Last Seen

by Lucy Clarke

  There was a burst of laughter as a group of people entered The Rope and Anchor, light spilling on to the dark quay. A moment later, the door swung shut, swallowing the noise behind them. I imagined the warmth and chatter that waited inside, the bottles of spirits lined up on the back wall of the bar, the burn of rum sliding down my throat.

  My fingers slid free from the railing, fastening around the straps of my backpack. I knew where I was going.

  I ordered a double rum, neat, and drank it standing at the bar, my backpack leaning against my legs. I kept my back to the room, aware there were familiar faces in here tonight: Fez, Robert, the guy that works the crab shack. I didn’t want company. I wanted to drink.

  I checked my watch. There were still two hours until my taxi would arrive. I ordered another rum, which was pushed across the bar to me, the glass warm and damp from the dishwasher.

  The pub smelt of chips and malt vinegar. The spirit bottles behind the bar glinted under the glare of downlights. I picked up threads of conversations that weaved around me, let them go again. My thoughts were agitated, jumpy, and the alcohol did nothing to soften them.

  I took out my phone and was surprised to find four messages from Jacob.

  6.45pm. When’s a good time to see you? I want to say bye before you leave. Jx

  8.15pm. Your hut is locked up. Tell me you haven’t left? Jx

  8.55pm. Where are you? I can come to you. I have to see you before you go!!!

  10.10pm. So you’ve left. That’s it, is it? You’ve just fucking left!

  I ran a hand across my mouth. I selected all four messages, pressed Delete, then slipped the phone back into my pocket.

  A man with a black moustache and a suntanned face appeared at my side. ‘Waiting for someone?’

  ‘Just leaving actually,’ I said, hauling on the backpack.

  ‘Shame. I was going to offer to buy you a drink.’

  I exited the pub, the briny smell of the quay sharp in my nostrils. Everything felt wrong: the pub, the argument with Sarah, leaving things as they were with Jacob. I’d call the taxi company, ask them to come earlier. I’d rather spend the extra hour waiting in the airport than being here.

  As I moved along the quayside, I saw Nick up ahead. The sight of him felt reassuring, soothing. ‘Nick!’ I called – before I realized he wasn’t alone.

  He was talking to a smartly dressed older woman, who had her back to me. I hesitated, unsure, remembering him leaving the sandbank an hour before me, claiming he needed to get to Bristol to prepare for his pitch.

  The woman Nick was with turned towards me. It was Sarah’s mother.

  I watched as he said something to her, then kissed her cheek briefly, before hurrying over to me. Up close he looked agitated, flushed.

  ‘I thought you’d left for Bristol?’

  ‘Yes … well, no, actually I’d arranged to meet Sarah’s mum. But, well,’ he shifted on the spot, ‘Sarah doesn’t know.’

  ‘Whatever’s going on, I don’t need to know about it,’ I said, lifting my hands in the air, stepping back.

  Nick’s gaze flicked across my face. Then he hung his head, and for an awful moment I thought he was going to cry. Instead he took a breath and straightened. ‘I’m close to losing the business, Isla. A month away from bankruptcy. Even if we win tomorrow’s pitch, it’s not enough.’ He paused. ‘Sarah’s mother is giving me a loan.’

  I had no idea things were that bad.

  ‘Sarah doesn’t know – she’d never accept help from her mother. Please, don’t tell her you saw me.’

  After a moment, I nodded.

  ‘Thank you, Isla,’ Nick said with meaning, catching my hand. ‘I really appreciate it. Sorry – I know it puts you in a difficult position.’ I thought he was going to let go of my hand, but instead he drew it towards him, pressing it against his chest. I could feel the beat of his heart against my palm and the gesture was so oddly intimate that I caught my breath. ‘Sorry for involving you in my shit. I know how tough today is for you. Sorry we didn’t get a chance to talk properly. I feel like … I don’t know … there’s never enough time. Not to really talk. So, well, anyway, I just want you to know even though you’ll be in Chile, I’m still here if you need me. Email me, won’t you? We used to, didn’t we? I liked that, knowing what you were doing, how you were feeling.’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, I’m being sentimental. Think the pressure’s getting to me.’ He laughed. ‘Anyway, all I mean is, I’m here – if you need anything.’

  He was so like the Nick I used to know. My Nick. I didn’t trust myself to speak, so I leant my head forwards, my forehead resting against his, noses almost touching.

  We stayed like that for a moment, and then I felt Nick’s hands begin to release mine.

  I didn’t want him to let go, not this time. I turned my face towards his, pushing on to my tiptoes and pressing my mouth to his. I felt his surprise; a slight retraction.

  A beat later his lips began to move with mine, the kiss deepening. His hand moved to my face, drawing me into him.

  I could feel the warmth of his breath as he whispered, ‘Isla Berry.’

  Sarah was right not to trust me. After all, she knows me better than anyone.

  45. SARAH

  DAY EIGHT, 10 P.M.

  Rain drums against the hut roof, bleeding wet trails down the windowpanes, while the wind sucks and rattles at the beach hut doors. Beyond it all, I’m aware of the deepening groan of the sea.

  Nick has left, stalking out on to the beach, telling me he needs space to think over what I’ve told him. I didn’t try to stop him.

  Huddled in the corner of the sofa, I stare blindly into the wet night, wondering if there is someone out there, watching. Someone else who knows what happened seven years ago. My thoughts stretch and contract, exhaustion blurring the edges of reason. The strangeness of Isaac’s faked note won’t leave me and I keep wondering whether there is someone here, on the sandbank, who is in touch with Isla. Someone who knows she has Jacob – and has been keeping it from us? I feel utterly powerless knowing she holds every card. I want to weep and scream; I want to pound at her hut, tear it to the ground; I want to fly to Chile and hunt her down.

  In the back of my mind, a quiet, logical voice asks: What is the most precious thing in Isla’s world? What does she value more than anything?

  It only takes me a moment to realize what it is – and then I’m up on my feet, striding across the hut, my thoughts snapping and firing.

  I open our key box, flicking past the keys for the shower block, the gas bottle locker, and our spare – but I can’t find the one I’m looking for. My fingers tremble as I search through them a second time. I know we have Isla’s spare key – I only used it a few days ago – but oddly, it’s not in here. My fist slams down on the kitchen counter. Where the hell is it?

  I yank out the drawer where we keep homeless odds and ends, and rifle through old coins, a tube of mosquito repellent, a pencil torch, a screwdriver, the browning instruction manual for our gas fridge, a painted pebble I bought from a group of young girls selling them from the deck of a beach hut. It’s not here either.

  Maybe I put the key in the pocket of whatever I was wearing the night I used it. I’d climbed out of bed, so I would’ve been in pyjamas. I whirl towards my clothes drawer, pulling out my folded pyjamas. I turn out the thin pockets and pat them down – but there’s no key. I fling everything out of the drawer in case the key has slipped out, but it’s not there.

  The rain is drilling against the hut roof and it feels like the noise is inside my head. I can feel my legs begin to weaken. I am moments away from giving up, from sinking to the floor, defeated.

  I take a deep breath, then I shake myself into action, slipping on my raincoat. I return to the kitchen drawer, grab the screwdriver and pencil torch, and step out into the night.

  Rain rivers from the eaves of Isla’s hut, running down the collar of my coat as I hunch over the door lock, water trailing down my spine like a damp fingertip.
The wooden deck is wet and cool beneath my bare feet.

  I’ve never broken into a place before and I’ve no idea what I’m doing. On television it looks simple, a quick flick of a screwdriver and the lock opens – but it’s harder than that. I point the torch at the lock, and try jiggling the screwdriver in the keyhole, hoping it’ll act as a key. Nothing happens; there’s no resistance.

  Next I try edging the screwdriver into the gap between the doors. I need both hands, so I grip the torch between my teeth, and then hold the screwdriver tightly. I’m thankful that Joe and Binks are in the Lake District for a couple of nights. If anyone sees me, I’ve no idea how I would explain. I can only hope that the weather will keep people indoors.

  Rain slides into the corners of my eyes as I agitate the lock, and I have to keep stopping to wipe my face. Just when I am beginning to think it is hopeless, I feel the first give, a slight loosening in the door. I keep the screwdriver in place and wiggle the handle vigorously. My teeth press hard against the thin metal torch. Then suddenly, the handle snaps down and the door is opening.

  I stare in amazement. It worked! I drop the screwdriver into my pocket, then with a quick glance over my shoulder, I slip inside the hut, pulling the door behind me.

  There is silence, apart from the sound of my own breathing and the rain against the roof. Water drips from my raincoat, puddling on the floor at my feet. My skin is clammy beneath my waterproof and I wonder what the hell I’m doing in here. I shiver. I want to light the gas lanterns, but Isla will have shut off the gas before leaving. I don’t worry about people noticing my torch beam: there are shutters across the windows, so nothing but a sliver of light will be visible.

  I cast the beam of the torch around, taking in the sofa and bookshelf above it. I’ve spent so many nights in this hut – lounging on the sofa with a bottle of wine, smoking on the deck, laughing in hushed whispers, knowing our boys were tucked up in the bunks – that it’s strange to be here now as a trespasser. Guilt stirs at the edges of my thoughts – until I remind myself of what I know: Isla has taken Jacob to Chile. She hasn’t returned a single one of our calls. She knows exactly what she’s putting Nick and me through.

  I shine the torch towards the kitchen area. She’s left the place tidy; the surfaces are clear except for a newspaper folded on the side, and a glass left beside it. I so rarely see her hut this neat that, for a moment, I panic, thinking she’s left for good – taken everything with her.

  I need to keep focused. I begin searching through her drawers, looking for the one thing I’ve come for. I’m not surprised by the chaos I find tucked within them – beach towels shoved in alongside old tubes of sunscreen, the drawers cluttered and dusted with sand. I find books, and shells, and sun hats crushed out of shape. I pull open one drawer and find it’s neater than the rest. There are a pile of children’s books, a box of toys, and several small outfits that once belonged to Marley. I pick up a pair of red swim shorts, the material soft in my damp fingertips. What am I doing in here?

  Shame surges through me as I think of Marley’s small hand searching out mine. ‘Auntie Sarah? Look!’ He’d led me to the deck of this hut, showing me a trail of shells he’d laid out in a spiral. He’d picked up the first and held it to my ear. ‘Listen … It’s the sea!’ He played with those shells for hours, not just listening to the secret hush of the waves, but pressing them close to his mouth and whispering back.

  I loved that boy.

  I’d give anything to turn back time.

  Carefully, I return his clothes to the drawer, emotion thickening my throat.

  I set my mind on the task ahead, doubling my efforts. I move on to the cupboards, searching through bedding, tins of food, spare clothes of Isla’s. In one cupboard I find a T-shirt that I recognize. I hold it up. It’s a paleblue T-shirt with the skate brand DC printed on the front.

  It’s Jacob’s.

  I squeeze it beneath my fingers, bury my face in it to stifle a scream of outrage.

  She has him! She has my baby!

  I slam shut the cupboard with such force that the wall shakes. As I swing the torch round, I notice the bookcase. I step closer, running the torch across the spines of the novels. It’ll be here. Of course it’ll be here! Marley and Isla loved reading together; I used to envy the way Marley would curl up beside her, happy to sit still for half an hour at a time, contentedly listening. She used to buy him exercise books and he’d create his own magical tales, filling the blank pages with stories in his tiny neat hand.

  I climb up on to the sofa and scan the bookshelf, the torchlight passing over a selection of children’s books, thrillers, two hardback autobiographies, and a cluster of romance novels. There, at the end, larger than the other books, is a journal covered with fabric. I know immediately that I’ve found what I’m looking for.

  I reach for the book, carefully removing it from the shelf and holding it in my hands: Marley’s memory book. It is the beating heart of Isla’s grief – more precious to her than anything.

  And now I have it.

  I lower myself on to the edge of Isla’s sofa and set the memory book on my lap. The spine creaks reverently as I open it. As I run the torch over the pages, I see that the memories are dated and ordered, Isla’s writing neat and precise. The recollections are vivid and beautiful, capturing the essence of Marley so sharply it’s as if the words are breathing life into him.

  I pause on a page titled: The disappearing kite. It’s an account of an overcast summer’s day when the boys must have been about seven or eight. Isla and I had taken them up to the headland to fly a new kite I’d bought them. The wind was up, gusting off the cliff top and making it tricky to keep the kite under control. Jacob, being the faster of the two boys, was the runner, speeding along with the kite in one hand, and then flinging it skyward with a heft of energy. Marley worked the strings, head craned upwards, squinting at the dipping and fluttering kite. On one of the launches, Marley was so focused on looking up that he didn’t see the branch at his feet, and stumbled over it. A gust seized the kite, whirling it aloft, the lines whipping out of reach. The boys were laughing and shrieking in delight at the misadventure, running and pointing as the kite disappeared over the headland, stolen by the wind.

  I remember the day – not so much for the event itself, but rather from Jacob’s retelling of it. Earlier this summer I’d seen Jacob sitting on Isla’s deck, sharing this story with the sun on his face, a brightness in his eyes. Isla had been sitting forward, head angled towards Jacob, absorbing his words like each one was a gift. I wonder whether Jacob felt like the keeper of Isla’s happiness – he could bring Marley’s memory to life better than anyone.

  Is that what happened? Jacob saw how happy he made Isla, and thought it was love?

  I turn the pages, flicking through more and more memories, passing small illustrations that Isla has sketched alongside the entries. They are basic, often a little childish, and the sight of them makes my eyes sting with tears as I think of what she’s lost.

  I stop abruptly, eyes widening.

  I sit back. No, I think, shaking my head.

  The torch beam quivers on the page in my trembling grip.

  The memories and recollections of Marley stop in August 2010, the month Marley drowned. But the memory book doesn’t end there. After a blank double page, there is a new title.

  It reads: Jacob.

  My gaze skitters and slides across the pages, racing to understand. Isla has transcribed dozens of moments she’s shared with Jacob. The memories begin the summer after Marley died and lead right up until this summer.

  Sweat beads across my forehead as I read these meticulously recorded moments: Jacob, age thirteen, strutting across the deck of Isla’s hut doing an impression of his science teacher, Mr Melody; Jacob racing across the headland clasping an old Quality Street jar to collect tadpoles in; a hazy afternoon sprawled on a rug by the shore with Jacob playing Top Trumps. They are simple memories that would be forgotten by most people.


  But not by Isla.

  She has been keeping them for years. Recording every interaction. Securing them in ink. Filling page upon page with memories of my son.

  My hands shake as I dial Isla’s number.

  I know she won’t pick up, but she’ll listen to my message, hear me say that I have the memory book in my possession – and will destroy it unless I hear from her within the hour.

  Across the hut, something catches my attention. A paleblue light has begun to flash on a shelf above the kitchen counter. I stare, perplexed. The light pulses in a steady rhythm, illuminating the underside of the shelf above.

  I’m on my feet, moving towards it. My phone is still pressed to my ear and I hear Isla’s answerphone clicking in, her voice filling my head. The flashing in the corner of the hut suddenly stops – and I realize what I’m seeing. A mobile phone.

  I reach for it, seeing my own name emblazoned on the illuminated screen: Missed call, Sarah mobile.

  My brain feels syrupy, slow to understand. Isla’s mobile. Does this mean Isla hasn’t been ignoring my calls – she just hasn’t received them? She must have left her mobile behind when she flew to Chile.

  Is it possible that I’ve got everything wrong, somehow? Maybe Jacob took the flight to Chile with Isla, promised her that Nick and I knew where he was, said it was okay with us – and she believed him. Surely she’d have called us still, just to check. It doesn’t feel right.

  I’m suddenly aware of how exhausted I am, that I haven’t slept properly in days. I just want my boy back. I want to hold him in my arms, explain things.

  Looking at Isla’s phone, I wonder whether Jacob’s called her. Perhaps there’ll be a clue in her messages. I look at her call history and am expecting it to show me a host of missed calls from my number and voicemails that haven’t been played, but as I scroll through her call history, I see that all my messages have been played.