Page 74 of Pressure Head

“He’s on his way?” Phil asked.

“Yeah.” I hesitated. “Um, you probably ought to let go of me before he arrives.”

“No hurry. We’ll hear the sirens.” Phil’s arms tightened around me, chilly but comforting. His breath warmed the back of my neck.

I shifted, and he took the hint and loosened his grip so I could turn round and face him. “Bloody hell, you look like shit,” I blurted out. His skin was pale, and sweat glistened on his forehead. His hair was a mess, plastered to his head like straw left out in the rain.

“Thanks,” he said drily.

“No, I mean it. You should sit down.” The hatchback of Phil’s Golf was still open, so we both perched on the edge of the boot, careful not to further damage our aching heads. “Are you feeling sick or anything? Faint? Can you feel your hands and feet?” That was about the limit of my improvised diagnostics.

“I’m fine.” He laughed softly. “I’m not the one who got shot, here.”

We looked at my arm. The tide of crimson seemed to have stopped, or at least slowed a lot. “Yeah . . . Thanks for that,” I said, feeling awkward.

“What, thanks for getting you shot?”

“No, you muppet. You know what for.” I don’t know why it was so difficult to say it. Or to look him in the eye, right now.

Phil’s hand came up and tilted my chin until I didn’t have any choice but to meet his eyes. He didn’t say anything, just smiled and shook his head slowly.

“What?”

“You’ll be the death of me one day, you know that?”

Actually, on current evidence, he was more likely to be the death of me. I didn’t point that out, though. “Well, I’ll miss you when you’re gone,” I said weakly. “It’ll be dead boring, relatively speaking.”

“Tom, I—” He broke off. “Did you hear something?”

“Like what?” I demanded, spooked—and then I heard it too.

Sirens.