Tuesday turned out to be one of those days when everything goes right, for a change. For one thing, it didn’t involve Phil Morrison. So, feeling I was probably due to balance the karmic scales a bit, I got in the Fiesta and headed off to Brock’s Hollow after work to be a good little Samaritan.
To be honest, I didn’t much fancy going to see Graham. It’d been bad enough last time, sitting on his sofa, talking about Melanie . . .
And how bloody hard must it be for Graham, living there on his own now? Time to stop being such a bloody selfish git and go and do my good deed for the day.
I’d have rung him up, but I didn’t have his number and chances were he wasn’t answering his phone anyhow. So I just rolled up there. It was pitch-black, and once again a stiff breeze was blowing through the estate like a hail of icy needles on my skin. I wrapped my arms around myself as I waited for him to answer the door buzzer. He was taking his time, but I could see light at his curtained windows, so I pressed it again.
“Who is it?” Graham’s voice sounded tired and suspicious—or maybe I was just reading too much into those electronically distorted tones.
“It’s me. Tom Paretski. I thought you might—” I broke off as the door buzzed open.
The stairwell seemed even bleaker in the pale light coming from a single, cobwebbed fitting. I jogged up quickly, ignoring the pain in my hip. When I got to Graham’s door, he was standing behind it, peering through a narrow gap with the chain on.
“Hi, can I come in?”
He didn’t answer, just pushed the door shut. I heard the rattle of the chain, and a moment later, the door opened again, this time fully. I stepped through and closed it behind me.
“Phil said you’d been here. You and him. When I was out,” Graham said, his voice flat.
God, yes—the drugs. I’d forgotten he’d have to know someone had been here. Presumably Phil had decided letting Graham think the police had found the drugs and were keeping them for later would just be too cruel. “Er, yeah. Did a bit of spring-cleaning in your bedroom.” I paused, but he didn’t say anything. “You know, you really ought to be careful about that kind of thing.”
Graham slumped on the sofa and ran a hand through his hair. “I wasn’t using. It was just so I had it, if I needed it. That was all. It’s just been so hard—I wasn’t sure I could carry on . . .”
“Course you can,” I said heartily. “Listen, have you eaten yet?” He looked at me blankly, then shook his head. “Why don’t you come round to mine, then, and I’ll cook us something? We can, you know, catch up a bit.”
He looked down at himself. “I’m not really . . .”
He wasn’t wrong. He obviously hadn’t shaved for days, and his clothes looked like he’d been sleeping in them for at least that long. To be brutally frank, he was starting to whiff.
“Tell you what, I’ll see what’s on the telly while you grab a shower, and then I’ll drive you over to mine. Does that sound all right?” Graham nodded, and I settled down on the sofa and hoped he wouldn’t be too long. My stomach was rumbling already.
Maybe Graham’s was too, as it was only around twenty minutes later when he came back into the living room to tell me he was ready. He looked a lot better—the circles under his eyes were still as dark, and his face was just as haggard, but without the wild, unstable air that probably hadn’t been doing him any favours with the police. “Good,” I said and turned off the news quickly before he saw anything upsetting. “Let’s get going.”
We passed a couple of Graham’s neighbours on the way back to my van, two young women with scraped-back hair and plenty of makeup. Nobody said hello. They just stared at us, while Graham kept his head down. “Have things been all right round here?” I asked, suddenly worried.
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.