“Fuck me, that sounds well gross.” Mal grinned. “Kids’ll love it.”
“I like the idea of reclaiming the old image of the mermaid as something to be feared, rather than cutesy little teens singing under the sea. The Sirens of Greece, who actually started out as birds, would wreck ships by luring sailors onto the rocks, and mermaids were generally seen as a bad omen. And there’s the story of the malevolent merrow, who kept the souls of drowned fishermen in a cage under the sea. Although that one is supposedly apocryphal. Ah, just a fiction.” Oh God. Jory wasn’t sure what was worse about what he’d just said: that he’d used words Mal might not know, or that he’d insisted on explaining them and thus making it perfectly clear that he thought Mal wouldn’t understand.
Mal’s smile didn’t falter, though. “Aaand again, I’m thinking we gotta have a discussion about what’s real and what ain’t.”
Jory laughed. “Just because you haven’t seen something, that doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”
“Yeah, and just cos you have seen it doesn’t mean you shouldn’t lay off the alcohol. Or the wacky ’baccy. Or the shrooms. Whatever floats your psychedelic boat, man.”
Jory sighed. “Why is all the rum gone?” he asked in what was undoubtedly a terrible impersonation of Jack Sparrow.
Mal laughed anyway, but his smile faded as they reached Roscarrock House. “Sure we ain’t gonna bump into your sister or brother here?”
“We’ll be fine. Bea’s at work, and Bran will be in his study.” Jory hoped. “And we don’t need to go in the house.”
He led the way around the side of the house, unable to stop himself from casting a guilty glance around as they stepped over the low chain that separated the public area of the garden from the private one. Cars were now housed in what had once been the stables—Bea’s BMW was absent as expected, but Bran’s car, which was almost identical to hers, was parked next to Jory’s Fiat Qubo.
Jory gestured at it. “This is mine.” He managed to stop himself from adding Sorry.
Mal seemed, unsurprisingly, to be struggling to find something positive to say.
Jory put him out of his misery. “I know, it’s ugly. It’s basically a van in a dress. But I got a good deal on it from a colleague who was leaving the country, and I like the extra head and leg room.”
“What? No, it’s, uh, they’re great little cars, ain’t they? I got a Focus, myself, but I left it in London.”
“Yes, you said.”
“Oh. Sorry.”
What had just happened? The easy mood from earlier had been blown away like the spray on the waves, to be replaced with a crushing awkwardness.
Maybe Mal really hated Fiats? Or had realised, on seeing the Qubo, precisely what sort of man he was with? Jory suddenly wished he’d paid more attention to which cars were considered cool. “Um, shall we?”
“Right. Yeah.” Mal climbed in and buckled his seat belt. Jory did likewise and then started the engine.
From Roscarrock House, it was an open road until they reached the outskirts of Harlyn, a nearby town with its own beach and, therefore, its own surfeit of tourists.
Mal’s conversation had dropped to monosyllables. He fidgeted with his seat belt and opened the window. Maybe he suffered from travel sickness?
They dawdled along the high street through the centre of Harlyn. Jory had avoided the esplanade, thinking progress there would be slower, but he might have saved himself the trouble. Even this early in July, the road was full of people driving at holiday pace—God knew what it would be like in a few weeks’ time when the schools broke up. Jory made sure to keep an eye on the tourists thronging the pavements in case any of them should forget that this particular street wasn’t pedestrianised.
He tried to keep the conversation going, but Mal still didn’t seem keen to talk. Had he changed his mind, decided the trip was a mistake after all?
Maybe it was Jory who was the mistake. Had he been babbling on too much, reminding Mal of his hopeless crush? Maybe he should—
Mal grabbed the wheel, wrenching it violently over towards the centre of the road.
Jory’s stomach lurched. They were heading straight for an oncoming driver. Even as he wrested back control, his heart beating so hard his ribs hurt, the other driver swerved out of their way and blasted his horn.
On the pavement, heads turned.
And then, seeing that nothing had actually happened, turned away again.
Jory kept his cool, despite his shaking hands. He put the car back on course, drove along the road until he could turn up a side street, parked the car, and then turned to Mal to ask him calmly what was going on.
“What the bloody sodding hell was that?”
Okay. Maybe he wasn’t quite as calm as he’d thought.
Then he noticed Mal was shaking. “Mal?”
There was no answer. Mal just stared straight ahead through the windscreen, his eyes wide.
Jory was starting to get worried. “Mal?” he said again. “Malory?” He put a hand on Mal’s arm.
Mal jumped violently. Then he buried his head in his hands. All Jory could hear was a constant, muttered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck . . .” His breathing was fast, shallow, and unnatural. Something was terribly wrong.
Jory clumsily unhitched both their seat belts and stumbled out of the car, almost forgetting to check for traffic first. Then he rounded the vehicle and opened the passenger door wide.
Mal didn’t resist as Jory pulled him out of his seat. He didn’t do anything. His legs seemed to have no strength to hold him, and he and Jory ended up sprawled on the grass verge. Christ, what on earth was going on? Jory felt helpless. Useless. All he could do was wrap his arms around Mal’s trembling, sweaty form and hold him fast.
He
