One Under

by JL Merrow

  Mal moved—and then Tasha yelped as Mal landed on top of her, and Jory barely managed to keep from adding his own not inconsiderable weight to the pile.

  They all lay there for a moment in the pouring rain, breathing hard—and then Jory realised Mal was laughing.

  Thank God. Jory fumbled over to take him in his arms, while Tasha scrabbled away from them with a muttered “You arse.” Jory kissed Mal’s rain-slick face, tasting dirt and not caring. Mal’s mouth found his and locked on tight, even when Jory’s headlamp bashed him on the forehead. Jory managed to let go of him long enough to tear it off clumsily and let it fall where it might.

  He’d probably regret that later, but right now he didn’t give a damn. He was too busy reassuring himself Mal was alive, was okay.

  God knew how long they were kissing. Long enough for Tasha to yell a disgruntled “Oi, are we ever getting out of this pissing rain?”

  Good point. Jory drew back from Mal, reluctantly. “Can you walk?”

  “Dunno. Give it a go, yeah?”

  Jory helped him up with hands that, now the urgency had gone, were beginning to feel rather the worse for wear—and almost dropped him when Mal stumbled. Tasha caught him from the other side.

  Jory adjusted his hold. “Can you put weight on your leg?”

  “Uh. Bit?”

  “We just need to get you to the car.” Jory hoped to God Mal wouldn’t have another panic attack, but making him walk further than he needed to and maybe exacerbating his injuries wasn’t an option.

  “Come on, you tosser, stop being a baby.” Tasha’s tone was more sympathetic than her words. “Fuck. Which way are we going?”

  Jory took a moment to orient himself. The tunnel was there and the ground sloped in that direction, so . . . “This way.” He didn’t need his headlamp, so long as he kept the hedge beside them, and he certainly didn’t want to keep Mal out in the rain while he tried to find it.

  He took as much of Mal’s weight as possible as they stumbled along the field, past the place where the Qubo was parked—he didn’t much fancy trying to get an injured man over the hedge—and down to the gap he and Mal had come through a few days ago. It seemed more like months had gone by. Jory pushed the memories to the corner of his mind, alongside the knowledge that, relief at finding him aside, he really had no idea where he stood with Mal.

  “Uh, dude, where’s your car?” Mal asked as they emerged from the fields.

  “Up the road. Sorry. Didn’t think it through. Just wanted to get to you as quickly as possible.”

  Their feet splashed in a river of rainwater as they hobbled up the narrow lane. Fortunately, Jory consoled himself, he was soaked through to the bone already so he couldn’t get any wetter. They probably looked like contestants in some bizarrely overpopulated version of a three-legged race, had there been anyone around to see, which, thank God, there was not. Especially since if a car should come along, it was doubtful they’d be coordinated enough to get out of the way in time.

  He’d thought he’d been keeping in shape since coming back to live here. The pounding of his heart and the straining of his lungs as he half carried Mal up the hill told him he’d better work harder on his fitness.

  Reaching the Qubo, Jory felt like a fisherman who’d weathered the mother of all storms and had at last spotted the harbour lights of home. Fumbling in his pocket for his keys, he had a moment’s panic that he’d dropped them somewhere in the fields, before realising he’d left them in the ignition in his hurry to get to Mal.

  Thank God the local car thieves were a fair-weather lot.

  Tasha was panting hard as they eased Mal into the Qubo’s passenger seat. “Fuck me, Mal, you gotta go on a diet.”

  “Oi, I’m all muscle. Weighs more than fat.” Despite his cheery words, Mal’s face was pale under its smears of grime.

  Jory squinted at him in the sudden brightness of the car’s interior light. “How’s your leg?”

  “Still there. Fuck. Feel a bit sick.”

  “We need to get you warm and dry.” Jory hesitated. “Roscarrock House is closest.”

  “Nah. Just wanna go home.” Mal looked around. Jory wasn’t entirely sure he was seeing what was actually there. “Back to the pub. With Tasha.”

  “You’ll be all right going that far?”

  “’M what?”

  Never mind, then. Jory slipped into the driver’s seat and was startled to realise he still had his rucksack on his back. He wrestled it off, Tasha helping from the back seat.

  “Oh my God, babe, your hands are a mess,” Tasha said, sounding horrified.

  Jory was faintly shocked to realise she was talking to him, not to Mal. Since when did he merit a babe? “It’s okay. I can drive.” Although for the first time in his life, he was half wishing he’d bought an automatic. He gritted his teeth and put the car in gear.

  It must have been past closing time when they got to the Sea Bell, but you wouldn’t have known it from the number of no-longer-young men still propping up the bar. It worked to their advantage in that one of them was Dr. Prowse, a semiretired GP who was able to check Mal over and pronounce him probably able to survive the night without visiting a hospital.

  Jago Andrewartha hadn’t exactly looked approvingly at Jory when they’d walked in supporting Mal, Tasha’s T-shirt plastered to her chest and all of them streaked with mud and dripping on the floor, but at least he’d allowed Jory to take Mal upstairs and help Tasha get him changed into dry clothes and settled into bed.

  “I was really fucking careful, you know?” Now coherent, thank God, Mal resembled a teenager, his towel-dried hair fluffing up against his pillow.

  Jory knelt by the side of the bed. His clothes had started to dry on him, surprising him with the revelation that yes, they could get even more uncomfortable than they had been soaking wet. “You were? I must have missed that bit.”

  “Watched me step, you know, so’s not to fall down the hole. Didn’t know I was gonna make a new one.”

  Tasha snorted. She was in a big fluffy dressing gown with her hair in a towel, as if she’d just stepped out of a bubble bath, the sort that involved scented candles and a glass of wine. “Yeah, and we’ll rip you a new one if you ever do anything like that again.”

  Jory was absurdly touched by the we in her threat. “What was so funny, earlier?” he asked Mal. “Remember? You were laughing after we pulled you out of the hole?”

  “Fun— Oh. Me. Sorry. Your mum ever read you that fairy story about the enormous turnip? You know, where the whole bloody town and all the animals help pull it out of the ground and end up on top of each other?”

  It struck Jory as far more hilarious than it should have. He snickered as silently as he could, probably sounding like some kind of cartoon dog.

  “You’re an enormous turnip all right,” Tasha muttered darkly. “You ever go trying to bury yourself alive again, I’ll put you in a fucking pasty.”

  “Oi, but then it wouldn’t be an authentic Cornish pasty. No turnips in one of them. Only swedes allowed.”

  “You can fuck authentic. You can fuck it right up the arse.”

  “Couldn’t do that. Me bloke here would get jealous.” Mal smiled at Jory—but then the smile faltered. “Uh . . .”

  “I should go,” Jory said abruptly, getting to his feet. “You need to rest. And if you still can’t put weight on that foot in the morning, go to emergency and get an X-ray. Despite what Dr. Prowse said.”

  “You should stay,” Tasha blurted out. “I’ll make you a cuppa.”

  “No. Thanks. I need to . . .” Jory gestured vaguely at his clothes.

  Mal made a half-hearted offer to lend him something dry to wear, but they both knew it would have been a very tight fit. Tasha didn’t, thank God, suggest lending him something of Jago’s.

  “Take care,” Mal said, grabbing his hand and squeezing it so hard it hurt.

  Jory nodded and left.

  Back at Roscarrock House, Jory parked the Qubo in the old stables and t
rudged across the yard. He took his rucksack and Tasha’s headlamp with him—he’d need to dry everything thoroughly if he ever hoped to use it again. He was weary to the bone and desperate to avoid bumping into his brother or sister on his way through the house—Bran for one would be bound to ask why Kirsty had been here, and she was one person he really didn’t want to talk about right now.

  So, of course, as Jory stepped in through the back door, Bran appeared in the doorway from the dining room. Maybe he’d been lying in wait. Jory nodded curtly, hoping Bran would take the hint, and carried on past him.

  His hopes of peace were short-lived. “What the bloody hell do you think you’ve been doing?” Bran demanded.

  Jory barely had the energy to spare his brother a glance over his shoulder. “Not now.”

  He was utterly shocked to be grabbed by the shoulders and yanked around, hard. Christ, where had Bran found the strength? Jory almost fell, but regained his footing just in time. “What are you—”

  “Have you been out on the cliffs?” Bran demanded.

  “What? Why would—”

  “What the hell do you think you were doing, playing at silly buggers in the dark? Are you out of your mind? Don’t you give a damn about the rest of us?” His face was livid.

  Jory shook off his grasp and took a cautious step back. “Bran, you’re not making sense.”

  “Don’t be an idiot. I can’t believe you’d do this to us. After Father—” Bran’s voice cracked.

  “What? Bran, I wasn’t on the cliffs. Do you honestly think I’d be that stupid? In the dark? When it’s this wet?”

  “Don’t lie to me. I know you’ve been climbing again, sneaking out when you think I’m not watching. I’ve seen you. And you’re soaking wet and you’ve got all that . . .” Bran gestured at Jory’s hand, from which Tasha’s headlamp and the rucksack were dangling by their straps. “That . . . stuff. Whatever you call it.”

  “I wasn’t on the cliffs, okay? I was in the old smugglers’ tunnel. There was a cave-in—not while I was in it,” he added quickly, as Bran’s expression darkened even further. “A . . . friend. He called me and asked for help.”

  “Why didn’t he call the bloody emergency services? And what friend?”

  Did they really have to do this now? Fine. Jory stared his brother down. “They wouldn’t have known where to find him. I did. And he’s someone I’ve been seeing.”

  “‘Seeing’? You’re a married man.”

  “No, I’m not. I never have been. Not truly. And we’re getting divorced. Kirsty and I agreed.”

  “And you didn’t consult me? Gawen is my heir, and this is his life we’re talking about. You’re so bloody selfish.” Bran’s tone turned spiteful. “You needn’t think you’re bringing your friend here to live with you.”

  “Christ, Bran, just when I start to believe you actually give a damn whether I live or die—”

  “Of course I don’t want you to die!”

  “Maybe not, but I’m not sure you really want me to live, either.”

  “Just what do you mean by that?”

  “I’m sick of you trying to run my life. I’m not a teenager anymore. I don’t need you making decisions for me. I certainly don’t need you to tell me who I can and can’t live with.”

  “While you’re living under my roof—”

  “And that’s another thing. This house . . .” Jory waved a weary hand. “It’s . . .” Full of ghosts, he wanted to say, but that wouldn’t be fair on Bran. “It’s not me. It never has been. I should have got a place of my own a long time ago.”

  “You’re moving out?” Bran’s tone was unsure, almost lost.

  Jory nodded. “As soon as I can find somewhere. I’ll start looking tomorrow. For God’s sake, it’s not going to be far,” he added, exasperated by Bran’s wounded expression. “I’m staying in Porthkennack for Gawen, remember?”

  “We’ll miss you.” It came out woodenly. Did that mean Bran was lying, or simply unused to expressing sentiment?

  Most likely the former. Still, he’d said it, which was something.

  “And this . . . man you’re seeing? Will he be moving in with you?” Bea’s voice, behind him, made Jory jump, and he turned to face her. How long had she been there, listening quietly?

  She flushed, which probably meant it’d been some time.

  “I haven’t got a bloody clue what Mal’s going to do now,” Jory said shortly.

  He’d had enough. He stepped past Bran, kicked off his squelching shoes and left his headlamp on the hall table, the rucksack finding a home underneath. He could deal with them tomorrow. After a moment’s thought, he peeled off his sodden outer garments and left them lying in a heap on the floor.

  Then he went to have a shower.

  When Jory got back to his bedroom, he found Bea waiting for him, sitting demurely on the end of his bed in her pyjamas.

  He tried not to sigh too audibly, but he was almost light-headed with fatigue and desperately wanted to be left alone.

  “You shouldn’t be too hard on Bran,” she said softly. “All he’s ever wanted is to do what’s best for the family.”

  “I know.” Jory nodded, because he did know. “The thing is . . . he’s not always right, is he? And God knows it’s taken me long enough to realise it. I’m sorry, Bea, but I’m not going to let him browbeat me into making the wrong decision again.”

  Her face closed off, but she nodded. Then she stood and finally, finally let him go to bed.

  Jory was asleep almost before the door had closed behind her.

  Mal woke up with the mother of all hangovers and a desperate need to piss. It wasn’t till he’d staggered out from under the duvet, yelped in sudden pain, and promptly fallen back on the bed that he remembered he also had a dodgy ankle and a shedload of bruises over a large proportion of his skin.

  Trouble was, once he’d remembered all that, he couldn’t seem to stop remembering stuff he really wasn’t feeling up to coping with. Crap. Shitting, sodding, bollocking crap.

  He sat on the bed, rubbing his ankle and wishing he could rub his life better. He’d made a right arse of himself.

  Christ. Jory.

  What the hell must he think of Mal after last night’s little shit-show?

  Oh God. Mal didn’t want to think about it. With his eyes shut so he wouldn’t have to meet his own gaze in the mirror, he hobbled into the bathroom, where he bashed his elbow on the doorframe and almost fell in the bath.

  And then, because clearly he wasn’t suffering enough yet, he walked out of the bathroom to find Tasha waiting for him with the least sympathetic look ever on her face. “Wanna make a bit more noise? Cos I think there’s still people back in London who didn’t quite hear you crashing around up here.”

  Mal winced. “Keep your voice down, yeah?”

  “Aw, we not feeling so good?” Tasha’s voice got even louder, because she was an evil witch who hated him.

  “Not so much, no.” Mal leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes again. “Was it as bad as I think it was?”

  “Depends. Do you think you got shit-faced, snogged Jory’s missus, then nearly killed yourself and had to be rescued by the bloke you cheated on?”

  “Crap.” Mal’s eyes flew open of their own accord as another memory hit and jolted him from humiliation to hope. “But he kissed me, yeah? When you and him found me? That happened, right?” Because that kiss . . . He could have dreamed that, easy.

  It was way too good to be in Mal’s fucked-up life. Just like the bloke who’d given it to him.

  Tasha paused. “Look, we were all dead worried about you, you know. Me and him and even her, from what Jory said.”

  “‘Her’?”

  “The missus. She went up to see him after you bogged off. Told him you was upset and all.”

  “Did she tell him it was an accident?” Mal asked hopefully.

  “What, you mean like your tongue accidentally falling in her mouth? I dunno, do I? We were a bit more worried about
finding you last night.” Tasha folded her arms. “He thought you might’ve walked off a cliff like his old man.”

  “Oh fuck, no.” Mal screwed up his eyes, then stopped when he realised how much worse it made his headache. “Wait, he told you about that?”

  “Weren’t you listening? We were out of our bloody minds. So . . . look, the snogging? You and him, I mean. Not her—and fuck, babe, what were you even thinking? You gotta not read too much into it. I’m just saying, there’s a difference between Thank fuck you’re alive and Come back, all is forgiven.”

  “I know, all right? I know.” But Jory had kissed him like he’d meant it. Like he didn’t care about all the shit Mal had pulled.

  “Thought you didn’t think you and him should be together, anyway?”

  “I didn’t, but . . . Last night, yeah, when he walked in on me and Kirsty? It was like . . . And then when he came to help me when I called him and he was so fucking happy to see me . . . I dunno, babe. It’s totally doing my head in.”

  Tasha put her arm round his shoulders. “You really like him, don’t you?”

  Mal nodded miserably.

  “Then why don’t you go for it? Tell him you’re sorry you snogged his missus, do a bit of grovelling, and see what happens. I know you’re worried about making stuff awkward for Dev, but after last night, how much worse can it get?”

  “What if he doesn’t like me? Like I like him?”

  “Babe. He likes you.”

  “But how am I supposed to know if he likes me enough? Enough to want me back?”

  “Well, duh. You ask him?”

  “Yeah, but . . . What if it’s the wrong answer?”

  “Then you deal with it.”

  “What, man up and keep a stiff upper lip?”

  “No, you wanker, you come back, have a good cry, and we’ll binge-watch The Walking Dead, cos there’s nothing like zombies for getting over a broken heart.”

  “Will you make me hot chocolate?”

  “For you, babe, I’ll even put real sugar in it. So pull up your big-boy knickers, take a headache pill, and go get him, tiger.” She paused. “But maybe get dressed first. And brush your teeth cos, seriously, your breath is rank.”