The Storm

by Amanda Jennings

  ‘No… it’s not like… that. It’s…’ My words fade because he’s right: I did plan it.

  He walks away from me, back to his clothes which lie in a pile by the water’s edge. I watch him bend to put on his jeans, balancing on one foot then the other as he pulls them on. He takes hold of his T-shirt. His muscles flex as he puts it over his head.

  All I want is to stand beneath a hot shower and scrub myself until I’m pink and raw. I collapse in the mouth of the cave, legs and feet warm in the sunshine, the rest of me cold where the shade from the cliff drapes over me. I draw my knees up and bring my legs into the shadow and enjoy the spreading chill as I bow my head. I’m aware of him then. He has moved near to me. Crouched. His hand rests against my lower back and rubs lightly.

  ‘Hey, it’s OK.’ His tone is soft and silky like honey. ‘Hannah, it’s OK.’

  He sits beside me and attempts to unfold me. My clothes are clutched in his hand. He places them beside him and picks out my shirt. He turns me a little and gently eases the shirt over my head, pulling my arms through each sleeve. The fabric is warm from where it’s been lying in the sun.

  ‘Listen,’ he says, taking my hand in his. ‘You don’t need to thank me. Or say sorry. It’s not your responsibility to put me back together. You don’t have to repair me. And – Jesus – even if you did, you definitely don’t need to do it with sex.’ He pushes the wet tendrils of hair away from my face, then leans in and kisses my forehead. When he leans back I notice the scar in his hairline, a remnant of an injury he sustained on The Annamae’s fateful trip from which the crew were lucky to return, battered, shaken, their emotions spiralling wildly.

  ‘How fucked up do you think we really are?’ I whisper.

  He laughs and entwines his fingers with mine. ‘On the scale of fucked up? Pretty fucking fucked up.’

  I laugh through my tears and he reaches up with his free hand to gently wipe beneath my eyes.

  We sit like this for some time, our bodies warm where they touch, watching the incoming tide. The rhythm of the lapping waves and the imperceptible way they inch closer is calming. After a while, and without speaking, he leans to the side and takes hold of his jacket from which he produces two cans of Coke and a flapjack he must have bought at the café on Perranuthnoe. He unwraps the clingfilm and breaks off a piece which he passes me. It’s delicious, soft and buttery, the syrupy sweetness exquisite after the seawater and the crying. I lie back, turn on my side to face away from him, and tuck my hands under my cheek. He lies down too and drapes his arm over me. He is close enough for me to feel the heat of his breath on the nape of my neck. It radiates outwards and warms me like a hot water bottle.

  A round white pebble catches my eye and I reach for it. My fingers close around it and I run my thumb back and forth over its surface.

  ‘After you left,’ I say then, as I study the pebble from each angle, searching for an imperfection which I cannot find. ‘I’d walk down your street and pretend we were meeting up to go out.’ His body tenses a fraction, but he doesn’t say anything. ‘I’d walk all the way up to the Garnetts’ door and lift my hand as if I was going to knock for you.’ I discard the pebble with a flick of my wrist and it bounces a few times until it comes to rest and shines like an egg in a nest amid the greys and blacks of the other stones. ‘One day Sheila was standing at the window, staring at me. She didn’t move. Just stood there. Staring. But I don’t think she even saw me.’

  I recall how sad and lost she appeared, her pain mirroring mine. I never went back.

  We lie like this until it’s nearly dark and the water is at the highest tide, only a metre or so from our feet, and for the first time in years, my mind is still.

  ‘I think we should find somewhere warmer for the night.’ His voice is hard against the quiet.

  I push myself up to sitting. The moon is full and round and trails a corridor of light over the black water in front of us like a torchlit pathway.

  He sits up too. I turn to look at him, and then, well, I’m not sure how it happens, which of us it is who makes that first tentative move, but we kiss. It’s slow and soft and silent. We take our time. Stroke and smile and touch. The waves break and the shingle sings softly as the water runs up and down it. Everything feels right. My body tingles as he kisses my breasts. I kiss and lick his skin, the salt sharp on my tongue, his smell so distant and familiar. When he attempts to enter me, I tense, my body instinctively bracing. I try and relax, but I can feel everything, body and mind, tightening. Fifteen years I’ve fantasised about making love to him but now it’s happening, now it’s real, I’m frozen up.

  The concern on his face is lit by the moon. ‘I’m sorry,’ he whispers.

  ‘You didn’t do anything wrong. Please. Don’t stop. I want to.’ Do I though? My stomach clenches and I bite down on my lip.

  ‘Another time.’ He smiles and strokes my face.

  Another time.

  No. This is the only time we have. I suspect Cam knows it too. This brief snapshot of how things might have been is our time. Everything I said to him in the woods still stands. I rest my head on his chest and thread my fingers through his.

  ‘Hannah?’

  ‘Yes?’

  I tilt my head and see him staring up at the sky, the moon and stars, a billion miles away. ‘He deserved it.’

  My blood chills.

  ‘He fucking deserved it and the guilt I live with isn’t because he’s dead or because I dumped him at sea or because we kept the truth to ourselves, but because I’m pleased. I’m pleased the bastard’s dead.’

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Hannah

  I wake stiff and cold with his jacket covering me.

  ‘Bloody hell.’ His voice is groggy with sleep as he stretches his back. ‘I’m too old to be sleeping rough again.’ He smiles and rubs his face. ‘And I’m famished. Breakfast? I fancy a full English.’

  I retie my hair in a ponytail, trying as best I can to neaten it. I’m aware I must look horrible and wish I could shower, clean my teeth, and change into fresh clothes. I stand and wait for him to put on his trainers.

  He gets to his feet and smiles again. ‘Last night was—’ he hesitates, ‘special.’

  ‘It was.’

  The sea is still calm, flat and polished, the early morning sunlight colouring it a buttery yellow. I don’t say any more. I don’t want to ruin the moment by addressing the harsh reality which prowls like a cat beyond this hidey-hole of ours.

  We climb the overgrown footpath which wends its way upwards, and when we emerge from the gorse and blackthorn tangle, a handful of herring gulls who’d been sitting on the pasture fence take flight with screeches of complaint. As we walk back along the coast path I search the sea, desperate for a glimpse of a basking shark or passing pod of dolphins. It’s not dolphins which grab my attention, but my phone. It springs to life as we come into reception in a frenzy of possessed beeping. I pull it out of the pocket of my jacket.

  ‘Shit,’ I breathe, as I fumble to unlock the screen.

  A sickening dread congeals inside me as I digest what’s on my screen. Three texts from Alex. One text from Vicky. Twenty-eight missed calls from Nathan.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Cam calls over his shoulder.

  I don’t answer. He stops and walks back to me. His hand grips my arm. ‘Hannah?’

  I stare at my phone as I open the texts.

  Alex: Mum? Where r u?

  Alex: Please call

  Alex: MUM???!?

  Vicky: Call me when you get this.

  Fingers of icy cold coil through me.

  ‘Hannah?’ Cam says again. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nathan knows.’

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Hannah

  Vicky’s voice has become high-pitched and I can hear Phil moaning in the background. I picture him turning over and shoving his head beneath the pillow to block out his hysterical wife this early in the morning.

  ‘Where the hell are you? Chr
ist. I’ve been mad with worry.’

  A cloying fear hardens in the pit of my stomach.

  ‘What on earth are you doing and why didn’t you tell me? Why did you lie? To me? Of all people? Is Nathan right? Are you with,’ she hesitates, her confusion obvious, ‘Cameron Stewart?’

  I can’t find any words. Images of Cam kissing my shoulder and the curve of my neck battle with the thought of her sitting in bed, sheets pulled up to her chin, aching with exhaustion having been up half the night wondering where I was.

  She growls with frustration. ‘Why didn’t you tell me? If you had I wouldn’t have called him.’ The hurt in her voice is replaced by defensiveness.

  ‘You called him?’

  ‘Your landline.’

  ‘But you never call the landline?’

  ‘Well, last night I did. Your mobile went to voicemail.’ She pauses and swears under her breath. ‘I was drunk. Hammered, actually. And you said he wouldn’t be there. You said he was in London with some man from Dubai. I missed you and felt bad you weren’t with me. So I called you to tell you. And he answered. I asked him why he was there. I was cross. I was ready to tear strips off him for ruining our night away for no reason. Then he asked to speak to you and I had no idea what he was talking about. I said you weren’t with me. I didn’t think. Like I said, I was hammered. And he started yelling at me. I mean, he really went for it. He was shouting about Cameron Stewart. Saying you were having an affair. Are you? I said there was no way because you hate his guts. I was so drunk I nearly told him why. About Cam walking out on you when you told him about the baby. God, Hannah, why the hell did you lie to me?’

  My head is swimming.

  Cam furrows his brow and mouths, ‘What’s going on?’

  I shake my head and flap my hand, indicating I’ll tell him in a minute, then turn my back.

  ‘So then I start telling him how much I hate him and how he doesn’t deserve you.’

  It goes from bad to worse and I swear quietly.

  ‘And that it’s criminal how he treats you, and then he says, for God’s sake what’s she been telling you, like he’s shocked or something. Then he launches in and says I’m a bitch for encouraging you to go away with Cameron flipping Stewart?’ She pauses. Sighs. ‘He said you’ve never stopped seeing him and called me an interfering cow for covering for you. Then he mentioned the money I gave Alex and said it was because of me he was able to run away and Alex could have been killed and it would have been my fault.’ She pauses as she tries to gather herself. ‘I told him again you’d no way be with Cam because you hate him and he laughed. Told me I know nothing about you. He said you don’t even like me; you just can’t think of a way to get rid of me. I said that wasn’t true then he said well, if you’re really friends why the hell did you lie to me.’ Quiet sobbing interrupts her flow. Vicky doesn’t cry. The sound kicks me in the gut. ‘Is that true? Do you wish we weren’t friends?’

  I can hear him saying those things to her. Twisting and shaping his words. Smiling to himself when he hears her faltering and allowing the self-doubt creep in. All these years she’s managed to keep him at bay and he’s finally got to her.

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘But if it’s not true why didn’t you tell me the truth? Don’t you trust me?’

  Then I hear Phil in the background again. Now he is angry and frustrated, and makes no effort to lower his voice. He wants me to hear. ‘For fuck’s sake. Put the phone down, Vic. You don’t need Hannah’s shit in your life anymore. Just put the phone down and come back to bed.’

  ‘Jesus, Phil.’

  Their voices become muffled and I assume she’s covered the phone with her hand, but it’s not enough to disguise what he’s saying.

  ‘She doesn’t deserve you. We’ve had years of their crap. I’ve had enough of it. You bend over backwards for her and all she does is take, take, take.’

  A door closes. Then her voice, clear and loud, echoing slightly, as if she’s moved into the bathroom. ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whisper. ‘I’ll explain. I’ll—’

  ‘If you don’t trust me, what’s the point of being friends? Did you think I’d tell Nathan? Or judge you? If you did, you don’t know me.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that.’

  ‘It’s not like our friendship is that great anyway. An hour on a Tuesday morning to eat cold toast and deal fags?’ She pauses. ‘You made me feel like crap, Hannah.’

  ‘This isn’t about you.’ The words have slithered out before I can hook them back in.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  I swallow. My chest has tightened. ‘Please don’t make this about you.’

  ‘Are you joking? This is all about you. Everything is always about you.’ Another pause. Another breath. ‘You know what? Phil’s right. I’ve had enough of this. Just leave me the fuck alone and sort your life out.’

  ‘Vicky, don’t, please. I—’ But she’s gone.

  I stare at the phone for a moment or two and will her to call back. It stays quiet and I look up at Cam. ‘Nathan guessed I’m with you. He thinks we’ve been having an affair all this time.’

  Cam doesn’t reply.

  ‘He’ll go to the police, I know he will.’ I screw my face up hard. ‘We should have told the truth back then. Gone to the police and told them what happened.’ I bang the heel of my hand against my forehead. ‘I need to get home. I need to make sure Alex is OK.’

  I dial my son’s mobile, but it goes straight to voicemail. I wait a few seconds and dial again. Straight to voicemail.

  ‘His phone’s off.’

  ‘Call the home phone.’

  I hesitate. Adrenalin fizzes through me. My hands are trembling when I dial the number.

  But, of course, it’s not Alex who answers.

  ‘You depraved little tramp.’

  My voice sticks in my throat as if he’s rammed a fist down it. ‘Nathan, I—’

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Can I speak to Alex?’

  ‘Answer me!’

  ‘Is Alex OK?’

  ‘Of course he is,’ Nathan snaps. ‘It’s the dog you should be worrying about.’

  The line goes dead.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Hannah

  I can’t stop shaking. Alex’s phone is still going straight to voicemail and there’s no answer from the landline. Cam drives too quickly and we swing about like a fairground ride as the bends come thick and fast. I glance at my phone every few minutes. I try Alex again. No answer. Just his voice.

  Alex here. Well, I’m not. Do the message thing.

  ‘Fuck,’ I whisper. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’

  ‘He won’t have done anything.’

  My irritation flares with an explosive mix of panic and lack of sleep. ‘Why would you say that? You don’t know him and you didn’t hear him. He was so angry. Shit. What was I thinking? I should never have lied to Vicky. Never have met up with you. Of course he’d find out.’ My hand moves to my mouth and I chew nervously on the side of my nail. ‘What was I thinking?’ I whisper to myself.

  Cam places his hand on my knee but I shove it away. Unfair. But I don’t care. I don’t want affection or compassion. Instead, I have an overwhelming urge to provoke him until he gets angry and turns on me, metes out the punishment I deserve.

  We turn on to the road which heads up to Gulval and slow up for a tractor, which is waiting to turn into a field. The farmer is taking his time. He opens the gate then walks back to the tractor and clambers into the cab. My fingers tap my thigh rhythmically as if I’m punching out a mayday. The farmer raises a hand to thank us. Cam nods. My head fills with pictures of Vicky hurling drunken slurs at Nathan. Nathan hitting the roof. Taking it out on Alex. My dog. God. What did he mean by that? It makes me sick to think of him knowing, whilst I was oblivious, lying on a beach kissing like a horny teen until my skin grew raw with stubble rash.

  ‘Do you want me to come in with you? If you’re worried? Or shall
I wait in the car?’

  I ignore him. Ask myself again what the hell I was thinking? Why am I incapable of making normal decisions? Nathan is right. I’m hopeless. I should never be left to my own devices. Because when I am, I fuck everything up. Again and again and again.

  ‘Hannah? Did you hear me? Do you want me to come in with you?’

  ‘No. No, it’ll make things worse.’ Still I chew on the side of my finger, biting repeatedly at a small tag of skin which is now hanging free. I need to calm down before I go in. I’m all over the place, a punctured kite, careening through the air.

  We pass the track that leads down to Trevaylor Woods and I hear my voice telling Cam to leave me alone.

  You and I don’t get to live happily ever after.

  The mist in my head clears and any lurking thoughts of ending my sham marriage dissolve. All I care about is my son and my dog. I know – as I’ve always known – that I’ll say anything, and do anything, to keep them safe.

  ‘Stop here,’ I say.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Stop the car!’

  He breaks abruptly and we lurch forward in our seats. I unclip my seatbelt. Cam does the same then reaches for his door handle.

  ‘No. Just go.’

  ‘What if he hurts you?’

  ‘Not his style.’

  ‘But it’s his style to threaten your dog?’ He grabs hold of my wrist.

  I flinch, take a deep breath, and firmly pull my arm away. ‘He won’t have hurt her.’

  Am I telling Cam or myself?

  I glance nervously up the lane, half expecting to see my husband thundering down towards us. ‘You need to go. I promise you he isn’t going to hurt me.’ These words come out assured, hard as iron, but underneath I’m fighting a sliver of doubt. It’s always been there, that question mark over whether or not he’ll one day flip. ‘Honestly, it’ll be fine. I just need to talk to him.’