Mal stumbled to his feet, knocking over his half-full glass of cider which he’d left on the decking at the side of the bench. It didn’t break, which was good, wasn’t it? Thinking of omens and stuff. “I gotta go after him.” The warm cotton-wool haze from the alcohol had left him completely, but his head was still fuzzy, and how fucked up was that?
About as fucked up as his life right now. But he had to talk to Jory. He knew that much.
Kirsty grabbed his arm. “Wait a minute. You told me you and Jory weren’t a thing.”
“We’re not . . . Not exactly. Ah, shit.” Mal raked his hand through his hair.
“We get detention for swearing at school.” That was Gawen, poking his tousled blond head out the back door at them. “Why’s Dad gone already?”
“He forgot something,” Kirsty said. She was still holding on to his arm, and Mal didn’t want to wrench it away from her in front of the kid, but he had to go after Jory.
“Look, I gotta go. I’m—”
“I think he’s gone now. He came in his car.” Gawen was watching them with a weird detached curiosity, like he was going to write it all up for English class later, maybe under the title of How Adults Fuck Stuff Up.
Kirsty’s hold loosened, and Mal legged it round the side of the house to the front.
There was no sign of Jory or the Qubo.
Mal sank onto the pebbles in despair, his face in his hands. “Shit, shit, fuck.”
There was the crunch of footsteps. “You going to tell me what all that was about?” Kirsty’s voice was thin and tight.
Christ, where to start?
He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up big time.
Shit. He didn’t deserve to live. The look on Jory’s face . . . Mal scrunched his eyes shut, but it only made the image clearer.
Jory’d been so hurt.
It was the classic fucking bisexual cliché, wasn’t it? Can’t trust a bi bloke, they’ll always cheat. And with the bloke’s wife, for fuck’s sake.
“Christ, I’m such a shit,” he muttered into his hands.
But . . . he’d been so lonely, and she’d been so warm, and kissing her had made him feel close to Jory in some totally twisted way. He’d liked her. He’d really liked her. It hadn’t been the same—not remotely—as him liking Jory, but for thirty seconds, he’d got confused. And that had been all it took.
And now what the hell was he going to say to Dev when he got here? Yeah, met your uncle and he was all keen to get to know you, but then he caught me snogging his wife and now he’ll probably slam the door in your face just for being a mate of mine?
He didn’t deserve mates like Dev.
He didn’t fucking deserve anything.
“Come on inside. I’ll make some coffee.” Her voice was softer now, and a hand dropped onto his shoulder and squeezed.
Mal stood up. “No. I gotta go.”
He couldn’t stay here, not where it’d all gone so arse-wipingly wrong.
Mal started walking down the road, and Kirsty didn’t follow him, thank God. He needed to clear his head. Somewhere no one was going to find him. Christ, he wanted Tasha—but how the bloody hell could he tell her he’d fucked up Dev’s one chance of getting to know his mum’s family?
At least one thing they had a shedload of around here was empty space. People always said Cornwall was heaving in the summer but it was bollocks. Away from the tourist bits, there was no bastard there. Mal turned his steps in the direction of Mother Ivey’s Bay. He wasn’t sure exactly where he’d come out, but it didn’t matter, did it?
What did matter anymore?
He found himself heading up the cliff path towards Roscarrock House. And that was a fucking joke, that was, because Christ, after this evening, there was nobody in that house who’d let him in. Unless they planned on shoving him straight through the house and off the cliff the other side, that was.
Maybe he’d even let them.
It’d started to rain, big splats soaking through his T-shirt and making him shiver. He didn’t stop walking, though. At some point, his phone vibrated, but he ignored the call. If it was Tash, he’d end up having to tell her what had happened, and he couldn’t face that. If it was Jory . . .
Nope. Definitely couldn’t face that.
Fuck, it was getting dark. To be more accurate, it’d pretty much got dark. The rain was coming down harder now, drenching his shirt and running in trickles through his hair and down his face like tears. He should probably stop and find shelter.
Like that was an option. What was he going to do? Bang on the doors of one of the cottages? Break into the one Dev and Kyle had rented and should have been in by now? Besides, if he stopped walking, he’d start thinking, and he just couldn’t deal with that. Not now.
Mal carried on walking. Up the hill, and past Roscarrock House, and fuck, Jory would be in there, wouldn’t he? Thinking Mal was a total fucking bastard.
He’d be right.
It was so dark, Mal could hardly see the edges of the road. If some git came driving down here with no lights on, he’d be a goner.
“Shit!” Mal screamed into the night. Anything to make the pictures in his head piss off and leave him alone. The rain took his words and drowned them.
If someone hit him, would they care? Would it fuck them up like it’d fucked him up? Or would they get over it, like a normal person would?
Like his dad would?
He didn’t so much see the lay-by as notice a change in the darkness at the side of the road. This was where they’d come, him and Jory. It’d all seemed so easy, going down that tunnel. Fun. Going somewhere nobody else knew about—not Dev, not Tasha, not his mum and dad. Nobody. He’d loved it on that beach at the end of the tunnel. It’d been like the rest of the world hadn’t existed, just for a while—until Jory had brought him back to earth with a big, messy splat by talking about his family.
Mal stood there for a moment. Rain from his hair ran down his spine and into his kecks, making him shiver. Christ. Where was he even going? At least the tunnel had fucking well been dry.
Sod it. Mal turned into the field. Straight up until he hit the gate, right? He could do that.
He hit the gate literally, walking bang slap into it in the dark and the pelting rain, but that was okay. He was pretty much numb by now. All he had to do was walk on some more until he found the hole. And not fall down it, because that’d be a fucking stupid thing to do.
Mal climbed over the gate, because he bloody well could, and carried on walking. His foot turned a few times on the uneven ground—where was a proper pavement when you needed one?—but he managed not to break an ankle.
Visibility was down to Har har, you’re screwed, mate. Christ, he was going to miss the tunnel, wasn’t he? Probably spend the whole night walking around in the rain, if he didn’t go straight off the cliff. The buzz from all that cider had left him, and now he felt so. Fucking. Tired.
Maybe he should go back? But if he carried on this way, he’d get to Roscarrock House, right? He was on their land. And then there’d be lights, and he’d know where he was, and he’d be able to . . . to call a cab, or Tasha, or fuck it, Dev, even. Except no, he couldn’t call either of them, could he?
Because he’d fucked everything up.
Water was trickling down through his hair, into his eyes, making them sting. God, he just wanted to go to sleep and never wake up . . .
And then the ground gave way.