It shouldn’t have hurt so much. Not like this. Not like a knife in Jory’s chest, slowly twisting every time he thought of Mal and Kirsty in each other’s arms—and the image of them together was seared into his brain.
Mal wasn’t his. He’d made that plain days ago. Jory had no call to be feeling so devastated. So betrayed. Why shouldn’t Mal and Kirsty . . .?
Oh God. Jory scrubbed at his eyes as he stumbled into the Qubo. He needed clear vision to drive. There was no Mal to save him from hitting stray pedestrians now, either real or imaginary ones. It wasn’t far, back to Roscarrock House. He’d almost walked from there to Kirsty’s, instead of bringing the car. Christ, if he had, he’d have got here, what, twenty minutes later?
What would he have walked in on then? Would Mal and Kirsty have been upstairs in bed? Maybe they’d have heard Jory knocking, would have sprung out of bed, tried to put on a front.
Maybe they wouldn’t have. After all, what claim did Jory honestly have on Mal?
But he’d hoped—
Jory cut off that line of thought viciously. He was driving. His eyes needed to be clear, damn it.
He somehow made it back to Roscarrock House without hitting anything, then sat, for a moment, in the car. Why the hell had he even gone out tonight? So he’d been lonely, stuck in a too-large house with a brother and sister who didn’t want him. So what? He could have phoned someone. Christ, he could have gone on bloody Facebook.
It seemed like he’d barely kicked off his shoes and slumped into an armchair before there was a ring at the doorbell. Jory ignored it. He wasn’t in the mood to be polite to people.
Then it occurred to him it could, possibly, be Mal, and he scrambled into the hallway, only to see Bran beat him to the door and open it as Jory skidded to a halt.
Bran’s body, and the angle of the door, shielded the caller from Jory’s view.
“Oh, hello. Everything all right?” Bran sounded surprised but not shocked. It wasn’t Mal, then, standing just out of Jory’s sight.
“Yeah, fine, but I need to speak to Jory, okay?”
Kirsty?
“Come on in, then.” Bran gave Jory a suspicious frown as he left them in the dubious privacy of the hallway.
Jory couldn’t blame him. Kirsty’s face was flushed, and her hair wilder than usual. God alone knew what he himself looked like.
Jory’s jaw clenched as he met her gaze. Christ, what was she about to say to him? Ask for a divorce so she could be with Mal? Or was Mal just another of her flings, easily left and soon forgotten? Anger and pain were making his heart ache so badly, he couldn’t even tell how much was for him and how much for Mal.
“Is Mal here?” she asked.
“What? No. I thought he was with you. In all senses of the word,” Jory added bitterly. He caught a strong smell of alcohol on her breath, and fury flared. “Christ, did you drive here?”
“Screw you. You are not my keeper. I got a lift from Sam next door, is that all right?”
“What about Gawen?”
“He’s twelve years old. I think he can manage in his own home for half an hour. Sam’s missus is gonna look in on him if we’re not back soon.” Then the fight seemed to go out of her, and she slumped back against the wall. “I’m not sleeping with him, okay?”
“What? Sam?”
“Mal. Nothing happened. Hardly even a snog. And it wasn’t his fault. We’d both had a bit much to drink, and I thought you and him weren’t a thing.”
Jory found his voice, although it didn’t sound much like him when he spoke. “No. We’re not.”
“No? Cos that’s not how you’ve been acting. Either of you.”
“I . . .” Jory had to look away. “Mal doesn’t want a relationship. Not with me.”
“Shit.” Her tone softened. “I’m sorry. Honestly. I’d had a few drinks, and Mal’s fucking lovely, so I kissed him. That’s all.”
She made it seem so easy. So natural.
But then, it probably was, for her. If she wanted something—someone—she just went ahead and took it, or them.
“You must have had some idea, though. How I felt about him. You saw us together.” He couldn’t help the bitterness coming through. She’d always been able to read him so effortlessly.
Her turn to look away. “Christ, Jory, you of all people ought to know I make shit decisions.”
“Because I was one of them?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Does Gawen know you feel that way?”
“Fuck you, Jory Roscarrock. No, he doesn’t, and if you ever tell him one word about it, I’ll—”
“Of course I’ll never tell him! What the hell do you think of me?” Jory spun and looked away. When he spoke again, his voice sounded broken to his own ears. “What do you think of me? Do you really hate me that much?”
“I don’t hate you. Not at all. You’re a sweet bloke. You should be happy.” She was crying now. He could hear it in her voice. The alcohol, he told himself savagely, and even tried to believe it. She sniffed. “I just . . . It was never supposed to be like this, you know? My life. I was going to do so much. I was going to go everywhere. And then I had Gawen, and he was sick so much when he was tiny . . . And I love him to bits, I really do. I’d die for him, no questions, no second thoughts. But he’s not like me. He’s like you. And sometimes I look at him . . .”
“And you can’t help resenting us.”
“You.”
Jory turned then and gazed at her tear-streaked face.
She shrugged. “I can’t resent him. He’s my little boy. My baby. So it all has to go on you.”
Should he be angry with her for that? Jory didn’t quite have the heart. “And that’s why you kissed Mal?”
“That’s not . . .” She glanced up at the sky. “See, you think everyone’s like you. Like, they think before they do things. Must be nice. Some of us just . . . I didn’t look at you and think, ‘Wow, posh boy, nice shoulders, bet he’s a virgin. I’m gonna change his whole world.’ Maybe that’s why I did it, but I didn’t know it back then. Maybe it’s fucked up. But it’s how I am. It was like that tonight. I didn’t know I was being a bitch. Not then.”
Was that really how people thought? How they acted?
Was that how Mal thought?
He’d said the same thing, the first time he’d kissed Jory. Something about it being fucked up.
Kirsty was speaking again. “It was never meant to be anything, me and him. Just a bit of fun. A bit of comfort, on a lonely night. Don’t blame him for it. He’s had a rough time, with what happened at work and all.”
“He told you about that?”
She nodded. “Think he was glad to get it off his chest. But you knew, right?”
Stupid, to feel hurt that Mal had confided in her. A better man would be glad Mal had been able to talk about it—glad, even, that he’d found someone he could have uncomplicated fun with, as he seemingly couldn’t with Jory.
Jory wasn’t a better man. “Where is he now?”
“He left.”
“But where did he go? Back to the pub?”
Kirsty shook her head. “Thought he’d come here. After you. He was really upset.”
“No. He wouldn’t come here.” Kirsty raised an eyebrow at Jory’s firm tone, but he wasn’t feeling up to explaining it all. “He must have gone back to the Sea Bell.”
“Right. Well, when you see him . . . Go easy, yeah? Wasn’t his fault. And I think you’re wrong, for what it’s worth. About him not wanting a relationship.”
Jory didn’t—couldn’t—believe it, but there was no point arguing with her.
Again, she seemed to see straight through him. “Don’t you dare tell me I don’t know what I’m talking about. You didn’t see him after you left. Like you tore his heart out and took it with you.”
She was being overdramatic. Mal didn’t feel that way about him.
Did he? Oh God. Was this Rafi all over again? “Kirsty . . .” Jory stopped.
She gave him a questioning look.
“Why did we never get divorced?” he asked.
Kirsty shrugged. “Because you never bothered, and I don’t care. What? I never have, you must know that. There’s a reason I treat our marriage like a joke, and that’s cos it is one. And it’s not just us. When did a bit of paper ever make a difference to whether people care about each other or not? The fact that people like you and me can get legally wed shows how fucked up the whole marriage thing is. If it hadn’t been for your big brother going all Victorian on us, I’d never have got married to anyone. Would you?”
Jory had never really thought about it. Had never allowed himself to think about it. He was starting to realise what a terrible mistake that had been. “I want us to do it. Get divorced,” he added hastily.
She snorted. “Don’t worry, I didn’t think you meant anything else. Fine. You sort it, I’ll sign it. Long as you don’t try and pull a fast one about custody of Gawen.”
“No. I don’t want his life to change at all.”
“Good.” She was silent a moment. “You should have stayed here, when he was little. I know it wasn’t what we agreed—fuck knows, it wasn’t even what I wanted, back then—but you should have stayed. He needed his dad, and you were off getting your degree from your posh college, collecting more letters after your name than were bloody well in it, and what was it all for?”
“I don’t know.” Jory took a deep breath. “If it’s any consolation, I think if I’d stayed, we’d have ended up really hating each other.”
“Yeah. Fuck it all. Sam’s waiting, and I’m going home to bed. You gonna find Mal? Tell him I’m sorry, and I hope he’s okay.”
After she’d gone, Jory grabbed his jacket—then stopped, irresolute. Should he go and find Mal? Or should he just leave it for the night? Let them both calm down?
He tried to imagine going to bed. Sleeping, with all this still unresolved.
To hell with that. He pulled his jacket on, grabbed his keys, and set off for the Sea Bell.
Walking into the Sea Bell after his reception the last time wasn’t the easiest thing Jory had ever steeled himself to do. At least this time he had the moral high ground.
Or had he? He was the one dating while married, for God’s sake.
But Mal knew how Jory felt about him. And God, to get off with Kirsty . . .
Jory wished he’d asked her more about what Mal had said, after Jory had stormed off without waiting for an explanation—although damn it, what he’d seen hadn’t looked like it needed explaining. She’d said he’d been really upset . . . Well, guilt could do that to you.
When it came down to it, he only had Kirsty’s word for it that Mal hadn’t instigated . . . what they were doing. Or even if that was true, that he hadn’t been perfectly happy with it all until Jory barged in.
God, this was so screwed up.
Jory walked through the pub to where Tasha was serving at the bar. He probably only imagined that all eyes were upon him.
Probably.
Jago Andrewartha certainly had both steel-grey eyes trained on his every move. He’d got up from his seat the minute Jory set foot inside the place, and had moved to stand by Tasha’s shoulder, his presence as solid and threatening as the granite cliffs around Mother Ivey’s Bay.
Jory drew in a deep breath. “Can I speak to Mal, please?”
It was Tasha who answered—and oddly, there seemed a hint of sympathy in her expression. “He ain’t here. Gone out for the evening.”
“He hasn’t been back?”
“No.” She bit her lip. “Was he with you? He said he met some girl.”
Jory tried to ignore the stab of pain that caused him. “No. Not exactly. I . . . ran into him. Them.”
She gave him a long look—then turned to Jago. “Think I’m gonna take my break now, all right?”
Jago gave a curt nod. “Take it outside.”
Jory flushed. Apparently his sort still weren’t welcome here. He checked to make sure that Tasha was coming out from behind the bar, then led the way outside.
The wind had picked up even in the short time Jory had been in the pub, and the darkening skies were made gloomier by thick, heavy clouds. He shivered.
Tasha shut the door behind them and folded her arms across her chest. “You and him have a row, then? Over this girl?”
Christ, at least she didn’t beat around the bush. “We didn’t have a row. We didn’t say much at all. I . . .” He swallowed. “I saw them together and left. There didn’t seem any point in staying. But Mal was . . . upset.”
“How’d you know? You went back? Wanted to have that row after all?”
“No—Kirsty told me.”
She frowned. “Kirsty?”
“My . . . ex-wife. The girl,” he added, frustrated at her blank expression.
Her eyes went wide. “Mal’s girl’s your ex?”
“No! It was all a misunderstanding. I think.” Jory closed his eyes briefly. “This is all such a mess.”
“Tell me about it.”
Jory would rather not, thank you very much. Luckily she seemed to have been speaking rhetorically. “But he hasn’t been back here?”
“No.”
“He couldn’t have gone up to his room via the back door?”
Tasha gave Jory a knowing look that made him squirm. “I can check. Wait here.” She disappeared around the side of the building, obviously planning to use the back door herself.
Loitering in the lane by the pub door made Jory feel like a child who’d begged an adult to buy him alcohol and cigarettes. The first few fat drops of rain began to fall, adding to his discomfort. A young couple hurried past him, sparing only a brief, curious glance at the idiot standing out in the rain in the dark.
Was Mal out in it somewhere?
Tasha returned, a little breathless and shaking her head. “Not there. Jeez, it’s pissing down. Come round the back out of it.”
Not without misgivings, Jory followed her back around the pub. They half ran through the back door and into the narrow hallway that housed the stairs going up to Mal’s room, where they stood, Tasha hugging herself. She was probably cold—her cut-off denim shorts barely extended past the hem of her oversized T-shirt, which had fallen off one tan shoulder. “So what happened when you saw them? Exactly?”
“They . . . they were kissing.”
“Shitfuck.” Her eyes widened, and she pressed a hand to her mouth. Taking a deep breath, she seemed to recover herself. “Then what? You have a go at him? Fuck me, what did he even say?”
“He didn’t say anything. I just left.” Jory forced himself to look her in the eye. “Has Mal confided in you?”
“Why d’you wanna know?” It seemed like a knee-jerk reaction, and after a moment her expression softened. “You mean, about what he wants from you? Look, he’s having a bad time right now. Don’t think he knows what he wants. Do you really like him?”
“Yes,” Jory said, his throat tight.
Tasha pressed her lips together. “And he told you why he’s here?”
“The . . . one under. The accident. He’s having trouble getting over it.”
“Yeah, well, who wouldn’t?” The defensiveness was back.
“I’m not criticising him. I’m sure I’d be equally devastated, if not more so. If anything it shows he’s got an imaginative, sensitive side.”
Luckily that didn’t seem to sound as self-congratulatory to Tasha as it did to Jory. She nodded. “Dev said Mal’s mum went round his flat and found him in a right state one morning. Said he begged her to take his rats cos he was scared he’d fuck something up and hurt them or kill them or whatever. I ain’t supposed to be telling you that, by the way, so don’t you fucking dare grass me up. But he’s had them rats for years. Nobody could look after them better than he does.” She paused. “You got any idea where he might’ve gone?”
“No.” When Jory thought of all the places he’d seen Mal . . . half of them were closed at this time of night and the rest didn’t seem likely in the rain. Why wasn’t he here?
She pulled her phone out from her back pocket, scrolled for a moment, then held it to her ear. Jory waited, his stomach churning—would she expect him to talk to Mal? If he’d wanted to do this over the phone, he’d have called himself, for God’s sake. He needed to see Mal. But after a minute or so, she shook her head and put her phone away. “Went to voice mail. Shit. Look, I’m gonna have to get back to work in a mo. Can’t leave Jago to do the bar on his own.” She didn’t move, though; just stood there leaning against the wall, hugging herself again.
Then she pushed off the wall with an explosive motion. “Fuck it. I ain’t leaving Mal on his own neither. Wait here. You got a car, right?” She threw the question over her shoulder as she stomped off deeper into the pub, presumably heading to the bar.
“Yes.” Jory took a deep breath. “I’ll see you out the front.”
He ran back around the building, trying and failing to avoid getting any wetter, jumped into the Qubo and switched on the engine and lights. What a hell of a night. Jory hoped to God that Mal was somewhere safe and dry.
“Have you got an idea where to go?” he asked Tasha when she burst into the Qubo a moment later, slamming the door behind her.
“Thought maybe down the prom. There’s a chippie down there he likes. Bit of comfort food, yeah? Where was he when you saw him?”
“At Kirsty’s. It’s closer to here than to the main seafront. You really think he’d go out all that way?”
“If he didn’t wanna talk about tonight, yeah.” She sent him a quick look and shivered. “And he probably didn’t wanna talk about it.”
“Would he go to a— No.” Jory put the car into gear and set off for Porthkennack proper.
“What were you going to say?”
“Pub. But it doesn’t seem likely.”
“Nope. He told you about his uncle, then? The one with the—” She made a drinking-up gesture.
“Yes.”
“What did he tell you about me?” she asked suddenly.
Jory frowned, most of his attention taken up by scanning the pavements as he drove past them. “That you’re Dev’s foster sister. And you mother him a bit—Mal, I mean—although that’s not quite how he put it.”
“That all?”
“That’s all I can think of right now.”
“He’s a good mate, Mal.”
Reaching the promenade, they fell silent. Jory drove slowly along, scouring the seafront for any sign of Mal. “What if he goes back to the Sea Bell?” he asked after a while.
“Jago’s gonna call me.”
Jory nodded, and they carried on their fruitless search a while longer, both of them, it seemed, too tense to talk. Then another thought occurred to him.
“What if he goes up the back—”
“Left a note on his bed,” Tasha cut him off. Jory drew in a breath, but she forestalled him. “’Nother one on the fridge. And the kitchen table, case he misses that one.”
She’d apparently thought of everything bar rigging the place with an intruder alert.
Tasha directed him to the fish-and-chip shop, which was brightly lit, had a neon sign advertising the place as Salt and Battery, and held nobody who even remotely resembled Mal. Jory sighed.
The longer they drove uselessly around, the more the nightmares crept in.
“He wouldn’t . . .” Jory stopped. God, no. Mal would never—
“What?”
“It’s . . . No. God.”
“What? I mean, seriously, what, cos you’re freaking me out here.”
Jory took a deep breath. “Hurt himself. Or . . . worse.”
“What? No. No way.”
Was she trying to convince herself?
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have suggested it.” Jory swallowed. “It’s how my father . . . But that was different. Completely.”
“Oh my God. Did he . . .”
“The cliffs. Behind our house.”
“Shitfuck. And you still live there? Oh fuck. Sorry. But Mal, he wouldn’t do that. Never. Swear to God. He knows what it’s like, don’t he? For people what have to pick up the pieces.”
“I . . . Yes. Of course.” Jory was silent a moment longer. Then, “I just wish he hadn’t been drinking.”
“What, Mal? He don’t drink a lot. Not lately, anyhow. I mean, he’ll have a pint, but that’s usually all he has.”
Oh God. They’d drunk more than that the day they’d had sex on the beach. Had Jory taken advantage of him? Was that why Mal had fled afterwards? “What did he tell you about me?” he couldn’t help asking.
Tasha ignored his question. “Oi, wait a minute. What do you mean he’d been drinking?”
Jory was about to answer when his phone rang. He exchanged a wild glance with Tasha, then pulled over to answer it, his heart jumping into his throat when he saw the call was from Mal. “Hello?”
“Uh. Jory?” Mal’s voice sounded off, somehow, but maybe that was because Jory had all but snapped out the greeting.
“Yes. Are you okay? Where are you?”
“Uh . . . I think I fell.”
“What? Fell where?”
“Your tunnel. Um. I think I broke it?”
“You bro— What the hell are you doing up there?” Jory’s voice was coming out high and strident, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it. “Are you all right?”
There was a horrible silence.
“Mal, for God’s sake, are you all right?”
“Uh. Yeah. Kinda.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Jory tried to slow his breathing down. “I’m coming up there. Stay put.”
“Yeah, not a problem.”
“Are you injured? Buried?” Christ . . . But no, if he was buried, his phone wouldn’t work, would it?
“Uh . . . Bit of both? I’m in the tunnel, and there’s stuff on me, but I’m still getting rained on? And my leg hurts. And I think maybe I twisted my ankle.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Jory?”
“Yes?” Christ, Mal sounded out of it. Dazed by the fall. The alcohol beforehand probably hadn’t helped, either. “Did you hit your head?”
“Bit. Jory? ’M sorry. Not just about this. About Kirsty. And being a fuckup.”
“You’re not a fuckup,” Jory insisted, holding the phone between his chin and his shoulder as he started the car and hoping there’d be no passing police to see him driving like that. Then again, he might be glad of some help. “Kirsty explained about . . . you know.”
Jory didn’t catch what Mal said next, but it sounded something like “wish she’d explain it to me.” That wasn’t important. What was important was getting to Mal.
Mal spoke again. “Sorry if I made you think I don’t care. Cos I do. Care. A lot.”
Jory ought to feel elated, but this was starting to sound horribly like a deathbed confession. “You can tell me in a minute, when I get to you. Talk to Tasha.” He thrust the phone at her and concentrated on driving.
It took a damned sight longer than a minute by the time he’d parked the Qubo at the side of the road at the nearest point to the tunnel and scrambled round to open up the boot. Jory grabbed both headlamps, pulling one on and thrusting the other at Tasha. He slung the backpack with his climbing gear in over his shoulder—who knew what he’d need?—and shut the boot. Then he vaulted over the hedge, forced himself to turn and give Tasha a hand although everything inside him was chafing at the delay, and then set off at a run, calling out Mal’s name.
His voice was probably lost in the rain that was still pelting down on them. Tasha kept pace with him somehow, not once complaining—unless you counted the frequent profanities that slipped out. Slipped was the operative word. Jory cursed himself for not changing his shoes. The ones he’d been wearing for work today didn’t provide even the scantiest amount of grip. Even trainers would have been an improvement.
He knew from the rise of the ground when they were nearing the mouth of the tunnel. “We’re here,” he called to Tasha. “Watch your step. Mal!”
He thought he heard an answer, half drowned by the rain. Jory cast around wildly in the dark—and glimpsed a light out of the corner of his eye. Mal, maybe, holding up his phone as a beacon? When he turned his head, it vanished. Thinking quickly, Jory turned off his headlamp and looked again.
Yes—there. Thank God. Scrambling over in the direction of the light, Jory almost fell into the tunnel—the mouth of it wasn’t as he remembered, the gash in the earth stretching farther than it had all the time he’d known it. “Be careful,” he yelled back to Tasha. “The tunnel’s collapsed.”
God, what he wouldn’t give for a moonlit night. Or at least for the bloody rain to stop. Jory got down on hands and knees and felt his way over the unsafe ground.
“Can you see him?” Tasha yelled. “Mal?”