Kyle stared after Dev in shocked bewilderment. What the hell had he done this time?
He played the conversation back in his mind as best he could and still utterly failed to account for Dev’s behaviour. What had he said?
Should he go after Dev? Apologise? He stared at the picture on the wall, irresolute.
Kyle blinked in the bright sunshine. He was standing in his front garden with, for some reason known only to his subconscious, the cheese grater in his hand. And no shoes on. Dev was nowhere in sight, which in the circumstances was just as well.
He had absolutely no memory of leaving his dining room. Well, this was what he got for thinking he could live a normal life. For ignoring the way his brain had fizzed and ached after the cataplexy attack on the cliff.
How long had he lost? He looked at his watch, which was utterly pointless as he hadn’t been keeping track of the time before the sleep attack happened. It’d probably only been a few minutes, based on prior experience. Plenty of time for Dev to be lost to him. Kyle cursed, and turned back to his front door.
Locked. And he hadn’t brought a key out. He picked up the large stone by the door, enjoyed for a moment the thought of hurling it through the nearest window, then put it back down and used the key that had been underneath to let himself back into his house. He didn’t forget to put the key back under the stone for next time.
Because there would be a next time, damn it.
And then it hit him. Oh God. He must have had an attack without being aware of it while Dev was there. He must have drifted off into automatic behaviour and said something when he wasn’t in his right mind. That was why Dev had stormed off.
A thick, heavy fog of depression threatened to crush Kyle, and he sank down onto the sofa under its weight. It had been going so well. Dev was easy to talk to—more than that, he was fun to talk to. Even if Kyle himself wasn’t. And for some reason Dev had persisted, past all Kyle’s monosyllabic answers and downright rudeness.
Even though Kyle had said he wasn’t interested in . . . anything, as though it were a given that Dev would be interested in him. That had been the old Kyle’s ego talking. From the days BN—Before Narcolepsy.
The old Kyle had been a whole person. One with a future.
Sometimes he hated the old Kyle. There had been a feature in a newspaper he’d flicked through a day or two ago: the journalist’s advice to his younger self. He’d thought even then that if ever he met his younger self, he wouldn’t bother giving him advice. He’d just punch the arrogant git in the face.
Well, maybe he’d tell him not to bother spending half his life studying for a qualification he’d barely get to use before everything was ripped away. He’d certainly tell him not to waste days and nights angsting over whether he could spend his life with a man who didn’t want children, given how Jeffrey had broken up with him at the first sign of trouble in any case.
No, that wasn’t fair. The breakup had been Kyle’s fault. He’d pushed Jeffrey away. Accused him so many times of wanting Kyle gone it was hardly surprising Jeffrey had eventually come to believe it too.
And now he’d driven Dev away. Well, he was nothing if not consistent.
But what had he said?
He’d thought there had been an odd sharpness in Dev’s tone when Dev asked about the Roscarrocks. Maybe his subconscious had reacted to that? Said something about . . . What? Bastards? Called Dev a bastard?
Jeffrey had told Kyle often enough he’d become too sensitive. Too easily affected by the way other people spoke to him. Always taking things the wrong way. Would it be that surprising to find his subconscious was the same?
God, he hated this. Hated not being able to trust his memory. Not being able to trust himself. He’d never know what he’d said to Dev, if he’d had an attack and carried on talking with only his dreaming self at the helm. Not unless Dev told him, and how likely was that?
But what if his memory wasn’t playing him false, this time? What if there really had been something upsetting Dev about the subject?
Could Dev be in the same situation Kyle was, regarding his ancestry? Perhaps he too had a great-great-grandfather or -grandmother who’d been a Roscarrock by-blow? God knew, from all accounts there’d been plenty of them. The man at the museum had joked how the Roscarrocks all took care to marry out of Porthkennack, for fear they’d end up committing incest without knowing it.
But if that was the case, why would Dev get so upset about it?
A religious objection, maybe? God, he was clutching at straws, here. Dev had given absolutely no indication of being a particularly devout anything.
Then again . . . He’d been so keen to help, hadn’t he? Maybe it was all religious duty rather than the attraction Kyle had been egotistical enough, deluded enough, to ascribe it to. Because Kyle was such a fucking catch these days, wasn’t he?
No. No, Kyle couldn’t believe it. Dev was gay. He’d admitted it—or at least, hadn’t protested his heterosexuality when Kyle had made a point of turning down advances that had never actually been forthcoming, which was as good as admitting it. Wait a minute. He’d mentioned a girl, hadn’t he? So maybe he was bi. Whatever. It didn’t matter. The point was, his sexuality made him unlikely to be any kind of religious zealot.
But for him to react so strongly . . . Kyle frowned. Could Dev be a Roscarrock by-blow himself? It’d explain why he’d taken the matter so personally.
No. Kyle was jumping to conclusions here.
But it’d explain why Dev had come here—and why he hadn’t changed his plans when his friend dropped out of the trip. Young men Dev’s age weren’t known for taking solitary holidays, after all—and Dev was definitely not the solitary type.
Kyle stood up.
And if that was the case, perhaps he’d been psyching himself up to go to Roscarrock House and confront, presumably, the father he’d never known? What he’d said about going Kyle’s way could have been the truth.
God. No wonder he’d got upset over Kyle describing the situation as a joke.
It fit. It was a tenuous web of reasoning, perhaps, but it fit. And if it was true, it at least meant the situation wasn’t Kyle’s fault.
His spirits lightening along with his burden, Kyle wondered what to do with the sudden burst of energy. Maybe take a walk down to the pottery, see if they’d be willing to give him the use of their facilities now and then? Dev had been right. There was no reason he couldn’t keep up his hobby, and he’d missed it more than he’d realised until Dev had remarked on the mugs.
He could handle explaining his humiliating situation to the potters there. Probably. It’d be worth it to feel the clay take shape under his hands. To actually produce something useful once again.
Maybe not on a Sunday, though. There was a good chance there’d be nobody around with the authority to make any decisions. He’d drop in tomorrow.
There was somewhere else he could go, though. And Sunday afternoon would be a good time for a friendly visit, wouldn’t it?
Kyle slipped on his shoes, grabbed his keys, and set off up the cliff path to Roscarrock House.
It wasn’t far—the walk up there took barely long enough for misgivings to set in. Kyle steeled himself to push open the gate. To walk up the garden path and knock on the front door.
He stepped back to admire the E-shaped frontage as he waited. Built in an attractive pale stone, the Elizabethan property was a comfortable-looking display of wealth. The twin cannons guarding the lawn gave a nod to the source of the family’s riches. It must be a pleasant place to live, if perhaps a little draughty in winter. Almost half the frontage was made up of rectangular, mullioned windows, so apparently the family coffers had been deep enough to weather the window tax of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. At some point in its life a large wing had been added to the western end of the property, but the extension had been sensitively done, its architecture so entirely in keeping with the main building Kyle couldn’t have hazarded a guess as to its age.
He could almost see the Roscarrocks of centuries past in their archaic finery, strutting across the lawn while an army of servants toiled in subterranean kitchens.
Kyle’s introspection ceased abruptly as the door was opened by a tall, blond man of around his own age wearing a beard and a scowl. No fine Cornish courtier in doublet and hose, he. There was a faintly Viking air about him—unless Kyle was letting the man’s unwelcoming attitude influence his perceptions. He looked exactly the sort to enjoy cutting open someone’s rib cage and ripping out their lungs, which, given that his ancestors had been government-sponsored pirates of the sixteenth century, probably wasn’t all that surprising.
“Yes?” His voice didn’t fit the picture—even in the clipped tones of a single syllable, the courtier with doublet and hose suddenly became more plausible.
Kyle wondered what had happened to his Cornish accent. It had probably been mislaid sometime around the man’s first term at public school, if Kyle had to guess.
“Hello,” Kyle replied in his best courtroom voice. He’d been told it radiated competence and trustworthiness, in that order. “I’ve recently moved into the Zelley house down the cliff, and I thought it was about time I introduced myself. Kyle Anthony. I’m renting the place for the summer, but I’m seriously considering buying, so we may well be neighbours for a while.” He smiled.
The Viking’s frown took on a worried cast. Without a word, he stepped back into the hallway and yelled out, “Bran?”
He wasn’t looking at Kyle anymore, but he’d left the door open. Kyle debated whether to step inside, but decided to wait for an invitation—if one ever came. He wondered what would happen if he had a cataplexy attack. He couldn’t imagine the Viking carrying him into the house and making sure he was okay. More likely he’d be dragged out by the heels and thrown over the garden wall.
“I hope I haven’t called at a bad time,” he started to say, just as another man appeared. Much shorter than the first, he was unlike him in every other way, too—with hair so dark brown it was almost black, much like Kyle’s own, and clean shaven, without a hint of five-o’clock shadow despite it being already midafternoon. The only thing they had in common was a distinct lack of welcome.
“Can I help you? Bran Roscarrock.” He thrust out a hand in Kyle’s direction.
Kyle took it mechanically, arrested by the sudden thought that, if he’d guessed right, this could be Dev’s father. He didn’t look old enough, though—surely Bran couldn’t yet be forty?
Bran’s already sharp gaze turned a little sharper, and Kyle realised he’d been silent too long. “Kyle Anthony,” he said hastily, releasing himself from Bran’s too-firm handshake. “I’ve recently moved into the Zelley cottage down the way.”
“Ah, yes. So I’d heard.” Bran moved on swiftly before Kyle had time to enquire what, precisely, he’d heard. “And you’ve met my brother, Jory.”
His brother? Kyle couldn’t help flashing a glance at the big, blond man, who was hovering in the hall as if preparing to repel boarders. Could he perhaps be Dev’s father, then? Kyle couldn’t for the life of him see a resemblance—and in any case, Jory was definitely far too young.
His interest didn’t go unnoticed. “No comments about the milkman, please,” Bran said with a laugh that was anything but amused.
“Ah—” Not knowing how he was going to finish that sentence, Kyle was grateful when Bran interrupted him.
“I take it you’ve settled in all right?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“Glad to hear it. Well, I’d love to invite you in, but we’re rather busy at the moment. But it’s been good to get to know you. Good day.”
The door was shut gently but firmly in his face. Kyle stepped back, fighting down a bitter laugh.
His reputation had apparently well and truly preceded him.
Well, his social interactions were all going swimmingly today, weren’t they? The thought was more painful than bitter, and apparently Kyle was a glutton for punishment, as he found himself looking at his watch while hastening back down the cliff path to his lonely sanctuary. It wasn’t all that long after 3 p.m. That meant . . . 10 p.m. in Perth. Still just about early enough to call.
He pulled out his phone and hit Call with one hand while fumbling for his keys with the other. Before he could change his mind.
As usual it was Mum who answered. “Kyle? That was good timing. We’ve only this minute stepped in the door.”
“Church social?” he guessed.
“Not this time. Just a little get-together at a neighbour’s house. Margaret and Bob—you remember I told you about them . . .”
Kyle let her voice wash over him, informing him of all the latest mundane exploits of people he only half remembered from previous phone calls. When he could finally get a word in edgewise, he asked about his father.
“Oh, Dad’s fine. Says he wishes we’d moved over here years ago. But what about your young man? Don’t tell me Jeffrey’s out again. He always seems to be out when you call us. I feel like I haven’t spoken to him in months. The poor boy will be thinking we don’t love him anymore.”
Kyle’s heart sank. It had always been so easy to give her an excuse, before. To tell her Jeffrey was working, or out at a meeting, or at the gym. Now, for some reason, Kyle was tugged by a guilty compulsion to tell her . . . not the whole truth, maybe. But part of it.
“Mum, things haven’t been going so well with Jeffrey. I think . . . I think we’re splitting up.”
“Oh, Kyle, no. No, I can’t believe that. It’s spending so much time apart, isn’t it? I told you, building your career is all very well, but you need to take some time for each other. Have you tried going to see someone at Relate? They do all kinds of couples these days. You don’t have to be married to get counselling. Oh, darling, I hope it’s not really that serious.”
“It is. I’m sorry.”
“What about taking a holiday together? It could help you both to remember why you first fell in love—”
“Mum. It’s too late for that.”
“Oh, Kyle. Do you want me to come over?”
“No.” God, no. He’d never been able to keep anything from her when they were face-to-face. Not as a boy, and not as a man. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”
“How can you be? Darling, it’s not weak to be upset when a relationship ends. I know, why don’t you come over here? Flights aren’t that expensive at the moment. And we’ve got so much to show you. Lauren and the boys would love to see you too, I know they would.”
God help him, he was almost tempted. But it was impossible. “I . . . can’t. Too much to do at work,” he added, hating himself for the lie.
“You work too hard. Making a success of your career is all very well, but there’s no point if you end up making yourself ill. Even your father realised that in the end.”
“Mum, I’ve got to go. Something’s come up.”
“On a Sunday? Still, I suppose you’re preparing for a case tomorrow.”
Funny, how being saved from a lie by Mum’s suppositions made the guilt even harder to bear. Kyle said his good-byes and hung up feeling worse than he had before he’d called.