“Yes.”
“What did he tell you about me?” she asked suddenly.
Jory frowned, most of his attention taken up by scanning the pavements as he drove past them. “That you’re Dev’s foster sister. And you mother him a bit—Mal, I mean—although that’s not quite how he put it.”
“That all?”
“That’s all I can think of right now.”
“He’s a good mate, Mal.”
Reaching the promenade, they fell silent. Jory drove slowly along, scouring the seafront for any sign of Mal. “What if he goes back to the Sea Bell?” he asked after a while.
“Jago’s gonna call me.”
Jory nodded, and they carried on their fruitless search a while longer, both of them, it seemed, too tense to talk. Then another thought occurred to him.
“What if he goes up the back—”
“Left a note on his bed,” Tasha cut him off. Jory drew in a breath, but she forestalled him. “’Nother one on the fridge. And the kitchen table, case he misses that one.”
She’d apparently thought of everything bar rigging the place with an intruder alert.
Tasha directed him to the fish-and-chip shop, which was brightly lit, had a neon sign advertising the place as Salt and Battery, and held nobody who even remotely resembled Mal. Jory sighed.
The longer they drove uselessly around, the more the nightmares crept in.
“He wouldn’t . . .” Jory stopped. God, no. Mal would never—
“What?”
“It’s . . . No. God.”
“What? I mean, seriously, what, cos you’re freaking me out here.”
Jory took a deep breath. “Hurt himself. Or . . . worse.”
“What? No. No way.”
Was she trying to convince herself?
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have suggested it.” Jory swallowed. “It’s how my father . . . But that was different. Completely.”
“Oh my God. Did he . . .”
“The cliffs. Behind our house.”
“Shitfuck. And you still live there? Oh fuck. Sorry. But Mal, he wouldn’t do that. Never. Swear to God. He knows what it’s like, don’t he? For people what have to pick up the pieces.”
“I . . . Yes. Of course.” Jory was silent a moment longer. Then, “I just wish he hadn’t been drinking.”
“What, Mal? He don’t drink a lot. Not lately, anyhow. I mean, he’ll have a pint, but that’s usually all he has.”
Oh God. They’d drunk more than that the day they’d had sex on the beach. Had Jory taken advantage of him? Was that why Mal had fled afterwards? “What did he tell you about me?” he couldn’t help asking.
Tasha ignored his question. “Oi, wait a minute. What do you mean he’d been drinking?”
Jory was about to answer when his phone rang. He exchanged a wild glance with Tasha, then pulled over to answer it, his heart jumping into his throat when he saw the call was from Mal. “Hello?”
“Uh. Jory?” Mal’s voice sounded off, somehow, but maybe that was because Jory had all but snapped out the greeting.
“Yes. Are you okay? Where are you?”
“Uh . . . I think I fell.”
“What? Fell where?”
“Your tunnel. Um. I think I broke it?”
“You bro— What the hell are you doing up there?” Jory’s voice was coming out high and strident, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it. “Are you all right?”
There was a horrible silence.
“Mal, for God’s sake, are you all right?”
“Uh. Yeah. Kinda.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Jory tried to slow his breathing down. “I’m coming up there. Stay put.”
“Yeah, not a problem.”
“Are you injured? Buried?” Christ . . . But no, if he was buried, his phone wouldn’t work, would it?
“Uh . . . Bit of both? I’m in the tunnel, and there’s stuff on me, but I’m still getting rained on? And my leg hurts. And I think maybe I twisted my ankle.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Jory?”
“Yes?” Christ, Mal sounded out of it. Dazed by the fall. The alcohol beforehand probably hadn’t helped, either. “Did you hit your head?”
“Bit. Jory? ’M sorry. Not just about this. About Kirsty. And being a fuckup.”
“You’re not a fuckup,” Jory insisted, holding the phone between his chin and his shoulder as he started the car and hoping there’d be no passing police to see him driving like that. Then again, he might be glad of some help. “Kirsty explained about . . . you know.”
Jory didn’t catch what Mal said next, but it sounded something like “wish she’d explain it to me.” That wasn’t important. What was important was getting to Mal.
Mal spoke again. “Sorry if I made you think I don’t care. Cos I do. Care. A lot.”
Jory ought to feel elated, but this was starting to sound horribly like a deathbed confession. “You can tell me in a minute, when I get to you. Talk to Tasha.” He thrust the phone at her and concentrated on driving.
It took a damned sight longer than a minute by the time he’d parked the Qubo at the side of the road at the nearest point to the tunnel and scrambled round to open up the boot. Jory grabbed both headlamps, pulling one on and thrusting the other at Tasha. He slung the backpack with his climbing gear in over his shoulder—who knew what he’d need?—and shut the boot. Then he vaulted over the hedge, forced himself to turn and give Tasha a hand although everything inside him was chafing at the delay, and then set off at a run, calling out Mal’s name.
His voice was probably lost in the rain that was still pelting down on them. Tasha kept pace with him somehow, not once complaining—unless you counted the frequent profanities that slipped out. Slipped was the operative word. Jory cursed himself for not changing his shoes. The ones he’d been wearing for work today didn’t provide even the scantiest amount of grip. Even trainers would have been an improvement.
He knew from the rise of the ground when they were nearing the mouth of the tunnel. “We’re here,” he called to Tasha. “Watch your step. Mal!”
He thought he heard an answer, half drowned by the rain. Jory cast around wildly in the dark—and glimpsed a light out of
