One Under

by JL Merrow

  He tried to imagine going to bed. Sleeping, with all this still unresolved.

  To hell with that. He pulled his jacket on, grabbed his keys, and set off for the Sea Bell.

  Walking into the Sea Bell after his reception the last time wasn’t the easiest thing Jory had ever steeled himself to do. At least this time he had the moral high ground.

  Or had he? He was the one dating while married, for God’s sake.

  But Mal knew how Jory felt about him. And God, to get off with Kirsty . . .

  Jory wished he’d asked her more about what Mal had said, after Jory had stormed off without waiting for an explanation—although damn it, what he’d seen hadn’t looked like it needed explaining. She’d said he’d been really upset . . . Well, guilt could do that to you.

  When it came down to it, he only had Kirsty’s word for it that Mal hadn’t instigated . . . what they were doing. Or even if that was true, that he hadn’t been perfectly happy with it all until Jory barged in.

  God, this was so screwed up.

  Jory walked through the pub to where Tasha was serving at the bar. He probably only imagined that all eyes were upon him.

  Probably.

  Jago Andrewartha certainly had both steel-grey eyes trained on his every move. He’d got up from his seat the minute Jory set foot inside the place, and had moved to stand by Tasha’s shoulder, his presence as solid and threatening as the granite cliffs around Mother Ivey’s Bay.

  Jory drew in a deep breath. “Can I speak to Mal, please?”

  It was Tasha who answered—and oddly, there seemed a hint of sympathy in her expression. “He ain’t here. Gone out for the evening.”

  “He hasn’t been back?”

  “No.” She bit her lip. “Was he with you? He said he met some girl.”

  Jory tried to ignore the stab of pain that caused him. “No. Not exactly. I . . . ran into him. Them.”

  She gave him a long look—then turned to Jago. “Think I’m gonna take my break now, all right?”

  Jago gave a curt nod. “Take it outside.”

  Jory flushed. Apparently his sort still weren’t welcome here. He checked to make sure that Tasha was coming out from behind the bar, then led the way outside.

  The wind had picked up even in the short time Jory had been in the pub, and the darkening skies were made gloomier by thick, heavy clouds. He shivered.

  Tasha shut the door behind them and folded her arms across her chest. “You and him have a row, then? Over this girl?”

  Christ, at least she didn’t beat around the bush. “We didn’t have a row. We didn’t say much at all. I . . .” He swallowed. “I saw them together and left. There didn’t seem any point in staying. But Mal was . . . upset.”

  “How’d you know? You went back? Wanted to have that row after all?”

  “No—Kirsty told me.”

  She frowned. “Kirsty?”

  “My . . . ex-wife. The girl,” he added, frustrated at her blank expression.

  Her eyes went wide. “Mal’s girl’s your ex?”

  “No! It was all a misunderstanding. I think.” Jory closed his eyes briefly. “This is all such a mess.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  Jory would rather not, thank you very much. Luckily she seemed to have been speaking rhetorically. “But he hasn’t been back here?”

  “No.”

  “He couldn’t have gone up to his room via the back door?”

  Tasha gave Jory a knowing look that made him squirm. “I can check. Wait here.” She disappeared around the side of the building, obviously planning to use the back door herself.

  Loitering in the lane by the pub door made Jory feel like a child who’d begged an adult to buy him alcohol and cigarettes. The first few fat drops of rain began to fall, adding to his discomfort. A young couple hurried past him, sparing only a brief, curious glance at the idiot standing out in the rain in the dark.

  Was Mal out in it somewhere?

  Tasha returned, a little breathless and shaking her head. “Not there. Jeez, it’s pissing down. Come round the back out of it.”

  Not without misgivings, Jory followed her back around the pub. They half ran through the back door and into the narrow hallway that housed the stairs going up to Mal’s room, where they stood, Tasha hugging herself. She was probably cold—her cut-off denim shorts barely extended past the hem of her oversized T-shirt, which had fallen off one tan shoulder. “So what happened when you saw them? Exactly?”

  “They . . . they were kissing.”

  “Shitfuck.” Her eyes widened, and she pressed a hand to her mouth. Taking a deep breath, she seemed to recover herself. “Then what? You have a go at him? Fuck me, what did he even say?”

  “He didn’t say anything. I just left.” Jory forced himself to look her in the eye. “Has Mal confided in you?”

  “Why d’you wanna know?” It seemed like a knee-jerk reaction, and after a moment her expression softened. “You mean, about what he wants from you? Look, he’s having a bad time right now. Don’t think he knows what he wants. Do you really like him?”

  “Yes,” Jory said, his throat tight.

  Tasha pressed her lips together. “And he told you why he’s here?”

  “The . . . one under. The accident. He’s having trouble getting over it.”

  “Yeah, well, who wouldn’t?” The defensiveness was back.

  “I’m not criticising him. I’m sure I’d be equally devastated, if not more so. If anything it shows he’s got an imaginative, sensitive side.”

  Luckily that didn’t seem to sound as self-congratulatory to Tasha as it did to Jory. She nodded. “Dev said Mal’s mum went round his flat and found him in a right state one morning. Said he begged her to take his rats cos he was scared he’d fuck something up and hurt them or kill them or whatever. I ain’t supposed to be telling you that, by the way, so don’t you fucking dare grass me up. But he’s had them rats for years. Nobody could look after them better than he does.” She paused. “You got any idea where he might’ve gone?”

  “No.” When Jory thought of all the places he’d seen Mal . . . half of them were closed at this time of night and the rest didn’t seem likely in the rain. Why wasn’t he here?

  She pulled her phone out from her back pocket, scrolled for a moment, then held it to her ear. Jory waited, his stomach churning—would she expect him to talk to Mal? If he’d wanted to do this over the phone, he’d have called himself, for God’s sake. He needed to see Mal. But after a minute or so, she shook her head and put her phone away. “Went to voice mail. Shit. Look, I’m gonna have to get back to work in a mo. Can’t leave Jago to do the bar on his own.” She didn’t move, though; just stood there leaning against the wall, hugging herself again.

  Then she pushed off the wall with an explosive motion. “Fuck it. I ain’t leaving Mal on his own neither. Wait here. You got a car, right?” She threw the question over her shoulder as she stomped off deeper into the pub, presumably heading to the bar.

  “Yes.” Jory took a deep breath. “I’ll see you out the front.”

  He ran back around the building, trying and failing to avoid getting any wetter, jumped into the Qubo and switched on the engine and lights. What a hell of a night. Jory hoped to God that Mal was somewhere safe and dry.

  “Have you got an idea where to go?” he asked Tasha when she burst into the Qubo a moment later, slamming the door behind her.

  “Thought maybe down the prom. There’s a chippie down there he likes. Bit of comfort food, yeah? Where was he when you saw him?”

  “At Kirsty’s. It’s closer to here than to the main seafront. You really think he’d go out all that way?”

  “If he didn’t wanna talk about tonight, yeah.” She sent him a quick look and shivered. “And he probably didn’t wanna talk about it.”

  “Would he go to a— No.” Jory put the car into gear and set off for Porthkennack proper.

  “What were you going to say?”

  “Pub. But it doesn�
��t seem likely.”

  “Nope. He told you about his uncle, then? The one with the—” She made a drinking-up gesture.

  “Yes.”

  “What did he tell you about me?” she asked suddenly.

  Jory frowned, most of his attention taken up by scanning the pavements as he drove past them. “That you’re Dev’s foster sister. And you mother him a bit—Mal, I mean—although that’s not quite how he put it.”

  “That all?”

  “That’s all I can think of right now.”

  “He’s a good mate, Mal.”

  Reaching the promenade, they fell silent. Jory drove slowly along, scouring the seafront for any sign of Mal. “What if he goes back to the Sea Bell?” he asked after a while.

  “Jago’s gonna call me.”

  Jory nodded, and they carried on their fruitless search a while longer, both of them, it seemed, too tense to talk. Then another thought occurred to him.

  “What if he goes up the back—”

  “Left a note on his bed,” Tasha cut him off. Jory drew in a breath, but she forestalled him. “’Nother one on the fridge. And the kitchen table, case he misses that one.”

  She’d apparently thought of everything bar rigging the place with an intruder alert.

  Tasha directed him to the fish-and-chip shop, which was brightly lit, had a neon sign advertising the place as Salt and Battery, and held nobody who even remotely resembled Mal. Jory sighed.

  The longer they drove uselessly around, the more the nightmares crept in.

  “He wouldn’t . . .” Jory stopped. God, no. Mal would never—

  “What?”

  “It’s . . . No. God.”

  “What? I mean, seriously, what, cos you’re freaking me out here.”

  Jory took a deep breath. “Hurt himself. Or . . . worse.”

  “What? No. No way.”

  Was she trying to convince herself?

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have suggested it.” Jory swallowed. “It’s how my father . . . But that was different. Completely.”

  “Oh my God. Did he . . .”

  “The cliffs. Behind our house.”

  “Shitfuck. And you still live there? Oh fuck. Sorry. But Mal, he wouldn’t do that. Never. Swear to God. He knows what it’s like, don’t he? For people what have to pick up the pieces.”

  “I . . . Yes. Of course.” Jory was silent a moment longer. Then, “I just wish he hadn’t been drinking.”

  “What, Mal? He don’t drink a lot. Not lately, anyhow. I mean, he’ll have a pint, but that’s usually all he has.”

  Oh God. They’d drunk more than that the day they’d had sex on the beach. Had Jory taken advantage of him? Was that why Mal had fled afterwards? “What did he tell you about me?” he couldn’t help asking.

  Tasha ignored his question. “Oi, wait a minute. What do you mean he’d been drinking?”

  Jory was about to answer when his phone rang. He exchanged a wild glance with Tasha, then pulled over to answer it, his heart jumping into his throat when he saw the call was from Mal. “Hello?”

  “Uh. Jory?” Mal’s voice sounded off, somehow, but maybe that was because Jory had all but snapped out the greeting.

  “Yes. Are you okay? Where are you?”

  “Uh . . . I think I fell.”

  “What? Fell where?”

  “Your tunnel. Um. I think I broke it?”

  “You bro— What the hell are you doing up there?” Jory’s voice was coming out high and strident, but there didn’t seem to be anything he could do about it. “Are you all right?”

  There was a horrible silence.

  “Mal, for God’s sake, are you all right?”

  “Uh. Yeah. Kinda.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Jory tried to slow his breathing down. “I’m coming up there. Stay put.”

  “Yeah, not a problem.”

  “Are you injured? Buried?” Christ . . . But no, if he was buried, his phone wouldn’t work, would it?

  “Uh . . . Bit of both? I’m in the tunnel, and there’s stuff on me, but I’m still getting rained on? And my leg hurts. And I think maybe I twisted my ankle.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “Jory?”

  “Yes?” Christ, Mal sounded out of it. Dazed by the fall. The alcohol beforehand probably hadn’t helped, either. “Did you hit your head?”

  “Bit. Jory? ’M sorry. Not just about this. About Kirsty. And being a fuckup.”

  “You’re not a fuckup,” Jory insisted, holding the phone between his chin and his shoulder as he started the car and hoping there’d be no passing police to see him driving like that. Then again, he might be glad of some help. “Kirsty explained about . . . you know.”

  Jory didn’t catch what Mal said next, but it sounded something like “wish she’d explain it to me.” That wasn’t important. What was important was getting to Mal.

  Mal spoke again. “Sorry if I made you think I don’t care. Cos I do. Care. A lot.”

  Jory ought to feel elated, but this was starting to sound horribly like a deathbed confession. “You can tell me in a minute, when I get to you. Talk to Tasha.” He thrust the phone at her and concentrated on driving.

  It took a damned sight longer than a minute by the time he’d parked the Qubo at the side of the road at the nearest point to the tunnel and scrambled round to open up the boot. Jory grabbed both headlamps, pulling one on and thrusting the other at Tasha. He slung the backpack with his climbing gear in over his shoulder—who knew what he’d need?—and shut the boot. Then he vaulted over the hedge, forced himself to turn and give Tasha a hand although everything inside him was chafing at the delay, and then set off at a run, calling out Mal’s name.

  His voice was probably lost in the rain that was still pelting down on them. Tasha kept pace with him somehow, not once complaining—unless you counted the frequent profanities that slipped out. Slipped was the operative word. Jory cursed himself for not changing his shoes. The ones he’d been wearing for work today didn’t provide even the scantiest amount of grip. Even trainers would have been an improvement.

  He knew from the rise of the ground when they were nearing the mouth of the tunnel. “We’re here,” he called to Tasha. “Watch your step. Mal!”

  He thought he heard an answer, half drowned by the rain. Jory cast around wildly in the dark—and glimpsed a light out of the corner of his eye. Mal, maybe, holding up his phone as a beacon? When he turned his head, it vanished. Thinking quickly, Jory turned off his headlamp and looked again.

  Yes—there. Thank God. Scrambling over in the direction of the light, Jory almost fell into the tunnel—the mouth of it wasn’t as he remembered, the gash in the earth stretching farther than it had all the time he’d known it. “Be careful,” he yelled back to Tasha. “The tunnel’s collapsed.”

  God, what he wouldn’t give for a moonlit night. Or at least for the bloody rain to stop. Jory got down on hands and knees and felt his way over the unsafe ground.

  “Can you see him?” Tasha yelled. “Mal?”

  “Over here.” Mal’s voice was more distinct this time. Closer.

  Frustrated with his slow progress, Jory got back to his feet and set off in a running crouch. It was a mistake. The ground seemed to fall away suddenly, taking Jory’s feet with it, and he landed on something soft that said, “Fuck,” and grabbed hold of him with both hands. “Jory?” was gasped out, and his name had never sounded so sweet.

  It was Mal.

  “Thank God.” It came out embarrassingly heartfelt, but Jory couldn’t bring himself to care too much. In any case he was busy running his hands over all of Mal he could reach. Damn it, if only he could see . . . Oh. Feeling like an idiot, he turned his headlamp back on. That first glimpse of Mal’s face, dripping wet and mud streaked, made him dizzy with relief. “Are you hurt? I mean, your leg—how bad is it?”

  Tasha stumbled down beside them, half-landing on Jory’s shoulder. “Shitfuck. Babe, you okay?” Her voice was high and thin.<
br />
  “Yeah, I’m good. Chill, Tash.”

  Chill?

  Mal was lying in a depression caused by the collapse of the tunnel, his legs buried. God, how long had this weak spot been waiting for someone to tread on it at the wrong moment? Mal could have been buried alive down there. Why the hell hadn’t Jory been more responsible? He should have reported it, had it roped off—

  “’M okay,” Mal said. “Just, there’s this rock or something? Couldn’t shift it.”

  Jory dug down around him with numb fingers. There wasn’t so much this rock as there were a number of large rocks jamming Mal in place. “Tasha, hold on to him,” he ordered, just in case he managed to dislodge the one thing keeping Mal from total inhumation.

  “Got him.”

  Her words were confirmed a moment later by Mal’s “Ow, fuck, not so tight.”

  Jory carried on digging, vaguely registering a good deal of swearing along the lines of You wanker, you do this again Imma cut your balls off with a spoon.

  Tasha was definitely growing on him.

  Then he found what Mal had been talking about. A larger fragment of what had once been the tunnel roof was jammed against Mal’s thigh. It had to be bloody painful. Jory stared, blinking rainwater out of his eyes. Was that blood on his jeans? Or just dirt?

  Either way, he needed to get Mal out of here. “Tasha?” he yelled. “When I tell you, can you try and pull him out—not yet,” he added as Mal cursed. “When I tell you.” He dug frantically, but it was no use. The fragment was stuck firm, damn it. Jory couldn’t shift it—and was scared to try in case he hurt Mal more. He sat back on his heels for a moment, thinking.

  “Now?” Tasha yelled.

  “No,” Jory and Mal shouted back simultaneously.

  “I’m going to try digging the other side of you,” Jory decided. “Take off the pressure.”

  It was easier going, digging this side. Relatively speaking. “Have you got him?” he yelled to Tasha as he felt Mal shift.

  “Yeah. Want me to pull?”

  “Wait . . .” Jory dug further and felt another give. “Okay, now,” he ordered, slinging his arms around Mal’s body and doing his best to heave him upwards, hoping desperately Mal would have the sense to stop them if they were injuring him.