The Storm

by Amanda Jennings

  ‘She does everything for us. For you. And you treat her like a prisoner.’

  ‘Stop.’ Nathan slams his hand down hard on the table. Cass slinks out of her bed and crawls beneath the chair where she curls up tightly. ‘What are you talking about? A prisoner?’

  ‘Yes. A prisoner.’

  ‘Jesus. You’re delusional. A prisoner? Are the doors bolted? Is she chained up? Do I feed her watered-down gruel?’

  I reach for Alex’s hand, but he yanks it out of my grip and approaches Nathan. ‘Why won’t you let her go away with Vicky?’

  ‘It’s not like that—’

  But Alex doesn’t let me finish. ‘I heard you asking him, Mum.’ Alex doesn’t lift his stare off Nathan. ‘I heard him say no. He used me as an excuse. He said you can’t leave me. But that’s not true. You can leave me. I’m fifteen and he’s an adult. We’d be fine. You do everything for us and you should be able to have a night away to celebrate your best friend’s birthday.’ Alex shakes his head and makes a soft scoffing noise. ‘I mean, what do you think she’s going to do? Run away?’

  I swallow and shift uncomfortably. That is exactly what Nathan is worried about. It’s why he keeps my passport locked in a safe in his study and why I don’t have a bank account in my name. It’s why he goes through each receipt with a fine-tooth comb because without money – without a driving licence, without proof of address, with a mobile phone registered to him and not me – I can’t go anywhere.

  Nathan takes a moment or two to absorb what Alex has said. I can see every part of his body tensing. I step between them. ‘Don’t rise,’ I say. ‘He’s a teenager. He doesn’t understand, that’s all.’

  Nathan sweeps me aside and steps closer to Alex.

  The two of them mirror each other, frozen in time, holding each other’s gaze. Alex’s body is rigid, muscles quivering. ‘Fuck you.’ He turns on his heel and strides out of the kitchen towards the stairs.

  ‘Don’t you dare walk away from me!’

  His feet thunder on the stairs as he runs up them.

  ‘Come back now!’

  Alex’s bedroom door closes with a bang that makes the walls shudder.

  When I touch Nathan’s arm, he pulls sharply away and storms out of the kitchen. A few moments later his study door slams, mimicking Alex, and I picture Charles Cardew’s bloodied body jerking awake with shock.

  I open the dishwasher and proceed to rinse each plate before stacking it. When the kitchen is cleaned down, I crouch beside Cass, who has resettled in her basket, and play my fingers through her silky fur.

  This house is a prison.

  Alex is right about that. But it wasn’t Nathan who imprisoned me. It was me. I walked into it willingly. This house – this life – is nothing more than a prison of my own making.

  Chapter Six

  Nathan

  They say absence makes the heart grow fonder, don’t they? Well, that was certainly the case when I was away from you. You grew like a cancer inside me, taking over every part of me, corrupting and altering each cell in my body. It was agony being so far away from you. I missed my daily visit to the bakery. Missed sitting in my car on the street outside your house and catching glimpses of you through the windows.

  There was a cork board behind my computer in the Paris office and the first thing I did when I arrived was pin up a photograph of you. It was the one I took as you arrived at work one morning. You looked so beautiful with that serious, faraway expression that I decided not to shout a hello. I’d leave you to your thoughts and I’m glad I did. The photograph is perfection. Your hair taken by the wind across your eyes. Your hand reaching up to sweep it away. You lips parted just a fraction. When Jean-Paul asked who you were, I told him you were my girlfriend. He nodded with Gallic enthusiasm, gave me a crass thumbs-up, and said you were sexy. The man was an irritating oafish type, thick both in body and mind, but all the same, his reaction made my chest explode with love and, I’ll be honest, desire for you. It wasn’t long before I told him I was going to ask you to marry me. What I’d said was lost in translation, and he clapped me on the back and insisted we celebrate our forthcoming wedding with cigars and cognac. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he had the wrong end of the stick and we weren’t yet engaged. If truth be told, I enjoyed the misunderstanding.

  Every hour that passed, you crept further under my skin and into my veins. There I was, in the most romantic city in the world, its very streets cobbled with love, but I was without you. Finally, I mustered the courage to telephone you. Your mother called you down in her coarse Cornish accent.

  ‘A young man on the phone for you, melder!’

  Your feet clattered down the stairs at nineteen to the dozen and the excitement in your voice as you thanked her and grabbed the phone made my stomach flip. I should have called you sooner. How stupid of me to be so nervous.

  When I said your name you fell quiet. So sweetly shy. You asked about France and work and if I was having a good time.

  ‘It’s hard work,’ I said. ‘Long hours. And, well, I miss you.’

  ‘I bet Paris is amazing though.’

  We only talked for a few minutes. Your mother needed help in the kitchen. I said I’d call again.

  ‘OK,’ you said.

  ‘I’ll be back in a few weeks. When I’m back,’ I hesitated, ‘can we go out to dinner again?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ you said. ‘It was so expensive last time. Don’t spend your money on me.’

  That made me smile. You didn’t care for frittering away money. You weren’t extravagant. Not like some of the girls I came across in London and Paris, girls who were after anything they could get their over-manicured hands on.

  ‘Let’s see, shall we? When I’m back we can make a plan.’

  ‘I should go,’ you said.

  ‘Oh, Hannah.’ I was unable to contain myself. ‘You’re all I think about.’

  You didn’t reply.

  I kicked myself. I’d come on too strong. Idiot. I needed to take more care.

  Females are, I thought as I put the phone down, too easy to startle.

  Chapter Seven

  Hannah

  Steam fills the shower cubicle and, as I step in, I inhale the wet heat. I wash and dry perfunctorily – it’s my second clean of the day, after all – and dry myself briskly, listening for Nathan’s footsteps on the stairs.

  ‘I’ll be out in a minute,’ I call when the bedroom door closes.

  I take the black silk camisole from the hook on the back of the bathroom door and slip it over my head. The fabric caresses my skin and my stomach turns over. I brush my hair through with my fingers and spray perfume on my neck and wrists. Before I open the door, I take five deep breaths.

  He waits beside the bed and watches me as I walk towards him.

  ‘Are you OK?’ I ask.

  ‘I don’t want to talk about anything. I just want to look at you.’

  I walk closer to him and press my lips against the curve of his neck. His hand falls to my waist and runs down the silk to my hip, then behind to cup my buttock.

  ‘My turn,’ he rasps.

  This is a play and I am a character in the play. I know my part to perfection. I’m well rehearsed. I never miss a beat or a cue. I know how to kiss him and stroke the back of his head with the tip of my nails. I know how to bite my bottom lip and look at him through lowered lashes as I undress him. I lie him down and beg him to enter me. As he does, I affect pleasure. He kisses me on the mouth and neck, runs his fingers through my hair, groans and grinds. I take myself away and allow my mind to drift. Today I am on the cliffs at Porthcurno. Cass is up ahead of me searching the yellow fireworks of gorse for rabbits. A breeze caresses my skin like a cold hand. Kittiwakes and choughs cry mournfully. The air carries the scent of salt. The sea is dark grey-green with diamonds scattered over its surface. A boat glints in the winter sunlight. You are on the boat. You are sewing nets. Your shirt is off. Your tanned skin is shining with a film of fresh sweat. The
re’s a small tape recorder beside you. I focus hard. What music are you playing? Ahh. I hear it. ‘Zombie’ by The Cranberries. I smile. I’d forgotten how much you love The Cranberries…

  Nathan doesn’t last long and, as he pulls himself out of me, I’m catapulted back into the room.

  My final Tuesday job complete.

  He lies on my chest, heavy, as if made of stone. I stare at the ceiling and notice a spiderweb. How did I miss it? No problem. I’ll get rid of it when I dust again next week. I force my hand to stroke his shoulder.

  He kisses me. ‘I love you.’

  This might be the one glimmer of truth in our house of lies. I know he loves me. Or at least he believes he does. In spite of the other women and the money and lack of trust, I often catch him staring at me with the same dewy-eyed wonder he’d had when we first met. Nathan enjoys the machinations of romance. When we first met he would send me long letters, sometimes up to five or six pages, filled with earnest proclamations of love. Did he truly feel those things he wrote? Was he really so consumed by love for me? Or was it a display, an attempt at seduction, fabricated words that he hoped would lure me? I don’t know. But I do believe he somehow convinced himself that what we had – what we still have – is genuine. Even now, he likes to surprise me with romantic gifts – a scented candle, some bath salts, a cashmere scarf – for no reason. The look of smug pleasure on his face when he does is something to behold.

  I’m sure it’s no coincidence that his need for love and affection stems from a childhood defined by loneliness, tragedy, and neglect. It sounds plausible enough. I mean, if your father blows his face off while you’re waiting to open your birthday presents, you’re bound to have issues, aren’t you? Ever since he was a boy, as he’s told me many times, a wife and children was all he wanted. He wanted the opportunity to lavish them with the stability he’d been denied. Nathan had faith in the family unit. Still does. He was devastated when I didn’t fall pregnant again. He blamed me of course. Called me a failure. Threw in accusations of mental illness and poor mothering for good measure.

  I switch off the bedside light and he turns away from me and settles himself on his pillow.

  ‘Hannah?’ His voice is hazy and quiet, caught in that place between wakefulness and sleep.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Vicky’s birthday.’

  I don’t reply.

  ‘You can go.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t make me regret it.’

  Tears prickle in the darkness. I should feel happiness. Excitement. But what I feel is dread. As if this is a test which I’ve already failed.

  It isn’t long before his snoring fills the room. I’ve considered leaving him. Of course I have. Just like I did all those years ago with my infant son clutched to my chest. I imagine waiting until Nathan leaves for work before hurriedly throwing clothes into a bag. I imagine telling Alex he isn’t going to school. Telling him to be quick. Then walking away. It was the threat of losing Alex to Nathan which kept me here back then. But now he’s nearly sixteen, the power of that threat is fading, yet I’m still trapped. Because what the hell would I do? Where would I go? I’ve no passport or bank account or savings. All I have is a few pilfered pennies in a sock in the back of my underwear drawer. Alex and I would be on the streets, another couple of nameless, faceless people to be ignored by passersby.

  How could I do that to my son?

  I ease out of bed and put my dressing gown on. I’m careful to open the door quietly. I walk down to Alex’s room. He’s still up. The shadow of him moves through the strip of light beneath the door. Is he old enough to hear the truth? To know why I’m here and why I stay? The lies gnaw inside me. I want to purge myself of them and the only way to do that is to smother them with truth.

  I knock lightly. There’s a sound of rustling. Papers? A book?

  ‘Hang on.’

  The drawer of his desk opens and closes. His feet pad to the door. He opens it a crack and peers out. His face is flushed and he chews at the corner of his mouth, tense and on edge.

  ‘What is it?’ He can’t seem to look at me. ‘Everything OK?’ His words are woven with concern.

  ‘I’m fine.’ I expect him to open the door to let me in, but he doesn’t. ‘Alex…’ My voice trails.

  ‘Yes?’

  As always something stops me unleashing the truth. I can’t risk it. How can I explain what happened that night? No, it’s not fair, not right, to unburden on a child.

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘I need you to know,’ I say instead, ‘that I’m not a victim here. I know it looks that way, but I’m not. I chose to marry your father.’

  Alex’s mouth twitches, opens and closes, as if he is trying to speak but thinking better of it.

  ‘What?’ My hand rests on his arm.

  ‘I need to know.’ Alex hesitates. ‘Does he… Does he hit you?’

  I’m taken aback by the question which seems to come out of the blue but is obviously something he’s been grappling with. ‘Hit me? No! No, of course not.’

  Alex blanches and a wave of sympathy rolls through me.

  ‘No,’ I say, more softly this time. ‘He doesn’t hit me. He never would.’

  I can tell by the fleeting look which crosses his face that, like my mother and Vicky, he doesn’t believe me. It’s the truth though. Nathan has never hit me and he’s never threatened to. It’s not that I don’t think he’s capable of it. Because I’m sure he is. After all, anybody is capable of violence.

  ‘And what if he hit me?’

  ‘He wouldn’t.’

  Alex scoffs.

  ‘Listen to me, Alex. He would never hurt you.’

  ‘But what if he did?’ As the belligerence and rebellion abandon him, he appears childlike and vulnerable again.

  ‘If he hurt you?’

  Alex nods.

  I lift my hand to stroke his cheek. ‘Then I’d fucking kill him,’ I say softly.

  Later, when I’m sure Nathan is deeply asleep I go downstairs, careful to avoid the treads which creak like old bones, and retrieve my cigarettes from behind the washing powder in the utility room. I open the back door and Cass trots out in front of me.

  It’s a beautiful night. Still and warm. The moon is full and bathes the fields in milky light. I climb the stone stile and follow the footpath over the grass and up to the brow of the hill and the neat copse of trees which stand like a group of sentinels. The ground beneath the trees is trodden up by the cows who use it to shelter from heavy rain or blazing sunshine. There’s a log at the base of one of the trees and this is where I smoke, hidden in the copse, crouching on a rotting log with my cigarette cupped in my hand like a convict to shield it from the unlikely appearance of Nathan. Vicky gives me a pack every other week. I usually smoke one a day and spread the remaining six over the two weeks, smoking a second back to back when I need it the most. For the minutes it takes to smoke them I am the closest I ever get to feeling like the old me. The me I was before that night. In the copse I am free. The air is light and the space feels expansive. It’s an act of rebellion, a secret I keep from Nathan which empowers me.

  Beneath the log I keep hidden a battered metal tin, inside which are some gardening gloves, a woollen hat, a packet of mints, and some lavender spray. When I’ve tucked my hair into the hat and lit the cigarette, I slip on the gloves then draw the smoke into my lungs. Though I try to focus on the sounds around me, a distant owl, the clicks and scrapes of insects, it’s impossible to block the sound of the accusatory whispers from the leaves above.

  It’s your fault, they whisper.

  It’s your fault. You deserve it all.

  ‘I know I do,’ I whisper back.

  I take one last drag then tread the cigarette end into the earth, and reach for the lavender spray.

  Chapter Eight

  Cam, 1998

  The unrelenting storms had kept most of Newlyn’s fishing fleet in dock. One or two of the larger trawlers had managed to get o
ut for a day or two here and there, but the smaller boats had been tied up for weeks. The mood in The Packhorse was sour. The men had given up searching for a crack of blue sky in the ashen grey or a glimpse of the horizon through driving sheets of rain. The storms seemed never-ending, as if the colossal waves would batter the coastline until the land was washed away.

  The port was deserted, its familiar bustle replaced by wind-whipped piers and iron chains creaking as they swayed. Tarpaulins flapped like angry tethered birds and nets lay abandoned in heaps on the boats, their loose ends tanning the decks. Beyond the harbour, monstrous waves crashed against the concrete walls sending explosions of spray fifty feet into the air.

  The fishermen had grown irascible with inactivity and empty wallets. Three of the crew of The Annamae sat at a corner table beneath the dartboard. The table was littered with empty crisp packets, sodden beer mats, and an overflowing ashtray. Davy Garnett was turning his glass in quarter revolutions, a cigarette held loosely between his lips, watching the surface of his beer waver. When it stilled he turned it again. Cam sat with half an eye on the clock above the bar. Each maddening minute passed like an hour. Geren sat between them, muttering and fidgeting, tapping his feet and drumming his fingers manically like he used to do in detention, a cigarette wedged between his knuckles.

  ‘Fuck this,’ he said suddenly and jabbed his cigarette into the ashtray. ‘I’ve got eight fucking quid left. Eight.’ He crossed his arms and kicked out at the table leg. ‘Fuck sitting here like a bunch of cunts.’

  Davy didn’t look up from his glass but sniggered softly. He was medium height but strong; sinewy rather than muscular. His dark hair was shaved, grade two, a hangover from his days in the army. Cam knew he kept it that way because it made him look hard. He had an earring, a small gold hoop, which he’d got after Geren pierced his ear with a fishing hook on a twelve-hour bender. At twenty-three he was two years younger than Cam. Their dads had been best friends who’d fished together for over twenty years until Cam’s dad drowned when their trawler went down. Cam wouldn’t have had much to do with Davy Garnett if circumstance hadn’t intervened, but when Cam’s mother met an insurance salesman from Leeds who promised her a three-bed new-build with a neat garden and no late night calls from the lifeguard, she turned her back on Cornwall, and with it her sixteen-year-old son who wasn’t welcome in Leeds. Martin and his wife Sheila had taken Cam in and he found himself sharing a room with Davy who, it turned out, wasn’t particularly happy about the arrangement. The boys had sparred, which was unsurprising. Davy couldn’t help but be jealous. Cam was gentle and helped around the house, didn’t expect anything, and tried his best not to get on the wrong sides of Martin and Sheila who, it seemed to Davy, gave him special treatment. Davy on the other hand was prone to mood swings and never seemed content, always wanting more. More friends, more popularity, more attention. He left home at seventeen in a pique of rage when Martin asked if he wanted a job on the trawler.