by Lucy Clarke
‘I’ve got something for you,’ I said, getting to my feet. I climbed on to the sofa and stretched to reach the top shelf, removing a pair of binoculars. I’d bought them for Marley’s eighth birthday; they were lightweight adult binoculars, not kids’ ones. Marley would tick off all the birds he’d spotted in a bird book, sometimes adding notes in his beautifully childish hand. ‘Marley would’ve liked you to have these.’
Jacob hesitated, his dark gaze serious again. ‘Are you sure? Really?’
‘Absolutely.’
He carefully took the binoculars and turned them slowly through his hands. Then he stood up and faced the sea, pressing them to his eyes. A small smile spread across his mouth. ‘I can see right into that boat! There’s a seagull sitting on the wheel! I can see … everything!’
He scanned the stretch of the beach, looking at it afresh through the binoculars, narrating what he saw. When he lowered them, he turned to me and threw his arms around my neck.
I felt the warmth of his little body pressed to me; I smelt salt and sun cream on his skin; I felt the boyish softness of his hair against my cheek. I squeezed my eyes shut, holding tight.
23. SARAH
DAY FIVE, 11.30 A.M.
Nick is repairing the hinge on the back door of the beach hut. He mutters to himself about the state of his toolbox, and twice I hear the screwdriver clatter to the ground, followed by a curse. He says something to me, but I don’t respond, don’t move from my position in front of the window. I’m concentrating on the details of Jacob’s disappearance, as if the facts are parts of an equation that only I am able to solve.
Here’s what I know: at around eight o’clock on the night he disappeared, Jacob and I argued and he left the beach hut and went straight to Luke’s. There, he had several drinks with his friends and Caz, hiding out at the back of the hut when Robert appeared. At eleven o’clock, he walked Caz out, leaving his rucksack behind, telling Luke he’d be back soon. He and Caz stopped to talk by the rocks at the edge of our bay, arguing about the pregnancy. Some time later, Caz returned to her hut alone, and Jacob remained on the rocks, upset.
Four days later, his trainers and socks were found in that very place.
He has not answered his phone.
He did not pack any belongings to leave.
There have been no sightings or traces of him since.
Here’s what I don’t know: I don’t know whether Robert managed to hunt down Jacob later in the evening. I don’t know why Caz didn’t tell the police she was pregnant. I don’t know why Diane and Neil are acting strangely whenever Jacob’s name is mentioned. I don’t know what happened in the minutes immediately after Caz left Jacob. I don’t know why his trainers were by the rocks – but his phone and T-shirt weren’t. I don’t know where Jacob is now.
‘I don’t fucking know!’ I cry, my fist slamming against the window with a force that rattles the pane.
Nick looks round sharply.
I mumble a low apology, waiting for him to resume what he was doing.
The police believe that one of two things has happened. Option one: Jacob had been drinking all evening with his friends, and then he’d had an upsetting argument with his girlfriend. Perhaps he was already feeling emotionally unstable because of the anniversary of Marley’s death. He decided to go for a swim to clear his head, so he removed his trainers and socks and waded into the sea. Maybe it was the alcohol coursing through him that made him over-confident and he swam out too far, or maybe the tide was running particularly hard that night and he got disorientated in the dark. Jacob got into trouble – and drowned.
Option two: Jacob never had any intention of making it back to shore at all.
That is what they believe.
That is what our beach hut neighbours seem to believe.
But I don’t.
I can’t.
I’m not convinced that he went into the water at all. He would have taken off his T-shirt, taken his mobile from his pocket – not waded in with them. So where are they? He’d had time to remove his trainers, ball up his socks and leave them in the toe of each shoe. That shows he wasn’t rushing – that he was doing something consciously. Maybe he wanted to feel the water around his feet, so he paddled for a while – then something distracted him, and he left his trainers where they were, or couldn’t find them again in the dark.
The facts swell like a balloon, so my head feels stretched tight.
Then one thought pricks the rest.
‘Nick!’ I say so suddenly, that I hear the clang of the screwdriver against the door as he spins around.
‘What is it?’
‘Jacob balled up his socks and put them in his trainers. The trainers weren’t just cast aside on the beach – they were tucked out of sight beneath the rocks. He was planning on coming back for them – but knew he’d be a while.’
He looks at me blankly.
‘He wasn’t going swimming.’
‘Then—’
‘Jacob was getting in a boat.’
It is so logical, so simple, that I’m amazed we didn’t think of it before.
Nick looks at me for a long moment – and then he nods slowly, saying, ‘He took his socks and trainers off to wade out to a boat.’
I feel the corners of my mouth turn upwards. ‘Maybe someone took him to the quay, or further up the coast. Dropped him off, perhaps?’ New questions are pounding forward now. ‘Who does he know with a boat? Do any of his friends have one?’
Nick presses his knuckles to his lips. ‘Luke?’
I shake my head. ‘No. His dad had a motorboat a couple of years ago, but sold it.’
‘It doesn’t have to be one of his friends. Anyone could have come into the bay.’
He’s right. Once the ferry stops running, people use their boats to leave the sandbank, or cross to the pub on the quay. ‘Robert could’ve been out on his. I’m sure I saw Neil going out on his boat that night, too. Let’s ask around – see if anyone saw anything.’
We start next door with Diane and Neil.
I rarely step inside this hut and I’m reminded how sterile it feels: the kitchen area is overdesigned with its faux limestone worktops and tiled splashbacks. There are no bookshelves or photos on the wooden walls, just a pair of polished wooden oars fixed to the wall that will never feel the wash of the sea.
‘Neil’s not here,’ Diane tells us warily, smoothing down her skirt.
‘That’s fine. We won’t keep you,’ I say crisply, the memory of last night’s beach gossip hovering between us.
As Nick explains our theory about Jacob boarding a boat, Diane listens in an overtly engaged way, her head bobbing up and down.
‘Sounds likely. Very plausible,’ Diane agrees.
I ask, ‘Neil’s boat was in the bay that night, wasn’t it?’
‘Well, yes. It’s there most of the summer.’
‘Did he go out on it?’
She hesitates before answering, ‘Yes. Briefly, I think.’
‘What sort of time would that have been?’
Again, she pauses before answering. ‘I suppose around nine o’clock.’
‘Where was he going? To the pub?’
‘No, I don’t think so. Just out.’
‘With you?’
‘On his own. Sometimes he likes to just get on the water.’
‘At night?’
Diane raises her chin. ‘Yes. At night.’
Nick asks, ‘Did Neil happen to mention seeing anyone else out on the water that evening?’
She shakes her head.
Before we leave, I have a final question for Diane. ‘There was a ding on Neil’s boat. He spotted it the morning after Jacob disappeared. Did you ever find out what it was from?’
‘It’s just a small scuff at the bow. Might have been there for days before we noticed it. It could’ve been the anchor chain rubbing, even.’
‘If you do find out what happened,’ I say, ‘let us know, won’t you?’
‘Course.’
She smiles tightly.
As we walk away from Diane’s hut, I whisper to Nick, ‘Don’t you think that was odd?’
He shrugs.
‘Neil took his boat out the evening Jacob disappears – not to go to the pub, not to go fishing – just out.’
‘Maybe it’s his bit of peace and quiet.’
‘Perhaps, but I still want to ask Neil about it directly.’
There’s a wariness in Nick’s tone as he says, ‘You don’t honestly think Neil has anything to do with Jacob’s disappearance?’
The truth is, no, I don’t. I can’t think of any reason why Neil would be involved – he and Jacob have very little to do with each other beyond passing the occasional greeting. That said, it doesn’t mean I’ll let Neil slip from my radar. ‘I just want to be thorough,’ I tell Nick.
We don’t have the chance to discuss it further as we stop next at Joe and Binks’s hut to ask whether they saw a boat entering or leaving the bay that night. They apologize for being of little help, saying they were in bed by nine thirty as their grandchildren had worn them out.
We call in at various other huts along the sandbank, learning very little, until we come across Fez, one of Nick’s old friends. ‘How’s it all going? Any news? I’ve been thinking of you both,’ he says warmly.
I like Fez a great deal; he’s one of those people who never takes himself too seriously. He works as a roadie for nine months of the year, but takes the summer off to spend on the sandbank. But right now I don’t have the heart to go over the details of Jacob’s disappearance – yet again. Nick steps in, telling him about the trainers by the rocks. ‘You know of anyone who was using their boat on Sunday night? Leaving our bay, maybe?’
‘Wouldn’t be able to tell you. I was in The Rope and Anchor from six. Had a right night of it.’ The Rope and Anchor sits on the edge of the quay; it’s mostly visited by the local fishermen who unload their catch nearby. In the summer months it’s also busy with beach hut owners, who moor by the quay so that they can drink until close and still get back to the sandbank after the ferry stops running.
Fez glances at Nick, saying, ‘Was hoping you might’ve come in for a quick one. Been a while. Thought I saw your car.’
‘Probably leaving. Was on my way to Bristol. Work.’
I remember Robert telling me that he’d spent the evening in the pub. ‘Robert was there, wasn’t he? He went by boat?’
Fez thinks for a moment. ‘Yeah, think he did. Had his boat keys with him at least.’
‘What time did he leave?’
‘You know how bloody prompt those bar staff are – checking their watches, telling us to drink up well before close – it’s like they don’t want our money.’ He sniffs. ‘Eleven, bang on. Chucked us all out.’
Enough time for Robert to get in his boat – steaming – and roar back to the sandbank.
And, what does he see when he gets there?
The scene forms clearly in my head. Caz is drunk and weeping on the rocks. She must have looked so vulnerable, so young. Then Robert looks more closely and sees someone else on the rocks with her: the same person who has caused her tears, who has got her pregnant.
Jacob.
‘Jacob got into Robert’s boat,’ I say to Nick the moment Fez leaves. My voice is fast and low as I explain. ‘We know Robert was looking for him earlier that evening. When he came back from the pub, he could’ve seen Jacob and Caz on the rocks – asked Jacob to have a word. The two of them go out to sea to talk. Sounds like Robert was steaming from the pub – and we know Jacob had been drinking, too. What if … what if the conversation got heated, and maybe … I don’t know … maybe something happened?’
I can see from the way Nick’s jaw tightens that he is considering my explanation, believing it is possible.
‘We’ve got to speak to him.’
‘Don’t you think we should let the police do that?’ Nick counters.
I snort. ‘Really? Do you think they’ll rush down here?’ When I’d shared our boat theory, they’d told me that they’d ‘look into it’, whatever that meant. ‘You saw the papers this morning. Where do you think their resources will be directed?’ The front page of The Daily Echo was ablaze with the tragic news of a hit-and-run case: a six-year-old girl had been knocked down by a van, and the girl had died in hospital overnight. Right now, solving that case will be the police’s priority.
‘I want to handle this myself. We know Robert. I want to look him in the eye and see what he says.’
Nick looks at me carefully. ‘Okay, then. We’ll talk to him together. But Sarah,’ he says, catching my fingers in his, ‘we need to tread carefully. We mustn’t go in there accusing Robert, okay? The sandbank is a small place.’
‘I know that,’ I say tersely.
I want to walk on, but Nick doesn’t release my hand. ‘You remember how Isla was in the weeks after …’
Of course I remember! I was the one trying to pick up the pieces! She tore apart friendships in her search for answers. She barely slept or ate or left the hut. When I speak, my voice comes out in a low hiss, ‘Don’t you dare compare us. This is different! Everything is different!’ I yank my hand from his, and walk on.
When we reach Robert’s hut, he’s crouched on all fours beneath the deck, a spade in hand. His cheeks are red and his thick grey hair looks windswept. He’s zipped into a sailing jacket with a boat racing number stamped across the chest. ‘Digging out,’ he says, on seeing us. ‘Need some extra space for the sails.’
He gets to his feet, dusting the sand from his knees. ‘Cassie isn’t here if you’ve come to see her. She’s resting at her aunt’s house.’
I can’t believe I’d forgotten: Caz was scheduled to have the abortion yesterday. A piercingly beautiful image of a baby – Jacob and Caz’s baby – stabs into my heart. How could I have forgotten something so important? That baby was part of my son. It could have been part of our family. I’ve no idea how I feel … ‘Is Caz okay? Did the …’ I falter. ‘Did … everything go okay?’
Robert sets his cool blue gaze on me. I find myself willing him to say Caz didn’t go through with it. She changed her mind. There is still a baby. Still a part of Jacob undeniably here.
‘It went as well as can be expected. She’s a tough girl.’
I swallow hard.
Nick says, ‘Please tell Caz we’re thinking about her. We’re sorry that she’s had to go through all of this …’
‘Me, too,’ Robert says.
There’s an awkward silence during which the three of us stand looking at one another. Nick pushes his hands into his pockets and explains that we’re looking into whether Jacob boarded a boat the evening he disappeared. ‘We’re talking to everyone who used their boats that night.’
‘Good idea. Most likely one of his young chums gave him a ride to the quay.’
‘Were you out in your boat?’ I ask.
Robert’s gaze moves to me. ‘My boat’s in the marina. Took it in a few days ago. Needs a new propeller, so I’m keeping it over there until they’ve got a slot down at the yard. Bloody expensive hobby, boats.’
‘When did you take it in?’
‘Last week some time.’
‘So you weren’t out in your boat on Sunday evening – the night Jacob disappeared.’
‘Sunday,’ he repeats slowly, looking skyward. ‘I took the boat into the marina early evening, if my memory serves me, then went over to the pub.’ He folds his arms, rolling forward on to the balls of his feet. ‘If you’re looking into who was on the water, you should speak to Neil. I seem to remember he was out on his boat that night. Goes out every year on Marley’s anniversary. Odd, if you ask me.’
Does he? I steal a glance at Nick, who looks equally surprised by the suggestion. Diane certainly hadn’t mentioned it earlier – and there was a strange caginess about her answers. Then again, Robert could just be stirring, redirecting our focus.
I ask one last time, ‘You’re absolutely sure you weren’t out on your boa
t at around eleven o’clock on Sunday night?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Thank you for your help,’ Nick says cordially. I feel the light brush of Nick’s hand on my lower back as he directs me away.
‘He’s lying! I know he is!’ I say the moment we’re back inside our hut, the doors closed.
I half expect Nick to defend Robert, so I’m relieved to hear him agree with me. ‘I don’t think he was giving us the full picture.’
‘Then why the hell aren’t we still there, demanding to know?’
‘Because I want to make a call first.’
‘To who?’
‘The marina where Robert keeps his boat. They’ll be able to tell us exactly when he dropped it off.’
I listen as Nick makes the call, leaving a message on an answerphone with instructions to call him back urgently.
‘I’ll try them again in an hour,’ he tells me.
We both turn towards the beach hut doors at the faint sound of laughter. Two young boys, their skin tanned to a nut-brown, are digging a hole in the sand, yellow spades plunging into the ground, sand cascading into the air. A spaniel crouches between them, pawing at the hole with equal fervour.
‘Wind back the clock,’ Nick says, ‘and it could be Jacob and Marley.’
‘I know,’ I say quietly.
Nick turns, the light gone from his eyes. ‘How did things get like this? Marley dead; Jacob missing.’
‘Don’t,’ I say, squeezing my eyes tightly shut. I don’t want to think of the how. Instead I say, ‘Do you remember when the two of them built that bivouac deep in the woods on the headland? You helped set them up, showing them what sort of branches to look for and how to tie them together with twine.’
‘I let them use my penknife, didn’t I? You and Isla went mad!’
‘They were only nine!’
‘Made a bloody good bivouac with it, though. Remember the grand unveiling?’
I nod. Nick, Isla and I were invited to inspect the den. The boys had stood in front it, chests puffed with pride. We’d hugged our little bark-stained wild-men to us, telling them it was the most wonderful den we’d ever seen. ‘Didn’t they sleep in it one night?’