Mal turned up at the museum ten minutes early but decided it’d be awkward if he went in and Jory couldn’t leave. Especially seeing as there probably wouldn’t be any visitors, just him and Jory watching the clock.
So he wandered around a bit, having a gander at the place from the outside. It was . . . Well, maybe it was the old-time equivalent of a midlife crisis flashy car? All big and show-offy, as if the bloke who built it was all, You think this is impressive? Wait till you get a butcher’s at my dick.
Then again, Mal drove big long trains into tunnels all day for a living, so it wasn’t like he had much room to talk.
When he stepped through the door dead on five o’clock, Jory was already there waiting, leaning against the front of his desk, hands in his pockets. He glanced up, and fuck, that smile ought to come with a health warning, cos it was doing some serious damage to Mal’s heart.
“Are you up for something physical tonight?” Jory asked, stepping away from his desk.
Mal took a step back before he knew what he was doing, and threw a furtive glance around the place in case there were any late visitors still there. “Uh, mate, see, I thought we weren’t gonna—”
“I didn’t mean . . .” Jory swallowed, his face redder than the worst sunburn Mal had seen in his life, and he’d spotted a few classic English lobsters on the beach only this afternoon. “Caving. I thought we could go caving.”
Oh. Mal wasn’t disappointed. He fucking wasn’t, all right? He turned and led the way out of the museum to cover his embarrassment. “Uh, yeah. Sorry, bruv. One-track mind, me.”
“I suppose it helps when driving a train,” Jory deadpanned as he locked the door.
Mal’s laugh was a bit higher pitched and more girly than he’d have liked it to be, but at least it let out some of the tension. “Mate, that was terrible. Seriously. Never, ever give up the day job.” He coughed. “So, uh, caving? Don’t we need like equipment and stuff for that? Or were you talking about the tourist caves?” He’d picked up a leaflet about them in the tourist information place, all floodlit and a bit, well, tame if he was honest.
Jory looked smug. “There are some old smugglers’ caves almost directly under Roscarrock House that have never been open to the public. I used to explore them when I was a boy. And I didn’t have any special equipment then.”
“Weren’t your mum and dad worried you’d, like, get buried alive or something?”
Jory gave a shifty glance to the side as they walked along the path. “Um. I might have neglected to tell them exactly where I was going.”
“Bloody hell. My mum always had to know where I was going, who with, and when I was gonna be back. To the minute.”
“You grew up in the city though. Dangers around here are different—or at least, people used to think they were, back then.” Jory gave a twisted smile. “And maybe kids were different. These days you don’t worry about letting them run around freely so much as count yourself lucky if you can get them out of doors at all.”
He must be thinking about his kid. Gawen. Mal wanted to ask what he was like—except there was an ugly feeling twisting his chest and he worried he’d end up saying something he didn’t mean. “So . . . we going straight there?”
“Actually, I was planning to get changed first.” Jory’s tone was apologetic as he glanced down at his posh chinos, and yeah, Mal really ought to try thinking before he opened his mouth. “You should probably do that too. Wear clothes you don’t care about—the tunnel should be dry, this time of year, but just in case. And we’ll need torches, of course. Um. I could pick you up from the Sea Bell if you like, but . . .”
Yeah, no. It was bleedin’ obvious why the bloke wouldn’t want him in his car after yesterday. “No worries. Long as it ain’t too far.”
“It’s just past Roscarrock House. How about we meet up halfway there, say in about an hour, hour and a half? I’d say sooner, but I walked to work today. Sorry. If I’d had your number, I’d have called to tell you not to waste a journey to the museum.”
Huh. Mal stopped in his tracks. “Seriously? We ain’t swapped numbers yet? Gimme your phone.”
Jory, who’d stopped when Mal had, dug into his pocket and handed over the latest iPhone. Mal snorted.
“What?”
“Ah, nothing.” Mal tapped in his number and saved the new contact, then handed back the phone. “Just, I wouldn’t have put you down for an Apple sheep. If I’d had to guess, I’d have thought you’d have one of them ancient flip-out things with buttons and a battery that lasts three weeks.”
“I did. This was a Christmas present from Bea.” Jory—well, if he’d accused the bloke of it, he’d probably have denied it to his dying day, but Mal knew a pout when he saw one. “I liked my old phone. This one’s always running out of charge because I forget to plug it in overnight.”
Mal grinned. “Yeah, my dad’s always doing stuff like that. Having a senior moment, he calls it.”
Jory gave him a filthy look. “Just because I haven’t become totally enslaved to technology doesn’t mean I’m senior, thank you.”
“Apart from, you know, literally.” Mal laughed. “What? You’re older than me. It’s a fact. Get over it.”
“Not that much older. Seven years, if you’re the same age as Dev.”
“Not like you’ve been counting or nothing.”
“It’s an odd thought that I’m closer in age to my nephew than to my sister,” Jory said, with a smile Mal couldn’t quite read. “Um. I should get moving.”
“Right. Yeah.” Mal jammed his hands in his pockets. It brought his hand into contact with his phone, which jogged a memory. “Uh, you should text me or something. So I’ll have your number.”
“I’ll text you when I’m on my way out again, how about that?”
“Yeah, fine. See you in a bit, yeah?”
Jory walked on up the path, and Mal turned to go in the other direction, back to the Sea Bell. It occurred to him a moment later he could have carried on walking with Jory for a while, cos he had bugger all else to do for the next hour, but he’d have felt a right dick running after him now.
Nah, it was fine. He’d see plenty of Jory later.
Mal ended up spending the time drinking tea in the pub kitchen and making sandwiches, cos Jory hadn’t mentioned anything about food and Mal wasn’t taking any chances.
“You’re hungry tonight,” Tasha said pointedly.
“I’m a growing lad,” he shot back.
“You’ll have a growing arse at this rate, and then what you gonna do when no one fancies you?”
He shrugged. “I’ll always have me rats.” Mum had called earlier to let him know that they were all okay and she’d dug Hermione a nice little grave in the park, with a lolly stick cross with her name on like they’d used to do when he was a kid. She’d asked how he was, and he’d said he was fine, and if she didn’t believe him, that was her problem, wasn’t it? He hadn’t told her about the car thing. It’d only worry her.
“Well, I s’pose even sad old cat ladies have gotta have someone to look down on. So you’re out tonight, then?”
“Yeah.”
“Seeing that Roscarrock bloke?”
“What’s it to you?”
“Fuck you and all. So’s it serious, then?”
“What? No. I mean, it’s not even an it, all right? I wouldn’t do that to Dev.” Shit, had his face gone red?
She shrugged. “Suit yourself. You ain’t joined at the hip, though.”
“You what?”
“You and Dev. So what if you shag this bloke? It don’t mean it’ll fuck stuff up for him and Dev. That’s if Dev wants to get to know him in the first place.”
“Uh. Right.” Shit. Why did everything have to be so bloody complicated? “This is all seriously doing my head in,” he muttered, and let his head sink down to the table.
“Poor baby.” Tasha gave him a hug, then a jab in the ribs that made him sit up straight all in a jerk. She laughed. “You got mayo in your hair. Better wash that out before you see him, or he might think you started without him.”
“We ain’t starting nothing, you got that?”
Tasha gave him a long, hard look. Then she shrugged. “No skin off my arse either way, but you wanna have a bit of fun, you should go for it, right? Life’s too short and all that bollocks.”
She just didn’t get it. And no way was Mal explaining it. Not even to her.
The text from Jory came through at ten past six, so he hadn’t hung about. “Right, that’s me off,” Mal said, grabbing his rucksack. It now held half a ton of sandwiches and a couple of bottles of cider he’d nicked from the bar. Jago had caught him red-handed, cos the old bastard had ninja skills, but he’d just rolled his eyes so Mal was fairly sure he didn’t mind. Or he was planning to bill him double later.
Course, if Jago had known one of those bottles was earmarked for a Roscarrock, he’d have shoved it where the sun didn’t shine. Mal was going to have to work on that—it wasn’t fair, Jago giving Jory shit for stuff his brother had done.
The clouds had blown over to leave a warm, sunny early evening, everything gleaming bright and smelling fresh from the earlier rain. If there was a better night for a picnic, Mal wanted to meet it. It was kind of a shame they were going underground, but then again, they probably weren’t going to spend all their time in a cave, were they?
He’d made it almost as far as the cottages above Mother Ivey’s Bay when he saw a long, lean figure coming out from behind them. He stared as the figure waved. It looked longer and leaner than he’d expected, somehow.
It was Jory, yeah—and he hadn’t been kidding about changing his kit.
“Hi, you made good time, then,” Jory called as they drew close.
“Fuck me,” Mal blurted out. “Are you wearing tights?”
Jory was in, like, head-to-toe Lycra: a blue T-shirt that clung to everything—Christ, Mal could see his nips; he was going to fucking dream about those—and black leggings that hugged muscular thighs and made Mal want to climb him like a tree.
He was going to kill Tasha, putting all those thoughts of shagging Jory in his head.
Yeah, right. Cos there was no way he’d ever have come up with the idea on his own . . .
“Oh, ah, yes.” Jory shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. “It’s what I wear when I go climbing. They’re very comfortable to move in.”
“I bet.” Mal would be quite happy to move into them right now, ta very much.
“And they’re less likely to catch on anything. Being close-fitting,” Jory added.
“Yeah, noticed that.” Mal was well proud of his voice for not coming out sounding strangled.
“I, um, brought a spare pair. If you wanted to borrow them. It’s pretty deserted up there—no one would see you change.”
Fuck him dead. “Uh, thanks, but I’ll stick to me jeans, okay?” At least they, and the baggy T-shirt he was wearing loose over them, had some hope of camouflaging the stiffy that was already threatening to put in an appearance. Christ knew if he’d be able to control himself when he got a good look at Jory’s arse in those tights. He’d probably pass out from lack of blood to the brain.
And yeah, wearing Jory’s gear was kind of tempting, but for all the wrong reasons.
“That’s fine. It’s not like we’ll be doing any actual climbing.”
They walked up towards Roscarrock House, then followed the lane on past for several hundred yards. Jory stopped at a lay-by, where there was a gap in the hedge.
“We’ll have to backtrack a bit, but, um, the more direct route goes from Roscarrock House. I doubt it’d improve the evening to run into Bea or Bran.”
As far as Mal was concerned no part of the day was likely to be improved by meeting either of those two, but it probably wouldn’t be polite to say so. “No worries. Told you I was up for being energetic, didn’t I?”
Jory coughed. “Right. Let’s go, then.” He led the way through the hedge.
“Did you bring them torches?” Mal asked after they’d walked a short way back.
“Better. I brought us a couple of headlamps.” Jory stopped, slung his backpack onto the ground, and bent down to rummage inside.
His arse looked every bit as good in those tights as Mal had been picturing.
Fuck my life. Mal squeezed his eyes shut for a long moment, but that just made it worse. It was like Jory’s perfect arse had been printed on the inside of his eyelids. Handy for the spank bank, maybe, but not a lot of help right now.
He opened them quick when Jory spoke again. “I’ve only got one hard hat, so you should take that.”
Mal glared at the yellow hard hat Jory handed him. “Uh-huh. I know what this is about. You want me to be the only one with helmet hair.”
“Believe me, it’s preferable to the other option.” Jory pulled on a headlamp to show him, and Mal had to laugh. The straps flattened his hair in weird places, leaving him with a sort of reverse Mohawk.
“Heh, okay, I’ll believe you. So do I put this on first, or do you fit the lamp to it first, or what?” Mal put the hat on without waiting for an answer, just to see how it felt.
Jory stepped up close to him. “We can do it either way.”
Do it any way you like, mate— Shit. Mal had to stop taking everything as a bloody innuendo. He took a deep breath, as Jory got even closer and reached up to fit the lamp onto his helmet, still on Mal’s head. He’d showered, Mal realised—Jory smelled fresh and clean, with a hint of something posh he couldn’t identify.
His dick started to stiffen, and Mal desperately tried to think unsexy thoughts. Old women in saggy tights who smelled of Germolene. Dev’s farts after they’d had a curry.
Dead bodies on a train track.
Fuck. Mal stepped backwards, breathing hard.
“Mal? Are you okay?”
His stomach threatening a revolt, Mal held his hand up for a mo, then crouched down with his head low until he could speak. “Sorry. Had a . . . flashback thing. Sorry.”
“Oh God.” Jory was down there with him in an instant, kneeling in front of him and holding him lightly by the shoulders. “Sorry. I should have thought—of course you wouldn’t want to go underground—”
“What?” Mal looked up at him, startled. “Nah, mate, it’s good. I mean, underground ain’t the Underground. Like, no trains. That’s the main bit.”
At least, he hoped not. Now Jory had mentioned it, he was starting to worry—for fuck’s sake, if just trying to get rid of a stiffy was going to set him off . . . No. He was good. He stood up, carefully in case he got light-headed, but he was fine. “Come on. You promised me a cave.”
Jory’s leg muscles did wonderful things as he got easily to his feet. Seriously, Mal was going to find out who made those climbing tights and give them a fucking awesome review. “Remember, we can cut it short anytime you like.”
“Gonna give me a safeword and all?”
Yep, one track mind. God, he was so screwed. In the totally nonliteral sense. Fuck his life.
Then again, it seemed to have stopped Jory worrying Mal was about to throw a wobbly any minute now. He was smiling, and a bit pink, but all he said was, “Will red, amber and green do?”
“Nah, that’s well boring, that is. Tell you what—if I say ‘Mordred,’ that means stop, and if I say ‘Merlin,’ that means carry on. And, uh, ‘Arthur’ means hold up a minute and wait for the second coming.” Jesus, where was his brain getting all this shit?
Jory laughed, though, and Mal found himself smiling right back. They just stood there for a moment, and there was definitely something going on . . .
Then some old bloke with a dog strolled past and called out, “Evening,” and Jory blinked and said, “Okay, it’s this way,” and they were off over the field, the moment lost.
Which was good, yeah. Because . . . reasons.
Right.
“So how many people know about this cave of yours?” Mal asked, matching Jory’s long strides across scrubby grass.
Jory shrugged. “None that I know of. It’s on Roscarrock land, and Bea and Bran don’t like to walk up on the cliffs.”
Shit. Mal had almost forgotten what Jory had told him about his dad, and how much of an arsehole did that make him? “You don’t mind?”
“No. I like it out here.” Jory turned to Mal. “We weren’t close, and if it was the only way he was going to find peace . . .”
Mal swallowed and nodded. He wondered if that poor sod on the tracks had found peace. Couldn’t quite see it, not with . . . Shit. Not going to think about that.
“I only found it by chance,” Jory went on briskly, which Mal was grateful for. “The original entrance has been lost for a century or longer. Probably caved in, if not deliberately blocked by the authorities. The Roscarrock boundaries aren’t as wide as they used to be.”
“‘The authorities’? That mean the excise men, like in all the stories about smugglers?”
Jory huffed a laugh. “More likely the local council, concerned about possible casualties.”
“Yeah? Thought nobody sued in them days.”
“Apparently they cared about people getting injured even if it didn’t directly cost them.” Jory walked past a footpath sign pointing off at a tangent, and opened a gate marked PRIVATE—NO TRESPASSERS.
One of those Roscarrock boundaries, Mal guessed. He followed Jory through and closed the gate behind him. “You’d never believe that of the tossers they have in power these days. I don’t mean just here. Anywhere you go, politicians are a bunch of smarmy, lying bastards. Don’t matter if they’re Westminster or local government.”
Jory’s smile was wry. “Bran was a local councillor, until he decided it was taking too much of his time away from the property business.”
Mal gave him a sharp look. “Or he’d made enough contacts already to make sure all his planning applications would go through no questions asked? Shit. Sorry. I know he’s your bruv.”
“It’s okay. You haven’t exactly seen him at his best.”
Technically he hadn’t seen him at all, but he also hadn’t seen any evidence the bastard actually had a “best,” either. Mal bit his tongue on that one. “So how do you know it’s a smugglers’ tunnel?” he asked instead. “Could it be, like, an old mine, or something?”
“There’s no tin in these lands. Or anything else worth having.” Jory made a sound that could have been a grim laugh. “You can bet Bran would have exploited it if there was. It’s possible the excavations were started in a search for minerals, but nobody knows for sure. Anyway, there’s only one use around here for a tunnel that goes down to a secluded cove.”
“Shagging?”
Okay, the next noise was definitely a laugh. Maybe a bit of a splutter. “Smuggling. As if you didn’t know. Here we are.”
Mal stared. “It’s a hole. In the ground.” It was like some giant had pressed the fingers of both hands into the earth and then pulled them apart, leaving a narrow gap about ten feet long and maybe two feet wide. Or if you saw it another way . . . well, with the grass and weeds growing all around it, it looked like a bloody great green minge. There was even a roundish bit of rock at one end to complete the picture. Not that Mal had anything against minge, but . . . “We’re going in there?”
“Don’t worry. I’ve been doing this since I was a boy.”
“Early starter, were you?” Seeing Jory’s baffled face, Mal went on quick. “Right. Uh, don’t we need ropes and stuff?”
“This way into the tunnel was created by a cave-in, so it’s pretty steep for the first few yards, but you can easily manage.” Jory sounded a lot more confident than Mal felt as they stepped up to the edge.
“Bloody hell, it’s like the entrance to the underworld. You sure we ain’t gonna meet a welcoming committee of orcs, morlocks, and a bloody great dog with three heads?”
“Not unless they’ve moved in here since last summer. And I strongly suspect I’d have noticed if so.”
“That the last time you were down here?”
Jory nodded. “I was thinking of bringing Gawen, but he’d been having nightmares at the time, and Kirsty thought it might make things worse.”
“Did you see a lot of him, back when you weren’t living here?”
“As much as I could. Which wasn’t really enough.”
“That why you moved back?”
“Yes. He’s . . .” Jory sighed and crouched down at the edge of the hole, staring into it. Mal tried not to fixate on those muscular thighs, lovingly outlined by the skintight leggings. “He’s getting bullied at school. It’s always been a problem, but last year it suddenly started getting much worse. Puberty, I suppose. Sometimes I wonder if he would have done better with a private education, but Kirsty wanted him to go to school locally, and I wasn’t so sure I wanted to push the issue. That was the one good thing about my school, though. Being bright didn’t automatically make you a target.” Jory glanced back at Mal. “Did you have that problem? I mean, you’re obviously bright and well-read.”
Mal blinked. Then he forced a grin. “Nah, mate. Me, well-read? Bollocks. I just remember odd stuff.”
Jory raised both eyebrows. “Sorry,” he said after a long, awkward moment. “Not the sort of thing you’d want to be reminded of.”
“Hey, no worries,” Mal said automatically. He really wasn’t comfortable with the whole topic of conversation. Which was why it made bugger all sense when the next minute he blurted out, “It was crap for a bit, but it stopped when I got friendly with Dev. No one wanted to mess with him.”
Jory smiled. “He stood up for you?”
“Nah, it was more, people left me alone cos I was with him.”
It was stupid, cos it wasn’t even true. Well, it was, but it wasn’t the whole story. Yeah, hanging around with Dev had pretty much instantly made Mal, who’d been the weediest, swottiest eleven-year-old on the planet ten times cooler, but . . . Shit. No way was he telling Jory the other reason the bullies had laid off him.
“Gawen came up with a different method of dealing with it, I suspect,” Jory said, looking away again. “He’s never admitted it, but his school grades suddenly went right down last year. I think he was getting questions wrong on purpose in the hope that the less able children would like him.”
Mal closed his eyes briefly. Nail on the head or what? Fuck his life. “Yeah. I get that.” His voice came out rough.
Jory gave him a look that did weird things to Mal’s insides, and grasped his arm firmly.
Mal coughed. “Right. We going in, then?”
“If you’re ready.” Jory switched on his lamp and started to clamber into the hole. It was like watching the world’s buffest baby getting born in reverse.
Mal shook himself and switched on his own lamp.
“Careful on this bit,” Jory said.
“Don’t worry. I’m well careful, me.” Mal tried to lower himself into the gap the way he’d seen Jory do it, feetfirst and inching down a steep, uneven slope. He ended up sliding the last few feet on his arse. Jory held out a hand to help him up, which Mal didn’t take for a mo because he was so busy looking around.
There was enough light coming from above, and from their headlamps, to show him that they were in a rough tunnel that extended down into darkness. It was sort of man shaped. But bigger. Yeti shaped, maybe? The walls were greyish and uneven, and the floor was only mostly flat.
At least it was tall enough to stand upright, even for Jory. “Ready to go?” he asked.
Mal nodded, the light cast by his headlamp bobbing. “Yep. Lead on.”