Sunday dawned bright. A new morning always raised Morgan’s spirits, and this one felt particularly promising. Normally the day after a visit to the nursing home saw him on a short fuse, but his temper had steadied itself after the meal out. This morning he’d potter around—do some gardening, do some work—then Dominic would arrive, with all his kit and caboodle. And no doubt another pile of questions.
Dominic had come out of his shell the previous evening, no longer the strange creature who’d made the original phone call. Now the thought of him coming back to discuss Troilus was no longer quite so daunting.
By the time Dominic came knocking on the door, Morgan had ticked off his list and was feeling pretty chipper. Chipper enough to leave his guest to get on with taking rubbings of the ballast stone while he put the kettle on. He’d even, in another moment of generosity which surprised him as much as the recipient, told Dominic that he could take a small sample from the boulder, from the point where some of it had flaked away, if that would be helpful.
“I have no idea what would be helpful for my research, so I won’t refuse the offer.” Dominic’s grateful smile proved an unexpected reward for the offer.
Once the sampling was done, they took tea and cake out in the garden, perching on the bench and basking every time the sun revealed itself.
“Can I ask where the house name came from? Cadoc strikes me as a bit odd. I mean it’s odd to us ‘foreigners.’ Sorry. Is that rude?” For whatever reason, Dominic seemed especially awkward today. “Does it have any significance? Apart from this area being near St. Cadoc’s point?”
“No other significance that I’m aware of. I know Cadoc was the name of a local king or an earl or something. My guess is that one of my ancestors just liked the sound of it.”
“Ah. Gotcha.”
“There’s a lot of Capell history and, like with your sailors, it isn’t easy to pick apart hard fact from embroidered fact. Or from downright fiction.”
“Par for the course. What do you know for certain?”
“Not a lot. The original family home was west of here on a field like the great north face of the Eiger, or so my great-granddad used to tell my mum.” Morgan closed his eyes, in bittersweet reminiscence of family members long gone and much missed. “That old place fell into disrepair when Queen Victoria was a girl, and eventually the family moved to the house here, where some of the Capells had already made their home.”
Dominic screwed up his eyes, mental maths evidently in action. “If that’s true, how did your great-grandfather know about it?”
“Family stories. There wasn’t a lot to do here for entertainment apart from make cider and tell tales. Probably at the same time.” Morgan had spent many happy hours enthralled by the family raconteurs. “And he’d been taken to see the very field, although it no longer belonged to us. I can take you there, but I can’t promise there’s much to see that would be relevant to your research.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Cadoc it is, then.” Dominic pronounced the name as no local would have done, but Morgan wasn’t going to correct him. “And you’ve always lived here? Apart from the time in London,” he added hastily, as though he was aware of having made a faux pas.
“All my life, apart from three years in Cardiff at uni. Then another three years on and off in London.” Funny how he’d been so keen then to get away from the confines of Porthkennack. Cardiff had been revelation enough, but London itself had felt like Paradise. Yet the capital had ended up feeling more confining, more stifling, than this little headland ever had. Or maybe it had been James doing the stifling? “But you know that.”
“I’m not sure I know much about anything.” Dominic frowned. “But from your expression, I think I’ve prodded the elephant in the room. Sorry.”
Not the main elephant, but certainly one of the herd. What had Dominic been told, and how had James explained his familiarity with the private story of the beams? “What did James actually tell you about me and him?”
Dominic, forehead crinkled in thought, stared out towards the sea. “Not a lot. Your James doesn’t give much personal stuff away.”
“Hm. Well, he’s no longer my James, so I’d prefer you not to call him that.” Morgan’s short fuse made its presence felt at every mention of the rat.
“Sorry.” That flaming word again. “I didn’t realise things were quite so touchy. He said that you’d parted as friends.”
Morgan snorted. “I bet he did. He might well have believed we were. Hold on.” He smelled another rat, apart from James himself. “When exactly did you meet him?”
“About a week before I rang you. I know it sounds daft, but it took me ages to work up the courage to get in contact.” Dominic gave him a glance. “We were both at a big promo do at an art gallery. James’s company had done work for them, and my lot were one of their sponsors. I got dragged along to do my corporate bit, bored stiff until I found a modern watercolour of Cornwall. James seemed as interested in it as I was.”
Dominic gave an account of the chat with James, the audit trail of words and ideas by which conversations moved and ended up elsewhere, how discussion of childhood holidays in the West Country had turned to adult obsession with wrecks, but Morgan was only half listening.
He’d done his own mental maths—a week before Dominic’s phone call, he and James had still supposedly been an item, if living apart to see if absence rekindled the flame. The bastard, to say they’d already split up. What if Dominic had rung Morgan the next day after the meeting and referred to James as “your ex”? The rat would have appreciated not having to break the bad news himself.
Dominic, wincing, said, “Sorry. I’ve clearly put my foot in it somewhere.”
Why the hell did Dominic spend his whole life apologising? “Stop fucking saying sorry.” He took a deep breath. “You’ve nothing to apologise for. Unlike James. I wasn’t aware we’d split up at the time he met you.”
“Ah. Sor—” Dominic put his hand to his mouth. “Maybe it’s best if I go.” He reached down for the rucksack which lay at his feet.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, there’s no need. You shouldn’t suffer because he’s such an A1 arsehole.” Morgan managed a smile.
“At the risk of putting my foot in it again, I must confess that—now I’ve met you—I’m surprised you two ever were an item.”
“Why?” Morgan’s hackles rose again. “I could pull the city slickers in my heyday.”
“I never doubted you could,” Dominic said, with a sudden grin. “You’ve got the looks and probably the knack. I never had. It’s just that James . . . Would you mind if I was entirely honest?”
“I would find that refreshing.”
“Okay. It’s just that James seemed such a slimy git, it amazes me you put up with him. You could do much better for yourself.”
Morgan found himself lost for words. That was the last few years summed up in a sentence. He shrugged, and got another smile in return. “That’s exactly the confidence boost I needed right now. Thanks.”
“My pleasure. Not that your private life is any of my business, and not that I have anything sensible to say about it, given my useless romantic record. My experience could get written large on the back of a postage stamp.” Dominic shrugged.
Morgan found himself torn between saying Don’t do yourself down and Stop fishing for compliments. He rejected both as too flirtatious, settling for, “Want to go and see the Devil’s Anvil a bit closer up? Tide’s pretty well as far out as it’ll go.”
“Can you doubt the answer?” Dominic let Morgan take his arm and pull him out of his chair. “Especially with a local guide to show me the things I might have missed.”
“No pressure on me to get the facts right, then.” Morgan grinned and let go his guest’s arm, the sensation of Dominic’s silk shirt still haunting his fingers. Dominic produced yet another of his stunning smiles in return.
Those exchanged glances were undoing all Morgan’s resolve.
The familiar cliff edge always seemed less hazardous on a still afternoon like this one, despite the notice warning people of the dangers of going too near the edge or attempting the path in bad weather. It led down to the little sandy bay, tacking across the cliff face in a series of natural and uneven steps, all of them showing their age; nonetheless, it appeared inviting.
“I wonder how many people carved that trail, treading the grass away over the years?” Dominic stared at the drop down to the sand.
“Too many. Let’s add another two, though.” Morgan led the way, sure-footed from years of making this descent.
“Do you think all those people thought they were the first to discover this place?”
“Maybe.” The idea appealed at some deep level to the explorer instinct. Being the first to tread virgin sand, to have found the wide pool that got left when the tide ebbed; the right to say, I came here first. I claimed it.
“They’d all have been wrong, of course,” Morgan continued. “People must have been walking here since the caveman came along and fancied a dip. I can’t believe the local Stone Age folk confined themselves to flint knapping or chasing bears.”
“I’d never thought of that. Good point.” Dominic eyed the waves, although they were behaving immaculately, about as threatening as a lido. “Isn’t it dangerous to swim here, with the rocks and all?”
“Maybe they’d have had a paddle, then. Or a sunbathe, if Neanderthals did that.” Morgan, ignoring the last couple of steps, jumped the final few feet onto the sand. “If you feel like swimming, there’s a natural pool that people sometimes use.”
“Really? I was only ever allowed to play on the sand. Mum was too protective of us.” Dominic sat on a convenient rock to loosen his shoes. “And we always seemed to get the tide times wrong, although I suspect it was deliberate. Mother wouldn’t have wanted her boy to risk his neck with those rocks.”
While his guest bared his feet, Morgan sat thinking. Dominic must, surely, have been on this beach, or up on the cliff path, in summer while he wasn’t far away, playing in the garden. Or maybe Dominic would have been walking one way along the path while he and Mum took their old Labrador the other way. They’d have passed, like ships in the night.
Ships in the night. Morgan shivered, despite the warmth of the sun. “Not many people are brave enough to use the path any longer, so I get the place to myself when I choose to come here. Although it’s still a favourite place with lovers, apparently.”
“I can understand that.” Dominic peered up the cliff face, shading his eyes. “You wouldn’t be seen because of that overhang.”
“And the rocks mostly protect you being seen from seaward. Ships don’t come too near.” Another sudden frisson, this time at the thought of Troilus getting too close.
“Sand’s soft too.” Dominic squatted on his haunches, passing rivulets of sand between his fingers before beginning to accumulate a little collection of shells—winkles, limpets, and something broken Morgan couldn’t name. “A bit too public for me, though.”
“Glad to hear it.” Morgan had never fancied alfresco love. Although maybe that admission had been a touch too much, given the embarrassed smile playing on Dominic’s lips. “Right, I’m going to park my arse somewhere not too sandy.”
They settled themselves on a wide, flat, comfortable rock, Dominic still jiggling the shells in his hand. “This was always my favourite sunbathing spot.”
“Mine too. Dad’s favourite, as well.”
“Your dad was interested in history, I think you said?”
“Yeah. Among other things. He was a serial hobbyist, dabbling at this and that and changing every few years.” The loft contained boxes of old paints, books, postcards, and craft tools that paid testament to his varied pastimes. “Family histories—ours and other locals’—was the last of many.”
“Shame. I mean shame it wasn’t ships and shame that he’s gone. I won’t say the obvious ‘you must miss him’ because that’s simply crass.”
“Thanks. I do miss him, though. He was the best bloke I ever knew.”
Dominic fiddled with the shells again. “Want to change the subject? I’m clearly suffering foot-in-mouth disease.”
“Nah. You’re okay. What do they say? ‘It’s good to talk.’ James was never keen on getting things in the open, and my brother’s just as useless.” Morgan gave his guest a grateful smile. “I won’t go all blubbery and great wet lettuce on you.”
“That’s good. I don’t mind some big, hairy rugby player crying pre-game when they play ‘God Save the Queen’ but otherwise I don’t cope that well.” Dominic started flicking the shells onto the sand. “Anyway, you’re wrong about your dad being the best. I’d put him equal with my old man.”
“Pillock.” Morgan slapped the bloke’s arm, sending the rest of the shells flying. “I was being serious.”
“I was being unnecessarily flippant.” Dominic’s apologetic grin expressed the word he’d been banned from using. “Trouble is I’m so used to getting the whole sob story—with or without tears—about how awful parents are and how they’ve made people’s lives hell. Times are I’ve felt guilty that I had it so easy.”
Morgan nodded. “Yeah. People enjoy being victims; they like to blame someone else. I know that some guys do get a really rough deal, but I also know that it can just be a line they trail.” He took a long, cleansing breath. “I was a pillock too, back when I was a teenager.”
“Some might say you still are.”
“Ha bloody ha. Anyway, I was worried that my dad would flip his lid when I came out—he’d once mentioned something about a guy he knew at school who was gay and how he’d been beaten up one night on Clapham Common. I got it into my head that he approved of what had happened.”
“Bloody hell.”
“I worked myself up into a right state. Thought he’d told me the story because he hated queers. Or, worse still, had suspected that I was one and was warning me off confessing it to him.”
Dominic closed his eyes, whether against the bright sun on the water or in disgust, who could tell? “So what tipped the balance? Surely you came out to him in the end if you reckon he was so great?”
“Yeah, of course I did. And it was a couple of pints of Chough’s Nest beer that tipped the balance by loosening my tongue.” It had been a memorable evening, the chat turning out better than the beer, which might have been gnat’s pee for all that Morgan could recollect of the actual drinking he’d done. “I’d been a complete idiot, as usual. I was so worried I’d screwed myself into imagining all sorts of crap. It turned out the point of him telling me the Clapham Common story was that he’d guessed about me being gay and was worried I’d end up being duffed over like the other bloke if he didn’t warn me about what might happen.”
“Oh, what a star.” Dominic chuckled. “Isn’t that just about the biggest problem in the world, when people don’t talk to each other?”
“After world hunger and disappearing megafauna, maybe.” Morgan raised a finger. “Don’t say sorry. I was being flippant too. Communication may not be the world’s most urgent issue, but it causes plenty of problems.”
“Yeah. Mind you, if the couples in the average rom com sat down and talked things through rather than jumping to conclusions, there’d be no story line, would there? Nobody could fall into the trap of assuming the fit girl the leading man was cuddling up to was anything but his sister.”
Morgan sniggered. “Do you fancy paddling today? I won’t tell your mother.”
“So long as you keep that promise. She still thinks I’m aged about seven. Says I don’t eat enough and should wear my vest. I’ve not worn a vest in years.” Dominic leaped up, grinning. Morgan had been wrong about James casting his line at this particular fish—the rat would never have put up with such unsophisticated enthusiasm. A tug at his arm flushed thoughts of James out of his mind. “Come on, slowcoach.”
“Race you.” Morgan sped down to the water’s edge, sending sand flying.
Dominic, clutching his side, was hard on his heels. “Not fair. I’ve got a stitch.”
“Out of condition, you.”
“I need to get back into practice, then. I used to hare along here when I was little. Bloody loved every moment we spent here.” Dominic stretched his arms. “I kept pestering my parents, asking why we couldn’t move to Porthkennack permanently.”
“Organising life always seems easy when you’re nine. No obstacles in your mind.”
“Too true. My mother used to say we couldn’t move down to Cornwall because it wouldn’t be an extra special place if we lived here all the time. That was only half the story; I know now it would never have been workable.”
“Just as well. Or else we’d be invaded by oiks like you.” Morgan smiled, as they diced with the waves’ farthest reach. “As I said, my family have always lived in Cornwall. Or at least my father’s family have, probably back to the time of the Conqueror. My mother’s lot were very new. End of the eighteenth century.”
“Practically grockles.” Dominic bent to scoop up a batch of pebbles, weighing them in his hands, then leaping back as the water splashed his feet. “That’s bloody freezing.”
“Too early in the season.” Morgan found some pebbles, as well, flinging them out to sea as though they’d carry all his problems away with them. “Dad used to get caught out too. He’d be in here wave jumping almost as soon as spring had sprung. Drove my mum mental.” He winced.
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Ignore me. Just got a serious case of verbal diarrhoea. All sorts of crap pops out when it shouldn’t.”
Dominic, nibbling his lip, glanced at him sidelong, then flung a few more stones and waited.
Morgan eventually broke the silence. “It’s not been easy the last few years.”
“What else happened?” Dominic sent a pebble skimming across the surface of the waves, bouncing an impressive number of times before submerging. “Result!”
“That was a corker.” Morgan tried to emulate it and failed. “What happened? Life fell apart. The whole works.” There, he’d done it: begun the big admission, and the world hadn’t ended. “Dad died, Mum was taken ill. Final nail in the coffin of my ability to cope was splitting with James.”
“I’m not very comfortable with touchy-feely.” Dominic kept his gaze fixed out to sea and the Devil’s Anvil’s great jagged grin. “But I’m a good listener.”
“I think you’ve proven that.” Morgan kept chucking pebbles; the activity was unexpectedly therapeutic. “Not long after Dad died, Mum started showing signs of dementia.”
“Oh hell.”
“You can say that again. Bit of a conversation stopper.” Chuck another pebble. “When it’s a hip replacement or something physical, people are great. They all rally round. When it’s in the mind, people never know what to say or do.”
Dominic shrugged, tossing the pebbles in his hands. “It doesn’t bother me. I can understand; I mean it’s not hit me quite so close to home, but I get it.”
“Similar thing in your family too?” Here was just a glimmer of hope; a chance he’d finally met somebody he could open up to.
“Yeah. My grandmother. We all felt so bloody helpless.”
Morgan nodded. Yeah, Dominic “got it.” “I ended up shuttling back and forth for a while, then she got so bad she had to go into a home, just over a year ago. The house was empty for a while, then I started to visit for the odd week or two here and there.”
“And what did James think?”
“He was understanding, or at least he appeared to be. I felt guilty as sin, torn between the two places. In the end I found I couldn’t stay in London. I came back and began tidying up her affairs . . . then found this was where I needed to be. I didn’t want us to have to deal with the same sort of mess Dad had left.”
“Did James prefer doing a bunk than helping you cope long-term?” Dominic’s bluntness was never going to earn him a career in the diplomatic corps.
“In his defence, it wasn’t like that. Not quite, anyway. He was really good at the time Dad died. It had been a hell of a shock to all of us.” But death was comparatively easy to deal with: serious and conventional and almost dignified. Going senile by degrees wasn’t. “It was so sudden. Cerebral aneurism. One day Dad was right as rain and the next . . .” Morgan steadied his hands, gripping the little pebbles to the point his fingers hurt.
“Sudden or expected, it’s never easy to deal with.”
“I wasn’t even here when it happened. I just managed to get down to say a last good-bye, although he couldn’t have known me by then. Thank God we’d spoken on the phone a couple of days before.” They’d spoken every week, unlike Eddie, who’d been on the blower to their mother every few days, which was ironic given how rarely he visited her now. But maybe that particular closeness had made her decline much harder for him to face. Morgan had always favoured his Dad, and they’d never stopped loving each other—fiercely, protectively both ways. Coming back here and being close to Mum had been a duty Morgan felt he owed his father. No, duty wasn’t the right word; it made it sound onerous and unwanted. It was more a mark of respect to the old man, carrying out what he surely would have done were he still alive.
“You have my every sympathy.” Dominic skimmed another pebble. He must have known exactly what bereavement was like given the pained expression on his face and the catch in his voice.
“While it pains me to admit it, to do James credit, I’d have dissolved entirely if he hadn’t been so . . . sensible.” And he had been, helping to sort out Dad’s monetary affairs, locating the stashes of money in different accounts. Dad had been as much a serial investor as he’d been a serial hobbyist, and he’d been the one firmly in charge of anything financial, so Morgan’s mother hadn’t known where to start.
Morgan gave Dominic a brief account of James’s financial caretaking, including the farcical aspect to straightening out the affairs of a man who’d always sworn he was uncomplicated. “But,” he finished up, “we had to return to London eventually. There’s only so much leave you can take, compassionate or otherwise. Mum said she’d be fine and we should just leave her to it.”
“And you feel guilty about that?” Trust Dominic to get straight to the heart of the matter again.
“Of course I do. I can’t help thinking that if I’d stayed on here, if I’d jacked in the old job and concentrated on family matters for a while, then either she wouldn’t have got ill or the progress of the disease would have been slower.” Morgan found weighing the stones in his hand surprisingly soothing, like they were prayer pebbles. “Think about that sudden weight of responsibility she had to shoulder, on top of the shock of bereavement. I could have helped her to cope better. And maybe she wouldn’t have had the fall if I’d been here to keep an eye on things. She took a tumble—in the kitchen, of all places. The room she’d made her domain.”
“It would probably have made no difference, you being here or not. She could have taken a tumble in the supermarket or anywhere. I’m afraid it often starts with a fall, the descent into forgetfulness and deterioration.” Dominic put his hand on Morgan’s shoulder. “I think I’m beginning to see the big picture.”
If Dominic really did see some bigger picture, then he was either a step ahead of Morgan or he was about to unleash a pile of platitudinous twaddle. Morgan shrugged the hand away. “And what is the big picture?”
Dominic, who didn’t seem offended at the brush-off, chucked a handful of pebbles into the sea, as though enumerating his thoughts. “That you liked James a hell of a lot. That maybe you loved him, and you definitely expected more from him. That you’d really like to hate him now, but it’s harder than expected. You could find closure easier if you loathed his guts.”
Morgan, taken aback, let the little stones slip out of his fingers. “Bloody hell, do you read minds?”
“Not that I’m aware of.” Dominic turned, smiling shyly. “When you’re used to being among the spectators, you pick up the knack of seeing what the players miss.”
“You’ve got the knack, all right.” Morgan rubbed the sand from his fingers; he’d had his fill of opening his heart to public view. “We should walk along to the next bay, around the point, before the tide turns.”
“Lead the way.” Dominic smiled, happily. A low-maintenance guy, which made a pleasant change.
They walked along the water line, rounding one set of rocks dry shod, then through shallow waves around another, moving circuitously towards the tongue of cliff which pointed out towards the Anvil, beyond which any sane person wouldn’t attempt to go except via the cliff path.
“Isn’t there a risk we’ll get cut off?” Dominic, trying to keep his balance on a jagged boulder as they approached the last bay, seemed to be having second thoughts.
“Not if we make sure we get onto this next little beach. There’s another path up.” Morgan had kept them moving, pointing out the locations where he’d skinned his knees as a child and the place where they’d had to rescue some stupid holidaymakers who couldn’t, or hadn’t bothered, to read the tide tables.
They reached the last bay safely, ensuring that their access to the path was clear. Dominic scanned the view, wide-eyed, obviously taking everything in. “We never came down here. What a stunning place.”
“Nice, isn’t it?”
“Not sure I’d use the word ‘nice.’ Dramatic, I’ll grant.” Dominic took another sweep of the bay. “Is this place haunted?”
Morgan couldn’t hide his reaction, the almost palpable sensation of a slap to the face. Before Dominic could say anything, he replied, “I’m not sure. I’ve honestly never come across any ghost stories for these particular bays, which is odd in itself. Standard fare for the books tourists like to pick up, so you’d have thought if there was anything to say, somebody would be making money out of it. Do you believe in ghosts?”
“I believe in a sense of place. Of something remaining that resounds in the air.” Dominic studied the Anvil again, that great jagged grin of rocks still seeming to mock them. “Or maybe people bring that resonance with them. Some invisible load they carry.”
Morgan bridled. This was all too close to home. “That sounds ridiculous. Like the kind of thing they’d have believed in the middle ages.”
“DNA would have sounded ridiculous in the middle ages. And electricity.” Dominic’s elegantly waving hands illustrated his point.
“Steady on.” Morgan pointed up at the cliffs. “Anybody sees you from up there and they’ll think you’re waving for help. We’ll have the lifeboat out any minute.”
“Sor— Okay. Getting carried away.” He clamped his hands to his sides. “Anyway, electricity. A stream of particles, too small to describe, and impossible to define in terms of their size and position at the same time. Powering everything from a light to a train.”
“Bugger me.” Morgan smiled, despite his discomfort. “That’s quite right; I’d never considered it.”
Dominic smiled, knowingly. “There are more things in heaven and earth than you’ve dreamed of.”
“‘Than are dreamt of in your philosophy,’” Morgan said, automatically. “Don’t quote Shakespeare at me unless you’re going to quote it accurately. Tell me about your sense of place.”
“Oh, I’m no expert. No firsthand experience to offer in evidence, except for times when I’ve been somewhere—there’s a church at St. Brelade’s Bay on Jersey for example—and I’ve felt the years resonating through the stones.”
“I can agree with that.” Morgan tried to pick his way through a minefield of words, any of which might raise an awkward question. “We’ve been to Jersey. And there have always been odd occurrences here too. Not all the weird stuff in Quick’s yesterday is a load of cobblers invented for the benefit of tourists.”
Dominic laughed. “Just ninety percent, I guess?”
“Something like that.” Morgan returned the grin. “But a lot of it’s in the mind. I was driving home one night along the back roads and ended up almost crapping myself. There was something huge ahead of me, nearly twice the height of the average man, and it kept glowing in the headlights. Intermittently, which was worse still.”
“And?” Dominic’s eyes were wide now, full of anticipation.
“It was only someone out on a late horseback ride. Got both themselves and their mount covered in those reflective safety strips. I felt a complete idiot.” Morgan laughed. Keep it light and he might steer clear of making an idiot of himself again. “Stupidly mundane, a product of my susceptibility and overactive imagination. I keep thinking that if I’d turned off the road before I’d established what the cause was, all the rest of my life I’d have believed I’d seen a ghost. Maybe my story would have ended up in the museum too.”
Dominic smiled. “I suppose there are plenty of things that spook people for which there’s a rational and boring explanation. Will-o’-the-wisp. Ball lightning. But do you believe in ghosts?”
“I’ve no idea whether I do or not,” Morgan said, hoping that they’d get off this bloody subject soon. “Can we just leave it for the moment? I’m not in the mood to discuss superstitious nonsense.”
“I’m sor—” Dominic theatrically slammed his hand over his mouth. “I’ll stop flushing elephants out of the bush, okay?”
“Okay. You’re all right.” Morgan patted his shoulder. No need to make the bloke feel worse than he already did. “Come on, we should be getting to the top before the tide comes in or the wind strengthens.”
Dominic eyed the cliff face up and down. “I can’t help wondering if John Lawson could have got up there with the wind blowing a gale and the rain lashing.”
“John Lawson?”
“Our midshipman. The one who might just have survived. Remember?”
“How could I forget?” Although that name had slipped Morgan’s mind for the moment, probably because of all the other thoughts flooding his consciousness.
Dominic ran his slender fingers through his wind-tousled hair. “He must have had help, given the terrain.”
“What if somebody saw the ship foundering and came down to help?” Morgan shivered, even though the sun was warm on their backs.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes, I’m fine.” How long was he going to be able to get away with pretending?
“I know it’s bloody rude, but it strikes me that you’re not fine. And it’s not about your dad or your mum or ghosts or anything remotely like that.”
Morgan opened his mouth, then shut it again. What would it achieve giving Dominic a gobful of defensive abuse? The guy must have noticed the odd enigmatic remark and would have started constructing the crossword from the little clues, putting in all the right answers. He was too shrewd by half.
“I can see you’re angry, but just listen to what I have to say. I promise that if you shout at me, or go so far as to smack me one in the gob, I won’t think any the worse of you.” Dominic looked pained and sounded as awkward as he’d done during that first phone call. “Something about Troilus bugs you. Really bugs you.”
The predictable topic still made Morgan wince.
Dominic frowned. “See? That’s exactly the kind of thing you do every time I mention it. I’ve been pretending not to notice, but I can’t any longer.”
Morgan considered arguing, but what was the point? He took a deep breath, blew out his cheeks. “Am I that obvious?”
“Too right you are. Sometimes you flinch and sometimes you simply put the shutters down behind your eyes. If that makes any sense.”
“It does.” Morgan sighed. “I just don’t want to talk about it at the moment. If ever, to be brutally frank, but that would bugger up your research and I said I’d help.”
Dominic frowned. “Okay, I take the hint. Should I clear off and take my research with me?”
“Don’t be sodding stupid. You keep offering to treat me—why don’t you get dinner?”
“Great idea.” Dominic’s face brightened. “Hint taken. Subject officially changed. And I’ll drive. You’ve earned being chauffeured.”
“Only if you let me direct you down the short cuts. I can’t face the holiday traffic.”
“Deal.”
And please God they wouldn’t encounter anything on the way to remind them of ghosts or ships or nightmares.