Love at First Hate

by JL Merrow

  Sam composed the email, attached the document . . . then decided to sleep on it. He doubted Bran would be expecting his report so soon, and if he didn’t send it until tomorrow, that’d at least hold off another early-morning ambush. Trust Bran to make sure he had keys to the Portakabin so he could poke his nose in whenever he wanted.

  Sam hoped coming out to Bran hadn’t been a bad idea. He’d panicked, worried that admitting to being the target of a witch hunt might’ve led Bran to do a bit of digging and maybe find out about the Edinburgh fiasco. Being gay had been the quickest alternative explanation he’d been able to come up with on the fly—but would it just make Bran even less likely to listen to him? After what Mal had said about the bloke . . .

  Sod it. What was done was done. And Sam wasn’t planning to live in a closet, so Bran would’ve found out sooner or later anyhow.

  Needing some air after all that, instead of heading for the car park when he left the castle, Sam took the clifftop footpath that skirted the castle walls. He followed the jagged coastline around the headland. Presumably it kept going, and would eventually meet up with the path he’d taken in the opposite direction on his first day. It had been a cloudy day, but dry, and now the skies were clearing to show ever-expanding patches of blue. Sam could follow the shadows of the clouds with his gaze as they swept across the endless sea, changing its colour from brilliant blue to smoky aqua and back again. In a few hours the colours would be even more striking. Sam had always loved early evening walks in Edinburgh, the warming light turning greenery to emerald and beige stone to gold.

  For a moment he missed the place fiercely, savagely—far more than he ever had during those numb days back in Luton. But what had he left there, really? A university embarrassed by him, and a lover who’d abandoned him to the wolves.

  No. It was good that he’d come to Porthkennack. Here, he could make a fresh start. Be a new man.

  The breeze ruffled Sam’s hair, as though a giant hand were combing through it, and he stood facing the wind for a moment, letting it buffet his body. An elderly couple in precautionary pac-a-macs ambled towards him. “This’ll blow the cobwebs away,” the lady said cheerfully as they passed.

  Yeah. Maybe it would, at that. Sam smiled and walked on. As he rounded the headland, the lighthouse came into view, reminding him he’d planned to pay it a visit. It didn’t look too far away. Maybe he should seize the moment?

  As he hesitated, his phone chirped. He thumbed it on to check the notifications, and wished he hadn’t. Another text from the debt collectors. His stomach lurched, and he deleted it with a curse. He was going to pay the money he owed. It was just going to take time, that was all. Why couldn’t they leave him alone for now?

  His walk soured, Sam turned and headed back to his car.

  Sam wasn’t sure who to expect at home when he got back to Jory’s house. It was half-term holidays this week, so Jory wasn’t working, but he’d been planning to spend the day with Gawen. They could be anywhere and Mal might be with them, or might not. Half-term was a busy week for him, so he could even have stayed late at the museum.

  Turned out, though, that they were all at Jory’s. When Sam walked in, he found Gawen sitting on the floor feeding a cut-up apple to Pansy, or possibly Millie—Sam had no idea how Mal told those two apart; like Neville and Myrtle, their black and white markings were so identical they could have been photocopies—while Mal, also on the floor, told him some story that involved extravagant gestures. Some of them were hampered by Neville, who was using Mal as a climbing frame again. Unless it was Myrtle this time.

  Jory was on the sofa with a large stack of exercise books, which he was ignoring in favour of a battered paperback that was thicker than the average brick.

  “Good book?” Sam asked.

  “Not bad,” Jory said, with a glance at his son. “It’s Gawen’s. The Gormenghast Trilogy.”

  Gawen looked up with owlish enthusiasm. “It’s really good. Uncle Bran gave it to me. I’m onto the second book now. I like Steerpike the best. Have you read it?”

  Sam felt obscurely bad about letting the kid down. “Uh, no, sorry. Think I saw a bit of it on TV years ago.”

  “It’s been on TV? Can I watch it, Dad?”

  Jory smiled. “What do I always say?”

  “Read the book first.” Gawen gave a classic teenage eye roll. “But after I’ve finished it, can I watch it?”

  “If we can find it. You might be disappointed, though. I’m pretty sure the TV adaptation is older than you are, and some of these things date badly.”

  “Hey, I remember that,” Mal threw in. “That’s the one with the weird twins in, right? Maybe that’s why your uncle likes it so much.” He raised an eyebrow at Sam.

  Jory frowned at him.

  Gawen nodded, oblivious. “Cora and Clarice. They’re silly. They don’t really do much.”

  “It’s all about power, really.” Jory got up and stretched. “Now, who’s hungry?”

  “Depends.” Sam flopped down on the sofa. “If I say I am, do I get volunteered to cook?”

  “Nope.” Mal grinned. “JJ’s cooking, aren’t you, mate?”

  Gawen scrambled to his feet. “We’re having pizza! Come on, Dad.” He grabbed Jory by the arm and dragged him in the direction of the kitchen.

  “Pizza’s great,” Sam called after them. “But for the love of God, put the rat down and wash your hands before you start handling food!”

  Kirsty picked Gawen up around nine o’clock. Sam felt bad on realising that if he hadn’t been monopolising the spare room, Gawen might well have stayed over. Maybe he should think about finding his own place after all.

  He was surprised when, after flinging his arms around Jory and Mal in turn, Gawen gave Sam a goodbye hug too.

  “He’s a good kid,” he found himself saying after they’d waved him off.

  Jory smiled. “He’s the best. Kirsty’s done a great job with him.”

  “Are you seeing him tomorrow?”

  “No, actually Bran’s taking him out for the day. To the Eden project. He’s been before, of course, but he likes going again. I thought Bran would want to cancel, what with everything, but he’s insisting on carrying on as normal.”

  Sam felt a heady rush of relief. A whole day, Bran-free. He’d actually be able to get some work done tomorrow. “That’s that biodome thing, right? With the different environments and that? Is it worth a visit, then?”

  Jory shrugged and looked sheepish. “I’ve never actually been. It’s always Bran who takes him.”

  “Likes his educational visits, Bran does,” Mal put in. “He’s taken him to the space centre too—long trip, that, from here.”

  “So he’s quite involved, as an uncle, is he?” Sam asked, intrigued by the thought of Bran interacting with kids. Did he wear a suit when they went on day trips? Sam couldn’t imagine him in anything less formal.

  Mal rolled his eyes. “JJ’s his heir, ain’t he? Course he’s involved. Wants to make sure he turns out all right before he hands over the family fortune.”

  Maybe, but Sam was pretty sure expensive—and lengthy—trips to places that caught Gawen’s interest didn’t have to be part of that. It was starting to sound like Kirsty wasn’t the only one who’d done a good job with Gawen.

  While they were on the subject of Bran . . . Sam coughed. “Just to warn you, Bran and I locked horns a couple of times today.”

  “Okay, now that’s gonna haunt me.” Mal cackled. “Good, was it? You, getting horny with Bran?”

  Jory winced.

  “In a word . . .” Sam closed his eyes. “There are no words. No polite ones, anyhow. But we finished up more or less civil to each other,” he added, seeing Jory’s worried frown.

  “Is this just what Jennifer was saying about historians always arguing, or is it more serious than that?”

  Sam hesitated. “Uh . . . there might be something of a personality clash going on too. But I’m working on it.”

  “Are you sure it’s
okay? I don’t like to think I’ve landed you in a toxic working environment.”

  “It’s fine. We’ll be fine.”

  “It’s not good, I’m afraid.” Constable Peters gave Bran a sympathetic look. “Without CCTV, or any witnesses, we haven’t been able to make any progress. I can tell you there haven’t been any similar attacks in Porthkennack since then.”

  He’d arranged to meet her for a coffee in town on Wednesday, directly after his appointment with his doctor, who had reluctantly agreed that Bran’s ribs appeared to be healing well, listened to his lungs, and told him to keep up the physio with an air of not believing he’d been doing any in the first place. It was entirely uncalled for. Bran had been doing his breathing exercises religiously—this time.

  They were sitting inside the Seven Stars tea room, the constable nursing a mint tea and Bran a thick, sweet Turkish coffee. Normally he’d have kept things more formal and arranged a meeting at the police station, but it didn’t seem necessary with Sally Peters. Besides, he’d always enjoyed coming to the tea room, with its intricately patterned tiled walls, cosmopolitan atmosphere, and reassuringly high prices. And their pistachio baklava was excellent.

  Bran sipped his coffee and returned his thoughts to the matter at hand. “You mean there have been no street thefts where a similar level of violence was used?” He disliked describing the attack as a “mugging” for reasons he didn’t care to examine.

  She nodded.

  “So it was definitely personal.” Bran took a bite of baklava, hoping it would ease the hollow feeling inside him.

  “Not necessarily—your attacker may be keeping his head down, or he may only have been passing through. And although your injuries were consistent with a grudge being involved, if you refused to hand over your wallet when threatened, that might have been enough to anger an already keyed-up, possibly intoxicated assailant.” She met his gaze. “Do you think it’s likely you would have done that?”

  Bran couldn’t imagine anything less likely. The loss of a wallet, weighed against the chance of serious injury? There was no contest. He’d have expended his effort on memorising the mugger’s appearance for the later use of the authorities, not on futile resistance that might get him killed. Much as he disliked admitting it, there were few men who didn’t have a height and weight advantage on him. “No. It’s most unlikely.”

  “Hm. Please don’t take this as implying you were to blame for the attack, because it’s not, but do you think you might have said something to anger your attacker?”

  Bran narrowed his eyes. “Such as?”

  “Well, it would be natural to be indignant at someone demanding cash you’d worked hard for. A lot of people might be tempted to say something like, ‘Go get a job instead of stealing from decent people.’”

  “I might have thought it, but I doubt I’d be such an idiot as to antagonise someone who was already threatening me with violence. Why?”

  “Some of the people I’ve spoken to about the case seem to think you can be . . . They seemed pretty certain you’re not one to take any infringement of your rights lying down.”

  Which had, in fact, been what he’d done. Literally. Bran wondered just who these people had been—Jago Andrewartha? Gerren Ede’s nearest and dearest?—and what had been the description of him she’d shied away from repeating. Abrasive? Abusive? Egomaniac? He swallowed. “I’ve never believed in weakness being a virtue. But in any case, this is academic. As I’ve told you, I have no recollection of the attack, so I can’t tell you how I behaved.” It was still a black hole in his memory—not even that, in fact. Simply an absence of time.

  She sighed. “In a case like this, there’s really not a lot we can do without either hard evidence or anyone willing to talk to us.”

  “I realise you’re doing your best.”

  Sally cocked her head. “You know, when I first met you, I was sure you were going to be the sort that’s all ‘This isn’t good enough, what do I pay my taxes for?’ and ‘I shall be speaking to your superior.’ Funny how first impressions can deceive.” She finished her baklava and licked her fingers, then sent him a mock-challenging look. “I know, terrible manners. Where’s a moist lemon-scented towelette when you need one?”

  Bran smiled despite himself. “They are rather sticky, aren’t they?”

  “Good, though. I can’t believe I’ve never been to this place before.” Her smile faded. “Did you have any further ideas about who might have attacked you?”

  “No. Nothing I haven’t already told you.” He stared at his plate, which was regrettably empty.

  “Don’t forget there are resources to help you get through this.”

  Bran knew that, of course. Various schemes and services, all with the word Victim prominent in their titles. He’d taken one look at the government website she’d directed him to and vowed never to seek it out again. “Thank you,” he said, because she meant well.

  Sam’s report on his proposed changes to the exhibition had come through while Bran was out with Sally Peters. Bran ate a quick lunch, then downloaded the document and went through it carefully.

  It turned out to be less problematic than he’d expected. Sam had laid out his reasons for each of the changes or additions he’d planned, supporting them with statistics wherever he could. He’d even included links to his source material. It was sobering to realise how much Bran’s own unconscious biases had influenced his view of, for example, the diversity included in the exhibition. Had the representation of women really been as low as Sam claimed? Yes, it had—the figures Sam quoted couldn’t be argued with.

  Bran recalled, on a number of occasions, telling Dr. Banerjee in no uncertain terms not to bother with “unimportant” aspects of history. She’d fought him on some points and caved on others, but he’d always won in the end. He hadn’t realised it had resulted in the exhibition becoming so . . . male-centric.

  Had Dr. Banerjee ever mentioned it? She’d certainly never set things out in black and white like this. Never explained things. And when they’d clashed, she’d always dragged in Jennifer Solomon to back her up, which had had Bran closing his ears to her arguments before they’d even started. He was quite aware Dr. Solomon both disliked him personally and despised him as a dilettante in her chosen field—which was totally unfair; he might not have a PhD in history, but he’d read extensively about the Black Prince over the years.

  Bran swallowed. He’d allowed personal feelings to overcome his judgement—again. He could hear Father’s voice in his head, berating him and repeating that business should never be tainted by emotion. But this exhibition wasn’t simply a business matter.

  This was important.

  Increasing the representation of women necessarily involved including the lives of ordinary, noncombatant people, which was the only reason Bran had opposed it. At least, he hoped it was. He was starting to second-guess himself now, and horrified to think that feeling ganged up on by the two women had made him not only defensive but also petty.

  He was starting to think he owed Dr. Banerjee an apology. Possibly Dr. Solomon as well, although in her case the words would probably choke him.

  Sam, instead of trying to browbeat him as Bran had expected, had set out a reasoned argument. Bran’s accusations turned out to have been embarrassingly unfounded: Sam wasn’t proposing changes for the sake of it. He’d tied everything in to the military campaigns—not just showing how higher taxation to pay for war affected the poor, but also how that in turn affected support for King Edward and his son the Black Prince. No wonder Sam had had the courage of his convictions to stand up to Bran. He’d behaved professionally throughout—until Bran had managed to insult him beyond bearing.

  Bran was left with the shamed realisation that he’d flown off the handle for no reason at all, and not only alienated his curator but also given him a lot of unnecessary extra work to do.

  He’d been trying not to think about Sam’s casual admission that he was gay. Should Bran have known? There was not
hing camp about him, which had been Father’s preferred way of telling if someone were gay. Bran snorted. He’d never found it to be a particularly reliable indicator. One of the campest men of his acquaintance was currently divorcing his wife so he could marry his mistress—again. Bran wondered if Sam was seeing someone. He seemed far too good-looking, with his merry eyes and full, sensual lips, not to mention intelligent and engaging, to be single. Would Bran be forced to make small talk when some long-distance boyfriend—probably equally highly educated, with more letters after his name than were in it—arrived for a visit? Or did Sam prefer to keep things casual, choosing hookups over relationships?

  But it was none of Bran’s business what Sam did in his spare time, and it didn’t change anything—why should it? Just because they shared a preference for men didn’t mean Sam and he were about to become best friends. Still, Bran regretted his outburst.

  Until, that was, he reached the section on the Siege of Limoges.

  Sam half expected to be collared by Bran first thing Wednesday morning, demanding to know why he hadn’t received Sam’s . . . report, defence of his position, whatever, yet. He’d chickened out of emailing it Tuesday afternoon, telling himself the bloke would’ve had a long day, traipsing around the biodomes with a kid, so he was really doing Bran a favour by not giving him any reason to spend the evening on work.

  The fact that not sending it until Wednesday morning would stave off any blowups at least until Sam had had his morning coffee was just an added bonus, that was all.

  Yeah, right.

  In fact, Bran didn’t seem to be at the castle at all. Well, it wasn’t like the exhibition was his full-time job. Sam supposed Bran must be off . . . doing whatever he did to make shedloads of money turn into bigger shedloads of money. Warehouse-loads, maybe. Aircraft hangars full. Well, he wasn’t going to look that gift horse in the mouth. Sam clicked Send on the report and then got on with his work, sorting out some correspondence and talking to the caterers for the grand opening.