The Storm

by Amanda Jennings

  It’s all I can say.

  I’m sorry.

  His face contorts. ‘You’re sorry? It’s me who should be sorry. Not you. I was an idiot. Got jealous. Angry. I’ve been over it all a million times in my head. It wasn’t your fault, Hannah.’

  I’m hit then by an unbidden image of that man, out there in the water, bones picked clean by the fish, crabs scuttling in and out of the hollows where his eyes should be.

  Whose fault?

  ‘I wanted you to be happy,’ I say. ‘I wanted you to get away from Newlyn and make a life for yourself. Away from the shit. I couldn’t see you to go to prison.’

  ‘Sometimes I wish I had. When things got harder, I thought prison would be a relief. A warm bed. Three meals a day. Would have been nice. But they’d have come for you too.’

  I’ve lost count of how many times I lay in bed waiting for the knock on the door. Waiting to find the police on the doorstep. Waiting for the metallic bite of their handcuffs.

  ‘Have you been happy?’ Would this make it easier? Knowing he’d had a life, and that it was the right choice to drive him away.

  ‘Happy?’ He considers it. ‘There were moments of happiness.’ He pauses. ‘I married briefly.’

  I should be pleased, but instead I’m hit by an irrational stab of jealousy. The thought of someone else sharing his bed. Touching his body. Talking to him about the things closest to him. Listening to his secrets. His confessions, even. Did she know about me? Did he tell her the truth about why he left Cornwall?

  ‘It didn’t last. She was bad for me. Drugs and drink. I was on a road to self-destruction. We both were. And I was having these dark – dark, dark – thoughts. You know?’

  Yes. I knew.

  ‘She couldn’t hack it. Wasn’t strong enough herself. I was too much for her to cope with and she met somebody else…’ He sighs. ‘When she left I spiralled. Hit rock bottom. Stopped working and missed a couple of rent payments and got evicted. Ended up on the streets for a year or so.’

  I inhale. ‘Oh Cam…’

  ‘It’s all a blur. I guess I’m lucky to be alive.’ He smiles. ‘In a way you helped me through.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I was thinking about everything. What happened. What we did. And then I had this weird feeling that you were watching me, looking at me in the state I was in, dirty, sleeping in a doorway, and hating me—’

  ‘But how could you think that?’

  ‘It’s hazy. I can’t remember it clearly, but I don’t think it was you I was really thinking of. It was me. Me hating myself, thinking I was weak and pathetic, seeing myself with your eyes. Imagining what you’d think of me. I don’t know, hearing that out loud sounds strange. It doesn’t matter now, what matters is it was enough to get me to a drop-in. They set me up with a counsellor. Helped me kick the drink. The drugs. Put me back on track.’

  We fall silent. Both drowning in a sea of regret. For a moment I consider taking his hands in mine and telling him how I really feel, like lead characters in a schmaltzy Hollywood romcom. But it’s short lived. This is real life, not celluloid. Real life is messy and complicated. Our relationship comes with too much baggage. Too much risk. How long would it take for our crimes to be unearthed? Nothing has changed. I won’t let Cam go to prison. Not then and not now. And I won’t hurt my son. Alex might be too old for Nathan to take away, but he’s not too old to hate me.

  All these years spent fantasising about a different life with Cameron Stewart. But that’s all it was. A fantasy. Trevose House with its ghosts and nightmares is my reality.

  Cam opens his mouth as if to speak, but I silence him with a shake of my head. ‘No,’ I whisper. ‘Don’t say anything else.’ Tears well in my eyes as I open the car door. ‘Thank you for bringing Alex home to me.’

  When I reach the gate, his car starts, I breathe deeply, fighting every urge I have to turn around and run back to him. His gears grind, the engine revs aggressively, and his car screeches as he drives off at speed.

  The front door closes heavily behind me and I collapse against it, hands covering my face, knees so weak I crumple and slide down to the floor. My head is filled with that night. Cam’s arms around me as we walked, trembling and trancelike, to his car, where I sat shivering and staring out at the darkness, the coat he’d wrapped around my shoulders doing nothing to repel the biting cold. I had no idea how long he was gone. Time stood still. When he returned, when he opened the door, the car filled momentarily with wind and waves. He climbed in, closed the door, and everything stilled.

  I didn’t ask what we were doing. I didn’t speak. At one point he stopped the car and got out. He walked to the edge of the road, bent over, and vomited. We ended up at Lamorna Cove. The car park overlooking the sea was empty. He explained in monotone we’d be there until morning. We would tell our friends we’d driven there to have sex. People did. It’s quiet and romantic with cliffs rising in vertiginous walls providing an illusion of privacy. He leant over me and released the lever to lower my seat. He did the same to his own and we lay in the car, like terrified babes in the woods.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ was the last thing I heard him say.

  I’m so sorry.

  Neither of us slept. Shortly after eight there was a sharp knock on the window. It was the man who ran the café, his irritated face mouthing words, jabbing angrily towards the sign: No Overnight Parking.

  ‘We fell asleep. We’re sorry. We’ll leave now.’

  The man trudged off and we watched him unlock the café. Cam turned to me and rested his hand on my arm. I flinched.

  It’ll be OK, Hannah.

  Ha! What did Cam Stewart know?

  It was going to be anything but OK.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Hannah

  ‘He went where?’

  ‘To Cam’s flat. In Reading.’ I’m in the far corner of the garden, concealed behind a purple-flowered rhododendron, talking to Vicky on the phone with an eye on the gates to watch for Nathan.

  ‘Why? How? Tell me again. But slower.’

  I repeat everything I’ve already told her.

  ‘Jesus,’ Vicky breathes. ‘That fucking arsehole is back in Newlyn? You actually saw him?’

  ‘Yes. I told you. He drove Alex back to the house.’

  ‘And you talked to him?’

  ‘No. He dropped him then drove off.’

  Lies, lies, lies. I feel weak with lies.

  ‘Jesus, I’d like to give him a piece of my mind. Bastard.’ She mutters something I can’t make out, then asks, ‘Did you tell Alex the truth then? About Cam? Is that why he went?’

  ‘He found my diary. I wrote about Cam in it. The entries were dated and he worked it out.’

  ‘How on earth did he know where to find him?’

  Her pitch is getting higher and higher with each question.

  ‘A letter. With his address on.’

  ‘But you told me you hadn’t been in touch since he left?’

  The lies are thickening the air and my chest feels tight. ‘It wasn’t worth mentioning. I knew you’d get cross. It was one letter. It said he understood if I didn’t want to see him, but gave his address in case I did.’

  ‘But you didn’t?’

  ‘No. I couldn’t see the point.’

  This is a welcome nugget of truth and I take a breath. Lying is second nature, but lying to Vicky is painful.

  ‘How did you explain it to Nathan?’

  ‘I told him Alex had found my old diary and was curious about meeting an old friend from my past. I said he was angry and struggling, and who can tell why teenagers do what they do.’

  ‘He believed that?’

  There’s a car on the lane. I peer through the rhododendron and see Nathan turning into the driveway. ‘Nathan and Alex are back from the police station. I should go. Oh, by the way, it’s all good for your birthday. I can definitely come.’

  ‘What? Are you serious? Oh my god. That’s great! And he let you? Jus
t like that? How come?’

  ‘Don’t know. He just said yes.’ I pause. ‘Maybe he’s relaxing in his old age?’

  ‘And maybe hell’s frozen over.’

  When Nathan and Alex walk in it’s clear they’ve either argued again or spent their time together in stony silence. Nathan huffs and puffs and stamps around the kitchen like a wounded bull.

  ‘So? How did it go?’ I venture, offering the question to either of them.

  Nathan picks up the post and leafs through it without acknowledging me.

  Alex shrugs. ‘Fine. They weren’t bothered. They basically wanted to know why I went there and whether he’d made me go and if he’d been chatting to me on the internet. I don’t know, maybe they thought he was a paedo or something. They asked loads of other questions I can’t remember. I told them I was bored and don’t know why I went. They looked like they didn’t believe me but then I made up some bullshit about being overwhelmed by school work, which they liked better.’

  Nathan glares at him and I drop my head to hide a smile.

  ‘I think they should have done a lot more to let him know what a bloody idiotic thing he did,’ snaps Nathan. ‘His little stunt was a complete waste of police time and resources and, if it had been me out there looking for him, I’d have been angry it was just a selfish kid on some sort of self-absorbed jolly.’

  Alex ignores him. ‘They asked if I felt I was getting too much pressure from my parents to do well in my exams. Then they reeled off some statistics about the numbers of kids with mental health issues and said pressure was often the cause.’

  Nathan snorted.

  ‘What’s for supper?’

  I’ll say one thing for my son: two nights away from home, a trip to the police station, and a fuming father doesn’t seem to faze him. ‘Your favourite,’ I say with a smile.

  ‘Bolognese? You legend!’

  ‘Garlic bread, too. Go fill a jug of water and let’s eat.’

  I fill a saucepan with water and put it on the hob, resolutely avoiding Nathan’s glowering.

  ‘Two plates not three,’ he barks, when I walk the plates to the table.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I’m out tonight. Remember?’

  I shake my head vaguely.

  ‘A supper meeting. I’ve an important client who lives in Dubai. He’s in the UK for a few days. This is the only slot he can make. It’s a pain, to be honest.’

  It’s Nathan’s turn to look away. I wonder, Nathan, is it the blonde from the award ceremony who’d touched your arm? Hilary, I seem to recall. Maybe she’s getting another outing after all.

  ‘Hannah,’ he says impatiently. ‘Take that blank look off your face. I told you last week. Standing right here in the kitchen. I said I had an evening meeting. You nodded.’

  This used to make me scream with frustration, but I’m used to it now. He’ll spring something on me then swear blind we discussed it. He can sometimes regale me with whole conversations he says we had. Sometimes he shouts and blames me for my appalling memory or not concentrating on anything he says (which, to be fair, is true more often than not). I used to stand up for myself, or at least try, but it’s exhausting. It’s easier to nod and allow him to moan that I never listen properly.

  ‘Honestly, Hannah. You never listen properly.’

  ‘What time will you be home?’

  ‘Late, I imagine. Don’t wait up. The client is travelling down from Heathrow,’ he says, as he heads out of the kitchen. ‘And then we’re meeting for supper.’

  ‘You said,’ I say as his footsteps climb the stairs.

  ‘Your Bolognese is the best,’ says Alex, either oblivious to, or disinterested in, our conversation. ‘I mean, literally the best.’

  He eats like he hasn’t eaten in weeks. Sauce spatters his cheeks and lips, grease from the garlic bread slicks his lips with a sheen of butter.

  ‘What’s the best ever food you’ve eaten, Mum?’

  My chest swells with love for him. Fifteen years old, capable of unbearable surliness and mood swings, but right now, belly full, grinning widely, he could be eight years old again.

  I press a napkin against the corners of my mouth. ‘Best food ever?’ I muse. ‘Well, your father has taken me to some lovely restaurants, but—’

  I lower my voice and glance at the door then back at Alex conspiratorially. This is a dangerous game to play. Nathan would be furious if he overhears, but fuck him and fuck Hilary and their seedy fake supper meeting.

  ‘—the best food I’ve tasted was when I was going out with Cameron Stewart.’ Alex’s eyes light up. ‘He invited me out on his fishing boat and said he’d be making me tea. I thought it would be a picnic, a sandwich, a chicken salad or something, some beer. I didn’t pay much attention when he dropped a fishing line into the sea. We sat and talked for a while, then he leant over and pulled up the line and there were three shiny mackerel caught on it. Dinner, he announced.’ I furrow my brow and make a face at Alex. ‘I wasn’t overly impressed. I wasn’t that fond of mackerel.’ I pause and reach for some bread and break off a small corner. The garlicky butter runs down my finger and I lick it off before popping the morsel into my mouth. ‘But he told me I hadn’t tried mackerel until I’d tried it his dad’s way, the way the Scots cook it. He filleted the fish, fingers moving as fast as quicksilver, then dropped them in some oats which he kept in a battered old tin on the boat. Then he got out a single burner, the type you have when you’re camping, an old blackened frying pan from this chest he had on board, then a pat of butter wrapped in foil like you get in a café and a salt cellar from his pocket. And, oh my god. It was incredible. Fresh from the sea and covered in crisp buttery salted oats.’ As I think about it I can recall exactly how it tasted. ‘It was like heaven.’ I smile and tear off another corner of garlic bread as Nathan’s footsteps come down the stairs. I raise my eyebrows. ‘Seriously,’ I whisper. ‘Best thing I’ve tasted in all my life.’

  ‘Don’t wait up. I’ve no idea how long this will take,’ Nathan calls.

  ‘Hope it goes well.’

  And give Hilary my love.

  The door closes with a slam and Alex helps himself to another portion of Bolognese. I get up and clear a few things, put my plate on the floor for Cass to lick, and turn the tap on to run a sink of water. A knock on the front door makes me start.

  ‘Must have forgotten his key,’ I say to Alex, who is wiping his plate with some garlic bread.

  I walk down the hallway and see the bowl on the hall table is empty. Nathan has his keys. I peer through the side window. My heart skips a beat. I glance over my shoulder but there’s no sign of Alex, so I open the door.

  ‘Cam?’ I whisper. ‘Jesus. What are you doing? You can’t be here.’

  ‘I saw him leave. I was in my car a little way down the lane.’

  ‘You were watching the house?’

  He shrugs.

  ‘How long have you been there?’

  He doesn’t reply.

  ‘Shit, Cam. You can’t come in. Alex is here. It’s too complicated. You have to leave.’

  He looks up at the sky, shakes his head, and looks back at me. ‘Why the fuck did you marry that prick?’

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Hannah

  ‘I’m taking Cass down to the woods, Alex!’ I call back towards the kitchen. ‘Load your plate in the dishwasher and leave the rest for me. I’ll tidy the kitchen when I get back.’

  A mumbled reply comes back, but I’m already through the door with the dog.

  I’d told Cam to drive further on and park near the track which runs down to Trevaylor Woods and wait for me there. He had answered with a grim-faced nod.

  Cass and I turn off the lane and walk down into the woods. The ancient trees that flank the track form a dense skein of branches overhead, which allows only dappled light to penetrate. The air is cool and damp and scented with mulching leaves. Cass bounds on ahead, rooting through the leaves and undergrowth in search of rabbits. I walk a little way
down and lean on the farm gate and wait for him to follow. The fields overlook Mounts Bay in the distance and the last of the evening sun is glistening like fire on the sea. I hear footsteps and turn to see Cam walking towards me, hands shoved into his pockets, shoulders slouched. He is dressed in the same jeans and boots, and has swapped his sweater for a T-shirt, faded khaki and creased. A number of frayed fabric bands encircle his left wrist and his arms are pale, not tanned and weathered as I remember them.

  He stops a little way from me as if he’s met an invisible barrier and is unable to get any closer, twitching and shifting his weight from side to side awkwardly.

  There’s a rustling in the hedge and Cass appears, pushing through the undergrowth to run at Cam, tail wagging madly. He crouches and ruffles her with both hands, talking in low whispers as he presses his face to the top of her head.

  ‘She’s lovely,’ he says as he stands.

  I nod.

  The sun has set below the horizon now and the sky has turned a deep pink shot through with purple and grey. We walk down the track, through the woods and on towards a small stream which babbles over and around the moss-covered boulders which rest on its bed. Cass leaps over it and disappears into the brambles and ferns on the other side.

  ‘I need to know,’ he says again, his voice diamond-tipped. ‘Why Nathan Cardew? Why him of all people?’

  Has this been playing on his mind all these years?