“He was on a kiddies’ slide in the park, see, a big one, standing up right on the top, ready to go down. He was only little, not even two.” Kirsty paused to take another drink from her glass. “I was down the other end of the slide, waiting to catch him, talking with another mum, you know how you do. Well, maybe you don’t. And I’d been so careful the first half-dozen times he went up and down that slide. Held my arms up by him ready to catch him, and all that. But he’d done it perfectly, each time, climbed up the steps and launched his little self down, and I s’pose I thought he had it down pat. So I stayed at the bottom that go round. There I was, watching him from what, six feet away? And this time, he doesn’t sit down on the slide. God knows why, but he just sort of topples off the side of it, six feet up. And all I could do was watch as he fell for what seemed like years, head down, about to crack his little skull open on the ground.” She took another swallow of cider.
“So . . . was he hurt?”
Kirsty gave a laugh. “Managed to turn himself over, somehow, and landed on his back. I’ve got no clue how it happened. He hardly even cried after he hit the ground. And all I could think of was that was the longest few seconds of my life.”
Mal nodded and raised his glass to that. A few drops of cider sloshed out of his glass, mostly onto his jeans but some of it landing on her skirt. “Whoa . . . Sorry. Got outta the habit of drinking lately. Just call me a cheap date.”
“No harm done. Not like it’s dry-clean only, is it? And we’ll dry off quick out here.”
She was probably right, although it wasn’t nearly so warm now that the sun had almost disappeared. Mal found himself shifting a bit closer to her. She didn’t seem to mind—in fact, she slung her arm around him.
She was warm, and soft, and comforting, and while it wasn’t like being with Jory, it felt like it, sort of, cos she was connected to him, wasn’t she? She was his kid’s mum. Mal snuggled in closer still. Kirsty squeezed tighter and gave him a peck on the cheek, like she was his mum or his nan. It was nice. He ought to tell her that. “You’re nice,” he said fuzzily.
“So are you.” She kissed him again, this time on the lips, and that was okay, yeah, a bit weird maybe, but then it got more intense, and that wasn’t what he wanted. Not really. Mal was just trying to work out how to cool things down without hurting her feelings when he heard a voice.
“Kirsty? Gawen said—”
It was Jory.
Jory. Mal pulled back from Kirsty so fast he nearly fell off the bench.
Jory was standing in the doorway from the house, hanging onto the doorframe like it was all that was holding him up.
Staring at them.
There was a horrible silence. All Mal could think of to say was It’s not what it looks like. And when did anyone ever believe that?
Jory’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. “I . . . Never mind. I’ll go.”
Before Mal could come out with a single word, Jory turned on his heel and left.
Mal stumbled to his feet, knocking over his half-full glass of cider which he’d left on the decking at the side of the bench. It didn’t break, which was good, wasn’t it? Thinking of omens and stuff. “I gotta go after him.” The warm cotton-wool haze from the alcohol had left him completely, but his head was still fuzzy, and how fucked up was that?
About as fucked up as his life right now. But he had to talk to Jory. He knew that much.
Kirsty grabbed his arm. “Wait a minute. You told me you and Jory weren’t a thing.”
“We’re not . . . Not exactly. Ah, shit.” Mal raked his hand through his hair.
“We get detention for swearing at school.” That was Gawen, poking his tousled blond head out the back door at them. “Why’s Dad gone already?”
“He forgot something,” Kirsty said. She was still holding on to his arm, and Mal didn’t want to wrench it away from her in front of the kid, but he had to go after Jory.
“Look, I gotta go. I’m—”
“I think he’s gone now. He came in his car.” Gawen was watching them with a weird detached curiosity, like he was going to write it all up for English class later, maybe under the title of How Adults Fuck Stuff Up.
Kirsty’s hold loosened, and Mal legged it round the side of the house to the front.
There was no sign of Jory or the Qubo.
Mal sank onto the pebbles in despair, his face in his hands. “Shit, shit, fuck.”
There was the crunch of footsteps. “You going to tell me what all that was about?” Kirsty’s voice was thin and tight.
Christ, where to start?
He’d fucked up. He’d fucked up big time.
Shit. He didn’t deserve to live. The look on Jory’s face . . . Mal scrunched his eyes shut, but it only made the image clearer.
Jory’d been so hurt.
It was the classic fucking bisexual cliché, wasn’t it? Can’t trust a bi bloke, they’ll always cheat. And with the bloke’s wife, for fuck’s sake.
“Christ, I’m such a shit,” he muttered into his hands.
But . . . he’d been so lonely, and she’d been so warm, and kissing her had made him feel close to Jory in some totally twisted way. He’d liked her. He’d really liked her. It hadn’t been the same—not remotely—as him liking Jory, but for thirty seconds, he’d got confused. And that had been all it took.
And now what the hell was he going to say to Dev when he got here? Yeah, met
