Logic told him he was theorising without evidence. Logic was bloody well overrated.
At five o’clock on a day that had been even quieter than average, Jory shut up the museum as usual. Time to go home. All of a sudden, though, he just couldn’t face another long evening in that big, echoing house being ignored by Bran and Bea.
If he was going to be lonely anyway, he’d rather do it on his own, thanks.
Gawen had piano tonight and homework afterwards, so there was no point going round there. And Jory shouldn’t rely on his son every time he felt the urge to get out of the house in any case. Gawen had a life of his own. It was past time Jory started building one for himself in Porthkennack.
Walking back up the cliff path, he had the urge to break into a run. He was restless—physically as well as mentally. He needed something more physical to do than just baking his way through the EU flour mountain. Glancing at the craggy shapes of the cliffs gave him his inspiration.
There was a boulder down one end of Booby’s Bay he’d been meaning to have a go at for a while, and tackling it would be ideal to ease him back into climbing. Technical enough to take his mind off . . . things, but with zero safety issues. And if he found his stamina wasn’t up to a lengthy session, he could simply jump off.
He had all the gear he’d need in the back of the Qubo already, so all he’d have to do was change his clothes and jump in the car. Well, that and avoid Bran, so as not to face any awkward questions about what he was up to. Jory wasn’t sure if Bran understood the distinction between bouldering and riskier forms of climbing, and he just didn’t have the patience to explain it right now.
Jory made it through the house and up to his room without incident, and miracle of miracles, managed to get back out to his car safely too.
Of course, sod’s law meant that when he got down to Booby’s Bay, he found the Slanted Boulder, named for its diagonally rising undercut seam, already taken. Jory dumped his backpack on the ground and watched for a while as a skinny young lad—probably around Mal’s age, or maybe a bit younger—talked his girlfriend through a rising traverse.
Jory had only been watching for ten minutes when he decided she’d have managed fine without the running commentary—her would-be instructor apparently hadn’t even noticed she was quietly ignoring his advice wherever she saw fit.
When she finished the traverse and jumped down, Jory made a point of stepping forward to congratulate her. “Nice job.”
“Thanks!” The girl turned to smile at him. Her face was marred by a big scab on the end of her nose. Looking closer, Jory could see other signs of recent minor injury. “It’s my first time back—took a fall last week and missed the crash pad. But I made it this time!”
They fist-bumped. Her obvious buzz was infectious, but out of the corner of his eye Jory could see the boyfriend hovering sullenly, and decided he’d better cut this short to avoid causing a row. He turned to the skinny lad. “Are you planning on tackling it now, or can I have a go?”
The lad visibly relaxed at the evidence that Jory was only muscling in on his boulder, not on his girlfriend. “All yours, mate. Think we’re gonna head down to the wall now.” He sent a questioning glance at the girl, who nodded. “Won’t even spray beta at you this time,” the lad added, and she gave him a fond smile.
“It helped. Honest.”
Jory felt a lot more kindly disposed to him on learning he’d been providing a safety net, rather than simply showing off.
“Just let me clean up,” she went on, then brushed away the few patches of white chalk she’d left, packed up her mat and shoes, and left, hand in hand with the boyfriend.
Jory watched them go for a minute.
If only all things were as easy to get over as a fall from a boulder. Would getting back into the driving seat—any driving seat—help Mal? He couldn’t help thinking getting over killing a man with a train, however unintentionally, wasn’t going to be so simple.
And anyway, hadn’t Mal made it clear he didn’t want anything more from Jory?
The memory left a bitter taste in his mouth. Jory forced himself to focus, pulling out his crash pad, shoes, and chalk. The problem he wanted to try was a vertical climb up the left side of the boulder, with a sit start. The climbing forum he’d seen it described on had rated it as of average difficulty, and it seemed like a good one to dust off his skills on.
Jory gazed at the boulder until he was certain he had it mapped in his head, then got into the starting position. A soft breeze ruffled his hair and cooled the back of his neck. As he concentrated on the problem and began to climb, the world dropped away, narrowing into the distance to his next hand- or foothold. He could feel his limbs stretching properly for the first time in what felt like ages. He’d ache tomorrow, but he’d have earned it.
His toes slipped halfway up, but he recovered, and after that it was easier, the holds more secure. He’d always loved bouldering—there might not be the heady achievement of a long, difficult climb up a vertical cliff face, but it was freeing, climbing without the heavy tackle of ropes and harness. Conquering nature’s barriers by his own efforts alone.
When he reached the top, it felt like too soon. Then again . . . the online forum had described several other problems on this one boulder, including the rising traverse, and when Jory cast a glance down behind
