Last Seen

by Lucy Clarke

  I try and picture Jacob boarding a plane alongside Isla. Did he sit by the window, watching England shrink and disappear beneath him? He’s flown with us to Italy twice, and he travelled to Switzerland once with the school, but he’s never been on a long-haul flight. I picture his legs bunched up against the seat in front. Would he have been nervous? Would Isla have held his hand? Would he have talked to her about Isaac? About me?

  Are they together now? They could be travelling north into the scorched salt flats that Isla’s shown me photos of, or perhaps they are headed south, tucking themselves into the cool folds of the mountains. They could be anywhere – and we’d have no way of finding them.

  When I look up, Nick is glaring at me, his gaze cold.

  ‘What?’

  ‘He’s out there because of you. You and Isaac. You know that, don’t you?’

  The words punch me in the gut.

  I watch as Nick snatches up his mobile, scrolling through his contacts. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘Calling her.’ His face is flushed as he strikes the screen with his fingertip, then presses the phone to his ear, jaw clenched. As he paces, I count his steps: three forward, then he turns on the spot. Another three steps back. Turn.

  His tone is a lethal whisper. ‘What the fuck are you playing at, Isla? We know Jacob’s in Chile with you. The police have told us.’ He sucks in his breath. ‘We found a letter Jacob wrote to you – a fucking love letter!’ He shakes his head in disgust. ‘You’ve heard Sarah’s messages, so you know exactly what we’ve been going through. Why haven’t you called? We’re reeling here, Isla. Reeling—’ His voice cracks so suddenly that it takes us both by surprise.

  He ends the call, flinging the mobile on to the sofa. Then he sits heavily, his hands cradling his head.

  I move to him, placing my arms around his shoulders, drawing him towards me. His muscles are locked and I wait for the moment when his body softens into my embrace. But it never comes: he shakes his head, pulling away.

  I sit there beside him feeling hollowed out. Through the rain-smeared window, I can see the edge of Isla’s hut – a dark shadow in the dusk. How could you? I think. Nick’s phone is beside me, Isla’s number still on the screen. Without pause I pick it up, press call, my throat tightening with all the words I want to say.

  As I hold the phone to my ear, I realize something is different. I’m not hearing the same ring tone that I’ve heard every other time: seven rings, then the click of her answerphone. This time I hear a series of long beeps. The phone is engaged.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I realize. ‘She’s listening to your message.’

  Nick looks up.

  ‘She’s playing it back, right now. She’s there, Nick. She’s listening. She’s heard every single word.’

  41. SARAH

  DAY EIGHT, 9 P.M.

  Dusk thickens into night. Nick stands at the window, his breath making small clouds against the glass. I watch from the sofa as he leans his forehead against it. In a low, careful voice, as if he’s talking to himself, Nick says, ‘She’s not in love with him.’

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Isla. She’s not in love with Jacob.’ He pushes away from the window, and turns towards me. ‘How could she be? Jacob’s still a boy. She’s seen his table manners; she’s heard how rude he can be when he’s tired; she knows you still do his laundry and that I give him pocket money. Isla’s forty. She’s travelled the world; brought up a child; had a career. She’s lived. I just don’t believe she’d fall in love with Jacob.’ He pauses, the pad of his thumb travelling back and forth along his lower lip. ‘This is about something else.’

  Nick is right. The hum of the fridge kicks in and I listen to the vibration of it, counting in my head.

  He looks at me searchingly. ‘What was going on with you and Isla this summer?’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Something was off. There was an odd tension between you. I felt it.’

  I draw a sofa cushion across my stomach, my fingers tracing the piping as I say, ‘I’m not sure … it feels like we’ve been pulling apart.’

  Nick asks astutely, ‘Who was doing the pulling?’

  I can feel heat building in my chest. I’m not sure how to answer, how to put my feelings about Isla into words when I barely understand them myself. After some time I say, ‘Me, I think. Mostly me.’ I exhale a long breath, looking down at the cushion as I work out what it is I’m trying to say. ‘When Isla comes back here every summer, I’ve started to feel … I don’t know, uncomfortable, perhaps.’

  Nick lifts one eyebrow.

  ‘It feels like I’m sharing you all with her. You and Jacob. I know that sounds strange – but it’s as if I have this …’ I search for the right word, my fingers opening, ‘… obligation to Isla. She has no one – and I’ve got you both.’

  Something I’ve said seems to trigger a new direction of thought in Nick. His hands meet together in a prayer, which he draws to his lips, eyes blinking rapidly. ‘Marley …’ He lifts his gaze and looks at me. ‘That’s what this is all about. Marley.’

  Marley. I picture him, the beautiful little blond-haired boy I’ve been trying not to think of. Nick is right, I know he is. He’s given voice to a thought that’s been inside me for days, twisted tightly. Now Nick is hooking it out, pulling it slowly towards the light, forcing me to look.

  ‘You and Isla argued the night Jacob disappeared. What happened, Sarah? All of it – I want to know every detail.’

  He watches me so closely that I can feel beads of perspiration gathering on my top lip. The hut feels impossibly hot. I shift, uncomfortable, spotlighted. I get to my feet and move to the sink, pouring myself a glass of water. I swallow it back, a light taste of earth caught in the water. I wipe my mouth and set the glass back down.

  ‘Sarah?’

  ‘It was awful. We both said things …’ I shake my head. ‘I started it. I know I did. I made a scene about those festival tickets. But they weren’t the problem, not really. I just … I was just so furious!’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I wanted Isla at the barbecue. We talked about it, didn’t we? How much good it’d do Jacob to have a normal birthday this year. Make a bit of a fuss of him. Not let Marley’s anniversary overshadow things. I was so pleased he was going to Luke’s for birthday drinks. It seemed like a turning point, like Jacob felt he deserved to have fun on that day.’ I lift my shoulders. ‘Maybe it was too much to ask of Isla – expecting her to join the family barbecue, sit at our table, smiling and laughing, and celebrating for Jacob. How could she do that?’ I rub a hand over my face. ‘So she was distant, sad, I get that, I really do. But then Jacob made that toast to Marley. It should have been lovely and touching, but somehow it just reminded me how it’ll always be there – how Isla will always be there, right on our doorstep, every fucking summer!’

  I realize my hands are clenched into fists, my knuckles white, and Nick is staring at me, eyes wide, as if I’m a stranger.

  I try and soften my expression, uncurl my fingers – but it is too late, Nick has seen.

  42. ISLA

  If I look back at the events of this summer, each one is like a piece from a puzzle – and Sarah holds them all in her hands. I could put them together for her and Nick, show them how they fit. But then, why should I? When Marley died, I begged Sarah for help, desperate to understand what’d happened. She never once said: ‘Sit down, Isla. Let me tell you what I know.’

  This summer

  I woke curled on my side, knees bunched towards my chest, as if cowering from a blow. I drew a hand across my face, rubbing my eyes open with my thumb and forefinger. As I adjusted to the dimness of the beach hut, a glass of gin eyeballed me from the side, sending a wave of nausea pulsing through me. Then my gaze reached a bundle of fabric on the hut floor. It took me a moment to place it as Jacob’s T-shirt. My cheeks flared with heat.

  I scrambled out of bed, launching myself towards the sink. My back arched as I
retched, the tendons in my neck straining. I clung to the edge of the sink, panting, staring at the trail of vomit dribbling towards the plughole. Jesus Christ!

  I wiped the back of my hand across my mouth, then poured a large glass of water, rinsed my mouth, and swilled the rest down the sink. I crossed the hut, grabbed Jacob’s T-shirt and shoved it into an overhead cupboard. I stood there – palms pressed against the closed cupboard, heart racing, thoughts leaping and crackling like flames.

  I needed to get out of the hut. Pushing my feet into flip-flops, I pulled on a pair of sunglasses, then left. The empty beach told me it was still early. The realization made my heart sink a little further: it meant more hours to wade through. Today would be the seventh anniversary of Marley’s death. I felt like hell.

  I walked fast with my eyes down, and it was only once I’d reached the headland, climbing to the very top, that I let my pace slacken. My gaze found the bay where Marley was lost, as if it were the compass point that every other direction was marked by. It was too early to give in to tears, so I turned from it, forcing myself to walk on.

  Over the years, Marley’s anniversary had become filled with small rituals: collecting treasures from his favourite parts of the sandbank to put in a glass jar; reading his memory book cover to cover; eating fish and chips on the quay for dinner; setting sail the jar of beach treasures from the quayside. I don’t know if they helped, or made the hours pass more quickly, but they gave the day a structure of sorts.

  I buried myself in activity, searching for just the right things to go in the glass jar: a chalky, slim pebble from the bay where Samuel had taught Marley how to skim stones; a lost feather from the marsh where he’d liked to watch egrets stalk the muddy flats; a mussel shell from Troll Bridge, one of our favourite crabbing spots. I managed to avoid seeing anyone as I walked the length of the headland, slipping off the main paths and pushing my way through the dense woodland, where dwarf oaks and wild rhododendrons grew. My head throbbed with the low voltage of a hangover and I could feel my stomach twisting, churning.

  After two or three hours, when my thirst won out, I returned to the hut, pulling the doors firmly shut.

  Sarah must have been watching for me, as I’d only been inside a moment when she arrived. ‘Don’t think you’re escaping me.’ She came towards me, wrapping me in a hug.

  Jacob’s T-shirt: had I moved it?

  ‘Seven years. I’m not going to ask if you’re okay. Of course you’re not. But just know that I’m right here if you want to talk, or cry, or remember, or forget. Whatever you need, okay?’

  I’d shoved the T-shirt in a cupboard, I remembered with relief.

  When we pulled apart, Sarah told me, ‘We’re doing birthday dinner at five. I know today is hell for you. I know that. But please, Isla. Please come. Just for an hour. You’re leaving tonight. We won’t see you for a whole year. I need to drink you in. It’d mean the world to Jacob to have you there. I want this birthday to be a special one.’

  I looked up at her. She didn’t know.

  ‘And it’s only us – no big party. Us and Nick’s parents. I’m making pavlova.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘So you’ll be there?’

  I spent the afternoon packing up the beach hut. The chores suited me; I sorted through tins of food, restacking those that would last until next summer and piling up those that wouldn’t to pass on to Sarah; I shook out the bedding and squeezed it into two bin-liners so that it didn’t turn damp over the long winter I’d be away; I emptied the bin, scrubbed the hob and bleached the sink. Jacob had come to the hut once – but as I’d seen him crossing the deck, I’d grabbed my mobile, and pretended I was on a call, mouthing to him, See you at the barbecue.

  By the time my belongings were buckled into my backpack, it was half past five. I could hear Nick and his father out at the front of their hut, talking as they tended the barbecue. I could do this. I’d just go for half an hour – enough time to say my goodbyes. With the distraction of the party, it’d be easier.

  I changed into the only clean top I had left, swept my hair into a low knot, then grabbed the bottle of wine I’d been chilling in the otherwise empty fridge.

  Nick’s father was the first to see me as I stepped out of my beach hut barefoot, moving next door to theirs. He slipped his arm around my waist. ‘Isla, darling girl. Wonderful to see you! You look beautiful, just beautiful!’ He kissed me on both cheeks before releasing me.

  The air smelt of firelighters and newly burning charcoal. Nick turned a row of pink sausages with a pair of tongs as he said, ‘So pleased you decided to come.’

  Nick’s father asked, ‘Are you home for long?’

  ‘Actually, I’m leaving in a few hours – back to Chile.’

  ‘Chile. That’s where you’ve been teaching for the last few years, isn’t it?’

  I nodded. ‘Four years.’

  ‘Good on you! It seems to be treating you well. You must stop in and see Stella and me one of these summers when you’re here. Tell us about all the wonderful adventures you’re having.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ I said, although in truth I couldn’t picture it.

  Nick glanced at the bottle of wine in my hand and said, ‘Go inside, grab a glass.’

  I climbed on to the deck, swiftly scanning the hut – but thankfully Jacob wasn’t indoors. The hut smelled of roasted garlic and rosemary, and I knew the oven would be filled with stuffed red peppers, and a tray of those herby roasted potatoes Sarah always made. My stomach twisted uncomfortably: I wasn’t sure I could eat.

  Sarah was rinsing a bunch of coriander at the sink, and Nick’s mother was checking her phone. ‘Isla!’ she said, looking up. ‘I didn’t know you were joining us. How delightful.’ I leant forward, accepting the kiss she lightly planted on my cheek. ‘Hasn’t Sarah gone to such a lot of trouble?’ she said, casting an arm around at the kitchen side, which was lined with colourful bowls of Greek salad, pomegranate tabbouleh, couscous with roasted vegetables. ‘I offered to bring something but she wouldn’t hear of it. Likes to do it all herself.’

  Sarah wiped her hands on a tea towel, then took the wine from me and gave me a quick, tense hug. I noticed something white caught in her hairline. ‘Here,’ I said, reaching to remove it. ‘Feta.’ I dusted the crumbs into the sink.

  ‘Oh.’ Sarah smoothed back her hair firmly, then returned to the coriander, tearing it over the salad.

  I felt dislocated, out of sorts, like everything was too busy, too loud. I didn’t want to be here. I wanted to be alone, the doors of my beach hut pulled to, the memory book on my lap. Looking up, I noticed the row of birthday cards that had been arranged on the shelf. I smiled to see the one I’d made was at the centre of them, Marley and Jacob’s faces beaming into the hut.

  My beautiful boy, I wish you were here with us.

  ‘Lovely card,’ Stella said, noticing me looking at it. ‘Homemade are always the most special. I’ve still got every single card my boys made me when they were growing up.’

  I smiled.

  ‘Jacob told us about the festival tickets,’ Sarah said. Her tone was crisp.

  There was the scuffle of feet above us in the mezzanine, and I looked up to see Jacob’s bare legs moving easily down the wooden ladder.

  ‘Thought you’d got lost up there,’ Stella said.

  ‘Just replying to some birthday messages,’ he said, jumping down from the third step, then slipping his phone into his pocket. Jacob’s gaze met mine. ‘Auntie Isla.’

  I could feel heat building in my cheeks. ‘Happy birthday.’

  Jacob continued to stare at me, and I found myself turning towards the balcony, saying, ‘Lovely weather for your birthday.’

  Lovely weather?

  ‘Pour Isla a glass of wine, will you?’ Sarah said to Jacob.

  ‘Course. Nana, would you like one, too?’

  ‘I shall wait for my meal.’

  When Jacob handed me the wine, he held on to the stem for just a split-second, making sure our fingers touched.
He looked me in the eye, then smiled, his face open and warm.

  ‘I’ll take this on to the deck,’ I said quickly. ‘See how the barbecue is getting on.’

  Nick carried the wooden picnic bench down towards the waterline, and the rest of us followed with bowls of food, plates, cutlery, drinks and glasses. It was low tide and the afternoon was still and bright – a breeze would have lifted the heavy tang of baking seaweed from the air.

  The six of us began settling around the table, Nick’s father looking to me as he patted the space beside him. I squeezed on to the bench between him and Nick, digging my bare feet into the sand.

  Opposite me, Sarah was squinting against the sun as she dished out the tabbouleh, her movements rushed and jerky. A sheen of sweat clung to her brow, and her cheeks were high with colour. Her tone was clipped, overly bright, as she instructed people to ‘Dig in before the meat goes cold.’

  Nick’s father tore off a hunk of garlic bread, plunging it into the hummus, which was already forming a yellowing crust in the heat. ‘Lovely to be back down here,’ he said through a mouthful.

  ‘Doesn’t change, does it?’ Stella said, gazing along the length of the beach, which was dotted with families beginning to pack up their towels and sun tents ready to take the ferry home.

  ‘I remember,’ Nick’s father said, ‘what a surprise Stella and I got when we first met you, Isla. We were desperate to see who’d bought the hut next door, weren’t we? We were expecting some middle-aged yachting type – and then there you were,’ he said, nudging me lightly in the ribs, ‘a wisp of a thing, all long legs and willowy arms, with this steely look of determination on your face, as if you were about to set the world on fire.’