by Lucy Clarke
I swing round. ‘Jesus, Nick! You made me jump!’
‘What are you doing out here? I just saw Caz storming up the beach. Everything okay?’
‘Oh, yes. Fine,’ I manage.
‘Did she hear my call?’
Call? Then I remember: Nick was on the phone to the marina. ‘What did they say?’
Nick guides me back to our hut, closing the door behind us. ‘You were right. Robert lied. He didn’t take his boat into the marina early Sunday evening. They have an electronic entry system so all the times are recorded.’
‘So where is the boat?’
‘It’s there – but it arrived at one o’clock on Monday morning.’
‘Two hours after Jacob was last seen.’
Nick nods. He lays out the facts. ‘Jacob was last seen on Sunday evening at eleven p.m. by Caz. Robert left the pub around that time in his RIB. Then, rather than come back to the sandbank like he normally would, he drives his boat to the marina – but somehow it takes him two hours to get there. Why? What was he doing in that time? And why did he lie to us about it?’
We walk the length of the sandbank by torchlight. The anonymity of the darkness is reassuring; only the path ahead of us lit, no one able to see who we are or where we’re going.
When we reach Robert’s hut, the lights are on, blinds open. Caz is standing near the sink, scooping up hummus with a handful of tortilla crisps. Robert sits forward on the sofa, hunched over some sort of tool. I wonder if she’s told her father about the earrings.
They both start as Nick raps hard on the door.
Robert strides to the door, yanking it open with a force equal to the knock.
‘We were hoping to have a word,’ Nick says.
Robert hesitates, but only for a moment. Then he steps back, making an expansive sweep of his right arm. He shuts the door behind us.
Caz glares at me, but I hold her stare, chin lifted. If she wants to confront me about the earrings – then so be it. I’m more than prepared to deny it. As it turns out, I’m rather good at that sort of thing.
‘To what do we owe this pleasure?’ Robert says, loosely folding his arms across his chest.
Caz hasn’t told him, I think.
‘We’ve just received a call from the marina where your boat is kept,’ Nick informs him.
‘My marina called you? How very interesting.’ Robert looks calm, completely unruffled. I can picture him in business dealings: the easy slip of the truth, the slow smile, then the ruthless thrust of a deal.
‘They informed us that your boat was taken in at one a.m. on Monday morning. Two hours after Jacob was last seen.’
Robert smirks. ‘You’ve been checking up on me.’
‘When we came to see you earlier, you told us that you dropped the boat into the marina early Sunday evening, before going to the pub.’
‘Must’ve got confused. Happens at my age, doesn’t it, Caz?’
She shrugs.
‘One in the morning,’ Nick says. ‘Odd hour to return a boat to a marina.’
‘It’s a twenty-four-hour facility. Flexibility is the very point.’
I step forward. ‘Fez tells us you were at The Rope and Anchor until eleven. You left by boat. Then two whole hours passed. What happened in that time?’
Robert’s lips narrow as he smirks at me. ‘Why don’t you tell me what you think happened, Sarah?’
‘All right. I think it goes something like this: earlier on in the evening, you found out Caz was pregnant and you were upset. You went in search of Jacob, but when you couldn’t find him, you took yourself off to The Rope and Anchor instead. Am I right so far?’
‘Is she right so far, Caz?’ Robert asks, drawing her into his little performance.
Caz only shrugs.
‘What happened after that, Robert? Did you have a skinful at the pub, get back in your boat and return to the sandbank – only to find Jacob and Caz on the rocks, arguing? Did you blame Jacob for the pregnancy, haul him on to your boat? Decide to shake him up a little?’
He smiles, white teeth flashing at me.
‘Maybe it wasn’t only Jacob that you were hauling about,’ I say, enflamed. ‘I saw the bruise on Caz’s cheek.’
Robert’s smile vanishes. He takes one step forward, his forefinger pointed, gun-straight, at my face. ‘Be. Very. Careful.’
‘I told you, I fell,’ Caz says, with a disgusted shake of her head. ‘Dad would never hit me!’
‘What about Jacob? Did you hit him?’
‘Wouldn’t waste my energy on that fuck-up.’
‘Watch yourself,’ Nick says, ice in his tone.
‘Just tell them, Dad,’ Caz says, a note of anxiety creeping into her voice. ‘Tell them why you were on the boat!’
‘Not that it’s any of your business what I was doing with my boat that night, but here it is: I’d had a bit too much to drink and didn’t put my lights on. When I came into the bay, I bumped into Neil’s boat. Wasn’t on its normal mooring. Gave it a bit of a knock.’
The ding in his boat.
‘You know how he is about that boat – it’s like it’s a bloody family member. So I slipped off. Thought I’d nip the boat back to the marina and he’d be none the wiser. Last thing I need is him mouthing off to Marine Patrol about me being under the influence.’
‘What about Jacob?’ I say.
‘What about him? Jacob hasn’t stepped foot on my boat. I doubt he’d dare after what he’s put my daughter through.’ He folds his arms. ‘Happy now?’
I press my lips together.
‘Oh, and by the way,’ Caz adds. ‘If you’re wondering why I came to see you earlier, it was to tell you that the letter Jacob wrote – the love letter – wasn’t for me.’
This new piece of information catches me by surprise. I look to Nick, certain I’m missing something. ‘It must be.’
Caz pulls it from her pocket, holding it in front of my face. Her finger taps the last line. ‘Last night was amazing, he wrote. I wasn’t with him that night. I wasn’t even on the sandbank!’
My head shakes from side to side. ‘Then, who was it for?’
‘No idea.’
Robert puts an arm around Caz’s waist. ‘He gets my daughter pregnant. Tells her to have an abortion. Then buggers off, leaving her to go through it on her own. And now – now – we find out he’s been messing around with someone else. Lovely boy you’ve brought up there.’
I go to say something, but Robert hasn’t finished.
‘So, rather than barging into our hut, accusing us of God-knows-what, I think it’d be best if you both piss off. Don’t you?’
26. SARAH
DAY FIVE, 10 P.M.
Nick and I return to our hut and retreat into the silence of tasks. Nick fixes the leg of one of our foldout sun-chairs, and I busy myself cleaning out the kitchen cupboards. With methodical care, I place each of our mugs on to a tea towel, then take a damp cloth and run it along the smooth white insides of the cupboard, removing the fine traces of sand that line every surface of a beach hut.
On the walk back from Robert’s hut, we called the police to inform them about Caz’s claim that Jacob’s love letter wasn’t intended for her – but they only seemed vaguely interested. Caz was assuming Jacob wrote the love letter on the night he disappeared and, therefore, the line ‘Last night was amazing’ refers to an evening she wasn’t on the sandbank – but the police pointed out that he could have written the letter at any time since it wasn’t dated. I make a mental note to check with Luke to see if there was anyone else on Jacob’s horizon.
I return each mug to the cupboard, trying to shake loose the thread of thought. When the last mug is put away, the cloth washed, squeezed dry and hung over the neck of the tap, I turn from the sink, wondering what to tackle next. My gaze travels dispassionately over the square wooden interior of our hut. Really, it’s just a shed. A wooden shed on a beach, beautified with some duck-egg-blue paint and a few nautical furnishings. How can this shed have such a
presence in our lives? It was the glue in mine and Isla’s early friendship; it was the place where I fell in love with Nick; the beach home we made with Jacob; the bay where Marley died; and now the place where Jacob was last seen. Without really knowing I’m doing it, I drag my fingernails across the painted wood panelling, the rasp of my nails scraping through the hut.
Nick turns, and stares at me.
Ask me! Ask me what I’m thinking! Ask me how scared I am right now! Ask me something … anything …
He sighs as he puts down the screwdriver, then announces he’s going to bed.
‘I need some air,’ I mumble, grabbing a cardigan and leaving the beach hut.
The relief of being outdoors hits me. I walk instinctively towards the sea’s edge, where I pause, filling my lungs with salt air and closing my eyes.
If anyone should know what has happened to Jacob, it should be me. Where’s my mother’s intuition?
Standing there, a cool, creeping sensation slides across my skin, as if I’m not alone. I open my eyes, staring into the darkness, wondering if there’s anyone out on the water; a boat with no lights, perhaps, or a kayaker gliding silently across the water. Did Neil go out in his boat after all? I can’t make out any shapes or movement, but the sensation of being watched doesn’t fall away.
I turn then towards the beach huts, a chill travelling down my spine. Is someone’s face pressed to a window, their breath moist against the glass, peering into the darkness? I shiver, hugging my arms around my middle. I’m being ridiculous, surely. Yet, as I stare at the beach huts, I can’t help but wonder whether someone inside one of these huts knows what has happened to Jacob. My gaze travels slowly between them. I can see Joe and Binks sharing a sofa, reading beneath the light from their gas lantern. The warm glow is kind to them and from here they look contented, relaxed. My thoughts wander to our hut, where I can see Nick folding out the sofa bed, his long back rounded as he reaches down to tuck in the sheet. He looks exhausted, defeated. I should go back to him – we should be getting into that bed together, holding each other till sleep comes. But then I see him pull his phone from his pocket. His head dips low to it and I can sense his concentration. I wonder what’s caught his attention – a message, an email? He finishes whatever he’s doing, and then a moment later he is moving towards the window and, as if looking directly at me, he pulls down the blinds, shutting me out. I stand there for a moment, frozen to the spot.
I blink and look away. Next door, Diane and Neil’s hut is illuminated by the spotlights Neil installed at the start of summer. Diane sits alone with a book on her knee, but her gaze is directed towards the window. I think of the strangeness of her and Neil’s earlier conversation on the beach. There was something off-kilter – almost frantic – about Neil, and it reminds me of the oddness of our exchange down by the rocks a few mornings ago when he was asking about Jacob. In the harsh glare of the downlights, I notice how strained Diane looks. I wonder if she is watching for Neil, waiting to see his boat returning to shore.
I draw my gaze away, letting it resettle on Isla’s boarded-up hut, a shadow in the row. There was a time when her hut was a place of solace – the space where I felt most at home. I find my legs carrying me across the beach, towards it. I climb the wooden steps on to her deck and place my hands flat against the shutters that board the windows. I can feel the rough texture of aged plywood. I want to unlock the doors, slip inside the hut, light the tall candles that stand in the necks of wax-covered wine bottles, and then sink back into her sagging sofa bed and smoke. I know the exact smell of this hut: sun-warmed wood, a slight mustiness locked in the old cushions, the spice of incense lingering in the patterned throws.
Years ago, before there were husbands and children, we’d huddle into opposite corners of her sofa, our legs stretched out alongside each other’s, and we’d share a joint. I always rolled them, packing the tobacco tightly and crumbling the edges of the pot, my fingertips smelling pungent. We’d pass it between us, a golden shimmer of lip-gloss kissing the butt, and we’d talk about the future.
A lawyer. That’s what I’d wanted to become back then. I had pictured it so clearly: me in a fitted pencil skirt and blouse, carrying a smart leather handbag as I swept into the office each morning, chatting easily with the other staff. I would have specialized in family law, nothing explicitly corporate, rather blending my knowledge of the law with the complexities of relationships.
I had just begun the second year of my law degree when I discovered I was pregnant. Sometimes I wonder who I’d have been if I’d finished the course. It’s not that I want to undo the life I have now, but sometimes I just want a different me. A braver one. A more fearless me. A bit more of the old me.
I pull out my mobile, then sink down on to the deck, my back pressed against the cool wood of the beach hut doors. I dial Isla’s number in the darkness. I’m nostalgic for the past. I’d like to sit here with my eyes closed, talking about the evenings when we used to run down to the shore naked and high, skinny-dipping in water lit up with phosphorescence. I want to talk to Isla about what’s happening right now. I want to hear her tell me that everything’s going to be okay.
But the phone clicks on to voicemail.
I think of all the times after Marley’s death that I slept with my mobile beside me in case she needed me in the middle of the night. I think of the meals I cooked and took round to her, making comforting casseroles and lasagnes and nutritious stews. I think of the evenings that I left my own family and went to her flat to keep her company, because she had no one else.
‘Fuck you!’ I hiss into the unanswered phone, then sling my mobile across the deck.
My fists meet the deck in a thud of frustration. Tension pulses in my temples and clamps tight across my forehead. I exhale hard – almost a grunt. Why aren’t you answering? Why haven’t you called back?
There are jagged parts to our friendship – there always have been – and one of those rough little spikes catches against the edges of my heart. What do you know, Isla?
I cannot ignore the symmetry of what’s happening: Jacob has disappeared from the same beach as Marley, on the same date, but seven years later. It feels like there must be a connection between the two events, which I don’t fully understand.
I wonder whether I should talk to Nick about it – at least put a voice to the thought. I know how absurd it would sound when spoken aloud, and how quick Nick would be to defend Isla. He’d tell me that Isla would never hurt Jacob – and I would believe him. She is Jacob’s godmother. She is my best friend. We are like sisters.
‘It’s not possible,’ I whisper into the night.
I hear a noise. A scuffle. It almost sounds like it’s coming from inside Isla’s hut. It must be the wind twisting through a crack, or the wood cooling after a day in the sun – yet my senses are immediately heightened. I get to my feet, pressing my face against the shutters, testing whether I can peer through the cracks.
‘Jacob?’ I say, my lips moving against the wood.
Ludicrous. Of course I’m being ludicrous!
But what if …
Could he be inside? What if – this entire time – he’s been hiding out here, right next door to us? We have Isla’s spare key, just as she looks after ours, so it’s possible that Jacob could have let himself in. Isla’s hut was a refuge for Jacob. Whenever the two of us argued, Jacob would skulk here to lick his wounds.
My heart is thundering against my ribcage. It’s madness, but I need to be sure. Quickly, I return to our hut. I’m pleased to find Nick already asleep, a single candle burning on the kitchen side. In the low light, I skirt the sofa cushions that Nick’s tossed to the floor, then I locate the key box, which is tacked to the inside of a cupboard. My fingers move clumsily across the keys for the shower block, the gas bottle locker, the underneath of the hut – and then I find Isla’s spare, which is attached to a stone with a hole through its centre by a browning piece of string.
I close my fingers around the key, t
hen push it into my pocket before creeping from the hut – careful not to disturb Nick and provoke questions. As I pass him, I see his mobile beside the sofa bed, face down. I pause, heart drilling, itching to pick it up and scroll through his messages. It wouldn’t be the first time. I shake my head sharply. I don’t want to be that woman – that wife.
I pull my gaze from his phone and leave the hut, closing the door quietly behind me. Outside, the sea seems louder as the waves crumble on to the shoreline, and then are sucked back out again. I return to Isla’s deck and search for the keyhole with my fingers. I should have thought to bring the torch.
I eventually manage to slot the key into the lock, and turn it with ease. I pull the door back, and step inside.
‘Isla?’ a male voice says.
I freeze. Did the voice come from inside the beach hut? I take another step into the darkness. ‘Jacob?’
Nothing.
‘Isla?’
I swing round to find Ross Wayman behind me.
‘Oh. Sarah. Sorry – I saw Isla’s hut open and thought she was in Chile, but—’
My heart races as I say, ‘Yes, she’s still in Chile. But she called. Earlier. Wanted me to check on something.’
‘Oh?’ I can feel Ross Wayman’s gaze on me.
What, though? What should I be checking on? ‘A book! She left a book behind that she needs for her class. Said I’d post it on to her. She left in a rush.’
‘I dropped her at the quay. She did seem distracted.’
I feel a beat of relief that he believes me.
‘You’ll need a torch,’ he says, glancing at my empty hands. ‘Here. Use this.’ Ross Wayman pulls a slim torch from his pocket, which he twists to turn on.
I have to go through with this now. It’s an utterly ridiculous pantomime. I take the torch and step into the hut, as Ross Wayman holds the door open.
I scan the torch across the wall, locating the bookshelf. It’s above Isla’s sofa, which I clamber on to, my feet sinking into the sagging cushions. I direct the torchlight at the row of books, making a show of looking closely at the titles.