“Over here.” Mal’s voice was more distinct this time. Closer.
Frustrated with his slow progress, Jory got back to his feet and set off in a running crouch. It was a mistake. The ground seemed to fall away suddenly, taking Jory’s feet with it, and he landed on something soft that said, “Fuck,” and grabbed hold of him with both hands. “Jory?” was gasped out, and his name had never sounded so sweet.
It was Mal.
“Thank God.” It came out embarrassingly heartfelt, but Jory couldn’t bring himself to care too much. In any case he was busy running his hands over all of Mal he could reach. Damn it, if only he could see . . . Oh. Feeling like an idiot, he turned his headlamp back on. That first glimpse of Mal’s face, dripping wet and mud streaked, made him dizzy with relief. “Are you hurt? I mean, your leg—how bad is it?”
Tasha stumbled down beside them, half-landing on Jory’s shoulder. “Shitfuck. Babe, you okay?” Her voice was high and thin.
“Yeah, I’m good. Chill, Tash.”
Chill?
Mal was lying in a depression caused by the collapse of the tunnel, his legs buried. God, how long had this weak spot been waiting for someone to tread on it at the wrong moment? Mal could have been buried alive down there. Why the hell hadn’t Jory been more responsible? He should have reported it, had it roped off—
“’M okay,” Mal said. “Just, there’s this rock or something? Couldn’t shift it.”
Jory dug down around him with numb fingers. There wasn’t so much this rock as there were a number of large rocks jamming Mal in place. “Tasha, hold on to him,” he ordered, just in case he managed to dislodge the one thing keeping Mal from total inhumation.
“Got him.”
Her words were confirmed a moment later by Mal’s “Ow, fuck, not so tight.”
Jory carried on digging, vaguely registering a good deal of swearing along the lines of You wanker, you do this again Imma cut your balls off with a spoon.
Tasha was definitely growing on him.
Then he found what Mal had been talking about. A larger fragment of what had once been the tunnel roof was jammed against Mal’s thigh. It had to be bloody painful. Jory stared, blinking rainwater out of his eyes. Was that blood on his jeans? Or just dirt?
Either way, he needed to get Mal out of here. “Tasha?” he yelled. “When I tell you, can you try and pull him out—not yet,” he added as Mal cursed. “When I tell you.” He dug frantically, but it was no use. The fragment was stuck firm, damn it. Jory couldn’t shift it—and was scared to try in case he hurt Mal more. He sat back on his heels for a moment, thinking.
“Now?” Tasha yelled.
“No,” Jory and Mal shouted back simultaneously.
“I’m going to try digging the other side of you,” Jory decided. “Take off the pressure.”
It was easier going, digging this side. Relatively speaking. “Have you got him?” he yelled to Tasha as he felt Mal shift.
“Yeah. Want me to pull?”
“Wait . . .” Jory dug further and felt another give. “Okay, now,” he ordered, slinging his arms around Mal’s body and doing his best to heave him upwards, hoping desperately Mal would have the sense to stop them if they were injuring him.
Mal moved—and then Tasha yelped as Mal landed on top of her, and Jory barely managed to keep from adding his own not inconsiderable weight to the pile.
They all lay there for a moment in the pouring rain, breathing hard—and then Jory realised Mal was laughing.
Thank God. Jory fumbled over to take him in his arms, while Tasha scrabbled away from them with a muttered “You arse.” Jory kissed Mal’s rain-slick face, tasting dirt and not caring. Mal’s mouth found his and locked on tight, even when Jory’s headlamp bashed him on the forehead. Jory managed to let go of him long enough to tear it off clumsily and let it fall where it might.
He’d probably regret that later, but right now he didn’t give a damn. He was too busy reassuring himself Mal was alive, was okay.
God knew how long they were kissing. Long enough for Tasha to yell a disgruntled “Oi, are we ever getting out of this pissing rain?”
Good point. Jory drew back from Mal, reluctantly. “Can you walk?”
“Dunno. Give it a go, yeah?”
Jory helped him up with hands that, now the urgency had gone, were beginning to feel rather the worse for wear—and almost dropped him when Mal stumbled. Tasha caught him from the other side.
Jory adjusted his hold. “Can you put weight on your leg?”
“Uh. Bit?”
“We just need to get you to the car.” Jory hoped to God Mal wouldn’t have another panic attack, but making him walk further than he needed to and maybe exacerbating his injuries wasn’t an option.
“Come on, you tosser, stop being a baby.” Tasha’s tone was more sympathetic than her words. “Fuck. Which way are we going?”
Jory took a moment to orient himself. The tunnel was there and the ground sloped in that direction, so . . . “This way.” He didn’t need his headlamp, so long as he kept the hedge beside them, and he certainly didn’t want to keep Mal out in the rain while he tried to find it.
He took as much of Mal’s weight as possible as they stumbled along the field, past the place where the Qubo was parked—he didn’t much fancy trying to get an injured man over the hedge—and down to the gap he and Mal had come through a few days ago. It seemed more like months had gone by. Jory pushed the memories to the corner of his mind, alongside the knowledge that, relief at finding him aside, he really had no idea where he stood with Mal.
“Uh, dude, where’s your car?” Mal asked as they emerged from the fields.
“Up the road. Sorry. Didn’t think it through. Just wanted to get to you as quickly as possible.”
Their feet splashed in a river of rainwater as they hobbled up the narrow lane. Fortunately, Jory consoled himself, he was soaked through to the bone already so he couldn’t get any wetter. They probably looked like contestants in some bizarrely overpopulated version of a three-legged race, had there been anyone around to see, which, thank God, there was not. Especially since if a car should come along, it was doubtful they’d be coordinated enough to get out of the way in time.
He’d thought he’d been keeping in shape since coming back to live here. The pounding of his heart and the straining of his lungs as he half carried Mal up the hill told him he’d better work harder on his fitness.
Reaching the Qubo, Jory felt like a fisherman who’d weathered the mother of all storms and had at last spotted the harbour lights of home. Fumbling in his pocket for his keys, he had a moment’s panic that he’d dropped them somewhere in the fields, before realising he’d left them in the ignition in his hurry to get to Mal.
Thank God the local car thieves were a fair-weather lot.
Tasha was panting hard as they eased Mal into the Qubo’s passenger seat. “Fuck me, Mal, you gotta go on a diet.”
“Oi, I’m all muscle. Weighs more than fat.” Despite his cheery words, Mal’s face was pale under its smears of grime.
Jory squinted at him in the sudden brightness of the car’s interior light. “How’s your leg?”
“Still there. Fuck. Feel a bit sick.”
“We need to get you warm and dry.” Jory hesitated. “Roscarrock House is closest.”
“Nah. Just wanna go home.” Mal looked around. Jory wasn’t entirely sure he was seeing what was actually there. “Back to the pub. With Tasha.”
“You’ll be all right going that far?”
“’M what?”
Never mind, then. Jory slipped into the driver’s seat and was startled to realise he still had his rucksack on his back. He wrestled it off, Tasha helping from the back seat.
“Oh my God, babe, your hands are a mess,” Tasha said, sounding horrified.
Jory was faintly shocked to realise she was talking to him, not to Mal. Since when did he merit a babe? “It’s okay. I can drive.” Although for the first time in his life, he was half wishing he’d bought an automatic. He gritted his teeth and put the car in gear.
It must have been past closing time when they got to the Sea Bell, but you wouldn’t have known it from the number of no-longer-young men still propping up the bar. It worked to their advantage in that one of them was Dr. Prowse, a semiretired GP who was able to check Mal over and pronounce him probably able to survive the night without visiting a hospital.
Jago Andrewartha hadn’t exactly looked approvingly at Jory when they’d walked in supporting Mal, Tasha’s T-shirt plastered to her chest and all of them streaked with mud and dripping on the floor, but at least he’d allowed Jory to take Mal upstairs and help Tasha get him changed into dry clothes and settled into bed.
“I was really fucking careful, you know?” Now coherent, thank God, Mal resembled a teenager, his towel-dried hair fluffing up against his pillow.
Jory knelt by the side of the bed. His clothes had started to dry on him, surprising him with the revelation that yes, they could get even more uncomfortable than they had been soaking wet. “You were? I must have missed that bit.”
“Watched me step, you know, so’s not to fall down the hole. Didn’t know I was gonna make a new one.”
Tasha snorted. She was in a big fluffy dressing gown with her hair in a towel, as if she’d just stepped out of a bubble bath, the sort that involved scented candles and a glass of wine. “Yeah, and we’ll rip you a new one if you ever do anything like that again.”
Jory was absurdly touched by the we in her threat. “What was so funny, earlier?” he asked Mal. “Remember? You were laughing after we pulled you out of the hole?”
“Fun— Oh. Me. Sorry. Your mum ever read you that fairy story about the enormous turnip? You know, where the whole bloody town and all the animals help pull it out of the ground and end up on top of each other?”
It struck Jory as far more hilarious than it should have. He snickered as silently as he could, probably sounding like some kind of cartoon dog.
“You’re an enormous turnip all right,” Tasha muttered darkly. “You ever go trying to bury yourself alive again, I’ll put you in a fucking pasty.”
“Oi, but then it wouldn’t be an authentic Cornish pasty. No turnips in one of them. Only swedes allowed.”
“You can fuck authentic. You can fuck it right up the arse.”
“Couldn’t do that. Me bloke here would get jealous.” Mal smiled at Jory—but then the smile faltered. “Uh . . .”
“I should go,” Jory said abruptly, getting to his feet. “You need to rest. And if you still can’t put weight on that foot in the morning, go to emergency and get an X-ray. Despite what Dr. Prowse said.”
“You should stay,” Tasha blurted out. “I’ll make you a cuppa.”
“No. Thanks. I need to . . .” Jory gestured vaguely at his clothes.
Mal made a half-hearted offer to lend him something dry to wear, but they both knew it would have been a very tight fit. Tasha didn’t, thank God, suggest lending him something of Jago’s.
“Take care,” Mal said, grabbing his hand and squeezing it so hard it hurt.
Jory nodded and left.
Back at Roscarrock House, Jory parked the Qubo in the old stables and trudged across the yard. He took his rucksack and Tasha’s headlamp with him—he’d need to dry everything thoroughly if he ever hoped to use it again. He was weary to the bone and desperate to avoid bumping into his brother or sister on his way through the house—Bran for one would be bound to ask why Kirsty had been here, and she was one person he really didn’t want to talk about right now.
So, of course, as Jory stepped in through the back door, Bran appeared in the doorway from the dining room. Maybe he’d been lying in wait. Jory nodded curtly, hoping Bran would take the hint, and carried on past him.
His hopes of peace were short-lived. “What the bloody hell do you think you’ve been doing?” Bran demanded.
Jory barely had the energy to spare his brother a glance over his shoulder. “Not now.”
He was utterly shocked to be grabbed by the shoulders and yanked around, hard. Christ, where had Bran found the strength? Jory almost fell, but regained his footing just in time. “What are you—”
“Have you been out on the cliffs?” Bran demanded.
“What? Why would—”
“What the hell do you think you were doing, playing at silly buggers in the dark? Are you out of your mind? Don’t you give a damn about the rest of us?” His face was livid.
Jory shook off his grasp and took a cautious step back. “Bran, you’re not making sense.”
“Don’t be an idiot. I can’t believe you’d do this to us. After Father—” Bran’s voice cracked.
“What? Bran, I wasn’t on the cliffs. Do you honestly think I’d be that stupid? In the dark? When it’s this wet?”
“Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve been climbing again, sneaking out when you think I’m not watching. I’ve seen you. And you’re soaking wet and you’ve got all that . . .” Bran gestured at Jory’s hand, from which Tasha’s headlamp and the rucksack were dangling by their straps. “That . . . stuff. Whatever you call it.”
“I wasn’t on the cliffs, okay? I was in the old smugglers’ tunnel. There was a cave-in—not while I was in it,” he added quickly, as Bran’s expression darkened even further. “A . . . friend. He called me and asked for help.”
“Why didn’t he call the bloody emergency services? And what friend?”
Did they really have to do this now? Fine. Jory stared his brother down. “They wouldn’t have known where to find him. I did. And he’s someone I’ve been seeing.”
“‘Seeing’? You’re a married man.”
“No, I’m not. I never have been. Not truly. And we’re getting divorced. Kirsty and I agreed.”
“And you didn’t consult me? Gawen is my heir, and this is his life we’re talking about. You’re so bloody selfish.” Bran’s tone turned spiteful. “You needn’t think you’re bringing your friend here to live with you.”
“Christ, Bran, just when I start to believe you actually give a damn whether I live or die—”
“Of course I don’t want you to die!”
“Maybe not, but I’m not sure you really want me to live, either.”
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“I’m sick of you trying to run my life. I’m not a teenager anymore. I don’t need you making decisions for me. I certainly don’t need you to tell me who I can and can’t live with.”
“While you’re living under my roof—”
“And that’s another thing. This house . . .” Jory waved a weary hand. “It’s . . .” Full of ghosts, he wanted to say, but that wouldn’t be fair on Bran. “It’s not me. It never has been. I should have got a place of my own a long time ago.”
“You’re moving out?” Bran’s tone was unsure, almost lost.
Jory nodded. “As soon as I can find somewhere. I’ll start looking tomorrow. For God’s sake, it’s not going to be far,” he added, exasperated by Bran’s wounded expression. “I’m staying in Porthkennack for Gawen, remember?”
“We’ll miss you.” It came out woodenly. Did that mean Bran was lying, or simply unused to expressing sentiment?
Most likely the former. Still, he’d said it, which was something.
“And this . . . man you’re seeing? Will he be moving in with you?” Bea’s voice, behind him, made Jory jump, and he turned to face her. How long had she been there, listening quietly?
She flushed, which probably meant it’d been some time.
“I haven’t got a bloody clue what Mal’s going to do now,” Jory said shortly.
He’d had enough. He stepped past Bran, kicked off his squelching shoes and left his headlamp on the hall table, the rucksack finding a home underneath. He could deal with them tomorrow. After a moment’s thought, he peeled off his sodden outer garments and left them lying in a heap on the floor.
Then he went to have a shower.
When Jory got back to his bedroom, he found Bea waiting for him, sitting demurely on the end of his bed in her pyjamas.
He tried not to sigh too audibly, but he was almost light-headed with fatigue and desperately wanted to be left alone.
“You shouldn’t be too hard on Bran,” she said softly. “All he’s ever wanted is to do what’s best for the family.”
“I know.” Jory nodded, because he did know. “The thing is . . . he’s not always right, is he? And God knows it’s taken me long enough to realise it. I’m sorry, Bea, but I’m not going to let him browbeat me into making the wrong decision again.”
Her face closed off, but she nodded. Then she stood and finally, finally let him go to bed.
Jory was asleep almost before the door had closed behind her.