Relief Valve: The Plumber's Mate, Book 2 (20 page)

What with all this free time, I was about to toss a coin between cleaning the van and sorting out the cardboard box I hand over to my accountant when it’s time to do the tax return. Luckily, Greg rang.

“Ah, Tom. You’re well?”

I held the phone a little farther away from my ear. “Yeah, fine, ta. Nothing wrong with Cherry, is there?”

“No, no. She’s well on the way to recovery, thank the Lord. She’s come out of hospital now and gone to recuperate with Barbara and Gerald.”

“She’s at Mum and Dad’s? She never said.” Not that I was narked about getting my family news second hand, or anything.

“I’m sure she’ll be ringing you soon. In the meantime, I wondered if I might tempt you with a tour of the cathedral roof?”

And how the hell did he know my schedule had suddenly freed up? I sent a brief, suspicious glance skywards. Well, ceiling-wards, seeing as I was still in the house. All I saw was the light fitting and a couple of dusty cobwebs. Not a whisper of a divine confession of meddling in my private life.

“Yeah, all right.” Poor bastard could probably do with the company. “Um, you didn’t mean to invite Phil, did you? Seeing as he’s got this claustrophobia thing.”

“No, no. Just the two of us, I thought. A good opportunity to get to know one another better, in view of our impending connection.” He made it sound like he was planning on slotting us together with a bell and spigot joint. “When would suit you? This morning?”

“Yeah, okay. I can be there in about an hour, if you like.”

“Perfect.”

I was getting pretty used to the drive over to St Leonard’s, I reflected as I tootled along the A41, the fields to either side cold and brown, and bare trees looming like frosted veggie skeletons. I turned the Fiesta’s heater up a notch—it was being a bit slow to warm up this morning.

Although now I came to think of it, this was the first time I’d actually driven over to see Greg myself. I frowned a bit at that thought, but it wasn’t like Phil
insisted
on driving whenever we went out. He just sort of ended up doing it most of the time.

Maybe I should tell him we were taking my car next time we went somewhere? But then Phil would just moan about the Fiesta having no leg room, like it was my fault he was so bloody tall. And he’d mock the furry dice. Which, fair enough, they were supposed to be ironic, but still. I had half a mind to see if they still made those car sun strips with names on, and get one done that said “Tom” on the driver’s side and “Phil” on the other, and then he’d really have something to complain about. But even in these so-called enlightened times, you could probably count the days on the fingers of one hand before someone chucked a brick through it, so it didn’t seem worth the hassle just to make a point.

Cathedral Close, when I got to St Leonard’s, was emptier than a Sally Army collection box at a Pride festival, and the cobbles were slippery with frost. Getting out of the Fiesta’s warm cocoon and into the freezing cold air of a Hertfordshire winter morning was a bit of a shock to the system. I could feel my hip seizing up with every cautious step I took over to the Old Deanery’s front door.

Either Greg had been looking out for me or the bloke upstairs had tipped him a nod again, as the door was flung open before I could even knock. Greg stood there, beaming. He’d left off the Doctor Who accessories today and was looking like an advert for Clergy Casuals in his tailored wool trousers, dark grey dog-collar shirt and matching sweater. It looked suspiciously soft, like he’d been shopping for cashmere with Phil. Maybe Cherry had bought it for him, like an engagement pressie or something—I might be wrong, but I’d always thought church salaries weren’t exactly at the luxury end of the market.

He advanced on me, both hands outstretched. “Tom! Marvellous to see you.”

I managed to hold my ground, even when he grabbed me by the shoulders. “Er, right. You too. Am I coming in, or are we going straight over?” I’d actually been thinking longingly of a cup of something warm on the way over, but now I’d got here, the thought of getting any cosier with the Touchy-Feely Reverend Greg was putting me right off my coffee.

“If you’re ready, I thought we’d commence with the cathedral. One moment.” He gazed at his shiny black shoes briefly, then turned to me with manic eyebrows. “Onwards and upwards!”

“
Faster, Higher, Stronger
, and all that?” I was quite proud of myself for remembering the Olympic motto.

Greg twinkled. “I’ve always been rather partial to
You’ll Never Walk Alone
.”

I might have known he’d be a Liverpool fan. I opened my mouth to tell him Man U were going to have their arses in the FA Cup this year, only probably not in so many words, him being a man of God and all that, but he beat me to it.

“And how is your dear Philip?”

I’d never described him as “my dear” in my life. “He’s good.”

“Excellent. And his family?”

“Dunno. Haven’t met them.” Well, not since school, and then not to talk to or anything. I just had a vague memory of a couple of Phil-shaped lads who must have been his brothers, and wasn’t there a sister too? “His dad died a few years ago, I know that.”

“He hasn’t taken you to meet them?” The eyebrows drew together in concern.

“Yeah, well, I was going to see them at Christmas, but you know how it is. Busy and all that.” I tensed, waiting for the bloke upstairs to do a bit of smiting for bearing false witness to a man of the cloth. “We’ll sort something out soon,” I added a bit more truthfully.

“I do hope it’ll go well,” Greg said as we reached the cathedral door. “I find it fascinating, the differences in background between us all, but these things can be a little hard to overcome. Still, we’re all equal in the eyes of the Lord, as you know.”

I was pretty sure we weren’t equally baffled by what he’d just said. At least, I hoped he at least knew what he was talking about. “I s’pose you do a lot of sermons in your line of work,” I said, struck by the image of Greg in the pulpit, rambling on to a cathedral full of bemused God-botherers.

“Oh, absolutely. Preaching is one of the things we are called to do. Although one tries not to proselytise, of course. It’s rather out of fashion these days.”

I’d take his word on that one. “Yeah, last thing you want is the Church of England being accused of being out of touch.”

Greg guffawed. I tried not to cringe as the sound boomed out and echoed around the huge, empty space. Seriously, didn’t he know we were in a church? I shot an embarrassed glance at the donations lady, still sitting at her desk, but with a different hat on today. She just dimpled fondly and shrugged in a
what-can-you-do
sort of way.

“Now, to the stairs.” Greg led me over to an arched doorway, just past the stack of tea lights waiting to be lit by the faithful and carry their prayers up to heaven on a waft of greasy smoke. He had to duck his head to go through. I didn’t. I immediately wished I hadn’t just wrecked my night vision by looking at the candles—it was blacker than a septic tank in that narrow spiral staircase. It wasn’t too bad going up, but I wasn’t looking forward to coming down again. My hip twinged in agreement.

Several hundred steps later (all right, I wasn’t counting, but that was what it felt like) there was finally a glimmer of light, and Greg’s reverend bum gave way to a bit of open space in my field of vision. “And here we are,” he said, although I’d sort of guessed that.

The cathedral roof was…surprisingly like any old attic anywhere, although there was a fair bit more headroom. It had the same dry, dusty smell, and was filled with centuries’worth of dead flies and old bits of junk. The roof itself was way up above us, fifteen feet or more, and this attic space stretched out in front of me for around twice that. If Phil could manage to survive the staircase, he’d be fine when he got up here, claustrophobia and all. I raised an eyebrow at one of the beams, which was basically a massive curved tree branch they’d built around, rather than cut into shape. The staircase, I saw when I turned round, had come up right by a big, circular window, taller than me.

“That’s the Rose Window,” Greg pointed out helpfully.

It wasn’t rose-coloured, or flowery, or anything. Just round. “They’ve got one of those in York Minster, haven’t they?” I vaguely remembered a trip there with my parents when I was a kid. I’d been into photography at the time and had taken endless fuzzy, overexposed shots of brightly coloured stained glass windows with light shining through them.

“I’m afraid ours is altogether more modest. But it does have its own charm. Look closely at the panes.”

I peered at them. They were all six inches across at most, separated by enough lead to have a scrap merchant praising God. “Hang on, is that graffiti?” There were names scratched onto them, in varying wobbly handwriting. “
Edmund Wallis, Verger, 1918
,” I read out. “
Charles Glover, Canon, 1936
. Were they allowed to do this?” I imagined generations of clergy sneaking up into the roof to rebel, maybe having a crafty smoke while they were up there—or maybe not, seeing as setting a Cathedral alight with a carelessly dropped match would probably see you sent straight to hell with no time off for good behaviour.

“Oh, it’s all above board. I’ve left my own mark here too—look.” I tried not to cringe as he loomed over me from behind. An orang-utan-like hand and arm (minus the orange fuzz) appeared in my field of vision and pointed up to a pane on the top right. I squinted and could make out “Gregory Titmus, Canon” in noticeably firmer engraving than the average.

I wondered what’d happen if I waited until Greg’s back was turned and scratched out “Tom Paretski, Plumber,” and added my mobile number. Probably a bolt of lightning from Him On High. If you believed in such things, of course.

“And over here,” Greg was saying, his voice suddenly far away, “we have the treadwheel. It’s rather unique.”

I turned. Greg was stepping into a man-sized, wooden hamster wheel at the other end of the roof. How the bloody hell had he managed to get all the way over there without me hearing him? Boards creaked under my feet as I went to join him—not in the wheel, it was only big enough for one and anyway, not really my thing. I’ve never understood why hamsters seem to think it’s so much fun, running around and getting nowhere. “Uh, what’s this for?”

Greg smiled in that weirdly demonic, slightly crazed way of his. “Oh, nothing Wildean, don’t worry.”

Uh?

“It was built for raising building supplies,” he carried on, starting to walk. Ancient timbers didn’t so much groan as purr. “Ah. You might want to avoid stepping too far to your right.”

I twisted to look. He wasn’t wrong. There was a circular section of the floor, maybe four feet across, that had lifted a few inches and was now swinging slowly from side to side, attached by chains to a pulley in the roof. It looked a bit like one of the pans on a set of old-fashioned jeweller’s scales, only on a much bigger, hah, scale. It was still rising. When it was a couple of feet higher, I could see the underside was plastered and painted, with one of the gold ceiling bosses I’d noticed from downstairs.

I could see right down into the cathedral. The black-and-white floor tiles God knew how many feet below looked like a chessboard, with people the pieces moving on them, apparently unaware that anything was happening up above their heads. Even if they looked up, would they be able to tell from this distance that a bit of ceiling had moved?

“Is this safe?” I asked, crouching down to peer through the hole. I could lob something down right on someone’s head. If I was that sort of bloke, obviously. I wondered if I had any odd bits of paper in my pockets.

“Oh, don’t worry. We never allow anyone up here unaccompanied.”

“Good idea,” I said, still hypnotised by the view. The chairs looked tiny from up here, and so did the font, like you’d never fit a real baby in it. “Just imagine a bunch of schoolkids up here. You’d have ’em crowding round the hole, pushing and shoving and
Jesus Fucking Christ
!”

I don’t know what had made me look round—maybe my subconscious had noticed the wheel wasn’t turning anymore?—but when I turned my head, he was right there. In my face. With one hand outstretched and the eyebrows doing their Satanic worst. I reared back in shock, and lost my balance. I teetered queasily on my toes, my arms flailing. Oh God. I was going to end up one big, messy splat on the cathedral floor.

If you die in a cathedral, do you go straight to heaven? Or is it the other place, for disturbing God’s peace?

Then the Hand of God grabbed me roughly by the shoulder and pulled me back to safety. I sprawled on my arse on the wooden floorboards, my pulse hammering and visions of headlines like
Plumber in Death
Plummet
dancing through my head. “Jesus… What the bloody hell?” Glancing warily at Greg, I scuttled, crablike, back to a safe distance, making sure the ecclesiastical death trap was between me and him.

Greg’s eyes were wide, and he was breathing almost as fast as I was. I was glad to see he wasn’t totally calm about almost having fucking
killed
me. “I do apologise for startling you,” he said, his voice a bit shaky. Good. “I was about to suggest you moved back a bit from the aperture.”

Either that or shove me through. “Right. Well. Think I’d like to get my feet back on solid ground, if it’s all the same to you.” I levered myself up on said feet and told my knees to stop shaking. They weren’t listening. I narrowed my eyes as I looked at Greg. “You can go first.” Spiral staircases could be perilous bastards, and I wasn’t taking any more chances.