by Lucy Clarke
The blood drains from Saul’s body and his lips feel numb as he says, “You let it burn?”
Jeanette hugs her arms tightly to her chest. “I was thirteen. Jackson was fifteen. I looked up to him—cared about him, even then. So I did what he told me.” She swallows, her eyes filling with tears. “Don’t think I don’t regret that. I do, Saul. And so did Jackson. We didn’t know your mum was there, I promise you! We hadn’t seen anyone around.”
Saul feels his hands trembling with shock. It was Jackson. He started the bush fire that killed their mother.
He realizes that some part of him, deep in his subconscious, had always suspected it. He knew Jackson used to go up to those woods to smoke; he’d seen the look in Jackson’s eyes whenever the fire was mentioned; he’d watched his brother indulge their father’s drinking, always sharing a bottle of whiskey with Dirk so he wouldn’t be drinking alone. Maybe Saul hadn’t wanted to delve deeper into his suspicions, because otherwise he’d have had to face the fact that Jackson was responsible for their mother’s death.
Now the blood comes bellowing back into his head and he hears the surge of his pulse in his ears. His muscles twinge and his hands clench into fists. He wants to roar. He wants to pick up the coffee table and launch it through the window. He wants to rip the pictures from the walls. He lurches to his feet and crosses the room, pressing closed fists into the wall.
“You don’t know what the fire did to him,” Jeanette says to his back. “It wrecked him. He kept it from everyone and the lie became this . . . this poison slowly leaking inside him.” She pauses. “Don’t hate him for what he did—he already hated himself.”
Saul breathes in deeply, filling his chest with air. He faces her. “You were the only person who knew?”
“Yes.”
“And you kept his secret all this time?”
“I never told a single person.”
Everything is beginning to come together—all the fragments of Jackson’s lies that have confused Saul for months are drawing toward a central point. He is trying to fit the pieces together, order them into something coherent.
A loud rapping at the door interrupts his thoughts, and he watches as Jeanette rises and leaves the room.
When she’s gone he hangs his head forward and exhales. For years Jackson had had to live with the knowledge of what he’d done. A shared secret is a forceful connection. But a toxic one, too. Saul squeezes his temples, thinking what power that must’ve given Jeanette.
Out in the hallway, he hears Jeanette’s voice, the pitch of it rising sharply.
Then he hears a second person speaking, and suddenly he is crossing the living room and rushing down the hallway.
EVA’S PULSE RACES AS she waits on Jeanette’s doorstep, Callie at her shoulder. Questions fly through her thoughts: Why is Saul here? Does he already know Jeanette had been in England? Is he lying to me, too?
When the door opens, Jeanette’s features stretch into surprise. She keeps her fingers gripped around the door handle as she says, “What are you doing here?”
“I want to talk to you.”
Jeanette shakes her head sharply. “Leave. Just leave!”
She moves as if she’s going to close the door, but Eva steps forward and presses the flat of her hand against it. “No.”
There are footsteps behind Jeanette, and Saul appears, his face flushed. “Eva?”
It is hard to even look at him because with every cell of her body she is begging: Please don’t be lying to me! She fights to keep her voice level as she says, “I thought you were on a research trip.”
“I was. I left early . . .”
She shakes her head. “Don’t lie to me, Saul.”
“I’m not,” he says, holding her gaze so levelly, it’s as if he’s willing her to trust him. He speaks slowly, explaining, “I came here because I needed to find—”
“Get out!” Jeanette’s voice cuts across them. “All of you. Get out of my house!”
But Eva doesn’t move. She glares at Jeanette. “What were you doing in London with Jackson?”
“I’ve never been to London,” she answers, without missing so much as a beat.
For an awful moment, Eva thinks Callie has made a mistake. It was a different woman she saw with Jackson that night.
But then Callie is stepping forward with her brightest smile, saying, “Don’t you remember me? We’ve met before. When you were having dinner with Jackson. In London.”
Jeanette’s eyes widen with recognition.
Then Saul is turning toward Jeanette. His voice is a blade edge, sharp and unforgiving. “What?”
THE FOUR OF THEM stand in the living room. The saccharine smell of the rotting banana skin fills the room. Eva faces Jeanette and says, “When I came here before, you knew who I was, didn’t you?”
Jeanette nods.
“How did you find out about me? Did Jackson tell you?”
“He didn’t tell me anything.”
“So . . . how?”
“A friend of mine from Hobart was over in the UK. He bumped into Jackson at a jazz festival. You were with him.”
Eva remembers. It was the same day that the photo of them had been taken in their 1920s outfits, Jackson touching the brow of his hat and grinning, the sun flare caught in their eyes. An hour or so later they’d been at the bar when a man with a blond goatee had slapped Jackson hard between the shoulders, saying, “Jackson Bowe! What the fuck are you doing here?” Jackson’s face had flushed red—Eva assumed from surprise. But now that she thinks back, when Jackson made the introductions he hadn’t called her his wife, just used her name.
Jeanette explains, “My friend told me he’d seen Jackson. He thought I already knew he was in London. He mentioned the name of the company Jackson was working for, so I looked it up. Found out where his office was. Mum agreed to look after Kyle for a couple of weeks, so I flew over.”
Saul asks, “Why go? You were separated.”
“I still loved him,” Jeanette says simply. “I never wanted him to leave. I thought by going there, showing how serious I was . . . perhaps he’d give us another chance. But what I hadn’t counted on,” she says, turning to Eva, “was you.”
Silence gathers in the room.
“I waited for Jackson outside his office. It was a nice place, off Soho. You know. When he came out, I barely recognized him.” She smiles weakly. “He looked so smart in his shirt and tie, his hair cut short. So successful. There was a moment when I honestly thought about turning around, leaving. It was obvious he was happy, that he’d made a new start for himself—and I was pleased for him.”
There is a pause, and Eva realizes she is holding her breath, waiting.
“But then,” Jeanette continues, “I noticed his wedding ring. I knew it wasn’t the band I’d given him. He’d left that here. And that’s when I realized what he’d done.”
The room is still. No one moves.
“When Jackson noticed me, the color drained from his face as if he’d seen a ghost. It’s ironic, really, as that’s how I felt—like a specter that’d been invisible to him for months. We went to a pub far away from his office, somewhere dingy and quiet, where he wouldn’t see anyone he knew.” She shakes her head. “He tried to slip his wedding ring off as we were walking there, but it was too late for that. I’d already seen it. ‘Who is she?’ I asked. Eventually the truth came out; he told me about you, how you’d been living together for a few months and had gotten married in February.”
“Why didn’t you tell me when I came here before?”
Jeanette looks at Eva closely, sadness filling her eyes. “It was humiliating. I’d gone to England to get him back. But he didn’t want me.”
Callie says, “If that’s true, why were you having dinner with him?”
Jeanette turns toward Callie, stiffening. “We had things to talk about.”
“I’ll bet you did,” Callie says, “because if I discovered my husband had married someone else, I’d have a thing or two
to say about it. To the police, perhaps. To his new wife, certainly.”
Jeanette glares at her.
“What I’ve been wondering”—Callie goes on, undeterred—“is why Jackson didn’t divorce you before marrying Eva?”
From the corner of the room Saul says, “It’s because you threatened him, isn’t it? If Jackson tried divorcing you, you would’ve told everyone about the bush fire.”
Jeanette faces him, her eyes narrowed.
“I don’t follow,” Eva says.
Anguish creases Saul’s face as he explains how Jackson caused the bush fire. “After you talked about Jackson’s nightmares about the fire, something started niggling at me. That’s why I came here, Eva,” he says, and she hears the earnestness in his voice. “I needed to know the truth.”
Eva’s legs are trembling. She needs to sit. She crosses to the sofa, where a sewing box and purple coat are balanced on the armrest. She lowers herself down, trying to absorb everything he’s saying. Jackson started the bush fire that killed his mother. Jeanette knew. Has always known. She runs a hand over her face. Her skin feels greasy from too many hours in the car.
Saul addresses Jeanette. “When Jackson found out Kyle wasn’t his, he wanted to leave you. But you threatened to tell people about the bush fire, didn’t you?”
Jeanette says nothing.
“That’s why Jackson eventually left for England and didn’t tell you where he was going. Why he couldn’t risk getting a divorce.”
“No!” Jeanette says.
Eva doesn’t trust her. There is something Jeanette’s not telling them. “How many times did you see Jackson when you were in England?”
“I don’t know. A few.”
“When?”
“The day after I arrived, I went to his office. I’ve already said that.”
“When else?”
“Then we met up for dinner a couple of days later.”
“That’s twice. A few is more than twice.”
“Okay, twice then.”
Jeanette is lying. Eva can see it from the color that’s risen up her neck. “Earlier you told us you were in England for a couple of weeks.”
“Thereabouts.”
“When you had dinner with Jackson—the night Callie saw you both—it was a Monday. That’s right, isn’t it, Callie?”
“Yes. Monday, November twenty-seventh.”
“And Jackson died on December first. Four days after you had dinner with him.”
“So?” Jeanette says.
“So it means you were probably still there, in England, when he died. Weren’t you?”
She shakes her head, saying, “I don’t know.”
Eva lifts her hands to her head, and as she does, her elbow connects with the wooden sewing box balanced on the armrest. She makes a grab for it but isn’t quick enough, and it lands on the thin carpet with a thud. Buttons and needles scatter and spin across the floor, and the coat that was beneath it slides free, pooling at her feet.
Eva stares at the dark purple material of the coat, a trail of goose bumps traveling down her spine.
Bending forward, she lifts the coat from the floor and holds it in front of her so it hangs to its full length. Her fingers trail along the heavy woolen sleeve toward the shoulders, then over the collar. She stops at the hood. It is fur-trimmed, just as she knew it would be. “My God . . .” she gasps, making the connection.
Eva has seen this coat before. She remembers how the wind had flattened it against the woman’s back, the fur-trimmed hood pulled tight to her face. “I saw you.”
Jeanette looks up, her jaw rigid.
“On the beach, in Dorset. We were walking in opposite directions. I was going toward the rocks—and you were leaving.” She swallows, and the truth surges forward. “You were there the morning Jackson died.”
Looking back on that last morning, I wish I’d done everything differently. I wish I’d stayed in bed with you, switched off the dark thoughts turning through my mind, and just lain there, breathing you in.
But I didn’t.
I pulled on my winter clothes, planted a kiss on your shoulder, then picked up my fishing gear and left. Had I known then that it would be the last time I’d kiss you, I would’ve taken my time, memorizing the feel of your body beneath my hands and the taste of your skin against my lips.
I strode along the desolate, windstormed beach and over the outcrop of rocks. When I reached the very end, I threaded a lure onto the line and then cast out.
I hoped that fishing would center me, give me space to work out my next move. I wanted to believe there was a solution, a way out from all of this. I was racking my brains trying to think what I could do. I wanted to protect what we had more than anything.
When my phone rang, I answered thinking it would be you. I was picturing you still in bed, imagining your beautiful body curled beneath the duvet.
Only it wasn’t you, Eva.
It was her.
And that’s when I knew it was over.
32
“I loved him,” Jeanette says as she stands in the doorway of the living room, her face pale. She grips the doorframe with one hand, and the other is clutched against the neckline of her sweater.
Eva sits very still, her chin raised, her eyes on Jeanette. Beyond her Saul and Callie stand silently. “Just tell me what happened the morning he died.”
Jeanette sucks in her breath. “I followed you both to Dorset. I rang Jackson and told him where I was—that I wanted to talk.” She pauses. “I met him on the rocks where he was fishing. The weather was awful—the wind was up and waves were smashing right into the rocks. When I reached him, we had to shout to be heard over the wind. I told him I wanted him to come back to Tasmania with me. I could forgive him for coming to England and meeting you, if he could forgive my mistakes, too.”
Jeanette’s hand drops from the doorframe and she hugs her arms around herself. She shakes her head sadly as she says, “But Jackson said no. Told me I was crazy if I thought he’d want that.” Her gaze turns distant and Eva knows she is standing back on that jetty, the hood of her coat pulled tight around her, the waves agitated and shifting around them.
“I didn’t want to threaten him,” she says to the room, her voice barely more than a whisper. “But he wouldn’t listen. He kept saying things—cruel things he couldn’t mean. So I . . . I said if he didn’t come back to Tasmania, I’d go to the police. Tell them what he’d done. Tell them about the fire. Tell them he’d committed bigamy, forged documents, faked an entire life.”
Jeanette looks up, her hands opening. “But I would never have done that. I loved him too much. They were just words to make an impact. Make him think.” She pauses, rubbing her forehead. “He started yelling, calling me a bitch. He grabbed my arm and began marching me down the rocks. Said I should go home to Kyle. Be a mother.”
Her expression twists into something harder. “I hated him for saying that. I am a good mother to Kyle. I love my boy. It was Jackson who walked out, left us. I yanked my arm free and pushed him away. And then . . .” She shakes her head. “I don’t know what happened . . . he just seemed to slip. The rocks were wet. I saw him staggering backward and he tripped over the tackle box. It all happened so fast. One moment we were standing right there on the rocks . . . and the next he was falling, disappearing into the sea.”
Jeanette’s fingers find her wedding ring and she twists it. “I tried to reach out but there was so much water everywhere . . . and he didn’t come up. I was shouting, calling out to him. When I finally saw him, he was so far away. The current was dragging him and I ran down the rocks and along the beach, trying to keep sight of him. A couple were moving toward the shoreline, pointing. They’d seen him, too. By the time I reached them, the man was already on the phone to the coast guard. His wife was saying they’d seen him fishing earlier and had worried he might get swept in.
“I realized then that they hadn’t seen me with him. They must’ve passed the rocks before I got there .
. . So I just agreed with them—said a wave knocked him in. I knew how it’d sound if I admitted we’d been arguing . . . that I’d pushed him. I didn’t mean for any of it to happen. I would never, ever have done anything to hurt him. I loved him.
“I stayed on the shoreline, trying to keep sight of Jackson. But the water was moving so fast and . . . we lost him. Other walkers started arriving. Someone had binoculars. Everyone was scanning the water, trying to locate him. But I knew it was too late. I could feel it. He could’ve hit his head as he fell. He might not have been conscious. And the sea was so cold . . . no one could survive for long out there.
“I was on the shore for ten, maybe fifteen minutes. By then, there were about a dozen people. I knew the coast guard was on their way and they’d take control of everything, so I slipped out of the crowd. If I stayed, questions would be asked. They’d have found out I was from Tasmania and make the connection, start looking into things. I didn’t want that. There was nothing I could do for him . . . I had to leave . . . I had Kyle to think about.” Her voice breaks as she says, “There was no choice.”
THE AIR SEEMS TO have been sucked out of the room, only the echoes of Jeanette’s words remaining.
Eva has spent hours imagining Jackson’s final moments, wondering what had caused him to lose his concentration and not see the wave coming that knocked him down. But now she is adding Jeanette to that picture, placing her on the rocks in front of Jackson. She can see the anger blazing between them; the way Jackson reaches out and grabs Jeanette’s arm; the force as Jeanette yanks herself free, then pushes him away. Eva pictures him stumbling backward, his heel connecting with the tackle box, his arms flailing as he goes over.
Eva stares at the coat still in her hands. She has a vague memory of seeing it hanging in Jeanette’s wardrobe when she went searching the house, but she’d only glanced over it then, not linking it to the woman she saw leaving the beach. Now she remembers the rich, dark purple color, the generous fur-trimmed hood that was pulled around the woman’s face as she hurried along the shoreline, the wind pushing her forward. Eva had thought she’d been cold, rushing to get home, when, in fact, she was hurrying away from an incident that would change all of their lives.