One Under

by JL Merrow

  “Yeah, well. ’M gonna stay away from him from now on.”

  “Bit late now, innit? For God’s sake, Mal—”

  Mal pushed away from the bar and stood up. “Look, just leave it, all right? I fucked up. I know I fucked up. I’m one big fucking fuckup, for fuck’s sake.” He turned to walk out—and realised he was the centre of a big bubble of silence with everyone in the place staring at him.

  There was a loud throat-clearing sound from Jago’s direction.

  Mal sagged, sat down again, and pulled out his wallet. “How much?”

  “Five pounds, by my reckoning,” Jago said calmly, and shoved a jar down the bar to him. It rattled on the way from the half-dozen pound coins already in there.

  Mal folded up a fiver and bunged it in the jar without a word. Jago’s face softened. “Go on, Tasha, give the lad a pint on the house. He looks like he needs one.”

  A few of the locals raised their glasses at Mal, then went on with their conversations as if nothing had happened.

  Mal pillowed his head on his arms and closed his eyes.

  Maybe if he wished really, really hard, the world would go away for a bit.

  Mal was almost feeling like himself after a pint of Coke had washed away the bleariness from all that cider on the beach. What was it about drinking outdoors that always made alcohol taste so much better, and not seem to be making you drunk until suddenly you were, and it was too late?

  That was when he noticed Tash kept darting worried glances at him.

  She must have noticed him noticing. “Babe? You okay now?”

  Mal forced a grin. “Course I am. Never better. ’Sup?”

  She looked away. “I had a call from Dev while you were out.”

  Unease knifed him in the gut. “Oi, what’s happened? He all right? Is it Kyle?”

  “It’s okay. They’re fine— Well, Dev’s fine. Kyle had a problem with his meds, it was no big. They changed the brand on him and he had a reaction.”

  “But he’s okay, yeah?”

  “Yeah, but . . . they wanna make sure he’s fine on the new stuff before they come down, so it’s not gonna be Friday night now. Dev reckons maybe the middle of next week.”

  It was like . . . like having some arseholes give you a kicking, and then getting shat on by a pigeon while you lay there bleeding. Like totalling your car in a crash, finding out your insurance had lapsed, and then getting a final demand from the finance company. Like he was a pumpkin that’d been hollowed out with one of them blunt plastic scraper things they sold around Halloween so the kiddies wouldn’t cut their fingers off making lanterns. Mal put his head in his hands.

  And he knew he was being a wanker, and it wasn’t all about him. But . . . he’d been counting on Dev coming down. He fucking needed his best mate, all right?

  “Babe?”

  Mal scrubbed his face with his hands and forced a smile as he looked up. “I’m good. Bit disappointed, you know? And it sucks for Kyle,” he added guiltily.

  “Yeah. Dev said he ain’t too bad, though. They’re just being safe. You want another Coke?”

  “Nah. Cheers. Think I’ll go watch the telly for a bit.”

  “Okay. See ya.”

  “See ya.”

  Mal had thought they’d finished talking about all the difficult stuff, but Tasha cornered him later as he walked out of the bathroom after his shower. “You weren’t the only one looking forward to seeing Dev, you know.”

  Mal felt like a complete arsehole. He wrapped a mostly dry arm around her shoulders. “I know you’ve been missing him too. Come on, tell your uncle Mal all about it.”

  She sniffed. “It’s Ceri, innit? Going away like that. Just when I thought we was . . .”

  “I knew it! I fucking knew it. Hey, congrats, Tash. Welcome to the bi side, where love has twice as many chances to screw you over like a boss.”

  Tasha managed a weak smile. “Do I get a membership card?”

  “Better than that. Free invisibility cloak and a pack of unicorn stickers.” He squeezed her shoulders. “Does she know you like her?”

  Tasha shrugged. “Dunno, do I? I never said nothing. But I thought it was gonna happen. Then she bloody well bogs off out of the country without me.”

  “Maybe she needed a bit of space to think about it. I mean . . .” Mal wasn’t sure how to put it tactfully, so he just went for it. “Does she even fancy girls?”

  “She never talks about that stuff.”

  “What? You’re girls, aintcha? I thought you talked about everything.”

  “Yeah, but . . . she don’t go out with people, does she? Not no more.”

  Mal grinned, because there had been a bloody big dollop of West Country in those last few words. Then he saw her expression and kicked himself, mentally speaking. This wasn’t the time to tease her about going native. “Well, that’s good, innit? Means you ain’t got to worry about her getting with someone while she’s away.”

  “S’pose.”

  “And, like, when she’s here, she spends all her time with you, right? Apart from studying and that.”

  “S’pose.”

  “So you’re sorted, aintcha? Bet she’s missing you as much as you’re missing her.” He gave her a squeeze, which was when the towel round his waist decided to make a break for freedom and fell to the floor.

  Tasha squealed and shrieked, “Get away from me, you perv!”

  Jago reached the top of the stairs to see her pissing herself laughing and Mal trying to hold on to his dignity with both hands. He had a lot of dignity, all right?

  Jago raised an eyebrow and said, “Never mind, my lad. Chances are you’re still growing.” Then he walked past them to his bedroom.

  Well, if nothing else, it cheered Tasha up, Mal thought as he made a grab for his towel and legged it to his room.

  Jory had never expected to be so grateful for his stopgap job at the museum, but it was a lifeline over the next few days. He threw himself into organising the mermaid exhibition and didn’t think about Mal in the slightest.

  The fact that he couldn’t seem to keep himself from looking up hopefully whenever the door opened was just . . . just him hoping for more visitors, that was all.

  After work, he went for walks on the beach, with or without Gawen. Or he baked. He’d taken to keeping a tin of biscuits on the front desk at the museum now, and offering them to anyone who came in—well, there were only so many he could give to Kirsty and Gawen, and Bea was no help at all in eating them up.

  Bran could buy his own biscuits. Jory couldn’t help thinking half the trouble between him and Mal was down to Bran having flown right off the handle last year over Dev.

  Of course, strictly speaking, he should be blaming Bea too. But he couldn’t bring himself to, somehow. She’d been so . . . quiet lately. He wouldn’t go so far as to say she was sad, because he’d never been any good at telling how Bea was feeling, but she didn’t seem particularly happy. As if she was upset by the Dev issue being raised again.

  Logic told him he was theorising without evidence. Logic was bloody well overrated.

  At five o’clock on a day that had been even quieter than average, Jory shut up the museum as usual. Time to go home. All of a sudden, though, he just couldn’t face another long evening in that big, echoing house being ignored by Bran and Bea.

  If he was going to be lonely anyway, he’d rather do it on his own, thanks.

  Gawen had piano tonight and homework afterwards, so there was no point going round there. And Jory shouldn’t rely on his son every time he felt the urge to get out of the house in any case. Gawen had a life of his own. It was past time Jory started building one for himself in Porthkennack.

  Walking back up the cliff path, he had the urge to break into a run. He was restless—physically as well as mentally. He needed something more physical to do than just baking his way through the EU flour mountain. Glancing at the craggy shapes of the cliffs gave him his inspiration.

  There was a boulder down one end of
Booby’s Bay he’d been meaning to have a go at for a while, and tackling it would be ideal to ease him back into climbing. Technical enough to take his mind off . . . things, but with zero safety issues. And if he found his stamina wasn’t up to a lengthy session, he could simply jump off.

  He had all the gear he’d need in the back of the Qubo already, so all he’d have to do was change his clothes and jump in the car. Well, that and avoid Bran, so as not to face any awkward questions about what he was up to. Jory wasn’t sure if Bran understood the distinction between bouldering and riskier forms of climbing, and he just didn’t have the patience to explain it right now.

  Jory made it through the house and up to his room without incident, and miracle of miracles, managed to get back out to his car safely too.

  Of course, sod’s law meant that when he got down to Booby’s Bay, he found the Slanted Boulder, named for its diagonally rising undercut seam, already taken. Jory dumped his backpack on the ground and watched for a while as a skinny young lad—probably around Mal’s age, or maybe a bit younger—talked his girlfriend through a rising traverse.

  Jory had only been watching for ten minutes when he decided she’d have managed fine without the running commentary—her would-be instructor apparently hadn’t even noticed she was quietly ignoring his advice wherever she saw fit.

  When she finished the traverse and jumped down, Jory made a point of stepping forward to congratulate her. “Nice job.”

  “Thanks!” The girl turned to smile at him. Her face was marred by a big scab on the end of her nose. Looking closer, Jory could see other signs of recent minor injury. “It’s my first time back—took a fall last week and missed the crash pad. But I made it this time!”

  They fist-bumped. Her obvious buzz was infectious, but out of the corner of his eye Jory could see the boyfriend hovering sullenly, and decided he’d better cut this short to avoid causing a row. He turned to the skinny lad. “Are you planning on tackling it now, or can I have a go?”

  The lad visibly relaxed at the evidence that Jory was only muscling in on his boulder, not on his girlfriend. “All yours, mate. Think we’re gonna head down to the wall now.” He sent a questioning glance at the girl, who nodded. “Won’t even spray beta at you this time,” the lad added, and she gave him a fond smile.

  “It helped. Honest.”

  Jory felt a lot more kindly disposed to him on learning he’d been providing a safety net, rather than simply showing off.

  “Just let me clean up,” she went on, then brushed away the few patches of white chalk she’d left, packed up her mat and shoes, and left, hand in hand with the boyfriend.

  Jory watched them go for a minute.

  If only all things were as easy to get over as a fall from a boulder. Would getting back into the driving seat—any driving seat—help Mal? He couldn’t help thinking getting over killing a man with a train, however unintentionally, wasn’t going to be so simple.

  And anyway, hadn’t Mal made it clear he didn’t want anything more from Jory?

  The memory left a bitter taste in his mouth. Jory forced himself to focus, pulling out his crash pad, shoes, and chalk. The problem he wanted to try was a vertical climb up the left side of the boulder, with a sit start. The climbing forum he’d seen it described on had rated it as of average difficulty, and it seemed like a good one to dust off his skills on.

  Jory gazed at the boulder until he was certain he had it mapped in his head, then got into the starting position. A soft breeze ruffled his hair and cooled the back of his neck. As he concentrated on the problem and began to climb, the world dropped away, narrowing into the distance to his next hand- or foothold. He could feel his limbs stretching properly for the first time in what felt like ages. He’d ache tomorrow, but he’d have earned it.

  His toes slipped halfway up, but he recovered, and after that it was easier, the holds more secure. He’d always loved bouldering—there might not be the heady achievement of a long, difficult climb up a vertical cliff face, but it was freeing, climbing without the heavy tackle of ropes and harness. Conquering nature’s barriers by his own efforts alone.

  When he reached the top, it felt like too soon. Then again . . . the online forum had described several other problems on this one boulder, including the rising traverse, and when Jory cast a glance down behind him, he couldn’t see anyone queuing up to have a go. There were just a couple of tourists watching the spectacle.

  Jory smiled to himself, double-checked the fall area was clear, and jumped off.

  An hour or so later, Jory slung his backpack onto the passenger seat of the Qubo and changed out of his climbing shoes. He felt better now. Calmer.

  And absolutely ravenous. Time to head home.

  Traffic through town was light, the rush hour, such as it was, already over, and Jory made it back to Roscarrock House in good time. He parked the Qubo in the old stables and was stowing his backpack and climbing shoes in the boot when Bran walked in, car keys in hand. Jory froze. Damn. Why the hell hadn’t he put everything away down at the bay?

  Had Bran noticed?

  “Off out?” Jory asked, trying to sound casual. He was a grown man, damn it, and he didn’t need Bran’s permission for his hobbies.

  But he didn’t have the energy for a row right now.

  “Obviously.” Bran gave Jory an unreadable look. He was wearing a dark suit and tie, so presumably was going to some kind of business dinner. “You’re late back.”

  “Making the most of the weather.” Jory kept his gaze level.

  After a moment Bran, turned away and went to his car.

  Jory found Bea in the kitchen, staring into the fridge as if hoping a meal would magically spring out and cook itself.

  Or maybe merely wondering who’d had the last of the celery sticks. If she’d wanted them saved, she shouldn’t have left them so temptingly close to the sour cream dip.

  She looked up at Jory. “Oh, hello. You’re late.”

  “Uh, yes.” Jory forced himself to go on cheerfully. “I was going to cook—care to join me?”

  She blinked and straightened. “All right. As it’s just the two of us.”

  He hadn’t expected her to accept. It was an unpleasant shock to realise he’d probably better come up with something a little more “proper” than his half-formed plan of having whatever was in the fridge with pasta and canned tomatoes. Of course, there were any number of ready meals in the freezer, but he had his pride.

  In the end, he knocked up a quick risotto, adding a kick with some leftover chorizo, which she eyed dubiously but tucked into well enough with a comment of, “This is actually quite nice.”

  Jory narrowed his eyes at her over a forkful of food. “You know, it’d be a better compliment if you left out the ‘actually.’”

  “When did you learn to cook? I always assumed you ate in hall, at your universities. I did.”

  “That’s because you were only there for three years, as an undergraduate. And not every university is like Cambridge. Dining in a medieval college with a high table and Latin grace is one thing. Mucking in with a load of teenagers in an overcrowded student union café is quite another.”

  She half smiled. “I always did wonder how you managed, living a student lifestyle all these years. Bran used to say he thought you just didn’t want to grow up.”

  “Bran can—” Jory caught himself up short. This friendly atmosphere between them felt like a fragile thing, easily shattered. “Make his own dinner,” he finished weakly.

  “He does have your best interests at heart.”

  Did he, bollocks. “I think I’m old enough to judge for myself what’s in my best interest, thanks.”

  Bea frowned. “You know it wasn’t easy for him when Father died.”

  “Uh, no. I’m sure it wasn’t.” Jory racked his brains for innocuous topics of conversation. Then he had it—something Mal had asked about.

  Not that he was hoping to use it as an excuse to talk to Mal again. Obviously.


  “Bea, I was wondering—that legend about Mary Roscarrock back in sixteen-oh-whatever turning to piracy. I know we play it up for the tourists, but is there much truth in it?”

  She gave him an odd look. “Why the interest?”

  “I, um . . . For Gawen. He likes to learn about family history.” Jory instinctively felt it would be better not to mention any possible museum exhibits until he knew more about the subject. Bea might be difficult about that sort of thing, and there was no point starting a fight before it was necessary.

  “I’m sure he’s heard the stories already.”

  “Yes, but he’s, uh, very factually minded. I think he’d appreciate knowing how much of the legend is actually true. Do we have any family records, anything like that?”

  Bea put her fork down, although she was only halfway through her risotto, and pushed her chair back.

  “Bea?” What on earth had he said to upset her? He put down his own fork, ready to stand up if she did. “What’s wrong?”

  She shook her head. “It’s nothing. . . You should finish your meal. Don’t let it go to waste.”

  That was rather hypocritical of her, as although she stayed at the table, she didn’t touch the remainder of her food. Jory had more or less lost his appetite too, but he ate anyway. Maybe it would help her compose herself.

  He’d probably given her too much on her plate in any case.

  After a few minutes, he was rewarded by her speaking again.

  “It brought back some memories, that’s all.” She had a drink of water, then replaced her glass precisely in the middle of the coaster. “I don’t suppose I’ve really thought about Mary Roscarrock since I was sixteen.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You do recall what happened that year?” Bea asked, her tone impatient.

  Jory hesitated, then said it anyway. “Dev was born? But I don’t see—”