“Take care,” Mal said, grabbing his hand and squeezing it so hard it hurt.
Jory nodded and left.
Back at Roscarrock House, Jory parked the Qubo in the old stables and trudged across the yard. He took his rucksack and Tasha’s headlamp with him—he’d need to dry everything thoroughly if he ever hoped to use it again. He was weary to the bone and desperate to avoid bumping into his brother or sister on his way through the house—Bran for one would be bound to ask why Kirsty had been here, and she was one person he really didn’t want to talk about right now.
So, of course, as Jory stepped in through the back door, Bran appeared in the doorway from the dining room. Maybe he’d been lying in wait. Jory nodded curtly, hoping Bran would take the hint, and carried on past him.
His hopes of peace were short-lived. “What the bloody hell do you think you’ve been doing?” Bran demanded.
Jory barely had the energy to spare his brother a glance over his shoulder. “Not now.”
He was utterly shocked to be grabbed by the shoulders and yanked around, hard. Christ, where had Bran found the strength? Jory almost fell, but regained his footing just in time. “What are you—”
“Have you been out on the cliffs?” Bran demanded.
“What? Why would—”
“What the hell do you think you were doing, playing at silly buggers in the dark? Are you out of your mind? Don’t you give a damn about the rest of us?” His face was livid.
Jory shook off his grasp and took a cautious step back. “Bran, you’re not making sense.”
“Don’t be an idiot. I can’t believe you’d do this to us. After Father—” Bran’s voice cracked.
“What? Bran, I wasn’t on the cliffs. Do you honestly think I’d be that stupid? In the dark? When it’s this wet?”
“Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve been climbing again, sneaking out when you think I’m not watching. I’ve seen you. And you’re soaking wet and you’ve got all that . . .” Bran gestured at Jory’s hand, from which Tasha’s headlamp and the rucksack were dangling by their straps. “That . . . stuff. Whatever you call it.”
“I wasn’t on the cliffs, okay? I was in the old smugglers’ tunnel. There was a cave-in—not while I was in it,” he added quickly, as Bran’s expression darkened even further. “A . . . friend. He called me and asked for help.”
“Why didn’t he call the bloody emergency services? And what friend?”
Did they really have to do this now? Fine. Jory stared his brother down. “They wouldn’t have known where to find him. I did. And he’s someone I’ve been seeing.”
“‘Seeing’? You’re a married man.”
“No, I’m not. I never have been. Not truly. And we’re getting divorced. Kirsty and I agreed.”
“And you didn’t consult me? Gawen is my heir, and this is his life we’re talking about. You’re so bloody selfish.” Bran’s tone turned spiteful. “You needn’t think you’re bringing your friend here to live with you.”
“Christ, Bran, just when I start to believe you actually give a damn whether I live or die—”
“Of course I don’t want you to die!”
“Maybe not, but I’m not sure you really want me to live, either.”
“Just what do you mean by that?”
“I’m sick of you trying to run my life. I’m not a teenager anymore. I don’t need you making decisions for me. I certainly don’t need you to tell me who I can and can’t live with.”
“While you’re living under my roof—”
“And that’s another thing. This house . . .” Jory waved a weary hand. “It’s . . .” Full of ghosts, he wanted to say, but that wouldn’t be fair on Bran. “It’s not me. It never has been. I should have got a place of my own a long time ago.”
“You’re moving out?” Bran’s tone was unsure, almost lost.
Jory nodded. “As soon as I can find somewhere. I’ll start looking tomorrow. For God’s sake, it’s not going to be far,” he added, exasperated by Bran’s wounded expression. “I’m staying in Porthkennack for Gawen, remember?”
“We’ll miss you.” It came out woodenly. Did that mean Bran was lying, or simply unused to expressing sentiment?
Most likely the former. Still, he’d said it, which was something.
“And this . . . man you’re seeing? Will he be moving in with you?” Bea’s voice, behind him, made Jory jump, and he turned to face her. How long had she been there, listening quietly?
She flushed, which probably meant it’d been some time.
“I haven’t got a bloody clue what Mal’s going to do now,” Jory said shortly.
He’d had enough. He stepped past Bran, kicked off his squelching shoes and left his headlamp on the hall table, the rucksack finding a home underneath. He could deal with them tomorrow. After a moment’s thought, he peeled off his sodden outer garments and left them lying in a heap on the floor.
Then he went to have a shower.
When Jory got back to his bedroom, he found Bea waiting for him, sitting demurely on the end of his bed in her pyjamas.
He tried not to sigh too audibly, but he was almost light-headed with fatigue and desperately wanted to be left alone.
“You shouldn’t be too hard on Bran,” she said softly. “All he’s ever wanted is to do what’s best for the family.”
“I know.” Jory nodded, because he did know. “The thing is . . . he’s not always right, is he? And God knows it’s taken me long enough to realise it. I’m sorry, Bea, but I’m not going to let him browbeat me into making the wrong decision again.”
Her face closed off, but she nodded. Then she stood and finally, finally let him go to bed.
Jory was asleep almost before the door had closed behind her.
Mal woke up with the mother of all hangovers and a desperate need to piss.
