The Storm

by Amanda Jennings

  I pull back my wrist, but he holds firm.

  ‘Cam,’ I whisper. ‘Let go of me.’

  At last he nods reluctantly and his fingers release me.

  I jog up to the house, heart hammering, legs shaky, and pull open the back door. Her basket is empty and there’s no sign of her in the kitchen. I run through to the hallway and check the utility room.

  Nothing.

  ‘Cass!’

  My voice echoes in the silence. The house is unlit and the light from the windows does little to ease the dullness. There’s a single lamp on in Nathan’s study. My blood chills instantly as I think of Nathan’s father.

  ‘Don’t be stupid,’ I whisper, and force myself to walk towards the study. I push the door open quickly and check the floor for dead fathers-in-law. He’s not there and I wrap my arms around my body and walk into the room, drawn to the picture on the wall, at the hunters staring at me with pitying looks on their stylised faces.

  ‘Oh, you silly girl,’ I hear them say in unison.

  ‘If you’re looking for the dog it’s not here.’

  His voice makes me jump and I spin around. He’s standing in the doorway, hands hanging limp at his sides, rage simmering.

  I take a breath and try keeping my voice light, though it’s almost impossible. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Idiot animal got into the wheelie bin and found the poisoned voles. She knocked the damn thing over. Rubbish everywhere. Ran off with the bag and hasn’t come back.’

  ‘What? What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean, your dog pulled over the bin and I spent an hour picking up rubbish strewn over the driveway.’

  Panic digs sharpened claws into me. God. Cass. My poor girl. Picturing her out there, collapsed, poisoned, dying or already dead, leaves me weak with nausea.

  ‘Where’s Alex?’

  ‘In his room,’ Nathan says darkly. ‘Locked himself in there. I thought he might look for the dog – I actually thought he cared about the flea-ridden creature – but evidently, like his mother, he doesn’t seem to care about anything but himself.’

  I can’t speak. I want Cass back. I want her safe and not lying in agony somewhere, wondering why I’m not there to help her. Christ. My stomach seizes as if I’ve got cramps. I push past him and run up the stairs taking them two at a time.

  ‘Alex!’ I call. ‘Alex, are you OK?’

  When I reach the landing, he flings open the door and falls into my arms. His face is flushed and sweaty, eyes puffy, cheeks marked with dried-up tear tracks.

  ‘What happened?’ I say, smoothing his hair away from where it’s stuck to his hot, damp skin.

  ‘Cass is gone. She ate poison. He said she pulled the bin over but she wouldn’t do that. She never does that. He said it was her own stupid fault if she died. He said she ran away, but she wouldn’t, would she? She never runs away. Why would she run away? He took my phone. He smashed it. He went mental. I’ve never seen him like that before. I ran up here and locked the door and he was banging on it. What’s he done to Cass?’ The words pour out of him in a torrent.

  I pull him close and hold him tight as I try to think straight.

  ‘He knows you were with Cam.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  I don’t reply.

  ‘He’s killed Cass, Mum.’

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Cam, 1998

  The Annamae drew back to Newlyn like a wounded soldier limping home from the trenches. The waves had eased, as if the storm was replete and, though the rain continued to lash the boat with relentless resolve, the wind had lost its fury.

  The four of them sat, numb and mute, with mugs of whisky in front of them. Cam glanced at Davy for the hundredth time. His mouth was set, eyes fixed grimly, white knuckles gripping his mug so hard Cam thought it might shatter in his salt-calloused hand. Cam wracked his brain in search of something – anything – he could say to console him. Banter on the boat was easy. The teasing, the roughness, the barbed comments and rugged jokes, it all gushed out of them like a winter stream. Words of comfort? Well, they came harder. And what could he say anyway? He had a better idea than most of what Davy was going through. They might not have got on that well, but Cam knew what it was like to lose a father to the sea.

  ‘He’ll be OK,’ Lawrie said, as he tipped his whisky into Davy’s empty mug. ‘I know he will.’

  Cam winced, waiting for Geren to snarl or Davy to tell him to fuck off, but neither did. Geren lowered his head and Davy nodded, eyes closed, and drank.

  Geren put his mug down with a bang. ‘Fuck this. Jesus. Fuck this job. It’s my fucking fault, isn’t it? Me who said not to turn back.’ His face screwed up with pain.

  ‘No.’ Slim’s voice firm. ‘It’s not your fault. The only person at fault here is me. I’m the skipper. This is my boat.’

  ‘But I fucking told you to stay out,’ Geren blazed.

  ‘And I told you we wouldn’t. That I was turning back. That we’d shoot the gear one last time. I could have steamed home. But I didn’t, did I? We shot the gear one more time and that was my decision.’

  ‘So if he dies it’s on your head?’ Geren spat the words out like they were broken teeth.

  ‘Yes.’

  Cam rested a hand on Geren’s arm to quieten him. ‘It was an accident.’

  ‘We shouldn’t have come out.’

  ‘Well we did. And twenty-four hours ago, we were all doing fucking backflips with pound signs in our eyes.’ Cam’s voice was a growl. ‘It’s part of the job and you know it. We all know it.’

  Davy pushed away from the table and walked out of the galley like a storm cloud.

  ‘We need to calm—’

  ‘Fuck off, Cam,’ Geren cried. ‘Jesus. You always have to be the fucking hero, don’t you? The one to make everything better.’ Geren’s vitriol speared Cam. ‘No wonder those slags in the village climb all over you. Cameron Stewart, fucking good-guy hero.’

  Cam didn’t speak. He stared down at his whisky and caught his distorted face in its reflection.

  Geren pressed on. ‘All of them, opening their legs for you, telling their friends what a gent you are, what a fucking hero. But don’t be flattered. I hear this latest minge goes with anyone. A wink and a Babycham and she’s open-mouthed and on her knees—’

  Before Cam had the chance to think, he’d thrown himself across the table and had Geren by the throat, rammed up against the wall, free hand drawn back.

  ‘Go on then,’ growled Geren, teeth bared.

  ‘Don’t!’

  It was Lawrie. Cam glanced at him; he looked like a scared child.

  Cam turned back to Geren, stared at him, crazed eyeball to crazed eyeball, panting heavily.

  ‘Go on,’ Geren hissed. ‘Fucking hit me.’

  Cam hesitated, then lowered his hand a fraction, and a look of disappointment slid over Geren’s face. ‘You pussy,’ he rasped.

  ‘Enough!’ Slim said then. He stood up from the table and moved towards the door. When he reached it, he stopped and turned. ‘Both of you calm yourselves down. We’re all emotional – every one of us – but if you don’t rein it in, you won’t find yourself on The Annamae again.’ Then he walked out of the galley and down into the bunk room where they heard him talking – low and indiscernible – to Davy.

  Cam grabbed his tobacco from the table and headed out of the galley. It was too wet to smoke on deck, so he hovered in the doorway and rolled a cigarette. Who the hell did Geren think he was? How dare he talk about Hannah like that? And in front of Slim? And Lawrie too? Within earshot of Davy? He drew on the cigarette and smacked his hand against the doorframe. What worried him more than Geren being a dick was how out of control he’d felt. A thick fog had obscured all rational thought. Nothing Geren said about her was true, but hearing it, just thinking about her with anyone else, sent him into an intense rage which terrified him.

  Martin didn’t die, but they did take his arm from just below the
shoulder. Sheila phoned the harbour office from the hospital and spoke to Davy who nodded and grunted in one-syllables whilst tapping a grubby finger against the desk.

  ‘He was lucky to make it,’ Davy said as he came out to join the others who were huddled tight, smoking in the rain which now spat gently in the wake of the storm. ‘She thought we’d lost him.’ Davy lowered his head and took a cigarette out of the pack Geren proffered. ‘He won’t fish again. Doubt he’ll work again.’

  Slim rubbed his face hard and he cleared his throat.

  Geren slipped another cigarette between his lips. ‘Fuck this job,’ he breathed.

  As they waited, weary and shell-shocked, not talking to each other or anyone else, Slim took the haul to market. It was surreal to Cam that Newlyn carried on as normal. He was detached from it all, as if he’d prefer to be out at sea, not around people for whom the accident on The Annamae was merely a shocking story with the salacious detail of Martin’s taken arm to enjoy passing on.

  The catch was big and the prices high, and the envelopes of money Slim had for them were heavy. The Annamae was one of only a few of the fleet which had risked the weather, and as they knew, this meant rewards were high. But the mood was sombre as he handed their money over. Usually it was the part of a trip which made everything worthwhile. But not that day. That day there was no joyful whoops and exaggerated kissing of folded notes.

  Cam slipped his envelope into his back pocket. All he wanted was to be with Hannah. He closed his eyes for a moment to block out the image of Martin’s arm, of the splinters of bone pressed into his flesh, his face growing paler and paler, ghostly in the lights which illuminated the deck in the raging storm. He tried to replace the image with her face. Her smile. Her hand flat against his cheek. The smell of her, perfumed and creamy, the washing powder which clung to her clothes.

  ‘I sometimes wonder, why the hell do we do it?’ Slim’s voice dragged him back to the rainy pier.

  Cam looked at him and saw a man aged ten years.

  ‘Because of what we’re holding.’ Geren’s face was dark. ‘Because of the money. And because we don’t know anything but the sea. We risk our lives every day we’re out there. But, hey,’ he said as he waved the money in his hand, ‘got to earn a living.’ He looked round at them all as he slipped the envelope into his jacket pocket. ‘Sitting here crying like little girls isn’t going to bring Martin’s arm back, but you know what? Martin’s alive and that’s something to be thankful for. That was a mighty gale and we’re all back and we’re all alive. And I for one am going take this cash and celebrate being alive. I’m not going to mope because a man got unlucky with some rigging. I’m going to go for a fucking lash-up, drink enough booze to ground an army, then I’m going home to fuck my wife, because if we don’t celebrate being alive – if we don’t drink and fuck – then what’s the goddamned point of any of it?’

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Hannah

  I am aware of Nathan behind us and I feel Alex tense. I turn and push my son behind me as if to protect him.

  ‘Well? Are you going to tell me where you’ve been?’

  ‘No. I’m going to take Alex and we’re going to find our dog.’ I take my son’s hand and pause in front of Nathan so he can step aside.

  ‘Horrible, isn’t it?’ he says as we pass him. ‘To lose something you love.’

  ‘You’re an arsehole!’ Alex cries. ‘You did it. If she’s dead it’s because of you. Why? Why would you do that?’

  Nathan sucks on his teeth, mouth set hard, one corner of his upper lip is lifted in a cartoon snarl. ‘I did nothing of the sort. The dog got into the bin where your mother put a bag of poisoned voles. Not me. Blame her. If she’d kept them where I put them the dog would be safe.’

  ‘You pulled the bin over. You poisoned her. She wouldn’t go through the bins.’

  ‘It’s a dog. It’s a scavenging beast.’

  ‘I hate you.’

  Nathan snorts. ‘Oh, please. It’s not me you should hate, it’s your lying cheating mother who ran off and—’

  A shout from downstairs interrupts him.

  A man’s voice.

  ‘Hannah?’

  It’s Cam.

  Nathan laughs a short bitter noise like a gunshot. ‘Oh my god. Are you serious? He’s here? In my home?’

  ‘Please, don’t—’

  ‘Shut up, Hannah. You have no right to tell me what to do, and you know what? I’m done with you. The murdering bastard can have you.’

  My heart skips. I glance at Alex but he’s panting hard, staring daggers at Nathan, and doesn’t seem to have registered what Nathan said.

  ‘Hannah? Alex? Are you up there?’

  I swear. Why is he here? Why didn’t he listen? He ignored me. I told him to stay away. A surge of anger swells inside me. Fuel on the fire is the last thing we need and I told him to stay away. Why did he ignore me?

  ‘Go away, Cam! We’re fine. Please.’ I choke back my tears. ‘Go.’

  But still he doesn’t listen. Footsteps on the stairs. Alex swipes at his tears and straightens his shoulders like a soldier standing to attention.

  Cam appears beside me. I roll my eyes and glare. He shouldn’t have come. I can handle this, but not if he’s here.

  ‘Is everything all right?’ He looks at me and then at Alex.

  ‘Excuse me?’

  Cam ignores Nathan. ‘Hannah? Alex?’

  ‘Get out of my house. I’m calling the police. You hear me? I’m calling the police and I’m telling them everything.’

  ‘Do it,’ I say then, my voice calm and flat. ‘I don’t care anymore.’ I pause. Stare at him. ‘But if you do, you’ll be arrested, too. They’ll charge you with concealing a crime.’

  His face doesn’t flicker. He’s ready for me. His face folds into a smug smile of victory. ‘No, they won’t, because I’ll tell them how you blackmailed me. And how he,’ Nathan points aggressively at Cam, ‘threatened to kill me. I’ll tell them I was terrified and I’ve lived in fear all these years.’

  ‘Then we’ll tell them you’re lying. There’s no body. You can’t prove anything. It’s your word against ours.’

  ‘Mum?’ Alex’s voice cuts through me. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘It’s OK, Alex,’ Cam says.

  ‘Jesus Christ, would you just get the hell out of my house!’ Nathan’s screech rips through the air. ‘Get out of my house, you murderous bastard, and take the two of them with you,’ he says through clenched teeth. ‘Take your slut. And take your son and get the hell out of my house.’

  Cam stares at him for a moment, then glances at Alex, and with his face full of regret says, ‘He’s not my son.’

  The past is snapping at my heels like a rabid dog.

  Nathan smiles nastily. ‘Well he certainly isn’t mine.’

  Alex is looking between the three of us, bewildered and small, amid all this chaos and shouting. All I wanted was to protect him.

  I’m so sorry.

  I look back at Nathan and swallow, dredging up the strength I need to do this. ‘Alex isn’t Cam’s son.’

  Nathan’s eyes narrow with unbridled contempt. ‘Oh Hannah, didn’t you work it out? He has to be. I can’t have children.’

  His words punch the air from me. A flash of that night rips through me. The smell of him. The sound of waves lapping in the darkness. I want to push it all away, but I can’t.

  My poor son. My poor boy.

  ‘I got myself tested ten years ago. When we couldn’t get pregnant. I knew it couldn’t be you, because of Alex, so I went secretly. Had tests. It came back conclusive. I am not able to have children. Never was. So, we know, don’t we, that Alex isn’t mine.’

  As I stare at him, my brain floods with questions. ‘You didn’t tell me.’

  He looks at me with indignant bafflement. ‘Why should I have to tell you anything? I owe you nothing. Nothing.’

  ‘Hannah. I’m… I don’t know what to say.’ It’s Cam, stuttering,
struggling to get his own head around things. Stupid, really. It wasn’t hard to work out. But here I am, with two men who convinced themselves of what they wanted to believe. Slowly, realisation dawns on Cam’s face. His own understanding of the past shifts into position.

  Not Nathan’s child.

  Not his child.

  There was only one other person.

  My knees buckle and all I can do is steady myself with a hand on the wall. I’m melting and it hurts so much. Ignoring Nathan’s blustering and Alex’s questions, Cam walks to me and wraps me tightly in his arms as he whispers into my hair.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Cam, 1998

  Though Cam felt a little more human after a shower and a change of clothes, he couldn’t wash the disquiet away. It lingered on his skin and in the marrow of his bones. It ran along his sinews. Part of him wanted nothing more than to climb into bed and hide from the images assaulting him. Pictures of Martin’s arm, that indefinable mush of blood and bone and oilskin came again and again, mixed with his wailing mother drinking herself to oblivion the night his father drowned, and flashes of his own fist clutching Geren’s throat as an uncontrollable rage surged through him. But he had to see Hannah. He ached for her. Ever since The Annamae had docked he’d been thinking about her and how much he loved her. He knew he wanted to spend the rest of his life with her and he didn’t want her waiting at home not knowing if he was going to return. He thought of Sheila, sitting beside Martin in hospital, staring at the empty space where his arm used to be and worrying about how they were going to eat and pay the mortgage and keep warm. He didn’t want that for Hannah. It was time to get off the trawlers. Time to get a job onshore with a regular wage, regular hours, and where the biggest problem was running out of milk in the tea room, and he had to tell her what she meant to him. So he would go to the pub as planned. Drink with Slim and Davy and Geren, raise a glass to Martin, and see Hannah.

  He touched his fingers to the cut in his hairline to check it wasn’t still bleeding. He probably should have got it stitched, it would scar, but he was glad, a reminder of how close he’d come to being lost. Then he straightened his collar and picked up Slim’s unlucky knife, which he’d forgotten to return to him amid the chaos.