One Under

by JL Merrow

  Jory beamed. “Why not?”

  The waitress came with the bill at that point, which was a fair hint that if they weren’t going to order something else, they should cease and desist squatting on prime café real estate. Jory ignored Mal’s protests and paid, leaving a generous tip because the poor girl didn’t look like she enjoyed her job over-much.

  Had there been something odd in Mal’s manner just now? Jory wasn’t sure—if there had been, he seemed to have fully regained his equilibrium as they walked away from the café, cracking a joke about how the British on holiday always seemed way more British than usual.

  “Maybe that’s why we go abroad,” Jory suggested. “To be confirmed in our Britishness. Innate nostalgia for the days of empire.”

  Mal gave him a raised eyebrow. “Nah, mate. Us Brits go abroad to get a tan, get wasted, and get laid.”

  “It can’t be both?”

  “Course not. Who wants to multitask on their holidays? Me, I don’t even wanna uni-task.”

  “Or as most people would say, task. If they were in the habit of using nouns as verbs.” Jory tried not to wince at himself. Next he’d be pulling Mal up on incorrect usage of who versus whom.

  Mal just grinned. “You got a problem with nouning?”

  Jory did wince then.

  Mal burst out laughing. “Lemme guess, you’re the sort of bloke whose sexts have, like, commas and capital letters in ’em.”

  Jory barely stopped himself from saying, You’ll just have to wait and see. Appalled at the near miss, he bit his lip hard, in case the words somehow spilled out anyway. Christ, how did Mal have this effect on him? He was supposed to be trying to convince the man he was capable of being an upright, decent uncle, and he’d thoroughly blotted his copybook once already. And that was just this morning.

  Jory was glad when they got caught up in a cluster of meandering tourists who ambled along the side streets and dawdled by every shop window. It made conversation difficult, saving him from any further faux pas.

  When they finally broke free from the town crowd and set out upon the coastal path, he felt all the more exposed for it.

  Mal stopped to stare far out to sea, hands on his hips like a fishwife. “It’s weird, innit?” he said after a moment. “You live in a city, you forget how fucking big the world is.” He spun to face Jory, eyes bright with sudden enthusiasm in one of his mercurial changes of mood. “If you could, I dunno, teleport or something, anywhere in the world, where would you go?”

  “Right now?” Captivated, Jory couldn’t think of anywhere he’d rather be than here, with Mal.

  But he could hardly say that.

  “I don’t know,” he hedged. “There are so many places I’d like to see. What about you?”

  “Petra,” Mal said without hesitation. “You know, that city or temple or whatever in Jordan they carved out of rock like two thousand years ago. I’ve always wanted to go there ever since I saw it in Indiana Jones. And yeah, I know there ain’t actual Grail knights there, but fuck it, that place don’t even need ’em. You been?”

  “No, but I’d like to one day.” With you, Jory was careful not to add. “Um. Shall we get on?”

  They walked along the path, their hair blown by the sea breeze and the sun hot on their shoulders. At least, Jory walked. Mal seemed to alternate between a relaxed amble and a sudden lunge as his attention was caught—by a view, a flower, or a spot where the cliff edge had crumbled, as might be. For the latter, he’d sidle towards it with a sort of nervous bravado, stay an instant, then dart back to the path, pride apparently satisfied. As if he’d fought the cliff and won.

  When they came to the Round Hole, one of the local sights, Jory expected a lengthy detour, but Mal made as if to walk straight past, ignoring it.

  “Don’t you want to take a look?” Jory asked.

  “Seen it. Twice. Dev’s got a thing about that hole.” Mal grinned. “Dunno if it’s the size”—the hole was easily a hundred feet across—“or the way you get seawater spurting out. Either way, I reckon it’s a metaphor.”

  “I can’t imagine what for.” Jory answered Mal’s smile with one of his own.

  For a moment their gaze held and seemed to communicate something shared. Something intimate. Then Mal’s expression faltered, and he stared out to sea once more. “Can I ask you a question?” He went on without waiting for permission. “Earlier, when we were in the caff, you said you were, like, ashamed of yourself?”

  Technically, that wasn’t a question, but it still dropped a lead weight into Jory’s stomach. The silence lengthened as he tried to muster an answer that wouldn’t show him in a bad light.

  Then he thought, To hell with it, and just told the truth. “I had this stupid idea that if I could sleep with Kirsty, I could be straight. Or, you know, straight enough.” He wasn’t going to admit the most embarrassing part—that he’d have slept with her anyway, simply because she’d so clearly wanted him, and he’d been so desperately unused to that.

  Mal gave him a baffled look. “What’s the big deal about being straight?”

  Jory felt a stab of envy so sharp it was a physical pain in his chest. “Being gay . . . It was just another way I was different.”

  “From who?”

  “From everyone. Oh . . .” Jory turned away, completely unable to meet Mal’s gaze as he spoke. “The usual teenage angst, really. School was . . . difficult. I wasn’t sporty, and I wasn’t loud, or confident.”

  “Yeah, but you’re, what, six one? Six two? Can’t see a bloke your size getting picked on.” Mal’s tone was soft. Sympathetic, despite his words.

  “You didn’t see me at age seven. I was the shortest boy in the class until I was fourteen. Apart from Clemens, who had dwarfism. And still managed to be about twice my weight. And better at rugby.”

  Mal laughed. “Bastard. So what happened? You just shot up one summer? That must’ve been well cool.”

  Not as much as you’d think. Jory didn’t answer.

  “What?” Mal prompted. “No, seriously, didn’t you go back and they were all like, ‘Whoa, easy dude, you keep your lunch money’?”

  “We didn’t have lunch money. It was a boarding school.” One glance at Mal, and Jory could hear him thinking, Oi, mate, stop stalling me. “It . . . didn’t make it easier at home.”

  “Why not?”

  “You haven’t met Bran, have you? He and Bea take after Father—dark haired, and on the short side. I’m a bit of a throwback to an earlier generation.” Jory caught Mal’s look and shrugged. “Suddenly his little brother was towering over him. Who’s going to like that? And later on . . . Bran’s always had a strong sense of responsibility.”

  “What, he felt like you being taller was threatening his authority or something? Jeez, issues, much?”

  “I don’t know, really. Maybe it wasn’t that at all. We never have got on particularly well. And I’m sure he was only doing what he thought was best for the family.” Jory tried, but couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  “Meaning, not what was best for you, right?”

  “He had a point, though. Gay people face discrimination, even nowadays. Even in this country.”

  “Yeah, but you still gotta live your life. The only reason things are as good as they are now is cos of people who stood up for themselves and didn’t hide in the closet.”

  “Oh, I know that now. Back when I was in my teens . . .” Jory closed his eyes briefly. Christ, he’d been so young. “Would you believe, I actually suggested to Kirsty that we try to make a go of it for real?”

  Mal barked out a laugh. “Yeah? How’d that go down?”

  “She told me to eff off and find myself a nice boyfriend. She said it kindly, though,” he added quickly. He didn’t want to give Mal the wrong idea about her.

  “Has she had other blokes? Or, you know, birds? Whatever floats her boat.”

  “Not many. She’s very protective of Gawen. But there have been lovers—although none of them have lasted long
.”

  “So no one likely to get pissed off about you?”

  “Not anyone that I’ve heard of.”

  “What about you? You must’ve had a few flings at uni.”

  Must he have? Jory remembered his undergraduate years mostly as a time of keeping his head down and his nose in a book, still reeling from unexpected fatherhood. “There was someone,” he admitted. “Rafi. Up in Edinburgh. We were together for nearly three years.”

  “Three years? Blimey, that’s practically married and all. But you split up? What happened?”

  “Gawen was having trouble at school. Being bullied.” And there was no way Jory would leave him to deal with that on his own. Not when Jory had first-hand experience of what it was like, to go into school every day and be made to feel utterly worthless. “Kirsty was worried about him. I needed to be here.”

  “And this Rafi bloke didn’t want to come with you?”

  Jory half shrugged, half just slumped. “It would have been career suicide. I mean, look at me: working part-time in a museum nobody visits. I hear he’s accepted a post as a professor in America.”

  It had been more complicated than that, of course. Things always were. Jory hadn’t suspected how much Rafi had resented him not getting divorced from Kirsty, but it had all come out in their final, bitter row. How Rafi had been sick and tired of making excuses to his mother for why they didn’t get married, spending weekends alone while Jory visited his wife and child, and listening to his friends tell him Jory would never commit to him and he should move on. If only he’d said something . . . There had been a time when Jory would have done anything Rafi wanted him to. But he’d never asked.

  When the end had come, it had all been too late, and they’d both said too much that couldn’t be unheard.

  Jory startled as a warm arm slipped around his shoulders. Meant as comfort, he realised even as every muscle in his body tensed. He drew in a breath—

  —but Mal was already backing off. “Whoa, sorry, dude. So, uh, hey, I think I can see the castle from here? We oughtta get going.”

  He loped off down the path, leaving Jory to curse himself and follow.

  Jory had seen Caerdu Castle many times before, of course. One of the things he’d missed out on by being sent away to boarding school was the annual educational trip there that almost all the local schools seemed to organise, so for a few years, he’d made a point of going there by himself every summer.

  He’d thought the place had nothing new to offer him. And strictly speaking, it didn’t—but what was new was seeing it through Mal’s eyes, and his imagination. Mal climbed every crumbling wall—even the ones with Keep Off notices on them—and staged mock sword fights on the fragments of spiral staircases that remained.

  Apparently his wariness of heights didn’t kick in until above second-storey level. Jory couldn’t help but be drawn in, finding himself somehow in the role of French invader fighting against Mal’s valiant Cornish defender. As they were armed only with imaginary swords, it might have been a little hard to tell who was winning, were it not for Mal’s spirited narration that made it clear that the Cornishman had the upper hand. Jory spat out half-remembered Old French insults and, finally, staggered back to die supine on the rough grass, having been disarmed and run through by Mal’s nonexistent weapon.

  A smattering of applause made Jory open his eyes. He looked up to see a small crowd of fascinated children and their laughing parents, some of them filming him with their mobile phones. Mal was taking a bow with a courtly flourish.

  For a moment, the embarrassment was paralysing—Bran would be livid if he found out Jory was making a spectacle of himself like this—then Jory thought, To hell with it, and stood up to take his own bow.

  “Do I wanna know what you were calling me?” Mal asked as they walked off, grinning like idiots, to take a breather.

  “Uh . . .” Jory was glad he’d expunged fils a putan from his limited vocabulary of insults. “Gluttonous, base evildoer. That sort of thing.”

  They sat down side by side in the shade of the highest wall of the castle, and Jory resolutely didn’t stare as Mal lifted the hem of his T-shirt to wipe his forehead.

  “‘Gluttonous’? Hey, that ain’t fair. I asked if you wanted that hog’s pudding.” Mal nudged Jory with his shoulder.

  It was a companionable gesture, nothing more. Jory knew that. He couldn’t help the way it made him want to lean into the contact, though.

  Maybe Mal wouldn’t mind? Would welcome it, even? Maybe—

  Mal stood up. “So, uh, yeah. ’S been great. Think I’d better . . . I’ll see you tomorrow, right? If you’re still up for it? Cheers.”

  And he was gone before Jory could work out what had just happened.

  Mal was an idiot. A total, gormless prick-led idiot.

  He lay on his bed, hot and sweaty from practically running back to the Sea Bell, and screamed into his pillow. Really quietly, so Tash wouldn’t hear and want to know what was up.

  That look on Jory’s face, when they’d been sat down together . . . Mal had been this close to leaning in and kissing him, and that would’ve arsed things up good and proper, wouldn’t it? Imagine explaining that one to Dev. Yeah, mate, I met your uncle. And fucked him.

  Yeah, that’d go down so well. Especially when Mal mentioned what’d happened next, what would have to happen next, which would be Jory finding out what a fuckup Mal was these days, ever since the thing at work, and backing off so far he’d be halfway to America to join his ex. There was literally no good way Mal could explain himself. Oh, yeah, soz mate, turns out I’m a total head case and I lied about my job, but you still wanna go out with me, right? Right?

  Jory would decide he should’ve listened to his brother all along, and tell Mal and Dev to piss off.

  Except . . . Mal stood up and stared out of his window at that spot he’d seen Jory only this morning. He couldn’t believe Jory would be like that. Yeah, not wanting Mal once he knew the truth, that was a given . . . but punishing Dev for it too? He wouldn’t do that.

  Jory was a decent bloke. So he hadn’t mentioned the missus and the kid, so what? He’d have got round to it eventually, most like.

  Which was more than Mal could say for his own nasty little secret . . .

  Shit.

  Mal threw himself back down on the bed. He should never have agreed to go out tomorrow with Jory. Maybe he should call and cancel . . . Bollocks. They hadn’t even swapped phone numbers. Of course, he could always call directory enquiries and get the number for Roscarrock House. Mal laughed bitterly, imagining how that conversation would go. Hi, is that Bran Roscarrock? Yeah, I’m Dev’s mate, calling for your bruv . . . Hello? Hello?

  Was it going to happen anyhow, them meeting up? They hadn’t said when, or where. That See you tomorrow was a fucking classic, that was.

  Mal sat up, bolt upright. Jesus, how could he have been so stupid, leaving it like that? At this rate, he was never going to see Jory again . . .

  But hadn’t that been what he’d wanted like thirty seconds ago? Mal slumped back down on the pillows, except he misjudged the angle and banged his head on the headboard on the way down. And that was just aces, wasn’t it?

  At least the throbbing headache took his mind off the dull pain in his chest.

  There was a thundering knock on the door, and Mal sat up again, startled.

  “Oi, Mal? You all right?”

  Shit. Tasha. “’M fine. What do you want?”

  “Nothing. ’Cept, there was this really loud bang, and before that your bed was creaking. Like, a lot. Oi, you’re not shagging someone in there, are you?”

  Christ, chance’d be a fine thing. “No! I . . . Didn’t sleep well last night.”

  “Maybe you should try doing a bit of work, then. Tire you out for tonight. Instead of buggering off all day without telling anyone where you were going.” Even muffled by the closed bedroom door, that last bit sounded narked.

  Mal sighed. “Who died and made you my mum
? I’ll be out in a mo, and I’ll come and give you a hand downstairs.”

  There was a pause. “You don’t have to. Not if you’re feeling—”

  “I’m fine. See you in a mo.”

  Mal unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, wiped down tables, and restocked the fridges, and he actually felt a little better afterwards. Which was kind of depressing, cos no offence to Tash but he really hoped that working in a pub wasn’t going to turn out to be his vocation. His mum and dad would be paranoid that he’d end up like his uncle Bob.

  “So what did you get up to today?” Tasha asked during a quiet spot at the bar.

  “Got breakfast in a caff, then checked out the castle.”

  “Yeah? Bit boring, innit? Just a load of old stones.”

  “Just a ‘load of old stones’? Lemme guess, if you’d been in charge of planning, they’d have run the A303 right through the middle of Stonehenge.”

  Tasha grinned. “Well, yeah. All they’d have to do is widen a couple of the arches, and you could literally drive through it. It’d be dead cool.” She squealed and ducked as Mal threw a bar towel at her.

  “Now then, we’ll have none of that,” old Jago rumbled from his stool down the other end of the bar, where he’d been holding court again.

  “Sorry.” Mal shrugged. “What can you do? She’s got no respect for ancient monuments, this girl.”

  Jago frowned. “Now, that’s not true. She always speaks very politely to Charlie here.” He nodded to one of the locals, a toothless old geezer who always made a pint last out the night.

  Charlie looked up and smiled. “That’s right. Lovely girl.”

  How Jago kept his face straight Mal would never know, cos him and Tash were pissing themselves laughing.

  Of course, as soon as Mal got in bed that night, the doubts returned. Shit. What was he going to do tomorrow?

  One thing was for certain—it’d be too risky to wait in for Jory to turn up here. They’d got away with it once, but twice would be chancing it. No, he’d have to . . . What? Turn up at Roscarrock House?