Last Seen

by Lucy Clarke

  I realize I’ve not answered my mother’s question.

  Still watching me, my mother says, ‘If the two of you argued, I’m sure you had your reasons. I’m not trying to find fault with Isla … it’s just, well, over the years I think she could have been a better friend to you. That’s all.’

  I think about this for a long while. Maybe it’s true of us both.

  My mother stays for the afternoon and I feel an ache of reluctance as I walk her back to the ferry. I know I’ll be spending the rest of the evening in the beach hut, listening to the slow ticks of the clock in the growing darkness.

  The narrow wooden jetty bounces beneath our feet as we walk to its end. I can see the ferry in the distance only just leaving the quay, and I know it’ll be a few minutes still. A cool gust of wind pushes my mother’s hair back from her face and I see how thin it has become at the sides. Something about the glimpse of her pale scalp, the soft-grey roots, makes my heart feel heavy.

  ‘Thank you for coming,’ I say.

  ‘Of course,’ she says with a light wave of her fingers, as if it is nothing.

  I think of what Nick said yesterday – that I set a thousand tests for him, wanting him to prove the strength of his love for me, over and over again. He told me that I judge my mother with equally fierce standards, making it impossible for anyone to reach the mark of how deeply I need to be loved.

  ‘Do you remember Maggie’s favourite toy?’

  My mother turns to look at me, eyebrows arched in surprise. Maggie: my sister’s name is rarely spoken between us.

  ‘Of course,’ she answers after a moment. ‘The miniature iron horse. Black Beauty.’

  I take a breath. ‘I took it,’ I say, my heart pounding at the admission. ‘I stole it from her room.’

  My mother considers me closely. ‘I know,’ she smiles.

  ‘But … I remember you asking me if I’d seen it. I told you I hadn’t.’

  ‘I found it in your coat pocket a few days later.’

  ‘You never said anything.’

  ‘What was there to say? It was important to you, so you took it.’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘It wasn’t important to me. I took it because I wanted you to notice me. I wanted you to see that I was still there, living, even though Maggie was gone.’

  ‘Oh Sarah,’ she sighs, sadly. ‘I know I wasn’t much of a mother to you in those years after Maggie died. Or a wife,’ she adds, almost to herself. ‘I don’t know how to explain it, other than to say that when Maggie died, for a time I lost part of myself. It was the part of me that loved and laughed … saw beauty … knew joy. For a time,’ she repeats, ‘I’m not sure I could feel.’

  I understand. With Jacob gone, it’s like something core and essential has been removed from me, and I don’t know if it’s possible to function without it.

  ‘Did you blame me?’ I whisper, the question taking me by surprise. ‘For throwing the ball?’

  My mother thinks for a moment. ‘Honestly? Yes, I think I did. I blamed you for throwing it.’ She takes a breath. ‘I blamed your father for not giving you both a lift to school that morning, like I’d asked. I blamed the driver for going too fast and not stopping in time. I blamed Maggie for not looking where she was going. But mostly I blamed myself for not protecting her. I was Maggie’s mother.’

  The comment reminds me of something Isla once said: Marley was my son, and I let him drown. She took the responsibility for his death as her own because it was her job, as his mother, to protect him.

  The jetty bounces as a family move along it, joining us to wait for the ferry. My mother and I fall quiet again. I lean against the railing, looking down into the dark wind-ridged harbour, thinking of the times Jacob has sat here, bare legs dangling towards the water, a crab-line trailing from his fist.

  When the ferry arrives, I give my mother a fierce hug, then move down the jetty and on to the beach. I turn to wave her off and, as I do, the wind swings behind me, whipping my hair forward. For a moment his image is blurred and I think it could just be a stranger moving in my direction. But I recognize the thick dark hair, the slope of his shoulders.

  Isaac.

  I’ve lost track of what day we’re on. He must be returning to the sandbank at the end of his work rota. His focus is square on me – and there is no smile, no light in his eyes.

  Does he know?

  I need to talk to him, to tell him. My heart skitters in my chest as I wait, feeling the sand shifting beneath my feet.

  But when Isaac reaches the beach, he looks right through me, as if I’m no more than a ghost.

  30. ISLA

  I’ve always been wary of Isaac. How could I trust the man who, seven years ago, brought Jacob back to shore, wet and shivering and terrified, but left my boy?

  There was something amiss about that day, I knew that from the start. A fragment missing from the story. Over the years, I’ve been searching for it – asking questions, listening closely, watching, waiting …

  Summer 2012

  I leaned against the foot of the headland, layers of compressed sand and stone warm against my back. I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the pounding at my temples. My mind was foggy – the residue of the sleeping tablet I’d washed down the night before with a bottle of wine. At least I had slept. That was something.

  The September sun held a pleasing warmth that pressed close. The call of a song thrush drifted from somewhere above. The new school term started today and the sandbank had emptied overnight, the beach lying quiet and untrodden.

  Today Marley would’ve been starting Year 8. I should have been laying out a freshly ironed uniform, making sandwiches with their crusts cut off, slipping a bar of chocolate into his lunchbox as a treat.

  Sarah and Jacob would be doing the school run right about now. Perhaps she was stuck in traffic, or was standing at the school gate checking Jacob had his sports kit with him, or maybe she was pressing a kiss to his cheek before she returned to her house, her day, her life. I could feel the burn of envy in my chest.

  We used to do it together, the school run. Sarah did the mornings and I did the afternoon pick-up. I loved watching our boys bustling out of their classrooms with their shirts untucked, their hair wild. On Fridays I’d stop at the newsagent’s and treat them to an ice cream or some sweets, enjoying their laughter and chatter about the weekend ahead.

  Now I pictured Jacob sitting alone in Sarah’s car, the back seat empty.

  I bent forward, sucking in a deep breath.

  When I looked up, my stomach contracted. Isaac’s boat was gliding into the bay, the engine quietening. I watched him move around the deck, bending low to grab the anchor, then slinging it from the stern. It hit the water with a deep splash. I hated that boat. I wanted to smash it up, burn the thing, so I’d never have to see it come back to shore without Marley in it.

  It wasn’t just Isaac’s boat – there were a hundred triggers; the sound of Diane’s voice calling out to Neil; the roar of Robert’s boat engine; the stir of air disturbed by a helicopter.

  I watched as Isaac rolled up his shorts, then hopped over the side of the boat into the shallows. He waded to shore with a large catch bucket and planted it on the tideline. Then he took a knife from his pocket and sliced it along the pale silver belly of the first fish. I watched as he scooped his fingers into the fish, pulling out the guts and tossing them into the shallows, the water turning a soupy red.

  The gulls were quick to arrive, circling and diving in a cloud of wings, looking for their prize of entrails or fish heads.

  I moved towards the shore as if sleepwalking, my steps slow and unsteady. ‘Hello, Isaac.’

  He started as I appeared at his shoulder. ‘Isla. Hi.’ His tanned face was heavily lined, a fleck of fish blood caught on the collar of his shirt. ‘How are you?’

  How was I? Did anyone really want to know the answer to that? Without Marley I was a wheel that has no axis around which to rotate. My life slid and spun without direction, with
out anything to keep it centred. But Isaac didn’t want to hear this. He wanted me to say something pat, reassuring, like, I’m getting there. Instead, I told him, ‘I’ve been thinking about that day again. Marley was such a good swimmer – a natural in the water. I still … I don’t understand what happened. I just need to … to understand it.’ I’d become the sort of woman who spoke too hurriedly, whose tone was thin and serious, whose gaze darted around when she spoke.

  Isaac threw the fish he was holding back into the catch bucket. He returned to the waterline to rinse his hands, then dried them on the hem of his sun-bleached shirt. He turned and faced me. ‘I was out bass fishing when I heard a scream.’ He spoke with a gentle, patient voice. And he was patient: this wasn’t the first time I’d asked him to walk me through exactly what had happened. I’d asked everyone who’d been there that day: Jacob, Sarah, Neil, Diane, Joe, Binks, Robert, the coastguards. Everyone. I’d hounded the coroner into leaving the case open for as long as possible: ‘There’s no body. How do we know he’s dead for certain?’ But it was Isaac who bore the brunt of my questioning. After all, he was first on the scene. He was the one who brought Jacob back alive – but not Marley.

  ‘I thought it was the gulls – yet something made me reach for my binoculars just the same. I saw the boys. Just one of them at first – then the other. Been separated a little by the current, I suppose. It was running hard because of the springs. I went to help the nearest boy – Jacob. If I’d had a life ring – God, how I wish I had – I could’ve thrown it to him, then gone straight to your boy. But I didn’t.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I scrambled to the side of the boat, threw in some rope, tried to get Jacob to reach for it. But it was too far away, so I circled back round, tried to get in as close as I could. He was panicking, slipping right under. I managed to grab his arm, pull him on board – but it all took time. Another boat was coming by then. I pointed towards where I’d last seen Marley, but I couldn’t spot him. I hoped they would. I got Jacob on board and decided I should get him to shore – he was in shock, had swallowed a lot of water. I didn’t know if he was okay or not. Once I dropped Jacob off, I went back out to look for your boy. Stayed out till the fuel tank was empty.’

  He’d told me the same thing, word for word, many times now.

  ‘If you’d gone to Marley first, maybe they’d both still be alive.’ It was a cruel thing to say, but I didn’t care. I’d started saying a lot of cruel things.

  Isaac looked at me, his expression unreadable. ‘We’ll never know.’

  31. SARAH

  DAY SEVEN, 10.45 P.M.

  The springs in the thinning mattress dig into my ribcage as I shift, rolling on to my back. I stare into the darkness, listening to the slow draw of Nick’s breathing, envying him for sleeping while I lie alone with my thoughts. Time has become something fluid and shifting. A minute can drag, stretching out endlessly – and yet somehow seven days have passed since Jacob was last seen. How is that possible when it seems only a heartbeat ago our family was sitting together in the sunshine, celebrating his birthday?

  I’m unguarded as a wave of fear crashes over me: what if we’ve lost him? My knees draw up and I curl on to my side. I couldn’t bear it. I couldn’t bear never to see him again. Not to feel the warmth of his body in my arms. He’s my baby.

  I crawl out from under the covers, my skin slick with sweat, and crouch on the floor by Jacob’s drawer. I slide it open and place my hands inside, my fingertips searching out the feel of fabric. I lift something up – a T-shirt, a jumper perhaps – and press it to my face, inhaling deeply.

  Oh God! Jacob!

  I keep my eyes squeezed shut, breathing him in.

  From the bed, I hear Nick stir, murmuring something. I feel tender, as if the skin has been flayed from me by our confrontation about Isla. I can’t face climbing back into bed, lying side by side careful not to touch one another. I stay silent.

  As I place Jacob’s clothing back in the drawer, my fingers meet something cool, rectangular. I explore the shape of it, realizing it’s the tin with Jacob’s weed inside. I lift it out, carefully opening the lid, and am greeted by the strong herbal smell.

  I get to my feet, pull a jumper over my pyjamas and move to the doorway, the tin enclosed in my grip.

  ‘Sarah?’ Nick says something else, his voice fuddled by sleep. I don’t wait to hear it; I slip from the hut barefoot.

  Outside the night is cool and I swallow the air in long gulps. There’s a crispness to it that makes me think autumn will be coming soon.

  The moon is almost full tonight as I move along the beach. No one is about, except for a night-fisherman in the next bay. I plonk myself in the sand, opening the tin. The thought of that first warm intake of smoke, the sweet flame rushing through my lungs, feels like a hunger. My fingertips tingle, almost itch, with the desire to hold a joint.

  Just a toke, I think, to help me sleep. My head will feel clearer tomorrow if I’m finally able to get some rest.

  I take out a Rizla and the weed and begin to skin up, fingertips moving deftly across the paper – a dance they haven’t entirely forgotten. I lick the edge of the rolling paper, sealing it tight, then click Jacob’s lighter, the flame flaring in the darkness. I inhale deeply, immediately coughing, surprised by the fierce heat in my throat.

  I can’t help myself; I am laughing. Here I am, a forty-year-old woman sitting in her pyjamas, smoking her son’s stash in the middle of the night.

  I tilt my chin upwards, eyes closed, and inhale again. My ligaments, my muscles, the tendons and sinews stretching around my body soften a little.

  Pushing myself to my feet, I tuck the tin in my pocket and wander towards the water’s edge, wondering how many times I’ve crossed this stretch of beach in my life. First it was as a girl, when Isla and I would bunk off from drama club and barrel into the sea together. Then later with Nick, my stomach rounded from pregnancy. Then all those times since: holding Jacob’s hand as he was learning to walk; chasing after him and Marley as they dragged body boards to the shore; then, later still, bringing drinks or snacks to him and his friends who’d lounge on the beach.

  When I reach the shore, I don’t stop. My feet keep on moving, sinking into the water.

  It’s only when I feel the sea bed softening, the slimy touch of seaweed against the soles of my feet, that I pause.

  I stand in the shallows listening to the water rushing around me, the joint burning bright between my fingers. Looking towards the dark horizon, I have a tipping sensation, as if everything good is behind me.

  At the edge of the bay, the night-fisherman sits on a low stool, his rod set up on a tall tripod, the line disappearing out to sea. Behind him stands a tent, lit by a lantern, where his dog shelters, curled on his side. I’ve seen this fisherman come to this same spot, every Sunday, for years. I’ve often wondered what motivates him to leave the warmth of his home, hike through the darkness with his dog, then quietly set up his equipment on the empty beach. Perhaps it’s because, for the night, he is a wild man, catching food for his family, having space and quiet to sit with the darkness and listen to the sea. Perhaps night-fishing isn’t only about what is caught, but about that feeling of space, of quietude, as he watches the world swim around him.

  And then I wonder … what does he see?

  Before the thought is fully formed, I’m turning, moving towards him, my feet pressing into the cool folds of sand.

  Aware of me, the fisherman looks up, removing his hands from his pockets.

  In all the years I’ve seen him here, we have never once spoken.

  ‘Were you fishing here last Sunday?’ I ask without preamble, my lips feeling pleasantly numb.

  He stands, lifts his chin. He is tall, imposingly so now that he towers a whole head above me. ‘What?’ he asks, his voice low and gravelly.

  I realize I’m still holding the joint between my fingertips. I drop it to the ground, toeing sand over the glowing tip. ‘The Sunday just gone. You were here, weren’t you?’ I re
member standing at the window of our hut after my argument with Jacob, and noticing the glow of the fisherman’s lantern as he set up for the night.

  ‘Yeah. I was here.’ There’s a defensive note to his tone.

  ‘My son went missing that night.’ I turn, pointing behind us. ‘The rocks were the last place he was seen. He was with his girlfriend. They were arguing. Did you see him? He’s tall, dark-haired. Seventeen. Do you remember?’ I make myself stop talking and wait.

  His gaze flickers back and forth over my face. I feel the light tick of unease in the base of my throat.

  ‘On the rocks – yes. Raised voices.’

  My heart quickens. He saw them!

  ‘Enid was watching them.’

  Enid?

  He glances over his shoulder towards the dog.

  I feel bolder, encouraged that he’s seen something. ‘What time was it?’

  He sighs. ‘Probably an hour or two after we got here. Close to eleven, I suppose.’

  ‘Then what happened? Did you see him after that?’ I speak as calmly as I can manage, when really I want to grab this man by the shoulders and shake the answers from him.

  ‘Didn’t notice, I’m afraid.’

  No! Wrong answer!

  I stay calm. Take a breath. ‘Did you see them leave the rocks?’

  ‘Couldn’t say. It just went quiet. Sorry, I can’t help.’ He puts his hands back in his pockets.

  I feel my chest deflate. He’s not told me anything new, other than confirming what I already know. Jacob was arguing on the rocks with Caz around eleven o’clock.

  ‘Boats,’ I say. ‘Did you see any boats that night?’

  He sounds narked as he says, ‘Yeah – that oversized RIB was churning up the water as usual. Been at the pub, I expect.’

  ‘Robert’s boat? A grey RIB?’

  ‘That’s right.’ He makes a low clicking sound at the back of his throat.

  ‘Any other boats in the water that night?’