“Yeah, you too. And oi, no having X-rated dreams about me, all right? Don’t think I won’t know when I see you in the morning.”
“You’re so full of shit, you wanker.” But it got her to smile, which was the main thing.
Lying in bed later, Mal couldn’t help thinking about Jory. Christ, he hoped the bloke would forgive him. Kissing him like that—it’d been well out of order when he’d known it couldn’t go any further.
Could it?
No. No way. Jory was . . . He was Dev’s. In, like, a totally nonsexual sense. Jesus. And Mal’s crap handling of it all showed he couldn’t be trusted with anything that belonged to anyone else.
He’d see Jory again, yeah, but just to apologise.
That was all.
Much as he liked walking, Jory hadn’t been in the mood to traipse all the way back to Harlyn by himself for his car. He’d called Kirsty and got her to give him a lift there after she picked Gawen up from school. She was good about that sort of thing, and she hadn’t pressed him on the reason he needed a ride.
She had asked him if he’d had any more breakfast dates, but after Jory’s curt no, she’d dropped the subject, for which he was grateful.
The three of them went out for fish and chips down on the seafront once they were back in Porthkennack—Kirsty’s suggestion, because it at least meant that Gawen would get some fresh air in the day. He seemed happy enough, even though he had to put away his phone because greasy fingers and touch screens weren’t exactly a match made in heaven.
When they’d eaten, Jory had a go at teaching Gawen to skim stones. He picked up the technique surprisingly quickly for a boy who hated ball games, and they had a good time while Kirsty combed the beach for interesting driftwood. Everyone was still smiling at the end, which was something, wasn’t it?
And if Jory’s thoughts kept drifting to another beach, and what had happened there only hours previously, well, he’d just have to carry on finding things to distract himself with, and eventually it would stop hurting, wouldn’t it?
After he got home, Jory took his laptop down to the kitchen, made himself a mug of hot chocolate and spent the rest of the evening on the internet, learning far more about suicide by train than he’d ever wanted to know. Apparently between twenty-five and fifty people killed themselves on London Underground every year—sources disagreed on the exact tally. Half of those who tried it survived—maybe that was where the discrepancy arose?—some of whom were left with life-changing injuries. The most popular time, apparently, was eleven o’clock in the morning, which Jory couldn’t make sense of at all. The most popular line was the Northern Line. Having travelled on it, Jory could see a grim logic in that.
He wondered which line Mal had driven on. Did drivers have their own routes, like bus drivers, or did they just go wherever needed?
Bran came into the kitchen unexpectedly at one point, and Jory had to close his tabs in a hurry. Of all of them, Bran had taken their father’s suicide the worst. Jory had sometimes suspected it was why he’d never married—perhaps he never wanted to be so devoted to one person that their death would send him off the rails like that.
God. More railway imagery. That was the last thing Jory needed right now.
It took him a long time to get to sleep that night, and his dreams were a confused jumble of Mal, trains, and his long-dead father.
The next day dawned grey and overcast. Waking up with a heavy, tugging sense of loss, Jory was glad he had work to go to. If he’d had to spend a day idling around Roscarrock House, he reflected as he braved the drizzle to walk to the museum, he’d have been climbing the walls by lunchtime.
God, he missed climbing. Literal, not figurative. There was nothing quite like it—the steady reliance on one’s own body, methodical testing of handholds. The feeling of accomplishment on reaching the top.
Maybe he should find a local club? He’d held off, in the few months since his return to Porthkennack, because he knew Bran would be upset, even though the danger was minimal if proper safety procedures were followed. But he was missing the exercise as much as the challenge, and the sense of freedom climbing brought him. Fingertip pull-ups in the garage really weren’t the same.
And there was so much to climb around here. Right on his doorstep. It was almost criminal not to take advantage of it all. Jory allowed himself a wry smile as he let himself into the museum. He could always tell Bran he was bird-watching. Keep the gear stowed in the Qubo.
Yes. What he needed was something to focus on, to take his mind off . . . other things.
The morning passed more quickly than Jory had expected, with a steady trickle of visitors due to the rain forcing holidaymakers to find indoor amusements. There was already a family of four mooching around the exhibits when the door opened just before lunchtime.
Jory blinked and stood up. It was Mal.
He was the last person Jory had expected to walk in. He had on jeans and a slightly too-large long-sleeved T-shirt that made him look a good five years younger than he must be if he was Dev’s age. Any resentment Jory had harboured against him melted to see him like that.
“Reduced price entry for coming twice in one week?” Mal asked with an awkward smile that wrenched at Jory’s heart. “Or, you know, mates’ rates? If we’re still mates?”
“I, uh . . .” Jory swallowed. “Don’t worry about it. The ticket, I mean. Come in,” he added, because Mal was hovering by the door.
He loped in, all limbs today. “So, I, uh, I wanted to apologise. For yesterday.”
“The car incident? I
