Kirsty’s house suited her, Mal reckoned when he got round there just before seven. It was small, but sort of quirky. The terrace was built on a hill so each house was a few feet higher than its neighbours, and Kirsty’s, on the end, was the tallest of the lot. The whole row was painted white with grey roofs so they looked like proper old-fashioned Cornish cottages and they were all weird angles too, which shouldn’t have worked but did.
Even if he’d lost the address, Mal would’ve known Kirsty’s house—the front garden was all pebbles, with driftwood sculptures taller than he was set up in it. When he got closer, Mal could see the pebbles were arranged into patterns, with little pools of smaller ones set around plants and sculptures.
There wasn’t a door bell, so he knocked on the wood of the front door.
It was opened by a young lad with wire-framed glasses and a serious expression. “Are you Mal?”
“Yeah. Gawen?” Mal tried to make sure he said it right.
The lad was so much like Jory, it kind of hurt to look at him. He was small for twelve, just like Jory had said he’d been himself, and had the same big soft eyes and wary expression. His hair was all Jory too—blond and unruly. Not much sign of a beard yet, but give it time.
“Yes. Mum said you should come on through.” He turned and walked down the narrow hallway without so much as a glance to see if Mal was coming too. Amused, Mal shut the door and followed.
They walked literally right through the house and out back to the garden, Mal catching a glimpse on the way of a sitting room that was all bright colours and patterned throws. Kirsty was standing in the garden, a glass of something in her hand, gazing over the fence, where the view stretched out across the fields. She had a skirt on this evening, a long, flowy one in tie-dye shades of purple, as seen on market stalls and students just back from a gap year trekking through India.
“Mum, he’s here,” Gawen said.
Kirsty smiled. “Found us, then.”
“Uh, yeah. Brought this.” Mal held up the two-litre bottle of Rattler.
“Snap.” She toasted him with her glass and drained it.
“Do you like gaming?” Gawen asked. “I’ve got the beta version of Legends of Lorecraft II. Do you want to play it with me?”
Kirsty rolled her eyes at Mal, then turned to Gawen. “Not everyone wants to sit in front of a computer on a day like this, love.”
“Oh.” He stared at his feet and didn’t say anything else.
Mal felt bad for the kid. “Hey, I got mad gaming skillz, me. See these thumbs?” He waggled them in front of Gawen. “Honed by years of shooting stuff up. So you gonna show me this game of yours, then?”
Gawen looked at Kirsty. “Can I?”
She smiled. “Course you can. I’ll start getting dinner on. And no,” she added, turning to Mal, “I don’t need any help, before you start trying to split yourself in two.”
“Thanks, Mum,” Mal said to make Gawen giggle, and followed the kid up to his room, leaving the cider in the kitchen on his way through.
Gawen’s bedroom must have been amazing for a small boy. Instead of wallpaper there was a mural stretching over two walls, showing a winding trail that led through forests and across rivers and plains to a castle perched high on a hill, the scene filled with animals and mythological creatures. There was a dragon flying in the far distance, and a mermaid in the river—Mal could just see her through the gap in a bookshelf that’d been shoved in front of the mural to hold a collection of sci-fi classics and a haphazard pile of video games. A Star Wars poster was Blu-Tacked half over a faun, and a collection of stickers floated in the sky.
Gawen flung himself down on the floor in front of his open laptop and handed Mal a controller already hooked up to a USB port. Mal grinned. “Come on, then. Show me how it’s done.”
He lost track of time, playing the game—it wasn’t easy, keeping up with the kid—and was surprised when Kirsty poked her head around the door. “Come on, you two. Didn’t you hear me calling? Dinner’s ready.”
Now she mentioned it, Mal could smell it—something rich and meaty, with a strong hint of tomato and garlic. Suddenly he was starving. “Right, yeah—sorry about that. Uh-oh. Think I just died. Gotta work on them dodge-rolls. You ready for your tea, JJ?”
“‘JJ’?” Kirsty asked, as Gawen shut down the game and scrambled to his feet with all the grace of a new-born elephant.
“Jory Junior,” Mal explained with a shrug by way of apology.
She winced. “Call him that again and you’ll be wearing your dinner, not eating it.”
“I don’t mind, Mum,” Gawen said, pushing back his glasses with a finger.
“You’re your own man, Gawen Roscarrock, and never forget it,” she said, turning to lead the way downstairs.
Dinner was Moroccan lamb with couscous, which they ate with forks sitting out in the back garden around a weathered wooden table. Mal tried not to laugh at Gawen carefully picking out every single bit of dried fruit from his couscous and piling it on the side of his plate. He didn’t do too well. Gawen sent him a shy, guilty smile.
“That’s all I need, you encouraging him,” Kirsty said with a mock glare in Mal’s direction as she grabbed the bottle of cider and gave them both a top-up. “I ought to make you eat them instead.”
“Hey, no problem. Nothing wrong with getting your vitamins.” Mal slid his plate next to Gawen’s and scooped the little pile of reject fruit onto his dinner.
The back garden was like the front one, except different. Half of it was paved over and the rest was decking, but there were plants all over in bright earthenware pots, and climbing things growing up the fence on all three sides. It was filled with reclaimed-looking furniture that’d probably sell for a fortune if you shoved it in an antique shop somewhere like Notting Hill. Mal could just see Kirsty scouring auctions and house sales for it. Maybe skips and rubbish dumps too—she didn’t seem the sort to worry about getting her hands dirty.
He’d never lived in a house with a garden, so he’d never really got it when people on the telly talked about outdoor rooms, but yeah, here, he could totally see it.
“You lived here long?” he asked, fairly sure he knew the answer.
“Since just before my baby here was born.” Yeah, he’d been right.
Gawen went pink. “Mu-um.”
“Get used to it, mate.” Mal ruffled Gawen’s hair. “I’m twice your age and got me own home, and my mum ain’t stopped calling me her baby yet. Hey, this is awesome. Authentic African recipe?”
“Sainsbury’s magazine. But close.”
A large, fluffy cat with a fuck-off expression and only one eye jumped up on Kirsty’s lap. She stroked it absently with one hand, and carried on eating with the other.
“Yours? Or is he only visiting?”
“Well, I feed him, but I think he belongs to himself.”
Gawen leaned over to pet the cat in his mum’s lap. “He just turned up one day. I call him Tigger.”
“Yeah? You sure, mate? He don’t look all that bouncy to me. Maybe we should get him on a trampoline.”
Gawen giggled. “Have you got a cat?”
“Me? No. I’m a rat man. Always have been.”
“Explains a lot,” Kirsty said, and cackled.
“Oi, watch it, you.” Mal chased the last of his meal around his plate, not wanting to waste any.
“Rats caused the black death.” Gawen’s voice started off disapproving but ended up like a question.
“Jesus, you cause one little plague that killed off half of Europe, and nobody ever lets you forget it, do they? And it wasn’t the rats, smarty-pants. It was the fleas that carried the germs. Wasn’t the rats’ fault no one had invented spot-on treatments yet, was it?”
“How many rats have you got?”
“Seven. Uh, no, six, since Hermione died. And no, not of bubonic plague,” he added pointedly.
“Were you sad when she died?” Gawen asked.
“Yeah. Yeah, I was. She was a good rat.”
Mal glanced over at Kirsty, expecting a smart comment, but she just raised her glass of cider. “To Hermione.”
He smiled, touched. “To Hermione.”
Gawen broke the moment by getting to his feet. “Mum, I need to do my homework now.”
“Course you do, love. Don’t worry about the dishes. Me and Mal’ll clear up.”
She didn’t make any move to leave the table as Gawen went inside, so Mal topped their glasses up. It was nice sitting here, out in the fresh air with the sky turning pink. “He’s a good kid.”
“He is.” Kirsty stood up, the cat tumbling off her lap without even a yowl, like he was used to it. “Let’s go sit on the bench. It’s the best place to watch the sun go down. Better make the most of it—I think the weather’s on the turn.”
Mal grabbed his glass and the bottle and joined her on the bench. It was the old-fashioned wrought iron type, but she’d stripped it down, painted it sky blue, and bunged on a few patchwork cushions. And it faced right at the blaze of colour in the sky as the sun disappeared over the hills. Dev’s bloke, Kyle, he’d have loved that sky. He’d done a couple of paintings of sunsets, the colours all way too vivid to be accurate, except they were, Mal realised, gazing at what was in front of him. Funny how your mind did that. Had to turn down the brightness on reality before you could believe in it properly.
“Nice view,” he said, and yeah, well eloquent, mate. Embarrassed, he nodded to the wooden shed beside them, painted to match the bench. “That where you keep your driftwood—you know, the stuff you haven’t done anything with?”
“The smaller pieces are in there. I’ve got a garage for the larger bits.” She fell silent again.
“Is Gawen arty like you?” There hadn’t been much sign of it in the kid’s bedroom, unless Mal was doing him an injustice and he’d painted that mural himself, but you never knew.
She half laughed. “Gawen? No. He’s not arty.” Then she sighed. It was a soft sound, almost lost in the birdsong, the voices of her neighbours, and the far-off traffic noise, but it was there.
“No?” he prompted.
She shook her head, smiling, and stared at the sunset. “I thought he was gonna be like me, you know? Free-spirited, nature lover, bit of a rebel, the sort who doesn’t care what everyone else thinks about him. Then I ended up with this kid who loves school and is like a genius at maths, and he hates parties, and if I didn’t drag him out now and then, he’d spend his whole life indoors on his computer. I mean, I love him to pieces, I really do.” She looked right into Mal’s eyes, her gaze earnest. “I just . . . I just don’t get him. He’s too like Jory.”
“What’s wrong with that?” It came out sharper than Mal had meant it to. He offered her a top-up as an apology.
She gave him a lopsided smile as she held out her glass. “Nothing. I don’t know how to talk to him, though. He’s all quantum mechanics and computer games and nanotechnology, and I can smile and nod, but basically it’s all whoosh.” She mimed something flying over her head.
“Yeah, but . . . does Jory know any of that stuff?”
“That’s the weird part. He’s all into his ye olde knights and damsels stuff, but somehow when Gawen talks, he gets it. And if he doesn’t get it, he goes away and reads up on it till he does. I wouldn’t even know where to start. Like, there was this trading cards game Gawen was obsessed with a while back, and I read the manual three times and I still didn’t have a clue, but Jory taught himself in a weekend so’s Gawen would have someone to play with.”
Mal took a long swallow of his cider. He felt kind of weird, watching her smile get wider and her eyes turn softer as she talked about Jory being this great dad. “You ever wish you and him were, you know, together?”
Kirsty burst out laughing. “Fuck me, no.” She shook her head, still giggling. “Don’t get me wrong, I love him, I really do, but him and me? Not a chance.” She gave Mal a sly look. “Thought you were well in there, though. What happened?”
Mal screwed up his face. He didn’t want to bring Dev into it all. He hadn’t even told him about Jory yet. It didn’t seem right, telling everyone his business. “Ah . . . It’s complicated. I . . . I’m not in a good place to start something like that. And there’s family stuff going on . . .” It was technically true. Just not Mal’s family.
She was nodding. “Know what you mean.”
“You see much of his brother and sister?”
“No more than I can help. They don’t like me much.” She gave another of her little half laughs. “Not sure those two like anyone except each other.”
Mal gave her a look. “You don’t mean . . .?”
She frowned—and then burst out laughing, a loud, earthy sound that filled the air and would probably have the neighbours coming round to complain if she kept it up. Or to ask if they could stay and have some of what she was having. “Oh God. Don’t even make me think about that. No, God, no. Nothing like that.”
“Thank Christ for that.” Jesus, what had he been thinking, asking that question? That would’ve been a fucking fantastic thing to have to explain to Dev about his mum and his uncle.
“Although mind you, I’ve never seen either one of them with a lover,” she said in a teasing voice.
“Oi, don’t start. Kinda weird, though, innit? Jory keeps saying how his big bruv’s so hung up on Family with a capital F—you’d think he’d be keener to have one himself.”
“Would you? I reckon it was the best day of his life when Jory went and provided him with an heir so he wouldn’t have to do anything messy like make one himself.” She took a gulp of cider. “My Gawen’s going to have a lot on his shoulders when he grows up, poor love. I know Bran reckons he’s going to take over the family property empire one day.”
Anyone would think the poor kid was Bran’s, not Jory’s. “Sounds like he’ll be well minted at any rate.”
“I’ve always wanted him to make his own way in life. Not just follow in his uncle’s footsteps.” She leaned back on the bench and closed her eyes for a minute. “So what do you do for a living? I bet you didn’t blindly go into the family business.”
Mal had to laugh. “Yeah, well, that’s where you’d be wrong. I’m a Tube driver, like me dad before me.” Funny how he didn’t mind saying it. She was so easy to talk to. Somehow, as the sky got darker and the warm breeze cooled, Mal found himself pouring out the whole sorry story of his introduction to London Underground’s suicide statistics. “It’s just . . . you have to sit there, and you know it’s gonna happen, and it takes like forever. And afterwards, you think, I had all that time, why the bloody hell didn’t I stop it?”
“But you couldn’t, right? Trains take, I don’t know, a hundred yards to stop, don’t they? More?”
“I wasn’t even going that fast. I’d braked, coming into the station. He was on the platform . . . Shit. You don’t wanna hear about this.” He buried his face in his hands.
“I don’t mind. If you want to talk about it, go ahead.” She reached over and stroked back Mal’s hair from his forehead. “I never used to believe in all that time-slowing-down bollocks till I had a scare with Gawen when he was a tot. And it is bollocks, cos it’s not like you can do anything with all that extra time. You just get to suffer longer.”
Mal nodded jerkily. “What happened?” He didn’t want to be the one talking anymore.
“He was on a kiddies’ slide in the park, see, a big one, standing up right on the top, ready to go down. He was only little, not even two.” Kirsty paused to take another drink from her glass. “I was down the other end of the slide, waiting to catch him, talking with another mum, you know how you do. Well, maybe you don’t. And I’d been so careful the first half-dozen times he went up and down that slide. Held my arms up by him ready to catch him, and all that. But he’d done it perfectly, each time, climbed up the steps and launched his little self down, and I s’pose I thought he had it down pat. So I stayed at the bottom that go round. There I was, watching him from what, six feet away? And this time, he doesn’t sit down on the slide. God knows why, but he just sort of topples off the side of it, six feet up. And all I could do was watch as he fell for what seemed like years, head down, about to crack his little skull open on the ground.” She took another swallow of cider.
“So . . . was he hurt?”
Kirsty gave a laugh. “Managed to turn himself over, somehow, and landed on his back. I’ve got no clue how it happened. He hardly even cried after he hit the ground. And all I could think of was that was the longest few seconds of my life.”
Mal nodded and raised his glass to that. A few drops of cider sloshed out of his glass, mostly onto his jeans but some of it landing on her skirt. “Whoa . . . Sorry. Got outta the habit of drinking lately. Just call me a cheap date.”
“No harm done. Not like it’s dry-clean only, is it? And we’ll dry off quick out here.”
She was probably right, although it wasn’t nearly so warm now that the sun had almost disappeared. Mal found himself shifting a bit closer to her. She didn’t seem to mind—in fact, she slung her arm around him.
She was warm, and soft, and comforting, and while it wasn’t like being with Jory, it felt like it, sort of, cos she was connected to him, wasn’t she? She was his kid’s mum. Mal snuggled in closer still. Kirsty squeezed tighter and gave him a peck on the cheek, like she was his mum or his nan. It was nice. He ought to tell her that. “You’re nice,” he said fuzzily.
“So are you.” She kissed him again, this time on the lips, and that was okay, yeah, a bit weird maybe, but then it got more intense, and that wasn’t what he wanted. Not really. Mal was just trying to work out how to cool things down without hurting her feelings when he heard a voice.
“Kirsty? Gawen said—”
It was Jory.
Jory. Mal pulled back from Kirsty so fast he nearly fell off the bench.
Jory was standing in the doorway from the house, hanging onto the doorframe like it was all that was holding him up.
Staring at them.
There was a horrible silence. All Mal could think of to say was It’s not what it looks like. And when did anyone ever believe that?
Jory’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I . . . Never mind. I’ll go.”
Before Mal could come out with a single word, Jory turned on his heel and left.