, and then the dark, cashmere-clad bulk of him intruded in my vision. I looked up to find him only inches away from me, and took a sharp breath. Phil smelled warm and solid, with a hint of spice.

  “Why did you call me?” he rumbled. “Why not DI Southgate?”

  My smile was as weak as the rest of me felt right now. “Call the police? Christ, I don’t know. If I sic them on the Rev, they’ll dig up all the stuff he wants buried, but if I don’t . . . Do you really think he’s a danger?”

  “I think it wouldn’t hurt to give your mate Dave a call. You don’t need to go into details. Just tell him the vicar’s been acting a bit odd, and you’re worried.”

  “Yeah. I guess.” I grabbed my phone from my pocket, and dialled Dave’s number. It went straight to voice mail, so I left a long, garbled message and hung up. “Great. Now he’ll probably call me for details at 3 a.m.”

  Phil had an odd expression on his face. I couldn’t quite work it out, and then it hit me—he didn’t look stony in the slightest. He looked younger, less cynical—almost fond. My chest felt warm and tight, and I had to take a deep breath, which I managed to turn into a yawn.