Broke Deep (Porthkennack Book 3)

by Charlie Cochrane

  He wouldn’t inflict on anyone else the same pain he’d suffered with her, especially not somebody he’d come to value as much as he did Dominic.

  By the time they reached the house, Morgan had broken the painful silence, but only by swearing at a cyclist who’d been swerving all over the road and nearly taken the wing mirror off. Dominic had joined in the stream of invective, evidently relieved that he’d been called back from Coventry. Dominic parked the car, but before he had the chance to get out, Morgan leaned forward to speak.

  “I know we’re not supposed to apologise, but I’m saying sorry. About earlier. I didn’t mean to be so aggressive. To use a bloody awful cliché, it’s not you, it’s me.” As Morgan spoke the words, James’s letter flashed through his mind. He was doing to another undeserving soul exactly what the rat had done to him, but it couldn’t be helped. “I’m not myself, and I need some space to get my head clear. It’s all getting too much.”

  “So is that simply a politer way of telling me to bugger off and not come back than the last one you tried?” Dominic’s voice was angry, upset, brave, all at once. Morgan focussed on the hand brake, avoiding the bloke’s gaze in the rearview mirror.

  “No.” He almost believed the lie. “I can’t think straight. I want to see what the next few months bring and work out how to deal with it on my own.” How pathetic did he sound?

  “But you know what’s going to happen. You’ll get yourself screwed up without somebody to help you through.”

  “Don’t tell me what to do. You don’t run my life. You’re not—” He’d nearly said, he realised with a jolt to his stomach, my mother. “Anyway, I don’t need to explain. I need a bit of space. Please let me have it.”

  He should just get out of the car, unlock the front door, and wait for Dominic to take up his bags and walk. Only he couldn’t move. He had to have an answer, although none seemed to be coming other than Dominic’s steady breathing. Morgan’s patience wasn’t infinite, so he opened the car door and eased himself out all in one careful movement.

  “Okay, I’m going.” Dominic followed Morgan along the path to the house. “For the moment.”

  Morgan pretended not to hear the last bit.

  “You’ve got my number,” Dominic continued. “If you change your mind, you can call. I’ll always be there, if you need me. When you’ve had your space or whatever.”

  That had to get a reply. Morgan stopped by the front door, as he slid his key into the Chubb lock, but all he could manage was, “Okay.”

  Dominic nodded, then waited in silence As Morgan opened the door and stood to one side. They’d said all they had to say.

  Later, as Morgan—once again—watched his guest drive away, the sound of blowing up bridges filled his mind’s ears. Arguments didn’t have to mean the end of things—he and James had argued often, making up again in a flurry of apologies, mainly from Morgan’s side—but that had been different. In this case, he didn’t even know if he wanted to resolve things.

  And that was the problem in a nutshell. What did he want? And what the hell was he going to do now?

  Wednesday dawned grey and misty, although not as foggy as the contents of Morgan’s head. How many had he put away the evening before? Too many, judging by the headache and the empty bottles on the kitchen drainer. It was a surprise he hadn’t had another attack of vertigo as he’d staggered from his bedroom this morning, bleary-eyed and none too steady on his feet.

  Had Dominic also taken refuge in beer? Morgan didn’t want to think about Dominic, given the hole he’d left behind him in both heart and bed.

  Morgan had work to do, but couldn’t face it, and he didn’t fancy going out anywhere given the state of the weather, much less the state of his mind and his inner ears. The thing that nagged him most was the need to see his mother, irrespective of what the nursing home sister had said about staying away until he was well. For once his motive wasn’t guilt; although whether he primarily wanted to ask her about the ship dream or grab some crumb of comfort—reassure himself that somebody still loved him—he wasn’t sure.

  He wouldn’t check his phone to see if Dominic had texted. He wouldn’t check his inbox for a message from the bloke. He’d made his bed, and he was going to have to lie in it, empty or not.

  Morgan managed to get to lunchtime using the same technique he’d used after James’s Dear John letter. Get through ten minutes, then another ten. Don’t think about ships or nightmares or Dominic, no matter how much they want to invade your mind. Don’t think about living the rest of your life on your own. He ate a lunch, of sorts, not having been able to face anything other than water and a plain cracker at breakfast, and the cracker had only been to line his stomach before he took two ibuprofen.

  The roads to the nursing home were half-term busy, but for once Morgan didn’t mind, glad to be taking it slowly in case he got dizzy again, and also grateful for something to help fill the interminable day. The car felt empty without Dominic by his side; strange how the bloke had so quickly got himself under Morgan’s skin, so soon become part of the fabric of his everyday life. Morgan stared at the traffic ahead.

  Don’t think about Dominic.

  Once he was through the doors of the nursing home, his favourite nurse greeted him with a cheery smile. A pretty, capable girl, with a deep West Indian accent and an unflappable air about her, she exuded calm—spending time in her presence soothed patients and visitors alike.

  “Good afternoon, Christine.”

  “Hello, Mr. Capell. You’ve brought the sunshine with you.”

  “I try my best.” Morgan smiled. “Glad that sea fog burned off. How’s Mum today?”

  “She’s having quite a good day. Sitting out in the garden clicking away merrily.”

  “Clicking?”

  “Her knitting.”

  “Oh, yes. Sorry. Being thick.”

  “You’re allowed.” The nurse smiled and let him get on.

  Morgan found his mother seated in her favourite part of the garden, creating something fluffy out of white wool. He couldn’t remember the last time she’d concentrated so intently on a task.

  “Hi, Mum.” He waved as he strolled along the path that weaved through spring-bright flower beds.

  “Hello, love. Come and sit here, in the sun.”

  “What are you making?”

  She held up the fruits of her labours. “It’s a matinee jacket. One of the nurses here is expecting her first grandchild.”

  It wasn’t the best matinee jacket he’d ever seen, but he nodded enthusiastically. She’d clearly retained some of her skills. “It’ll be lovely. You carry on with it while we chat.”

  “You used to do that when you were a boy. Natter away as I knitted.”

  “I remember.” Maybe the familiar, repeated movements of her fingers were refiring neurons somewhere in her mind, triggering memories that had long lain dormant. They chatted calmly about a favourite scarf she’d made for him when he was nine, how he’d worn it all one winter until it had been so disgusting she’d had to steal it from him so it could be washed. How it had never quite been the same soft, comforting item again, and he’d been in a right temper about it.

  “You always were a changeable boy. One minute bright as the sun and the next moody as anything.” She tapped his arm before setting about another row of stitches.

  “Was I?” Then nothing had changed.

  “Oh, yes. Like your pal Derek.”

  “Derek?”

  “The one with the feckless mother. Remember his jumper?”

  “I do. She put his favourite sweater in their new washing machine, and it came out half the size.” Morgan grinned in recollection.

  His mother giggled. “He was that upset, wasn’t he? How we laughed about it later.”

  Derek still laughed about it now, on the occasions they ran into each other at the pub. Morgan would have to remember to tell him what she’d said; he’d always got on well with Mum. “He had a great big teddy bear, remember? Mr. Smudge
. He put the jumper on it. His kids play with it now—right beaten-up old thing it is—but he won’t have it any other way.”

  “He always was daft.” She finished her row, concentrating on the stitches. “Him and his pirate captains. The pair of you dashing round the garden, pretending you were brave.”

  “Oh yes. I’d forgotten.” Derek had gone through a phase where everything was Ooh aar! and Avast me hearties, not that either of them knew what avast meant. Even Mr. Smudge had been made to wear an eye patch. Talking of pirates, albeit teddy bear ones, provided an unexpected opportunity to broach the subject of ships. “I wonder if he dreamed about shipwrecks?”

  “I beg your pardon?” She looked up from her knitting.

  “I wonder if Derek dreamed about shipwrecks, seeing as he was so mad on pirates. I once had a nightmare about a ship sinking.”

  “Did you, love?” She laid her needles down in her lap. “That’s funny. I think I used to dream about the same thing. It was horrible.”

  “I bet it was. Can you remember anything about it? Some of the details?”

  “I don’t know. I think the ship got driven onto the rocks, but . . .” Voice faltering, she dropped her knitting entirely and grabbed hold of Morgan’s arm. “I can’t remember, Morgan. Why can’t I? What’s happening to me?”

  “It’s all right.” He patted her hand, unsure of what to do. She’d not had one of these panic attacks for a long time: the first had been heartbreaking to deal with and this was hardly any easier.

  Christine appeared from the open French doors, probably alerted by raised voices and agitated tones. She came over, making soothing noises. “There, there. How’s the knitting going, Ruth? It’s coming along lovely.”

  Morgan’s mother held the matinee jacket up, staring at it blankly.

  “She got a bit upset,” Morgan explained. The words were inadequate to the situation, as any might have been; he felt another wave of vulnerability assail him.

  “Who’s that?” Mum laid down her knitting and jabbed a bony finger at the nurse. “Why am I being kept here? Why can’t I go home?”

  “It’s Christine. You like her.”

  The nurse pulled up a chair beside Morgan’s mother, patting her hand and making the inconsequential small talk they always used at the home when one of the residents became fractious. Morgan might as well have not been present, but he was determined to stay this time; he had questions to ask.

  Eventually his mother settled again, taking up her knitting and ploughing on with it in silence. Christine rose, motioning for Morgan to follow her; he kissed his mum’s head, then did as instructed.

  “Don’t upset yourself,” Christine said, once they were out of earshot. “It happens. She’ll be right as rain in a while. Or at least as right as we can hope for.”

  “Thank you. For calming Mum down.” Morgan steadied himself with a deep breath. “Can I ask you something that’s going to sound odd?”

  “Of course. Let’s go inside.” She led him into the conservatory, where they could watch his mother but not be seen by her. Mum’s mood seemed to have regained its former equilibrium as she chatted and sang to herself over her knitting, much as she’d always done.

  “She seems happy again.”

  Christine nodded. “She has her ups and downs every day, the way we all do. Although for her they’re exaggerated.”

  “She was so placid at home. Before all this happened. She’s like a different person.”

  “Yes. It’s hard seeing somebody you know change so greatly, but she’s fine here, honestly. We can deal with her needs much better than you could. Don’t feel guilty about it.”

  “Am I that obvious?” Morgan had to smile. This was a conversation he should have had long ago, but there’d not been anybody who felt trustworthy enough—and far enough removed—to have it with. Harry was too close and Dominic . . . he was too valued. Now he was certain he couldn’t put Dominic through the same agony of guilt and distress.

  “In my experience, it’s rare that anyone commits their parents into care without blaming themselves for not having done enough to help them. To keep them at home.” The nurse patted his arm, as though he was one of her charges. “She’d never be able to cope outside of residential care, not even in sheltered accommodation. Not without somebody’s eye on her all the time. For most families, that twenty-four-hour pair of eyes isn’t an option.”

  “It could have been an option, for me. I work from home. I could have had the house adapted or something.”

  “You could. And you might have been able to afford a nurse to come in to cover the times you couldn’t. If you were lucky, it might have worked out fine. Chances are she’d have become a growing worry to you. And a burden.” Christine’s voice became increasingly reassuring; she must have had this conversation many times. “You might have ended up hating your mother. We’re none of us saints.”

  She was right. Despite working from home, Morgan wouldn’t have had his mother continually in his sight. She could have easily gone wandering, as had happened to an elderly neighbour of theirs twenty years ago. He’d managed to get out of a house which the family had believed secure, only to end up lunging himself out onto the main road, where a car hadn’t been able to avoid hitting him. How much guiltier would Morgan have felt under those circumstances?

  “You visit her regularly, and she’s pleased to see you,” Christine continued. “It’s more than some people do. She often talks about you.”

  “Does she?”

  “Of course, although usually it’s as though you were still a little boy. Maybe that’s what you’ll always be in her mind.”

  “It seems like it.” Morgan steadied himself with a deep breath. “Does she ever mention ships at all? Or a nightmare she once had about a ship? That’s what I was talking about when she got upset. I don’t want to ask her again in case it sets her off.”

  Christine produced an unreadable smile. “Is it important?”

  “Yes. Very. This is going to seem really stupid, but that dream seems to recur in our family, and I wanted to know when she had it and how often.” It did seem stupid, described in such stark terms, but how could anybody understand its significance if they hadn’t experienced the thing?

  “It’s strange you should mention it. She’s spoken about that dream to me a few times. At first we thought she’d had the nightmare here, something to do with her medication or her mental state, but she’s adamant it happened when you were still young. That part of the story never changes.”

  “What about the details of the dream? Are they always the same?” Morgan raised his hand. “Yes, I know, please bear with me. It’s an odd question, but I can promise you I wouldn’t ask if it didn’t matter.”

  “Okay.” Shrugging, Christine smiled. “It’s the same story every time she talks about it. Which is odd, because she’s obviously not consistent about other things in her life. Apart from your dad’s old boss. She never changes the story about her.”

  Morgan grinned. “Miss Charlton. When I was young, I used to imagine her as a real live dragon, blowing fire out of her nostrils. I suppose she was a bit modern for mum’s tastes.”

  “If she’d been a Mr. Charlton and done the same things, it wouldn’t have been such a problem, I guess.” Christine laughed.

  “Something like that.” At least Miss Charlton would never have been a rival for Dad’s affections. Morgan had recognised her likely inclinations as he’d gone through the process of understanding his own sexuality. “Sorry to harp on about this dream, but what does Mum say happens in it?”

  “Oh, apparently it’s all very vivid, like something out of a film. A storm and a shipwreck, out on some rocks called . . .” Christine wrinkled her brow in thought. “The devil’s anchor?”

  “The Devil’s Anvil.”

  “Yes, that’s it. Such a horrible name. Is it a real place?”

  “I’m afraid it’s all too real. As was the wreck. A ship called Troilus.” He had to force himself to spe
ak the name, a feat he’d not had a problem with in what seemed an age.

  Christine nodded, clearly impressed that another aspect of her patient’s story was correct, and seemingly unaware of Morgan’s discomfort. “Oh yes? I’m afraid I don’t know all the tales from round here. Maybe when I’ve been here long enough to be called a local, I’ll have a better idea.”

  “You could live here fifty years and still be counted as a visitor, I’m afraid.” Morgan shook his head, ruefully. “No matter how well you knew the legends. Can you remember anything else she said about that dream?”

  “Not really. Except that all the sailors were drowned except one who got washed up on the beach. Quite a story! She must have a powerful imagination.”

  “She has. Storytelling runs in the family. That’s why I’m trying to pick apart the truth from any embellishment that might have happened along the way. I’ve had a similar nightmare, you see,” Morgan continued, in response to the nurse’s quizzical look.

  “Ah, I see. How peculiar.” The crucifix that Christine wore round her neck—and the odd remark she’d dropped in the past about her faith—suggested she might have no time for a paranormal explanation.

  “Yes. And from what you’ve said, it doesn’t simply sound similar. It’s almost exactly the same.” Except in his version there weren’t survivors. What the hell did that signify?

  “Now that’s something.” Christine tapped the arm of her chair, theatrically. “Your mother was telling me that her mother had the same dream, about the same ship. And her mother before her. We didn’t believe such a thing could be true—the ladies here tell us the most amazing stories, so we’ve learned to take them all with a pinch of salt—but it seems we were wrong.”

  “Sad to say, you were.” Morgan shivered, despite the warmth of the conservatory. “I had no idea she’d had that dream, not until yesterday, when a friend of the family mentioned Mother had told him about it. I thought it had only happened to me.”