Broke Deep (Porthkennack Book 3)

by Charlie Cochrane

  Dominic grabbed Morgan’s hand and leaped up. “What do you think?”

  As they headed for the cliff path, Morgan tried to order his thoughts; Dominic’s bag in the guest room now, Dominic in his bed last time, that little cannon presented to him so tenderly. None of it was helping get his mind straight.

  “I haven’t had that dream again,” he ventured. “Not since the night you were here.”

  “That’s good. I didn’t want to ask, in case it turned out I’d been the one who’d caused the recurrence.” Dominic studied the road. “It seemed like it was.”

  “No, it wasn’t you. Honest.” Morgan was suddenly sure of that, although he couldn’t say why. “I was getting recurrences before I first met you.” They’d all coincided with emotional turmoil, of course. Dad’s death, Mum going into the home, first signs of James cooling off.

  “You’re remarkably chipper about it.”

  “Compared to last time? Yeah, well it’s easier to be chipper on a sunny evening than in the middle of the night. Anyway, I’ve built up coping mechanisms.” Morgan ran his hands through his hair, thinking of all the occasions he’d had to learn to muddle through. “Used to be that if the sea got up and the wind was blowing from the north, I kept the curtains shut until it had blown through. Changed my bedroom as soon as I could. It all helped.”

  “Come on, let’s chase all the bad thoughts away!” Dominic broke into a trot, tugging Morgan along with him.

  “Steady on, you’ll come a crop—” Morgan grabbed at Dominic’s arm, just as his foot caught in a rabbit scrape and sent him flying. “I said you were a bloody idiot. I was right.”

  Dominic sprang back onto his feet, dusting off his trousers. “It was only a trip.”

  “A trip? You could have slipped on the wet grass and gone over the sodding edge.” Morgan remembered taking a tumble down the cliff path, when he was barely out of short trousers. He’d got away with it lightly, nothing worse than a sprain and a mass of scrapes and bruises, but his mother had flayed him with her tongue when he’d expected sympathy and relief. At last he understood why she’d been so cross.

  “I’m all right. Only got a few scratches.”

  “Because I caught you. You could have broken your fucking neck. Maybe you should have done, to teach you a lesson.”

  Dominic turned pale, much paler than he’d been as he’d been hauled up from the cliff edge. “You don’t mean that. Please say you don’t.”

  Morgan took a deep breath, the sudden, totally incongruous need to laugh sweeping over him. Was it relief? The fact that Dominic looked so scared? Whatever the reason, he wouldn’t give the bloke—or his own conflicting emotions—the satisfaction of lightening the moment. “No, I don’t. Sorry. That was the shock talking. But I do wish you’d grow a brain. You really could have got yourself killed.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that.” Dominic’s wide-eyed fright had turned into a grimace. “The twinge in my back’s making it plain.”

  Oh hell. Another bank-holiday dash to the hospital? “I’ll call an ambulance. Can you move everything?”

  “Yes, I can. And no, there’s nothing broken, so don’t call anybody. I’m fine.”

  Morgan drew breath. Dominic didn’t deserve a tongue-lashing simply because he was clumsy. Or was he overreacting because of the falls his mother had suffered? Back there again.

  “You’d better have a rest anyway, just in case.” He led them, almost unspeaking, up to the house and through to the lounge, awakening memories of that night spent in front of the fire.

  Dominic eyed the settee, warily. “Should I go? I always seem to make you angry.”

  “No, it’s not you, it’s me. I shouldn’t have got so arsy.”

  “You were. I know I could have hurt myself, but you were out of order.”

  “I said I was sorry.” Morgan drew his hand across his forehead. “I seem to get arsy all the time, now.”

  “Maybe you should have a word with the doctor.” Dominic eased himself onto the sofa. “See whether it’s to do with your celestial action replays.”

  “My what?”

  “Your recurring nightmares.”

  “Do you really think that’s what are? Some sort of rip in the continuity of space and time that’s giving me a window into the past?” Morgan strode across the room to where he could gaze out into the garden; he didn’t want to risk another argument. “Maybe I’m just going loopy.”

  “You don’t believe that any more than I do.”

  “Don’t I?” Morgan shrugged. “Aren’t the family genes coming out? I’m already forgetful—I couldn’t recall who Lawson was, remember?”

  “That was probably stress. Don’t be so hard on yourself.”

  “Hmm. Be that as it may, I wish I knew what the dreams were about.” Morgan hadn’t wanted to discuss the nightmares, but here they were, making themselves felt again.

  “Don’t ask me. I’m all theories and no concrete answers.” Dominic, wincing, slipped a pillow into the small of his back. “Like this pulled muscle, your dreams will have a simple explanation.”

  Morgan snorted. “Will they? I suppose it’ll be stress-induced delirium, or hallucinations. Sleepwalking, haunting. I’m sorry, but they feel way too scary to analyse too closely.”

  Dominic stroked the arm of the settee. “When I was here before, you had a nightmare. You didn’t go wandering or sleepwalking or anything similar. Not that time.”

  “I know. It’s odd. I only ever went wandering the once. That first time.” Morgan dropped into a chair. “Since then, when the dreams come back, I relive the whole thing. Dream within the dream, the phone not working, leaving the house, the sudden blast of cold air on my cheek when I reach the cliff edge.”

  “Do you dream you’re shouting? You made a hell of a noise.”

  “Yes, I suppose I do. I wouldn’t know.” And that was another awful thing to impose on a lover. Disturbed nights for all the wrong reasons.

  “Recurring dreams aren’t that uncommon.”

  “Recurring dreams of an event I couldn’t have witnessed but seem to have an accurate knowledge of? Because that’s the truly scary bit, isn’t it?”

  “Maybe your brain simply churns out a storyline based on what you heard as a child, so young that you’ve no conscious memory of it. Your family must have discussed the wreck.” Dominic—so nice, so trusting—didn’t he deserve better? “Elements of that account that got locked away deep in the cerebral vaults, as much a part of your memory as the beams are part of your house. Until something freed them.”

  That made a bit of sense. Morgan’s great-grandmother had died when he was only four, and it was exactly the sort of tale the old lady would have recounted to him as he sat on her knee. “But what could have prompted it to break free from the vaults? And in such a dramatic fashion?”

  “Like I suggested earlier: stress, perhaps. About twice a year it’s manic at work and I find myself so frazzled I end up doing weird things. Even weirder than normal, before you make any smart-alec remarks.”

  Morgan couldn’t help but laugh. “Not a word was going to cross my lips. I don’t think I was that stressed when I was a teenager, though. And if this is all about stories I heard at my great-gran’s knee, why are the dreams so vivid? And don’t give me any reincarnation-theory crap. I don’t believe I was a little lad on the shore two hundred odd years ago.”

  “Reincarnation? Who mentioned that? Has someone given you that crap already?” Dominic frowned.

  “No. Yes. Bugger.” Morgan exhaled, loudly. “It’s not exactly true that I’ve never talked about these dreams before. Just not to anybody who mattered.” He rushed on, before Dominic spotted mattered. “I got drunk one night in a bar in London and poured my heart out to this random bloke. Exposed my soul, although that was all I exposed.”

  “Glad to hear it. Strange blokes in London bars! You could have ended up having your kidneys sold.”

  Morgan sniggered. Trust Dominic to make exactly the right j
oke and steer them through such a difficult passage. “That’s too near the truth to be funny. It was a damn close run thing with that particular guy; someone else picked him up two nights later and ended up wallet-less and bruised like an overripe banana.”

  Dominic screwed his face up. “Nasty. We’ve all been there, done that though, on the hunt for sympathy when we’ve been rat-arsed.”

  Morgan wasn’t sure Dominic had ever done any such thing, but it was nice of him to pretend. “Anyway, this nasty piece of work told me I must have seen the wreck of Troilus from the cliffs, in a former life. And I was going through a process of reliving it, taking myself back to the original place.”

  “As a theory, it has no scientific merit. Although maybe there’s a strange element of truth there. Not you in some former life, but a previous member of the Capell family could have stood on that cliff and witnessed the wreck. Then later on, he or she would have told their daughter, or their sons, or whatever. Handing the story down, father or mother to child until it reached you.” Dominic’s eyes shone. “Like the story of the beams and the boulder. Equally grounded in truth.”

  “The beams don’t scare the crap out of me. Or give me nightmares.” Morgan stared at the unlit fire; it suddenly felt like some idiot had gone and dropped the air temperature ten degrees.

  “So have you ever talked to a doctor about it?”

  “Have I hell.” Morgan snorted. He’d probably not seen a doctor since he was a boy, with pneumonia. “I’m not ill.” Maybe if he kept telling himself that, he’d believe it.

  Dominic frowned. “Better somebody who knows what they’re talking about than a guy in a bar. You need to get those dreams out in the open where you can examine them and see they’re nothing to be frightened of.”

  “Right.” Morgan smiled, despite his uneasiness. Dominic and his wonderfully pragmatic and logical approach to any problem.

  “A problem shared is a problem halved. Perhaps you could describe all of what you saw in your dream. If I could pick out any substantial mistakes, then that might prove it must have been based on childhood tales. A real ghostly manifestation wouldn’t get the details wrong. Like stigmata. If they really were the marks of Jesus’s crucifixion, wouldn’t the nail imprints be on the wrists?”

  “I have no bloody idea. If you say so.” It made sense, though. Everything Dominic said seemed to be making sense at present. “But what if history’s got the details wrong, like artists have done with the pictures of the crucifixion and the painters in the museum did with the wreck? We wouldn’t be able to tell, then.”

  “Don’t complicate matters unnecessarily.” Dominic jabbed at him with his hand. “Maybe it’s not such a good idea, anyway. If it turns out you’re spot on, with the level of detail you couldn’t have known unless you’d researched the wreck as much as I’ve done, which you obviously haven’t . . .”

  “If? Yes? If it turns out I’m right, then what?”

  “Then we’re liable to scare the pants off you. Not that I don’t like you with your pants off, but I’d rather find another way of doing it.”

  “Daft sod.” Morgan shut his eyes, took another deep breath. “I refuse to discuss those dreams any further. Not here, not now, but thank you.”

  “My pleasure. Except what have I done to be thanked for?”

  “Cheered me up. Talked sense. Made the unbearable bearable.” Morgan leaned over, just able to reach Dominic’s hand as it lay on the arm rest. Making a romantic overture seemed wrong, given all his worries about dragging a good bloke into sharing his mess of a life, but he needed the comfort. “Everything seems so ordinary when you’re around.”

  Dominic flushed. “While we’re talking old family stories, you don’t happen to remember any relating to John Lawson? Nothing lurking about the dank recesses of memory?”

  “If I had, I’d have said. Unless they’re buried so deep I need a hypnotist to unlock them. No,” Morgan shook his head, “I didn’t volunteer for the experiment. And anyway, wouldn’t that be a ridiculous coincidence?”

  “A bigger coincidence than you having the Troilus beams in your house? That ship’s woven into the fabric of your family history, isn’t it?” Dominic patted Morgan’s hand. “I’m glad I came back. Not simply to run John Lawson to ground.”

  “I’m pleased you came back, as well.” Morgan smiled. They sat in silence for a while, as the light outside the window ebbed, until a growl erupted from Dominic’s stomach. “I want my dinner; my stomach’s grumbling away like mad.”

  “And there was me thinking it was thunder. I—” Morgan stopped as Dominic’s mobile rang.

  My mother, Dominic mouthed, on answering. Morgan watched and listened while Dominic explained that he had remembered his aunt’s birthday, that a card and present had been sent, and that he’d definitely make the big family do in June. He’d glanced across at the mention of that, so Morgan had shrugged and turned away, suddenly envious at the fond intimacy on show. He’d never again be able to talk to Mum like that, unless they both ended up gaga and found they understood each other again.

  Why the hell couldn’t Morgan summon up the courage to find out once and for all what was going on with him? Was it only because he was scared the medical opinion would be that he was indeed going mad? Or was he worried they’d say he was fine and he’d have to find the real reason he was in such a state?

  Dinner turned out to be a success. They’d gone nowhere fancier than the local pub, but that was a place which could turn out a rare seafood platter, most of it locally caught. Morgan had felt too lazy to walk, and so his guest’s pulled muscle gave a ready-made excuse to take the car. Dominic had insisted on both driving and paying, saying that he’d also be the one to take one for the team and avoid alcohol; they had to safely negotiate the potentially treacherous lanes in the dark.

  Once they were home, they hit both the sauvignon blanc and the sofa.

  “Our last family holiday here was when I was eighteen,” Dominic remarked, out of the blue and halfway through his first glass of wine. “I vowed I’d come back on my own—which I did—but it’s never the same, is it?”

  “Nope.” Morgan sipped his wine. It would be very easy to say, Would you think about doing a re-run of your childhood holidays? What about having a week here in the summer? but that would be committing both of them. He had to remember how he’d felt that early May Tuesday morning, how confusing it had all been. How confusing it still was.

  “Maybe this week will feel like it used to. I’ve got a focus now. Lawson, I mean,” Dominic added, hurriedly. “I’m not assuming you’ll be at my beck and call the next few days.”

  Morgan smiled. “I knew that. You’re okay.” He took another drink. “Can I ask a really personal question?”

  “As long as I don’t have to guarantee I’ll answer,” Dominic replied, in an unnaturally airy way. They were back to walking on eggshells.

  “You don’t need to answer. You can punch me in the jaw if you like. It’s just that you’ve not mentioned any boyfriends. I wanted to be clear in my mind.” Was that too close, to me and you and what sort of relationship we have—or haven’t?

  “No punch required,” Dominic said, before draining his glass, then reaching for the bottle to refill it. “There’s nobody pining at home who thinks I spent my last visit here solely on ship’s business.”

  “That’s good. It’s good that I’ve not queered anyone’s pitch.” Why wouldn’t Morgan’s mouth behave itself?

  “You haven’t. I admit I’ve had my moments, some really good ones. But the guys who tend to hang around aren’t all that great, and nice guys don’t seem to want to stay.” Dominic rolled his eyes. “Oh God, I sound a total snivelling idiot. I’m not trying to talk myself back into your bed by making you feel sorry for me. And I know long-distance relationships are hard work.”

  “Yeah, they are. And I know you’re not. After years of putting up with James, I appreciate your honesty, believe me.” Morgan topped up his own glass.

&nb
sp; “Well, if I’ve got free rein to be honest, I’ve got to tell you that what happened last time was brilliant. At the risk of still sounding like a loser, I have to say that blokes like you don’t usually look twice at blokes like me. Too many other tempting cakes at the Waitrose bakery counter.”

  “I bet they’d look twice if you smiled more often.” Morgan stroked his arm. “Your whole face changes when you smile.”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing wrong, then,” Dominic replied, grinning.

  “See? You’re material for Rugby’s Finest now.”

  “Sorry?”

  “It’s a calendar. Like Dieux du Stade. Well, a bit like it—fewer naked backsides.” Morgan was gabbling again. Flirting. Doing all the things he’d had no intention of doing; that grin of Dominic’s had hit him straight below the belt line.

  “Nope.” Dominic shrugged. “No idea what you’re talking about. I’ll take it as a compliment, though.”

  “You do that. And search for those calendars up on Google sometime, only not at work.” Morgan smirked. “You’re a disgrace to the gay community, not knowing about all that eye candy.”

  “I should be taken onto the parade ground and have my copy of Priscilla, Queen of the Desert ripped from me.” That smile again.

  Morgan took a deep breath. They’d reached a watershed, the conversation and the exchange of glances well into the field of flirtation exactly as they’d been in the car with the fish and chips. If he made a move, Dominic was bound to respond; if he didn’t make a move, would the bloke understand? He opted for the coward’s way. “I’ll be back in a mo. Need a slash.”

  It had to be done, and not simply to ease his bladder. Relieving himself, his thoughts whirred around his brain.

  Why shouldn’t he get into bed with Dominic again? He was a genuinely decent bloke, good in the sack, good to be around, somebody with whom Morgan didn’t have to put on any pretences or put up any barriers. He knew about the dreams—and the Capell family problems—and he was still here. And he’d probably be here for as long as Morgan wanted him to be.