by Lucy Clarke
‘Just that old fishing boat.’
A fishing boat? I’m trying to think. ‘That one?’ I say, pointing to Neil’s dory.
‘Nah, not that one. The other one that comes past sometimes. Looks like an old tug boat. You’d know it if you saw it.’
I shake my head to show that I’m at a loss.
‘Navy. With a wheelhouse.’
My heart begins to pound as I ask, ‘The boat – is it called Offshore? It’s usually moored up in the harbour.’
‘That’s the one.’
My stomach tightens. I know the boat. I’ve been on it before.
So has Jacob.
It’s Isaac’s boat.
‘Think he must’ve been out flounder fishing. Had the torch going.’
‘Was he alone?’
He pauses for a moment, thinking. ‘No, he was with someone. I remember him holding the nose of the boat in the shore break, while someone climbed on.’
I feel a shiver travel down my spine, my skin tightening. ‘My boy. Was it my boy?’
The fisherman lifts his shoulders, doesn’t answer. But he doesn’t need to. Now I see it all clearly: Jacob was out on the water with Isaac.
Isaac’s hut faces the harbour. It’s set slightly back from the others, and the unpainted wood has faded to a bleached grey. I haven’t stepped inside this hut for years.
The blinds are drawn, but a glow of light bleeds from their edges. I glance over my shoulder, checking no one is about, then climb the wooden steps on to his deck. My knuckles rap against the hut door – three sharp knocks.
The briny scent of the harbour feels thick in my throat as I wait. I catch the sound of a chair being pushed back, footsteps across the hut, then the door is thrown open. The draught sucks the roll blind out of the hut towards me, so it flaps in the breeze like a wagging tongue. Isaac wrestles it out of the way, peering at me. ‘Sarah?’
‘I need to talk to you.’
He stares at me for a moment, perhaps taking in the jumper thrown hastily over my pyjama bottoms, the strained look on my face. Then he steps back, and for a moment I think he’s going to shut the door, but instead he rolls up the blind. ‘Come in.’
Inside, the hut smells of cooked mackerel and potatoes. Two used pans are settled on the small hob. On a foldout table half a glass of beer rests on a drinks mat beside a fish dinner. Who eats dinner at this hour? There is a hardback book face down on the table; I glimpse the title: Wordsworth’s Collected Poems. On the wall behind Isaac, I take in a framed chart of our coastline, and another glass-fronted print of the landing sizes of local fish. Above, two wooden shelves are filled with rows of books and a selection of pottery. The hut is neat and homely, barely changed from the way I remember it.
I stand with my back to the door, my head spinning from the joint. There is little room, so Isaac positions himself behind the chair he has just vacated.
Two gas lanterns emit a low hiss, a lightly sulphuric smell mixing with the stronger scent of fried fish.
I stare at Isaac, wondering, Would he hurt Jacob? I can’t believe that he would. But then, I don’t know this man. Not really. That very first time I came to the sandbank with Isla, when we’d swam in our underwear, bodysurfing the waves into shore, I remember seeing him – although we didn’t know each other’s names back then. He’d been fishing from the rocks, just a teenager himself, and I recall the interest in his dark gaze as he watched me stretching my arms up to the sun, letting the heat dry the water from my skin.
When I speak, my voice is commanding and too loud somehow for the space. ‘Jacob went missing from the sandbank last Sunday evening.’
Isaac holds my gaze.
‘He was seen getting into your boat.’
I watch him closely. His Adam’s apple moves as he swallows – but he says nothing.
My heart pulls tighter. ‘Isaac? Is that true?’
The stillness of his expression unnerves me and my palms begin to sweat. I am imploring him, silently begging him, to tell me there’s a mistake and that Jacob never boarded his boat.
‘Yes,’ he says eventually, the word swallowing the air from the hut. ‘It is true.’
Isaac glances down at his hands, which are gripped around the back of a wooden chair, his knuckles white. He rolls his tongue across his lower teeth. ‘None of this was … planned. I wish to God I’d never been on the water that night—’
‘Tell me what happened!’ I interrupt, my voice firm as stone.
‘I will. I am … I need you to understand … it was just … it happened all wrong. He was … angry, upset … I couldn’t explain properly.’
‘Explain what?’ I’ve gone very cold. I am standing perfectly still, barely breathing, waiting. I can feel the grains of sand against the bare soles of my feet, pressing down into the aged lino. I watch Isaac, the quick, agitated movements of his hands, the darting eyes, the way he sucks his lips to one side as he speaks.
‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!’ he suddenly shouts, the chair he is gripping lifting off the floor.
I shoot backwards, my elbow connecting with the hut door, which jars open, the door swinging out wide into the night, a light breeze winding around my neck.
Isaac holds the chair aloft, his forearms trembling, and I am waiting for him to launch it across the hut, watch the spindles crack and splinter in a shower of wood – but a beat later he lowers the chair back down and then slumps on it, his head hanging forwards, his elbows on his knees.
‘Sit down,’ he instructs me.
I obey, moving from the doorway and lowering myself on to the edge of the sofa.
‘I was going out night-fishing,’ Isaac begins, his voice shaky. ‘I was loading the boat when I saw Jacob sitting on the rocks. He was upset. I … I didn’t know whether to leave him or not.’ Isaac scratches the side of his face roughly, leaving behind red rivers of nail marks. ‘But then Jacob looked up. Looked right at me. I asked him if he was okay. He didn’t answer one way or another. Just wanted to know if I was going out on my boat. If he could come.’
I am waiting, feeling the drumbeat of my heart.
‘I told him he could fish with me, if he liked. We waded out to the boat, and as he scrambled on board, his mobile fell into the water. He never made a fuss. Never said anything – just looked up at the sky and laughed, like it was topping off his day.’
His mobile, I think, that’s why the police haven’t been able to trace it.
‘We motored away from the bay, and I put the lines out. Gave him a spare rig and we fished for a while without talking.’ Isaac’s gaze is set on a point in the distance, as if he is looking out beyond the open hut door, into the night. An uncomfortable sensation pricks at my skin as I picture the two of them together on the boat, the waves rolling beneath them, night enclosing them. ‘Right out of the blue, Jacob turned and said, “It’s my birthday.” So I told him, “Happy birthday, Jacob.”’
Isaac shifts, pushing himself more upright in his chair, the wood creaking beneath him. ‘Jacob said to me, “You knew that, didn’t you?” I agreed; said I did. Told him that his birthday falls on Marley’s anniversary, so I always remember it. Jacob didn’t say anything for a long time, just kept his hands steady on the fishing rod. A while later he asked, “Why did you save me that day?”’
My hands clench into fists at my sides. I press them deep into the sofa, my throat tightening.
‘So I told him that anyone would have done what they could to have helped … but he was riled up, demanding to know more …’
My airways feel compressed, as if I can’t quite draw enough breath. I turn my face towards the open doorway. Outside there’s the lightest dart of movement. A shadow moving between two huts. Instinctively my gaze swings in pursuit, straining to see into the darkness. But there’s nothing except black, empty space and the low gurgle of the shifting harbour.
I turn back to Isaac, picturing Jacob firing questions on the boat, an explanation rising up in Isaac, the words stacking on the tip of his tongue.
Jacob had come to him looking for answers – and Isaac’s promise to me would’ve faded into nothing.
‘I don’t care what you said. Just tell me he’s safe! Please, tell me you dropped him to shore. That’s all I care about – that he’s alive. Safe.’
Isaac stares at me, his dark eyes hooded. Then he closes them, his head lowering, shutting me out.
‘Don’t! Don’t you dare!’ I shout, suddenly on my feet. I fly at him, my hands reaching for his shoulders, shaking him. ‘Look at me! Tell me! Tell me what you’ve done!’
His eyes are wide open now, filmed with tears. I look right into them, seeing a deep, terrifying sadness. ‘I’m so sorry, Sarah. I never took him back to shore.’
32. ISLA
At first I didn’t see it. I was looking so closely at Isaac – searching for the missing fragment of what had happened to Marley – that I didn’t notice the oddness of Sarah’s behaviour around him. Something unspoken hovered on the edges of their exchanges that I couldn’t quite tune into.
Summer 2014
Jacob was playing keep-me-ups on the beach, bouncing a football off alternating knees. He cut a lonely figure in the evening sun, his knees jerking like a toy soldier marching. Marley used to play this with him for hours, each of them diving dramatically after the ball to keep it from the ground.
Jacob mishit the ball, which flew through the air towards the shore. Isaac, who’d been digging in the low-tide sand for bait, glanced up. In one swift movement, he let go of his spade and headed the ball almost vertically into the air. As the ball dropped back down towards him, he brought it under control on one knee, then booted it back to Jacob. His skill was so surprising and impressive that Jacob caught the ball, then whooped with delight. I watched him jog over to Isaac and persuade him to play.
Isaac’s agility was impressive and I watched with interest, wondering where he’d learned to play. A few minutes later, Isaac kneed the ball wide, and Jacob made a heroic dive for it, but just clipped the ball – sending it flying into the shallows. As they both laughed, the sun hitting the side of their faces, Sarah appeared, striding down the beach towards them. ‘Dinner’s ready, Jacob!’
‘But, Mum—’
‘Grab the ball before it gets washed out.’
Jacob waded into the shallows, scooping up the ball, then walked back out towards Isaac – a hand held up for a high-five. Isaac hesitated, then slapped Jacob’s palm.
As Jacob and Sarah walked away, I noticed how Isaac’s gaze followed them both. He watched all the way until they slipped out of view within their hut.
I closed the book on my knee and stood. Sarah had invited me to join them for supper – so I went to the fridge, grabbed a bottle of wine, and made my way next door. As I climbed on to their deck, I heard Jacob saying, ‘Thought dinner was ready.’
‘I said I was about to start dinner.’
‘No, you said—’
‘Does it matter?’ Sarah snapped.
Jacob’s head jolted up. ‘Yeah. Does, actually.’ He crossed the hut and strode out on to the deck, passing me as I entered. ‘Wouldn’t rush,’ Jacob huffed. ‘Food’s not even started.’
Inside, the kitchen was bare, nothing was cooking. On seeing me, Sarah took out two glasses and poured the wine I’d brought. Her hand trembled as she passed me my glass.
‘Just saw Jacob playing football with Isaac,’ I remarked.
‘Oh?’ Her voice was sharp, as if she was expecting me to say more.
I looked at her closely. ‘You okay?’
‘Fine. Yes, fine.’ She took a long drink of her wine.
‘Don’t you want Jacob playing with Isaac?’
She gave me a strange sidelong glance, then looked away, saying, ‘Jacob’s had too much sun today – I just thought it was time he came inside.’
I studied her face as she busied herself taking a bag of rice from an overhead cupboard. Rumour had it that Isaac lived in his beach hut all year round, under the council’s radar. With the exception of a few friends on the sandbank and the men he’d drink with in the pub, I never saw him in anyone’s company. The truth is, if he hadn’t been out there on the water the day Marley drowned, I wouldn’t have thought twice about him. It’s unfair of me really, but had Isaac reached Marley first, if it had been Marley he’d hauled on to his boat, soaked and panting and terrified – I would have loved him. I would have thought he was the most wondrous man in the world. I would have bought him gifts, cooked meals for him, thrown my arms around him whenever I saw him.
Which is why, as I looked at Sarah, I found it odd that she never did. Isaac saved Jacob’s life, yet Sarah seemed to shrink from his company.
‘Do you feel indebted to him?’
‘Indebted?’ she repeated, without taking her gaze off the rice she was measuring into a mug. ‘Why?’
‘He saved Jacob’s life.’
‘Anyone who’d been there would have helped.’
I watched Sarah as she poured the rice clumsily into a pan, stray grains clattering across the counter.
33. SARAH
DAY EIGHT, 6 A.M.
Ninety-eight steps from the top of the headland to the sandbank. I wish there were more, because every step brings me closer to returning to our hut. To facing Nick.
I’ve walked all night, following old tracks I haven’t taken in years, carving out forgotten pathways in the bleached moonlight, while Jacob’s image spun round and round in my mind. Exhaustion burns bright behind my eyes and clenches at my skull. I’m still dressed in pyjamas, my hair wild, my bare feet cut and caked in dirt, but it’s strange how none of it matters now.
By the time I reach our hut, I’m trembling. I imagine going inside, waking Nick, watching as he pushes himself upright in bed, his head angled to one side as he listens. I should have come here the moment I’d staggered from Isaac’s hut … but I just … I needed time.
Climbing on to our deck now, I’m surprised to find the hut doors thrown open. I turn towards the sea, half expecting to see Nick’s shape in the water – but our bay lies unbroken beneath an overcast dawn.
Inside, the sofa bed is still laid out, the imprint of Nick caught in the dip of the mattress and the light curve of his pillow.
‘Nick?’ I croak, my voice sounding weak.
But the only reply is my own shallow breathing.
I’m wired: eyes burning, thoughts singeing. I move to the sink and pour a glass of water, gulping it back greedily. I set the glass down with a clatter and, as I turn, I notice a large, smooth pebble on the kitchen counter, grains of sand dusting the work surface beside it. I step towards it, placing my fingertips on the cool chalky contours of the pebble. Then I see there’s a note.
I slip the white sheet from beneath the pebble. It’s not Nick’s handwriting. The note must have been left on our deck secured by the pebble. I bring the paper towards my face like a scientist trying to understand an unusual specimen.
Sarah,
We MUST talk about Jacob. I need to explain! I’m so sorry.
Isaac
A flare of hot panic surges through my body. Looking back towards the open doorway, I know exactly where Nick has gone.
I race from our hut, every fibre of my being screaming, No! Not like this! Please, not like this!
All around me, the sandbank is murmuring awake. Curtains are being drawn, hut doors thrown open, kids in pyjamas padding on to the beach, bleary-eyed parents setting kettles to boil and assessing packs of bacon and loaves of bread.
Diane pauses from shaking out her duvet, watching as I run past, sending sheets of sand kicking out in my wake. I thunder past Robert and Lorrain, who’re standing in the gap between two huts, looking at me curiously. I don’t care who sees me! Let them look!
I am panting hard by the time I catch sight of Nick. He can only be thirty feet ahead of me, but he’s climbing the steps of Isaac’s hut.
‘Nick!’ I cry, my voice shrill, desperate.
He doesn’t turn. He can’t have heard.
/> ‘Wait! Nick!’ I shout, louder this time.
A woman nursing a baby scowls at me from the doorway of her hut.
I lurch on, a sunken pebble stabbing into the heel of my foot. ‘Nick!’
But he is already at Isaac’s door. I see his hand lift, his fingers curling into a fist. He knocks.
I’m too late, I realize, as I watch the door open, Isaac stepping out.
Both men turn as I enter the hut.
Nick is dressed in shorts and the faded green T-shirt he likes to sleep in. His hair sticks up at the back and there is a tiny patch of toothpaste at the edge of his mouth. He looks at me, a light dip in his eyebrows – and there is something unbearably vulnerable about him. I want to go to him, take his hand, lead him away.
There’s a strange calm in the hut, like the sea flattening off with eerie quiet in the moments before a squall tears across the surface, whipping waves into white peaks. Everything seems still, details enhanced. A cobweb wavers in the corner, the husk of a dead fly trembling at its centre. A cluster of flying ants crowd the top corner of a window, and above them the grey imprint of a dead moth stains the roll blind. Nick’s gaze travels to my right hand and I realize I’m still holding Isaac’s note.
‘What’s going on, Sarah?’
I force myself to meet his eye. ‘It was Isaac’s boat. That’s the boat Jacob boarded the night he disappeared.’
Nick’s gaze swings to Isaac. ‘What? Why?’
Isaac stands at the back of his hut. He’s wearing the same clothes as he was last night and I wonder whether he’s slept. His eyes dart towards me, then back to Nick. ‘I was going out fishing … Jacob saw me. Asked if he could come.’
Nick glares at Isaac for a long moment, then glances sideways towards me. ‘The letter,’ he says, his voice lowered, ‘Jacob’s love letter. Was it for—?’
‘No!’ I answer quickly. ‘Absolutely not. Nothing like that. No, Jacob was upset after arguing with Caz and just wanted to get off the sandbank. Isaac happened to be there.’ I take a breath. ‘Jacob got on the boat and they fished for a while. But … there was a conversation … an argument.’