by Lucy Clarke
‘About what?’
I move the words around my mouth, trying to decide which one to use first. Each of them feels wrong, misshapen somehow. My skin is burning beneath my clothes. What’s happened is because of me, my choices, and I have to explain. I take a deep breath, open my mouth to speak, but Nick is turning away, stepping towards Isaac.
‘What were you arguing about?’ he demands.
‘Jacob was … upset. He wanted to get off the boat, but we were a kilometre offshore by then. I wanted him to calm down so we could work things out. But he just … he wouldn’t listen. He dived. He dived from my boat.’
Nick’s eyes narrow. ‘No,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘Jacob wouldn’t do that. You’re making it up!’
Isaac speaks hurriedly. ‘I yelled to Jacob. Tried to throw the rope out to him. But he was swimming away. Just swimming, and swimming. I grabbed a torch, tried to keep him in the beam – begging him to swim back to the boat – but he wouldn’t answer me. I lost sight of him … so I started up the engine, calling out the whole time, circling in the water.’
Isaac told me these same details last night, but hearing them a second time is no less painful. I cannot bear to picture Jacob swimming away from that boat in the pitch dark of night, distraught, alone.
‘There was no swell, very little current running. I thought he’d be okay, I really did,’ Isaac says, his voice wavering. ‘He’s a good swimmer, I’ve seen him … but …’ He trails off.
‘No, no. That can’t be it. That’s not what happened,’ Nick says, his tone raw, desperate. ‘It can’t be. You’d have called the coastguard. The police. You’d have told us! We’d have known!’ He’s shaking his head violently. He swings round to face me. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Does it? None of it is right.’
‘I searched for hours …’ Isaac says. ‘I thought he must have made it back—’
‘Jacob was in the fucking sea!’ Nick is saying. ‘You should have called the coastguard! Got a search party together. Rung the fucking police! Told us!’
‘I saw Sarah the morning after, didn’t I?’ he says, eyes on me. ‘I tried to talk to you – but you said you were meeting Jacob. I thought everything was okay – that he’d made it back safely. So I left the sandbank – went to the oil rig for work. I didn’t know Jacob was missing, I—’
There’s a blur of movement, a rush of footsteps, and all of a sudden Isaac is being shoved backwards. Nick has him by the scruff of his jumper and is shoving him up against the wall of the hut.
Air expels from Isaac’s lungs like he’s been punched. His eyes bulge.
‘Nick!’ I cry.
‘Why was Jacob on your boat? He’d never dive off! You pushed him, didn’t you? That’s what happened!’
Isaac tries to shake his head.
‘What did you do to him? Tell me!’
His voice is squeezed into thin gasps of words. ‘Didn’t … touch him … I swear!’
‘Then, WHY? Why did he dive?’ Nick forces, his fingers digging into the skin at Isaac’s throat.
I watch as the colour in Isaac’s face rises to a puce.
He’s going to choke. Nick is going to choke him to death.
‘He can’t breathe!’ I plead.
Nick doesn’t even register me. ‘WHY?’
‘Truth …’ Isaac gasps. ‘I … told him the truth.’
‘Let him go! Please, Nick! I’ll tell you what happened!’
Nick’s eyes flick briefly to me. His grip loosens slightly and Isaac flounders, gasping for air.
‘What … what are you talking about?’ he says, still holding the neckline of Isaac’s jumper.
Blood thunders in my ears.
Isaac’s voice is low, trembling, but he returns Nick’s gaze. ‘Jacob’s my son, Nick. And I told him.’
Nick is saying something, but I can no longer hear. His hands fall to his sides as he steps away, his forehead creased in confusion. What?
Each beat of time slows. I see the sun-damaged skin on the backs of Isaac’s hands stretch, then gather, as he rubs the red skin at his throat. I notice two peas, fat and round on the work surface, beside a tray. I smell pepper in the air and something like sawdust, too. I catch sight of the faded navy pillow embroidered with the tentacles of an octopus, which I’d once laid my head on.
My hearing comes rushing back as Nick says to Isaac, ‘That’s … insane!’
He turns to me and I imagine how I must look: slack-jawed, my face drained of colour, arms hanging limp at my sides. I’m aware of Nick’s head tilting to one side, assessing me.
Then his eyes widen and he is taking a step back, shaking his head from side to side. ‘Sarah?’
Nick’s voice is a boy’s now: scared, desperate, high. ‘Sarah?’
Over the years I’ve often thought about telling Nick – and Jacob – the truth. But how could I hurt the very two people I love the most? I was the one who’d made the mistake. I was the one who would live with it.
That’s what I told myself, at least.
But now I look at Nick’s ghost-white expression, the fear in his widened pupils. He blinks rapidly, caught in the dazzling headlights of shock. ‘I’m not Jacob’s father?’
I think of how he used to hold Jacob as a baby, walking him around the house with one arm over Jacob’s front, so Jacob could be upright, facing outwards. He was so proud. I fell in love with him all over again seeing the tenderness he had for his son. Nick would go for long walks on the beach, Jacob strapped to his chest in a sling, legs dangling, two tiny fists gripped around Nick’s forefingers.
How can I have done this to him?
I can feel my lips stretched thin as I talk, the warm air of the hut heavy in my throat. ‘I’m so sorry, Nick. You’re not his father.’
He makes an awful choking gasp, as if he’s trying to breathe underwater. ‘No … no!’
I still can’t believe it happened. Sometimes I’m able to pretend that it didn’t. It was almost eighteen years ago and I’ve allowed the memory to become distant, blurred – like looking the wrong way into a pair of binoculars. But now, standing right here in this hut – where it happened – it’s all coming into sharper focus.
I tell Nick, ‘There was a night at The Rope and Anchor – years ago. My birthday. We’d been drinking since lunchtime, and you and I, we were fighting about Isla. I left the pub on my own … missed the ferry … and Isaac was there in his boat.’ I’m filled with shame as I remember how I’d clambered on board in my tiny summer dress and gold sandals, smelling of perfume and alcohol. Isaac’s gaze travelled over my tanned legs, my nipped-in waist, the low cut of my dress. When he met my eye, he flushed lightly, then turned away. But I didn’t want him to stop looking – I liked it. I wanted him to look harder.
‘I don’t know what to say, Nick. We ended up going back to his hut.’ This hut. ‘I was drunk, angry with you, hurt. It happened that once. Never again. There was nothing to it, I promise you.’
‘You fell pregnant,’ Nick says, staring at me in disbelief. He rubs a hand down his cheeks and I hear the rough scrape of stubble. His fingers move to the back of his neck, plucking roughly at his skin. ‘And you … you never told me. You let me believe the baby was mine … My God, you let me propose to you, marry you, stand at your side in that birthing room as Jacob was born. I cut the umbilical cord! I cried as I held him for the first time. You said – you said when I handed him to you – He has your eyes, Nick. My fucking eyes!’
‘Oh God,’ I whisper, hands covering my mouth. ‘I didn’t know, Nick! Honestly, I didn’t know at first. Not for definite.’ When I discovered I was pregnant, the possibility that the baby was Isaac’s was little more than the light brush of a wing fluttering over my thoughts. When Nick cut the umbilical cord and lifted a red-skinned Jacob into his arms, any doubts I’d had vanished into the sunlight of parenthood. It was Nick who sang ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ over and over again to soothe Jacob to sleep; Nick who took him to football practice every Saturday morning; Nick who p
layed Monsters for hours, chasing Jacob up the beach with his T-shirt pulled over his head, roaring. Nick was Jacob’s father. ‘It was only when we couldn’t fall pregnant again that I started to wonder.’
There’s a tremor at the edge of Nick’s left eye, a pulse beneath the skin, flickering and quivering as he looks at Isaac now. ‘You told Jacob this on the boat?’
He nods slowly.
‘How could you? I can’t … I can’t …’ He turns, lurching past me, unable to meet my eye. I watch as he stumbles from the deck, the back of his neck a bright, livid red.
‘I’m sorry, Sarah.’
The sound of Isaac’s voice behind me makes my skin turn to ice. I turn. ‘You’re sorry? It was cruel … unthinkably cruel to tell Jacob like that. He’d been drinking. He was in the middle of the sea with nowhere to go. It should have come from me, not you! After all these years, why then? You didn’t think about anyone else – not what it’d do to our family, or—’
‘Did you ever think about me?’ he says, stepping closer, his face only inches from mine. I can smell the wool of his jumper. ‘I’ve had to watch my son grow up from a distance, never able to tell him the truth, never able to get to know him. You denied me that, Sarah.’
‘Nick’s a good father. Jacob didn’t need another.’
Isaac’s mouth twitches. His voice is low, his eyes on me. ‘I loved you. Did you know that? That’s why I kept quiet about being Jacob’s father – because I didn’t want to hurt you.’
Loved me? My head shakes minutely. Had I seen that? I’d known he was attracted to me. I’ll admit that there was something appealing, flattering, in the way he had always looked at me – as if everything else ceased to matter. But for me, it didn’t run any deeper than that. What happened between us that one night was reactive, impulsive, a way of protecting myself against all those tiny hurts and slights that were stacking up as I tried to negotiate a relationship with Nick in Isla’s shadow.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say. ‘You never told me how you felt. You barely even talked to me about Jacob.’
‘And that suited you.’
‘I won’t pretend it didn’t. But you never once suggested that we tell Jacob the truth, did you?’
He looks at me with that dark unreadable gaze that I’ve so often seen in my son. ‘Because you didn’t want me to. Everything I’ve done, every decision I’ve made, has been for you, Sarah.’
‘For me?’ I laugh, incredulous. ‘How was taking Jacob out on your boat, telling him that you’re his father, for me?’
‘It wasn’t planned. It felt … like he’d been waiting to talk. He seemed …’ Isaac looks as if he’s struggling for the right word. ‘Lost,’ he says eventually. ‘He seemed lost. Like he didn’t know himself. I thought that maybe if I explained …’
‘What did you expect? He dived from your boat because it was too much – you gave him no choice. And then … then you left him out there.’
‘I searched for hours!’
‘You should have called the coastguard. Told us.’
‘I was protecting you—’
‘No! You were protecting yourself. You were the last one with Jacob. You didn’t want the police to involve you. Who’s to even say Jacob dived from your boat? How do we know you didn’t push him?’
Isaac looks appalled. ‘How can you even say that? I never wanted any of this. I didn’t want to tell Jacob like that. I didn’t want Nick to find out.’
‘Then why the hell did you come to our hut? Why leave a note for me?’
Isaac’s brows draw together. ‘What note?’
‘This!’ I say, pulling it from my pocket, slamming it down on the table. ‘This fucking note!’
Isaac takes a step forward, his eyes lowered as he looks closely at it. He rubs the back of his neck, his gaze not leaving the note.
Sarah,
We MUST talk about Jacob. I need to explain! I’m so sorry.
Isaac
After a moment, Isaac looks up, his gaze meeting mine. ‘Sarah,’ he says, his voice quieter now, bewildered. ‘I didn’t write that note.’
34. SARAH
DAY EIGHT, 7 A.M.
My legs somehow carry me in the direction of our beach hut. I’m aware of the hems of my pyjamas dusting the tops of the sand, leaving the faintest thread of a trail. Isaac’s note. Who wrote it, left it outside our hut?
Exhaustion is a colour, a blinding white, burning my eyes. There’s a surreal quality to everything, as if I’ve been awake for days. I find myself standing on the deck, my palm pressed against the wooden exterior, my nose almost touching the window. Nick is inside, towards the back of the hut. His hands are locked together, pressing into the worktop, his body rounded forward, shoulders shaking. He is, I realize with horror, crying. His face seems to have folded in on itself; his mouth is open, lips pulled back, teeth bared.
The door handle is cool in my grip as I turn it, stepping quietly inside. ‘Oh, Nick …’
I half expect him to rear upright, voice raised; but he doesn’t move, doesn’t even lift his head. A choked, awful sound continues to twist from his mouth.
I sink heavily on to the edge of the unmade sofa bed, taking the weight of my head in my hands.
Sometime later I hear the rub of fabric against the hut wall as Nick slides to the floor, the buttons on the back pockets of his shorts clinking against the wooden floor.
‘All these years,’ he says, his voice shaky. He clears his throat, starts again. ‘All these years, you suspected me of cheating.’
I lift my head, looking towards him. He sits on the floor, legs outstretched, head tipped back as if he’s studying the ceiling. A glistening trail of tears winds into his stubble.
‘But it was you who cheated.’
‘I know … I know I did … and I’m so desperately sorry for it. It was before we were married and I—’
‘No,’ he interrupts, turning his head to look at me for the first time. His eyes seem paler, almost blank. ‘You cheated me of Jacob. Of knowing he was my son.’
I feel my teeth pressing together on the inside of my cheeks. That’s exactly what I’ve done.
‘Can you imagine what Jacob must have felt on that boat when Isaac told him? Because I can, Sarah. It’s like your whole world is being tipped – tipped and then shaken so fucking hard that you’re disorientated, battered, and you look up – and the person who’s done it to you, is the person you’re meant to love more than anyone in the world.’
The metallic taste of blood fills my mouth. I can feel the clamp of my teeth around my cheeks, the softness of the flesh as it splits.
‘That’s why Jacob dived off the boat. He would have done the same whether he was a hundred feet from shore, or a hundred miles. He would’ve dived.’
I tip back my head, looking up at the mezzanine. Through the neat parallel lines of wood, the screws and the timber framework, lies Jacob’s bed. His duvet is still laid out on the mattress, two pillows plumped and waiting for him, the sheets holding his smell in the weave of their cotton.
‘He’s our boy, Sarah. Our boy. How could you let that happen?’
Every cell, every sinew in my body feels stretched taut, set to snap. ‘He could have made it to shore,’ I rush. ‘It’s possible, isn’t it? Isaac said there was no wind, very little current. He’s a good swimmer. He would’ve made it.’
Nick stares at me. ‘If it were me – right now – if I were in the water, I’m not even sure I’d want to.’
‘Oh God! Please don’t, Nick! Don’t say that!’
‘Eight days, Sarah. It’s been eight fucking days! Where is he? No one’s even glimpsed him!’
‘He could’ve made it to shore – then run. He wouldn’t have wanted to come back to the hut. He needs time. It’s going to be okay, Nick. It’ll be okay.’
Nick looks at me as if he has no idea who I am. ‘It can never be.’
An hour passes, maybe two. We talk. We don’t talk. I boil the kettle. Let it cool again. Neither of us ea
ts anything. I keep expecting Nick to walk out, leave. But he doesn’t. He stays. Asks questions. Squeezes the bridge of his nose as he cries silently. He tells me to call the police. I explain everything to PC Evans, whilst Nick listens from the edge of the hut, his hands gripped to the wooden sides of the chair he’s sitting on.
I change into jeans. Clean my teeth. Drink a glass of water. None of it helps.
‘Were you ever going to tell me about Isaac?’ Nick says some time in the afternoon. The inner corners of his eyes are pink and lightly swollen.
‘No, I don’t think I was.’
‘Why?’
‘You are Jacob’s father. That’s how I saw it. I didn’t want to tell you or Jacob, because I didn’t want either of you to doubt the importance of what you are to each other.’ I close my eyes for a moment as I remember the tiny butterfly-wing flutters when Jacob first moved inside me, and the warmth of Nick’s palm as he’d circled my stomach. I look at him. ‘I wanted, more than anything, for Jacob to be yours.’
His gaze is searching, scrutinizing, as if he’s trying to work out who I really am. ‘When did you know? For certain?’
I swallow. ‘We had that set of fertility tests at the clinic.’
His voice is wary as he says, ‘You told me everything was fine.’
‘I know. I did. But, well, the tests showed that the sperm wasn’t … the right quality to—’
Nick’s eyes widen. His head shakes from side to side. ‘My God! You – you actually made up the results? My medical results!’
‘I’m so—’
‘Don’t!’ he says, standing. ‘Just don’t speak. Don’t say anything.’
I press my knuckles against my mouth, feeling bone against teeth.
Nick swings round. ‘How did Isaac know he was Jacob’s father? Did you tell him about the fertility tests?’
‘No! Of course not! He didn’t know, not for a few years at least. But I suppose … over time, he began to wonder. He knew when Jacob’s birthday was. Knew the dates worked. And there’s a … likeness,’ I say, thinking of the heaviness of their brows, the darkness of their eyes.
I tell Nick how, years ago, I’d been standing on the shoreline in the thin morning light, watching Jacob splashing through the shallows, wielding a fishing net. Isaac appeared at my shoulder, his shadow falling across me. He said nothing, but his gaze followed mine to where Jacob continued to play. I was aware of the proximity of him, a disturbance in the air between our bodies. Eventually he’d said, ‘He’s mine, isn’t he?’
