Jory’s stomach lurched. They were heading straight for an oncoming driver. Even as he wrested back control, his heart beating so hard his ribs hurt, the other driver swerved out of their way and blasted his horn.
On the pavement, heads turned.
And then, seeing that nothing had actually happened, turned away again.
Jory kept his cool, despite his shaking hands. He put the car back on course, drove along the road until he could turn up a side street, parked the car, and then turned to Mal to ask him calmly what was going on.
“What the bloody sodding hell was that?”
Okay. Maybe he wasn’t quite as calm as he’d thought.
Then he noticed Mal was shaking. “Mal?”
There was no answer. Mal just stared straight ahead through the windscreen, his eyes wide.
Jory was starting to get worried. “Mal?” he said again. “Malory?” He put a hand on Mal’s arm.
Mal jumped violently. Then he buried his head in his hands. All Jory could hear was a constant, muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .” His breathing was fast, shallow, and unnatural. Something was terribly wrong.
Jory clumsily unhitched both their seat belts and stumbled out of the car, almost forgetting to check for traffic first. Then he rounded the vehicle and opened the passenger door wide.
Mal didn’t resist as Jory pulled him out of his seat. He didn’t do anything. His legs seemed to have no strength to hold him, and he and Jory ended up sprawled on the grass verge. Christ, what on earth was going on? Jory felt helpless. Useless. All he could do was wrap his arms around Mal’s trembling, sweaty form and hold him fast.
He realised he was rocking Mal like a small child who’d had a nightmare, and was hit by a stab of embarrassment before he registered that it actually seemed to be helping. Mal’s breathing was easing, becoming slower and deeper. “It’s okay,” Jory told him, not sure what he was referring to. “It’s okay.”
Mal mumbled something Jory couldn’t catch, and he drew back, just a little.
“I thought—” Mal’s voice cracked.
Jory didn’t want to let go of him, not even for a second, but he knew there was a bottle of water in the car. He loosened his grip on Mal cautiously, then when he’d managed to convince himself that nothing dire would happen, let go entirely and lunged for the glove compartment, where he fumbled until he found the water bottle.
Relieved, he sat back down on the grass and put his arm around Mal’s shoulders once more. It made it harder to open the bottle, but he didn’t much care.
The water inside must have been unpleasantly warm and stale from sitting in the car for weeks, but Mal gulped it down so fast that Jory ended up taking it from him, afraid he’d make himself ill. “Slow down, okay?”
Mal nodded jerkily. He was staring at nothing again. “I thought he was gonna jump. That kid. Thought he was gonna jump in the road.”
“What kid?”
“Dark hair. Metal T-shirt. From Download, maybe? Some festival like that. Don’t remember. Just thought he was gonna . . . Shit.”
Jory frowned. He’d seen the boy—young man, really. He’d been walking with a girl in a black crop top, and he’d made an exuberant hand gesture, but nothing had made Jory think there was any danger.
Why had Mal thought he was going to jump in front of the car? Why would anyone jump in front of a moving car? A toddler might think it was a game, perhaps, but not a grown man. And if anyone actually intended harm to themselves, well, they’d undoubtedly find a more reliable way than jumping in front of slow-moving traffic in a seaside resort.
It’s not like there’s a shortage of cliffs around here, Jory thought bitterly. It just didn’t make sense. “Mal, has something happened to you? A . . . car accident?”
Mal didn’t answer for a long moment. “Not car. Tube. Had a one under.”
“A . . . what?”
“’S what we call it. When they jump.”
But Mal had said he worked in customer services . . .
He hadn’t said where, though, had he? And London Underground probably employed thousands of people in customer services. “You saw it happen?”
Mal made a horrible sound then, a sort of sobbing laugh. “Was driving.”
Jory felt sick. “Oh God. You couldn’t stop?”
“Never can. You slam on the brakes, but . . . yeah. Not a chance. Just gotta wait. For the bang. Takes ages. I mean, it’s seconds, yeah. Less? Dunno. But it takes ages. And you just gotta wait.”
Jory had both arms around him now, and was holding as tight as he could.
“Is he all right, dearie?”
Jory looked up. Two watery blue eyes were peering down at him from a face that was a mass of concerned wrinkles under feathery white hair. “Um . . .”
“Too much sun, is it? Sweet tea, that’s what he needs. You bring him along to mine, dearie. It’s only two doors up.”
Jory glanced at Mal, who had gone back to staring into space. Sweet tea was good for shock, wasn’t it? And Mal certainly seemed like he was in shock.
Somehow Jory found himself getting Mal to his feet and half supporting him as they followed the old lady and her shopping trolley. It had jaunty little sailing ships on it, and a faded sticker of a butterfly.
It was unexpectedly tiring to move at the speed of an old lady. The few yards felt like half a mile.
“You can call me Helen, dearie,” she said as she let them into her terraced house.
“Oh. Ah, I’m Jory and this is . . . Malory.” Jory hoped Mal wouldn’t mind, but she didn’t seem the sort of person one introduced people to using their nickname.
“Malory? That’s an unusual one. Come on in, dears.”
Mal hadn’t reacted at all—not to the name and not to the comment. Jory helped him into the house and tried not to panic.
The street door opened directly into a tiny front room. The walls were covered in photographs: laughing, gap-toothed children, young people wearing academic robes and clutching scrolls, and at least three wedding photographs in varying degrees of faded colour and fashion disaster.
At Helen’s direction, they sat down on a surprisingly modern sofa. This was probably just as well as what Jory at first took to be a fluffy, if slightly tatty, black cushion on one of the armchairs turned out, on closer inspection, to be a cat. At any rate, that was his best guess, given that he could see it breathing.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” Helen said, carrying on into the kitchen.
Jory knew he should offer to help—but he couldn’t shake the fear that if he let go of Mal for a moment, something terrible would happen. “Thank you,” he said, so as not to seem utterly devoid of manners.
He turned to Mal, who was breathing more easily now, thank God. “Are you all right with this? We don’t have to stay here if you don’t want to.”
Mal closed his eyes. “No. ’S okay.” He opened them again and smiled faintly. “Think that’s her?”
Jory followed his gaze to the oldest wedding photo, in black-and-white, which showed a strikingly attractive young woman with an unimaginably tiny waist, beaming as if overjoyed to be wedded to a rather ordinary-looking man.
“I think so.” Jory tried in vain to trace any resemblance between the glowing young bride and the old lady with the shopping trolley, but he didn’t doubt it was her.
Helen returned with a mug in each hand. “I hope you don’t mind, but I just can’t be doing with cups and saucers these days. Young men prefer mugs anyway, don’t they?” She bent to put them on a side table, a process that took an alarming amount of time.
She bustled away, returning soon after with a mug of her own and a plate of chocolate biscuits which shook slightly as she held it. Jory hastened to take it from her. She dimpled at him. “They’re Sainsbury’s own brand, but they’re very good.”
Helen eased herself down into the cat-free chair and smiled at them. “It’s not the sun, is it?” she asked calmly. “Don’t you worry. My Peter’s boy came back from Iraq with that PTSD. Used to jump at loud noises. He’s much better now. Drink your tea, that’ll help.”
Mal lifted his mug and took a sip. Then he grimaced. “Blimey, you got the EU sugar mountain in here?” He took another mouthful, though, and then a third.
Jory, relieved as he was to hear Mal talking normally, eyed his mug and wished for a handy potted plant and a moment’s inattention on Helen’s part. But when he took a cautious sip, he found his tea to be strong, sparingly milked, and unsweetened.
Helen caught his eye with a satisfied look. “You should have a biscuit, both of you,” she insisted. “I’ll never manage to eat them all by myself.”
Jory handed the plate to Mal, who took one and demolished it in a couple of bites. “’S good,” he mumbled through his mouthful, and for a moment Jory was back in the museum at their first meeting. Christ, had it really only been a few days ago?
“You’re not from around here, are you? Oh, I know who you are, Jory Roscarrock,” she added, sending a frisson of surprise down Jory’s spine. She nodded towards the mantelpiece. “See that picture, with the boy in the stripy top on his dad’s shoulders? That’s my grandson Patrick with his eldest. I remember when you two were thick as thieves, running round barefoot all summer and covering his mother’s carpets in sand.”
Jory stared at her for a moment, then after a glance at Mal, he got up to examine the photograph. That was what Patrick looked like now? His hair was thinning, and he had what Jory had seen referred to on the internet as a “Dad body.” Jory wouldn’t have known him. The child he carried was too small to have grown into recognisable features, but Jory fancied he saw a hint of the young Patrick in his eyes, and his smile.
He felt a sharp pang of loss for that far-off time when the worst thing that could happen had been a rainy day. “He’s . . . doing all right?”
“Very well. He’s living in Newquay now. His wife’s a lovely girl. A pharmacist. Patrick met her at university.”
She didn’t ask about Jory’s marital status. Perhaps she already knew that too.
“I’ll tell him you asked about him. He’s a good boy. Rings me every week.”
“I, ah, I’m glad to hear it.”
“’S important. Family,” Mal spoke up out of nowhere.
“I’m sure you’ve got a lovely family, dear. London, is it, you’re from?”
Mal nodded.
“And you’ve brothers and sisters?”
“Just a sister. Morgan. She’s gonna have a kid.” Mal, who’d been mostly talking to the carpet, looked up. “I mean, she’s got a husband and all,” he said earnestly.
Helen twinkled. “Why is it the young always assume the old will be shocked by modern ways? When you reach my age, dearie, you realise there’s nothing new under the sun.”
“Gay marriage. That’s new,” Mal said with a hint of challenge that Jory was glad to see, possible offence to their kind hostess be damned.
“Oh, people have always managed to find each other somehow. Now, will you have another biscuit? More tea?”
Mal grabbed another chocolate biscuit and pretty much inhaled it. Then he drained his mug and stood up. “Thanks. You’ve been— Think I’ll be okay now. And . . . Cheers. Your grandson’s a lucky bloke. Nah, don’t get up. I’ll wash the cups and all.”
He collected their mugs—Jory finished his tea hastily before handing his over—and walked out of the room with purposeful stride.
Jory was left with his childhood best friend’s grandmother.
She smiled at him. “I always thought it was a shame when they sent you off to school. But from what I hear, you’ve done well for yourself.”
Jory was almost afraid to ask, but—“What have you heard?”
“You’re Dr. Roscarrock now, aren’t you?”
He shrugged, awkwardly. “Nobody calls me that.”
“Perhaps they should. Are you back here for good?”
“Yes. I—” Jory took a deep breath. “I wanted to spend more time with my son. Gawen. He’s twelve now.”
“His mother’s an artist, from what I hear,” she said placidly. “Does he take after her? Or is he more like you?”
“Me, I think. In looks as well as temperament.” Unnerved by her level of knowledge about him, Jory fumbled in his pocket for his phone, and found a recent picture of Gawen to show her.
“Oh, yes, he’s a handsome young man all right. I’m sure he’ll be breaking hearts in a few years’ time.” She patted his hand. “Not that I’m suggesting you’d do anything like that.”
“I, er— No.” Jory was relieved to see Mal’s return.
“You ready?” Mal didn’t sit down again, so Jory stood up, not sure himself that he wanted to spend any more time with this uncomfortably astute old lady.
“Yes. Thank you so much, Helen.”
“Oh, it was my pleasure. I don’t get many visitors who aren’t family. There will always be a welcome for you in this house, Jory Roscarrock. And you too, Malory.”
Mal nodded, his face a little pink. It was a definite improvement on the deathly pale of earlier. “You take care, yeah?”
She dimpled at them from her chair, obviously expecting them to see themselves out, so they did.
Once they were out on the street, a problem presented itself. Jory hated to ask, but: “Are you going to be all right to get back in the car?”
Mal flinched. “Uh. How far are we from the Sea Bell? Shit. Don’t think I’m going to make it to Tintagel today. Sorry.”
“You’ve got nothing to apologise for. And of course we’re not carrying on with a journey that’s making you uncomfortable.”
“Might be okay sitting in the back,” Mal said, but he didn’t sound all that certain. “’S what I did on the way from Newquay. Jago came and picked me up. Tasha sat in the back with me.” He gave a bitter laugh. “Like I was a little kid.”
“Or someone who’d had a traumatic experience. Look, we’re probably around an hour’s walk from the Sea Bell. I’m game if you are. I can come back for the car later.”
“You don’t . . . Shit. Cheers. That’d be good. But . . . Not straight back, yeah?”
“You want to go for a drink? Something a bit stronger than sweet tea?”
Mal shook his head. “Nah. Not gonna . . . I just need some fresh air, that’s all.”
“Well, you’ve come to the right place for that. It’s an endlessly renewable resource around here. We could bottle it and sell it.” Jory hoped he’d succeeded in keeping his tone light.
“Yeah, how come you don’t?” Mal gave him a weak smile. “They sell cans of Scotch mist up in Scotland.”
“I’ll suggest it to the local enterprise group.” Meaning Bea. Maybe not, then. “Are you sure you don’t want to go and get a drink?”
“No.”
Jory flinched at the unexpected vehemence.
Mal hunched in on himself. “Uh, sorry. Don’t wanna start down that road, that’s all. I’m fine.”
“No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed.”
“Nah, that’s good. Maybe we could go down the beach or something?”
Jory thought about it. “Harlyn Bay is closest, but it’s a surfing beach so it’ll be busy. We could take the cliff path back to Mother Ivey’s Bay, though. That’ll be quieter. Unless busy is what you want.”
“Quiet’s good. Not so many people to worry about. Feel bad, though. That’s gonna take you past your house, innit? Then you’ll have to come all the way back again to get the car . . . Listen, I’ll be fine, okay? I can make it back on my own.”
“Don’t—” Jory stopped himself. Don’t be silly probably wouldn’t go down too well. “Don’t worry about it. I like to walk. And the weather’s perfect for it.” It was: a cool breeze freshened the air, blowing clouds across the sun every now and then to dapple the streets with shade.
Harlyn was a small place—much smaller than Porthkennack—and they were soon out of the town, such as it was, and on to the cliff path that skirted the bay. Mal seemed to breathe more easily once they were away from traffic, thank God. By silent agreement, they cut across the fields to avoid going too close to Roscarrock House, and before long the beach at Mother Ivey’s Bay stretched out before them.
Mal got out his phone and glanced at the display. “Huh. That took less time than I thought.”
Jory nodded. “It’s only about a mile, a mile and a half. It just seems further in the car.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
It was high tide, which meant the main beach was cut off from the smaller ones at the lifeboat station end by craggy outcroppings of rock. They kept to the cliff path until they’d reached that point, and then scrambled down the rougher path to the beach.
As Jory had hoped, it was all but deserted. A man, a boy, and a dog scampered around at the water’s edge, and a teenage couple were wrapped up in each other by the cliffs at one end, but nobody paid the slightest attention to Jory and Mal.
Jory bent to pick up a likely-looking stone. “Let’s see if I’ve still got the knack.” He skimmed it at the sea, pleased to see it bounce five, maybe six times before sinking into the water.
“Hey, not bad. Let’s have a go.”
Mal, it turned out, didn’t have the first clue about picking good stones for skimming. His first effort disappeared straight into the water with a scathing plop. “Crap.”
“Try finding flatter ones,” Jory suggested. “And round, if you can. Think of it as the difference between a Frisbee and a ball.”
“Huh. Yeah, that makes sense.” Mal’s next few efforts were much better. “Hah—bet I could beat you with a bit of practice.”
It warmed Jory inside to see him returning to his usual self. “Let’s see you, then.”
Whiling away an hour or so out here in the fresh air, with nothing more immediate to worry about than who could grab the best stones first, was just what the doctor ordered. Jory couldn’t stop continually glancing at Mal, and the warm feeling grew as he saw the colour return to his face and the brightness to his eyes.
By the time his arm started to tire, Mal was rivalling him for number of bounces. “Do you want to sit down for a bit?” Jory asked.
Mal nodded, and they headed up, closer to the bottom of the cliff. The sand here was bone-dry and scattered with broken shells and dried-up seaweed. Jory sat down first, and when Mal joined him, sitting so close their hips touched, it seemed natural to throw an arm around him, as he had up in town.
Jory wondered if he should talk to Mal about what had happened, but he had a feeling that peace was what was needed right now. Just them, the rush of the waves, the calling of the gulls, and the occasional bark from an unseen dog. The silence felt more intimate, somehow, than any words could have been, although Jory couldn’t help a twinge of guilt at relishing a closeness brought about by such appalling circumstances.
After a while, it was Mal who broke the silence between them.
“He died.”
Jory blinked. “What?”
“The bloke who jumped under my train. He died. People always wanna know. So. Thought I’d save you asking.” Mal paused. “He was a young guy. Depression, they reckoned. ’S a bastard.”
“My father killed himself,” Jory blurted out, then hugged himself, too late to stop the words escaping. “Oh God. You don’t want to hear about that.”
“How’d he do it?”
“The cliffs. At the back of our house.” Jory couldn’t help glancing over in the direction of Big Guns Cove, although the curve of the bay shielded it from view. “They called it an accident but, well. We knew.” Probably everyone had known, but the coroner had been an old family friend.
“Fuck.”
Jory nodded. “It was . . . My mother died a few months before that. They were everything to each other.”
“Christ, that’s . . . How old were you?”
“Seventeen.”
“And it was just you, your brother, and your sister after that? How much older than you are they again?”
“Nine years.” It’d seemed like a lot back then.
“And a year or two later you met Kirsty and had Gawen.” Mal said it as though the timing was significant.
Perhaps it was. Jory had always shied away from too much analysis of that time in his life.
Mal’s head dropped onto his shoulder, and Jory couldn’t help turning to nuzzle his hair. It smelled of lemon and salt, and was softer against his cheek than it looked. Mal muttered something that sounded like fucked up, and then he lifted his face to Jory’s, and kissed him.
Oh God. His lips on Jory’s were demanding, and the taste of him intoxicating.
Jory felt clumsy, oafish in comparison as Mal twisted in his arms and grabbed hold of him, one hand on his jaw and the other low on his hip. Jory opened his mouth to the hot tongue that sought entry, surrendering eagerly to the invasion. His whole body was alive with sensation—and the need for more, damn it.
When they finally broke apart, Jory wasn’t the only one breathing hard.
“So. Yeah. That happened,” Mal said, drawing back and shifting a few inches away on the sand. His voice was as rough as the craggy granite cliffs that surrounded them. “Uh. Probably shouldn’t happen again, yeah?”
Oh. The fizzing inside Jory suddenly went flat.
“See, you’re Dev’s uncle, and he’s my best mate. I don’t wanna fuck that up for him. Not just for a . . .” Mal made a vague gesture that seemed to encompass all of Jory in his glorious inadequacy. “Whatever.”
“Fine,” Jory found himself saying. So that was how Mal thought of him, was it? Just a . . . whatever. Well, perhaps it was better to find out sooner rather than later. “No, you’re right. That would be . . .” He stood up, feeling cold and very alone. “I’ll, um, let you get on, then.”
“Jory . . .” Despite the pleading tone, when Mal got to his feet he took a step back, widening the distance between them.
“You’ll be okay to get back from here?” Jory asked, his tone harsh in his own ears.
Mal drew in a breath as if to say something—but then stopped and shook his head. “Yeah, mate, I’m good. Cheers for . . . you know. I’ll see you around, yeah?”
Jory nodded curtly. Mal paused again, then turned and walked away.
Jory didn’t watch him go.