Love at First Hate

by JL Merrow

  His vision blurry, Bran felt more than saw his sister come into the study.

  “I think we need to call a doctor.” Jory sounded panicked. “He’s coughing up blood.”

  To hell with it all. Bran wanted to tell him to stop being such an idiot, but he couldn’t stop coughing. And he was just so tired . . .

  Later that night, Bran lay propped up in bed in the same hospital room as before, tethered by a cat’s cradle of lines that stripped him of all sense of bodily autonomy. He was only faintly aware of Bea’s strident voice as she told Jory to “Just get it sorted out, and don’t bother him with it anymore.”

  He wondered what and who she was talking about. But not for very long.

  Drug-fuelled oblivion beckoned, and Bran was only too eager to heed its call.

  Twenty-Seven Years Ago

  Bran was getting tired of being left behind. He’d caught up with Bea and Alan in the Square Peg Café, which was a newly opened, touristy place they’d never normally go to.

  It would be paranoid to think they were trying to avoid him—wouldn’t it?

  Then again, Bea didn’t smile when he joined them at their table. Alan did, but there was something wrong about it. One of the masters at school would smile like that whenever a boy made an excuse for not having got his prep done. He always gave the worst punishments too.

  Bran’s own smile froze on his face, but he sat down anyway. He could hardly not at this stage. “Have you been having fun?”

  “Yes. We have been,” Alan said, still with that horrid look on his face, and was there just the slightest, insulting emphasis on have been?

  No. Bran was being paranoid and imagining it, he was certain. “Where were you? I looked for you on the beach.” Bea had said they were probably going there, and she’d taken her swimming things with her. Bran had checked.

  He’d been annoyed with her for not waiting for him. Bran was good at swimming, far better than Bea was, and he’d wanted to show Alan how fast he was, how fearless in the water. It would have been good to have someone to lark about with. Bea didn’t much like getting splashed.

  Bea roused herself. “We changed our minds.”

  So he hadn’t missed his chance. That was good. “Well, maybe we could all go this evening? It’s hot enough that the water won’t be too cold, and there won’t be so many people ar—”

  Alan interrupted him. “We’re going clubbing tonight.”

  “Oh. Okay. That would be fun too.” Bran wasn’t so sure. He hated dancing—but it would be worth it to see Alan dance, wouldn’t it?

  Bea and Alan shared a look, and then she got to her feet. “Excuse me. I won’t be a moment.” She headed off into the café.

  Alan watched her walk off, then turned to Bran, his tight, empty smile still in place. “Look, I don’t want to be rude, but it’s probably best if you don’t come along tonight. I really don’t think you’d enjoy it.”

  “I— Why wouldn’t I?” Bran hated himself for stumbling over his words.

  “Well, even if you make it in the door, it’s not like any barman in his right mind is going to serve you, is it? No offence, but you look about twelve.”

  Bran flushed. “I’m not bothered about drinking. I can do that at home.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake . . . Fine. Rude it is, then. I don’t want you there. It’s Bea I’m interested in, all right? Nothing against poofs, but I’m not one, and I’m buggered, pun not intended, if I’m going to spend my evening being drooled over by one.”

  Bran jerked to his feet, knocking over his chair with a crash that had every pair of eyes in the place turning to stare at him. He felt hot and sick. “I’m not . . .” He couldn’t say it.

  Alan’s smile was, humiliatingly, sympathetic. “Course you’re not. My mistake. Still, three’s a crowd, isn’t it? You’ll understand one day. Now run off and play with somebody else’s annoying little brother.”

  As if he were a child and needed to grow up. Was that what Alan thought of him? It wasn’t fair. He didn’t treat Bea like that, and she and Bran were the exact same age. His chest so tight it hurt, Bran forced himself to walk, not run, out of the café.

  Once out of sight, he abandoned all restraint and ran for home, his eyes stinging.

  Bea crept into the house after midnight like a guilty cat bringing in its kill, her high-heeled shoes dangling from one hand. Mother had been in bed for hours, and Father shut in his study. They probably hadn’t even known she’d been out.

  Her face was red and blotchy, and her makeup smeared. She didn’t look calm, or in control. She didn’t look like herself at all. She could have been any teenage girl who’d sneaked out for a summer’s night on the town and was now regretting it.

  Bran was glad her night hadn’t gone well. He’d been miserable, stuck at home on his own. Fearing that that was how his life would be from now on.

  “Don’t let Father see you,” he said urgently. Father would throw a fit, and somehow, they’d both be in trouble.

  Bea blinked at him but didn’t speak.

  “Bea?”

  Bran moved closer, and drew in a sharp breath that he immediately regretted. She reeked of alcohol. He wasn’t all that good at distinguishing different varieties by smell alone, but the aroma was nothing like the wine they had at dinner, or even Father’s heady, expensive whisky. Father had let him try it once, on his and Bea’s birthday, and it’d gone down smoothly at first, but then the burn had hit his throat and he’d choked. Jory had laughed, the little toad. Bran had thought about giving him some to drink one day when Father wasn’t watching, and seeing how he liked it, but in the end, he hadn’t quite dared.

  What Bea reeked of now was cheap and sour, and reminded him of the bottle of gin Alderton had smuggled into the dorm one night and got sick on. “Do you feel ill?” he asked.

  Bea shook her head with a jerk.

  “You’d better clean your teeth before anyone else sees you. Or smells you, rather,” he added pointedly.

  She hugged herself with a convulsive motion. “I’m going to have a bath.”

  “That would probably be a good idea too,” Bran said, unsure why he felt uneasy. That man—he wasn’t going to call him Alan in his head now, not after the way he’d made it plain he wasn’t the least bit interested in Bran’s company—had clearly upset her somehow, which was good, wasn’t it? It meant Bea wouldn’t be spending time with him anymore.

  Things would go back to the way they’d used to be.

  Bran had time to think about things in the forty minutes it took Bea to come out of the bathroom, her face scrubbed clean of makeup and expression alike, and her hair in a towel. Too much time, and too many thoughts he didn’t like. Not at all.

  His stomach churning, he followed her into her room.

  “Bea, did that man . . . Did he do something?”

  She darted a glance at him, but he couldn’t see anything in her eyes in the split second before she looked away again. “No. Of course not. But I’m not going to be seeing him anymore.”

  Bran smiled, relief making him light-headed. “Good. I mean, it can be just us again, then, can’t it? And . . . and that’s better.”

  Bea still wasn’t looking at him, but her words made everything all right. “Yes. That’s better. Just us.”

  Present Day

  Sam nearly didn’t bother to answer his phone when he saw the unknown number. It was almost time for his shift at the restaurant, and it wasn’t likely to be anyone he’d want to talk to. Then again, it didn’t look like any of the numbers he was avoiding, and Christ knew he hadn’t spoken to another person all day. He picked up.

  “Yes?”

  “Um. Hello. Is that Sam?”

  “Yes. Who’s calling?” Sam sat down on his bed, directly facing the fist-shaped depression in the plasterboard left by some previous tenant. Having lived here for six months, Sam was pretty sure he knew how they’d felt.

  “It’s Jory. Jory Roscarrock. From Edinburgh University, if you remember? Sorry
—I was given a new phone, and never got around to switching the number over.”

  Jory Roscarrock. Like he’d have forgotten him, even though it’d been well over a year since they’d last been in touch. Warmth flooded through Sam. It’d been too long without a friendly voice. “Jory, mate! It’s been ages. How are you?”

  “Good, good. And you?”

  “Uh, yeah. Good. So everything’s okay now? With your family, and that?” Sam had never been totally clear why Jory had left Edinburgh in such a hurry—he’d had a vague idea it was some family emergency—but he was pretty sure it hadn’t been to go to another job.

  “Yes. Fine.” There was a breathy laugh. “I got a house of my own, and you’d be amazed how much better I get on with my brother and sister now.”

  “Yeah, no. I’ve got sisters myself. So how’s Rafi?”

  “Er, we split up.”

  Shit. He should have thought of that. Other people had moved on with their lives, hadn’t they? Instead of down. “Sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about it. You couldn’t have known. It’s not like I advertised it on Facebook.”

  Yeah, Jory had always been crap at social media. Then again, Sam had pretty much dropped off the internet in the last year. Anyone he was likely to want to hear from had his phone number.

  Not that many of them had used it, until now.

  “I’m with someone else now, anyway,” Jory went on. Sam could hear the smile in his voice, and found himself smiling fondly in return, with barely any envy souring the taste of it. “Mal. He’s from London, used to drive a Tube train, but we’re living together now. In Porthkennack. He works at the local museum.” Jory drew in a breath. “So, um, I heard you’d left Edinburgh too?”

  The warm feeling that’d been wrapping itself around Sam like a blanket dropped away, leaving only the flat chill of his dingy room behind. Of course Jory had heard about his disgrace. Everyone had heard about it. Which was why he was currently holding down a job as general dogsbody in an after-pub curry house.

  “Yeah. Back in Luton.”

  “And . . . are you working?”

  Sam tried to make it light, but he couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his tone. “Depends what you call working.”

  “Um, well, if you’re already set up, don’t worry about it, but I was just wondering . . . The local castle, you know it’s got a connection with the Black Prince? Well, my, um, I mean a local group is planning a major exhibition about him in conjunction with the castle. It’s due to open in July. English Heritage are putting on a tournament, and there are going to be some other events, but the curator’s had to drop out suddenly. Ah, illness. He—they asked me, but obviously I’m not really qualified, and anyway I’m teaching now . . . But I remembered you’d had that internship at the National Museum of Scotland, and I wondered if you’d be interested? Seeing as it’s your area?”

  Sam could hardly speak for a moment. The Black Prince. One of the key figures in the Hundred Years War. Sam had done his dissertation on the medieval conflict between England and France, had been starting to make a name for himself on the subject, before . . . Before. “That sounds brilliant. Uh, do they want my CV?” He’d have to get a bit creative about the last year. Maybe he could pretend he hadn’t had time to update it? “I guess they’ll want to interview me.” That could be the sticking point. He wasn’t sure he could lie to people’s faces.

  “Oh, you won’t need to bother with any of that.” Jory gave a little laugh. “I mean, I already know you.”

  Bloody hell. Jory had told him back in uni about being a Roscarrock, and what that meant in Porthkennack. Sam hadn’t been sure whether to believe him, but apparently the feudal system really was still alive and kicking in darkest Cornwall. It made him feel almost guilty for taking advantage of it—but wasn’t it about time the Old Boy Network did something for someone who wasn’t white, Anglo-Saxon, or protestant? He swallowed. “When do they want me?”

  “As soon as you can get here.” The smile was back in Jory’s voice. “To be honest, they’re having kittens. They’ve secured sponsorship from local businesses and lottery funds, got English Heritage on board, and committed publically to opening in July, and now they’re left with no one to curate it. How soon do you think you can realistically come down?”

  Sam bit back his instinctive response of Tomorrow, or tonight if I give it some welly down the motorway. Best not to look too keen.

  Ah, sod it. “Jory, this is . . . Thanks. Thanks so much for this. I won’t let you down. Uh, any chance I could doss down on your sofa for a few days while I find somewhere?” Shit, he hadn’t said when he was coming, had he? He thought quickly. He should finish out the week at the restaurant. Probably. Although it was tempting just to jack it in straight off, even if it meant losing a couple of days’ wages. “If I come down at the weekend, would that be okay?”

  “That’s great. It’ll be good to catch up with you. And it’s no problem putting you up. We’ve got a spare room. It’s a bit rough and ready—we’re still doing the place up—but, you know. There’s a bed, and you can stay as long as you want.”

  “Thanks, mate. But just till I find a place.” He didn’t want to sound like some charity case, or desperate or anything.

  Then again, if he hadn’t been desperate, he’d probably have asked about salary, wouldn’t he? Sod it. This was Jory.

  Sam didn’t have to pretend with him.

  Three days later Sam parked his Mini in front of a grey stone cottage and wiped his hands reflexively on his jeans. This was it. First time seeing Jory in . . . Christ, it must be nearly eighteen months now. Weird, thinking about seeing him again. Sam had thought he was over that little crush, but now he wasn’t so sure.

  He’d just have to hope it wasn’t too embarrassingly obvious. Especially not to this Mal bloke. That’d be well awkward, that would. Hi, mate, nice to meet you. You don’t mind if I invade your house and drool over your boyfriend, do you? Hopefully he wasn’t the jealous sort. Tube driver from London, Jory had said, hadn’t he? Seemed a bit, well, blue-collar for a bloke like Jory. Not that Sam was an intellectual snob or anything, but Jory’s last bloke, Rafi, had been an academic like him. What did he and Mal have in common? How had they met?

  Come to that, what was Mal even short for? Malik? Malachi? Maleficent? Sam stifled a chuckle that was more of a snort, realised he was wiping his hands on his jeans again, and told himself to get a grip. He hadn’t driven three hundred miles just to sit in his car outside the house.

  Sam gave himself another few seconds’ grace by checking his phone for messages (there weren’t any—at least, not any he wanted to read before deleting them) and then got out of the car. He slung his backpack on one shoulder, walked through Jory’s small front garden, and knocked on the door.

  The bloke who answered it wasn’t at all what Sam had expected. He was a lot younger than Jory and Sam, for one thing. And for another, he was holding a rat in his arms.

  “All right, mate? You’re Sam, yeah? I’m Mal, ’spect Jory told you about me? Come on in. This is Myrtle, by the way.”

  “Myrtle the rat? Shouldn’t she be a turtle?” She was black and white like the cows he’d seen in the fields on the way down, and was squirming and snuffling in Mal’s grasp. Her tiny pink hands—they were too humanlike to call paws—clutched at his fingers.

  “Heh, nice one. Yeah, fussy eater, ain’t you, babe? Always moaning about her food.”

  Sam followed him in, leaving his backpack by the door and looking around nervously for any signs of further rodent infestation. They’d had a rat in the restaurant once, and the manager had gone DEFCON 1 on the poor furry little sod. Sam had felt bad for it at the time, but even he wouldn’t have considered picking the thing up and giving it a cuddle.

  The living room they walked into was a surprise too. From what Jory had said about fixing the place up, Sam had been expecting beanbag chairs and packing-crate tables, but this room at least seemed pretty much finished. The paint o
n the walls and ceiling was fresh and gleaming white, showing off the age-blackened ceiling beams. Sam wondered if that was to remind Jory to duck so he wouldn’t keep bumping his head on them, or if they were just high enough that he didn’t have to bother.

  A large old fireplace drew the eye at one end, with a couple of serious-looking swords mounted above it. Replica fourteenth century, by the looks of them. “Burglars a problem around here?” Sam couldn’t help asking.

  Mal blinked, then followed his gaze and laughed. “Not anymore, they ain’t. Dragon attacks are well down and all. You into swords? I’ll get one of these bastards down for you if you want to give it a swing.”

  He wasn’t speaking figuratively. Both weapons had the relatively short blade and longer grip of a sword designed to be used easily either one- or two-handed. Interesting that Mal knew they were often called bastard swords—then again, it wasn’t something easily forgotten.

  “Uh, maybe later.” Sam was worried a yes might mean him being asked to hold Myrtle.

  “Yeah, course. Sorry. You want to get settled in, dontcha? Your room’s upstairs, first door on the right. You can’t get lost. Bathroom’s next to it, and me and Jory are the other door. Take your stuff up, and I’ll get the kettle on.” He flashed Sam a grin, then strolled off towards the kitchen, still holding Myrtle the rat.

  Looked like eating out might be a good idea. Or was that just being rattist?

  Sam hauled his backpack onto his shoulder and headed for the stairs. And okay, here was where he could see the house was still a work in progress. The staircase was bare wooden boards, and so was the upstairs landing—in fact, Sam could see through doors left casually ajar that none of the rooms upstairs were carpeted. They hadn’t been painted either, with blotchy white patches showing where cracks and blemishes had been filled in but not yet sanded down. Well, that was good. Gave Sam something to offer to do, and maybe pay off a little of what he owed Jory for giving him this chance—not to mention a roof over his head.

  His room was small, but no smaller than the room he’d been living in back in Luton, in the shared house with damp in the bathroom and slug trails downstairs. Most of the space was taken up by the double bed, but there was room for a small wardrobe and a bedside chest of drawers. An actual rag rug in shades of blue took up the rest of the floor area, and was surprisingly soft underfoot. None of the furniture matched—the bed was age-darkened pine, and while both the wardrobe and drawers were painted white, they were very clearly not from a set. It was reassuring, somehow, that Jory’s house wasn’t all magazine-perfect.