And yes, Jory could stand outside all evening cataloguing the depredations of time on the place, but that rather defeated the object of coming here, didn’t it? He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and pushed open the door.
The inside of the pub was rather of a piece with its exterior. A row of men of indeterminate age sat at the bar. One of them glanced around at him, stony-faced, then turned back to his pint. Jory swallowed the urge to flee. For God’s sake, it wasn’t like he was some interloper. He was Porthkennack born and bred. He was a Roscarrock, damn it.
Mal was sitting at one end of the bar chatting to the barmaid they’d spoken of earlier. Jory hesitated, not wanting to barge in, but she spotted him and said something to Mal, who turned round and gave him a wave.
Feeling slightly less awkward now, Jory walked up to him.
Mal smiled in welcome. “Good to see you, mate. Tasha, this is Jory, yeah? The bloke from the museum who made me tea and stuff. His biscuits are well tasty.” He winked again.
Oh, bloody hell. Jory tried to will himself not to blush. “I . . . Thank you. Um. Can I get you a drink?”
“They’re on me,” Tasha said firmly. “What you drinking?”
“There’s no need—”
“Don’t be daft. You took care of Mal, didn’t you?”
Mal, Jory couldn’t help but notice, was looking more and more exasperated. “Pint of cider,” he said quickly. “Please.”
“Rattler, Strongbow, or Scrumpy Jack?”
Just what he needed. Further choices. “The first,” Jory said, trying to sound decisive.
Mal grinned and held up his half-full glass. “Good innit? That’s what I’m on.”
Jory wasn’t sure what made him glance round as Tasha pulled his pint. Some kind of sixth sense that he was being watched, perhaps. A man in his sixties or so was working at the other end of the bar—at least, he was on the working side of the bar, although he was in fact perched on a stool and drinking a pint of beer. He looked vaguely familiar, and his gaze was fixed firmly on Jory.
As their eyes met, the man put down his pint and, without hurrying, got to his feet. He headed down to their end of the bar.
He wasn’t smiling.
Jory startled as Tasha put his drink in front of him with a “There you go, babe.”
“Th-thanks.” He took a gulp, hoping to steady his nerves.
“Well, well. We don’t often see the likes of you in here.” The barman’s tone was gruff and not precisely welcoming. He turned to Mal, who seemed as confused as Jory felt. “Surprised to see you drinking with him.”
“What? Why?”
“Tell you his name, did he?”
Mal frowned. “He’s Jory. Works up at the museum.”
“Actually that’s just temporary—”
“He’s a Roscarrock.” The barman said it flatly. Coldly. As if it was a bad thing. “Brother to Branok and Beaten Roscarrock.”
Jory swallowed. Everyone was staring at him now. “Ah, well, yes.” He wondered desperately what his family could have done to provoke such hostility. Jory had an idea that Bran could be a little ruthless when it came to property, but surely that was all business?
This seemed personal.
“Didn’t tell you that, did he?” the barman went on.
Mal’s face had changed, and not in a good way. “No, he didn’t.”
“You didn’t ask! I mean, we didn’t exchange surnames. W-what’s this all about?” Jory hated how his stammer came back in times of stress.
“My bruv,” Tasha snapped. “Mal’s best mate. Devan Thompson.”
Jory frowned, baffled. “Who?”
Mal pushed away from the bar and walked off a couple of paces. Then he turned back, his face hard. “Not funny, mate. Seriously, not funny.”
“I’m not trying to be—”
“Can I bar him?” Tasha asked the barman. “Can I?”
Jory just stared at them, wishing he’d never come. How the hell had it all gone so wrong so quickly? He should have stayed at home with his books and his computer. Or gone to see Kirsty and Gawen. Not accepted invitations from good-looking strangers. When had that ever ended well for him? He should go, now, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot.
“I think you’d better leave,” the barman rumbled, and that broke the spell.
Jory fled.
When he got back home, Jory scrambled through the house until he ran down Bran in his study. “Who’s Devan Thompson?” he demanded.
Bran glanced up briefly, then returned his gaze to the file he’d been leafing through. “Who?”
“Don’t play games with me. He’s the man who just got me thrown out of a pub, despite the fact I’ve never even met him.” Jory’s face was hot with remembered humiliation.
“What?” Bran’s face darkened as he stood up. “That’s an outrage. Which pub? Was it the Sea Bell?”
“I . . . It doesn’t matter.” The last thing Jory wanted was to cause any more bad blood.
“What were you doing in a pub?”
Oh God. Jory should never have started this. “Tell me about Devan Thompson,” he said quickly.
Bran’s glare deepened for a moment, but then he let out an exasperated huff and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “I suppose I’d better tell you. I don’t want you bothering Bea about this. You won’t remember—you were just a baby—but when Bea and I were in our teens, there was a . .
