How can I make them understand that I do not want to leave here? How can I? It’s crazy to think I could just turn my back and head home – to what? What waits for me there? Nothing!
‘I don’t want to go back.’ Rachel planted her bare feet on the floor and shook her head, adamant.
‘Mrs Croft, we need to get you and Mr Croft back to shore and we need to tow your boat back to the harbour.’
She shook her head, ‘No!’ and a small laugh escaped, not that anything was funny. ‘I am not leaving here! Not until we have got Oscar! He might be trying to get back to the boat and if it’s gone, can you imagine that?’ She heard the high-pitched note of panic in her voice. ‘He will be tired, he will be floating and it’s going to get cold and dark soon!’ She pointed outside, as if this fact might have escaped their attention.
‘Rachel, we need to go back.’
‘How can you say that, James? How the fuck can you think it’s okay to leave him out here on his own?’ She was aware her voice was thin and reedy through a disgusting combination of distress and exhaustion.
‘I don’t, I don’t, I . . .’ She watched him struggle and give in again to his tears.
‘I can’t leave him! I won’t leave him out here! He’s only a little boy! He’s only little!’ The strength left her legs and they folded beneath her. Her body slipped from the bench and she found herself sitting on the bottom of the boat, weeping and making a noise that was part scream, part wail; it came from a place beyond her consciousness. It was the call of an animal, hurt, cornered and desperate.
‘No, no, no, no!’ she screamed and kicked.
‘Rachel! Rachel! Please!’ She was vaguely aware of her husband’s voice and then a heavy, weighted blanket covering her, clamping her arms and legs, already weakened by fatigue. It pushed her further into the floor. She continued to whimper, to call out ‘Oscar! Oscar! I don’t want to leave you! I am sorry, I am sorry, my baby! Hang on, Oscar! Hang on! Don’t be scared! Mummy is here! I am right here!’ The boat shuddered to life and with a feeling of utter and complete helplessness, she felt it make a turn on the water, taking her back to the marina at Spanish Point, speeding away from the place her little boy now dwelled.
With the movement of her limbs restricted, all she could do was bang her head on the floor and continue to emit the loud wail of distress.
Shock had begun to dissipate her rage and with leaden limbs she was assisted from the boat. Someone, a young American doctor Rachel had never seen before, was waiting on the jetty, at whose request she didn’t know. He smiled benignly, avoiding her eyeline, as one of the policemen pulled up the sleeve of her dressing gown. And like a magician revealing synthetic roses from a secret pocket inside his jacket, the doctor exposed the sliver of steel that would slide beneath her skin and deposit the drug into her system. A drug that would round off the edges of her grief, soften the spike, smooth the shards.
A small group of people huddled in the car park, all with horror-struck expressions, witnessing her at her most vulnerable. Not that she cared; she cared about nothing other than staying mentally focused on her boy, willing him to make himself known. Come home, come on, keep swimming, Oscar. Come back to me . . .
She felt strangely more like an observer than a participant. With the drug coursing in her blood, she felt a little drunk, a little faded, ethereal . . .
She sat slumped on the back seat, her body yielding to the forced torpidity. Lilting to one side, she lay her head on the cool glass of the window. James, in the front seat, kept looking back at her, his eyes bloodshot and searching, as if she might have the answers.
She looked up at the scrolled, wrought-iron gates of their home, waiting for them to whir open. Her eyes swept to the right and she saw the pool where an outdoor four-poster canopy bed sat strategically positioned. White muslin curtains fluttered in the breeze.
‘Beautiful . . .’ she muttered.
She remembered lying on that very bed last year with Oscar next to her, his bare feet curled against her thighs and his head sharing her pillow. He smelled of sunshine and was fidgety, kicking her gently as he chattered. She only half listened as he verbally juggled topics as varied as Lego, lunch, swimming, his best friend Hank, sports day . . . she nodded and cooed, but she was listening to the hum rather than the actual words. How she wished she had paid better attention. Later that same day, as the temperature cooled, they had abandoned the car at the dock and gone fishing on Liberté, and while James navigated the sandbars and reefs that littered the exit route that would lead to open water, she and Oscar had sat on the foredeck, letting the wind batter their faces as they bumped along, exhilarated, happy.
‘How much do you love me, Mummy?’
Rachel had paused, looking out over the horizon as she tried to find the words. ‘I love you deeper than the ocean and higher than the sky.’
Oscar looked up at her and smiled. ‘I think I will marry you when I get older.’ He jostled a handful of small shells in his palm.
‘Well, how lucky am I?’ She cursed the tears in her eyes.
‘Why are you crying, Mum?’ he asked, his freckled nose wrinkling in the sunlight and his long, tawny fringe falling over his eye.
Because you will change your mind; because how you love me now at six will wane, change and become something different; and because I love you so much that the very thought of that change makes me weep . . .
‘I think I have some suntan lotion in my eyes.’ She coughed.
‘Oh.’ Oscar shrugged and despite the bob of the vessel, gripping with his toes, he shifted over towards the starboard side of the boat and hurled his shell booty into the Atlantic.
Rachel didn’t recall leaving the car, but evidently she had because she now stood at the foot of the grand, sweeping staircase. She looked towards the kitchen and saw Cee-Cee slumped over the countertop with her head on her arms.
‘Cee-Cee,’ she called softly.
‘Oh! Oh! Sweet Lord in his heaven.’ Cee-Cee, whose face bore the evidence of tears, ran from the kitchen and stopped short in front of Rachel, as if suddenly aware that theirs was not a tactile relationship and remembering her role as housekeeper.
‘We . . . we can’t find him, Cee-Cee. We can’t find Oscar! They made me come back . . .’ She spoke with a slight slur to her voice.
‘They will be looking, they will.’ The housekeeper spoke words designed to reassure.
‘Is . . . is he here? Did he come home?’ she whispered.
Cee-Cee shook her head and pushed the dishcloth in her hand over her face, whether to hide her own distress or shield herself from Rachel’s she wasn’t sure.
Time again slipped and Rachel didn’t remember climbing the stairs, but evidently she had, because now she stood in the entrance to their bedroom. Exhaustion pulled her to the wide, freshly laundered bed, but she was also jumpy, as if every fibre of her being urged her towards the balcony from which she had an uninterrupted view of the sea.
‘How are you feeling, Mrs Croft?’ It was the doctor’s voice. She didn’t know he had come too and yet there he was, magicked from the ether.
How do I feel? She blinked away the tears that gathered.
Like I have just fallen to earth.
And I am made of glass.
She looked at the doctor and realised James was standing next to him. ‘I don’t know,’ she managed.
‘I think it best you rest now. Try to get some sleep.’ He gestured towards the bed.
Rachel looked at him with a narrowed gaze and softly shook her head. ‘My son, Oscar, he’s missing. He’s out there somewhere.’ She pointed at the ocean, because this man must not know or might have forgotten. Surely if he knew of the situation, then neither he nor anyone else would have taken her from the place where Oscar had gone missing and forced her back here to this ivory castle. Her fear, sadness and impotence sat on her chest like a physical weight. It prevented her from taking a full breath. She felt her body crushed beneath it.
‘Yes.’ He
nodded, again avoiding looking directly at her. ‘I know, and rest assured there are lots of people out looking, but you getting ill or collapsing with exhaustion is not going to help anyone. Quite the opposite.’ His words were blunt, but his delivery kind.
‘He’s, he’s seven. He is seven.’
With a shiver snaking over her skin, she walked with a wobble to the bed and fell on to it. Keeping her eyes on the window and with the glimmer of distant blue stretching for miles and miles, she gave in to the pull of slumber, talking in her mind to her little boy, as she drifted. Don’t be scared, my darling. Don’t be scared, Oscar. I will find you. I will. I love you . . . always . . . I’m right here . . .
Rachel sat up with a jolt, thankful to find herself in her bed. She had had the most horrific dream, too awful to recount.
Oscar! She kept picturing him waving at her from the other side of the swimming pool or the opposite sofa in the sitting room or from the back of the car, but always, always just out of reach.
The instant throb of a headache behind her eyes and the bolt of sadness in her chest told her that it had been no dream.
Gently she pulled herself into a sitting position and swivelled her legs around, pushing the soles of her feet on to the cool floor.
‘I’m here.’ She looked up at the sound of James’s voice, which came from the wide wicker chair in the corner. James, the man she had chosen to marry, the man she believed could fix anything, the man who would always fight for what she wanted, needed. He had let them bring her back to the house, when all she wanted was to be on the ocean, close to her son.
‘Is there any news?’ She hardly dared ask. ‘Have they . . . have they found . . . ?’
‘No.’ He spoke with what sounded like a throat full of grit. ‘Nothing.’
‘How long did I sleep?’
‘Less than an hour,’ he croaked, reaching out his hands, beckoning her to him.
Ignoring the gesture she made her way out on to the balcony and sat, scanning the water. Suddenly, she sat forward and gasped, alerted by a swell of white a few metres from the shore. She pointed, her eyes narrowed and her teeth hooked on her bottom lip. ‘What’s that? What, what is that movement? Something . . .’ She let this hang as she placed the flat of her palm over her heart.
James rushed outside and stood at the balcony edge, trying to follow her pointing finger.
‘Where?’ It was infectious, this crumb of hope cast in his direction, this comforting diversion, the small swell of optimism in her tone. James appeared to catch the verbal lasso and held it fast as he craned his neck, shielding his eyes. ‘Where?’
‘There! James, there! Just off the shore. It could be something; it looks like . . .’ She jumped up and stood by his side, as if this metre or so might give further clarity to her vision. But she had lost sight of it. It had gone.
‘I need binoculars. You need to get me some binoculars,’ she whispered.
Rachel stumbled backward and slid into the chair she had only recently vacated. Her tears again fell and she did nothing to stop them. This was her new normal. Her husband walked forward and dropped to his knees; his tears matching her own.
‘Rachel.’ He seemed to be calling to her, which struck her as odd, as he was so close. ‘Rachel,’ he cried again.
The telephone on the dressing table rang. She spun around and jumped up, racing back inside.
‘Cee-Cee will get it,’ James called after her. ‘She is pretty upset, but said she wants to stay here. I asked her if she wouldn’t mind getting the door and answering the—’
Ignoring him, Rachel lunged for the phone and grabbed the receiver, casting him a look. She didn’t want Cee-Cee to get it! Was he stupid? It could be the police! She needed to speak to them!
‘Mrs Croft?’
‘Yes.’ She held the phone close to her face with the lift of hope in her heart.
‘My name is Elspeth Richardson and I work for the Hamilton Daily. We have heard police reports that your son has drowned somewhere off the coast of Spanish Point; would you care to comment? I know this must be a difficult time for you, but our readers—’
Rachel let the phone fall from her shaking hand. She turned to head for the bathroom. James, on high alert, grabbed the receiver from the floor. ‘Who is this?’ he asked sternly.
Clicking the bathroom door closed behind her, she heard the rise of anger in his voice, a tone that previously would have made her feel love for him and his assumed role of protector. ‘How dare you call me like this? How did you get our number? No! I will not give you any comment and don’t you dare print anything about our son, about us – don’t you fucking dare!’
Rachel heard the tears in his voice and sat on the toilet with the seat down. She bent forward and placed her head on her knees. She heard her husband yell and then the smash of china against the floor tiles. This she understood, barely managing to contain her desire to smash everything she could lay her hands to.
Standing slowly, she pulled the dressing gown, now dried stiff with sea salt, around her form; it did nothing to warm her. She leaned against the wall and noted the fresh, white, fluffy towels that Cee-Cee had placed on the rail. The glass shower door gleamed and the sinks and mirror were all smear free. She hated the pristine perfection of it all, knowing her boy was in the cool salt water. She decided to change into the pale-grey dressing gown that hung on a hook by the shower, thinking it might help bring warmth to her bones.
Gently, she peeled off the white garment. The sleeves and hem were smeared with marks from having been under the ocean and from whatever muck had gathered in the bottom of the police boat. She ran her palm over the bulges in the two front patch pockets and felt the grind of sand between her fingers and the material, deposited no doubt when she had dived into the sea. Dipping her fingers into the space, she scooped out a slug of damp sand, run through with tiny shells and crushed sea matter. A similar dig in the other pocket yielded the same. She ran the pad of her thumb over the sludge and felt tears thicken in her throat and drip once more from her eyes, which were now swollen and red. This paste cupped in her palm was from the place where Oscar had gone and she was overcome with an urgent, desperate need to preserve it.
With her one free hand, she pulled open the drawers of the vanity unit, yanking out packets of tissues, cotton buds, hotel freebie sewing kits and sanitary items, none of which she was hunting for. The search in the second drawer was equally fruitless. Running into the bedroom, she barely registered James sitting in the armchair in the corner, flopped forward with shards of a vase scattered around his feet and bent flower stems lying forlornly in a pool of water. Sitting down on her side of the bed, she ran her hand around at the back of the shelf on her nightstand and pulled out a Tic-Tac box, about a third full. She flipped the lid with her thumb and disgorged the orange and lime contents, before using the box to scoop the sand, pushing the remainder of it in with her thumb. Gripping it in her palm, she took comfort from its weight before rubbing the smooth side along her cheek.
Where are you, Oscar? Where are you, my darling?
She made her way across the cool, pale-tiled floor and out on to the balcony. Carefully, as if her limbs were made of fine china, she lowered herself once again into the wooden steamer chair that sat opposite its matching twin with a small table between the two, perfect for a glass of something cold or a novel to rest on when such things had mattered.
Their whitewashed home in the parish of Pembroke was grand by any standards, and like many along this strip on the North Shore Road, owned and maintained by companies specialising in insurance and reinsurance – the largest employers on the island. She remembered when they arrived, four years ago – four years? It felt simultaneously like the blink of an eye and a lifetime. That first time she had opened the French doors of their bedroom and walked out on to this most magnificent space with a perfect view of the sea and the big, big blue sky!
‘Oh my God, James!’
She had stood with her hand over her mo
uth and tears in her eyes; this was everything she had hoped for and more. Oscar, a toddler, had run out and walked right to the edge of the balcony, jumping up and down and laughing.
‘Don’t go near the glass, I don’t like it,’ she had urged.
James laughed. ‘He is fearless, and don’t worry, darling; it’s toughened. He’s not going anywhere.’
He walked slowly towards her and stood behind her with his arms wrapped around her waist as he kissed the back of her neck. ‘Didn’t I promise you paradise?’ She leaned her head back against his chest, inhaling the glorious scent of him. This view. This life. This was the reason she had eventually agreed to leave their lovely flat in Richmond, Surrey, her friend, Vicky, her parents in Bristol, indeed all that was familiar to her. This was to be her consolation: year-round sunshine, a house that she had dreamed of and a view of the big, big blue sea.
‘I love you,’ she had breathed, turning and kissing his face.
We should have stayed in England. I could have kept you safe there, darling. An ordinary life. A safe life. We would never have been on the boat, never have been at sea . . .
James appeared to her left, casting a shadow. She continued to stare out at the water, looking for any sign of movement.
‘Rach.’
She looked briefly towards him and away again.
‘I spoke to your parents and I left a message for mine. They were the hardest calls I have ever had to make. It was terrible.’
‘You shouldn’t be saying anything yet, we just don’t know,’ she whispered.
‘Rach,’ he began again, his voice thick with yet more tears, ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.’ He spoke with a tremor to his tone before giving in to the sob that robbed him of speech.
She stared at him now. ‘I can’t even . . .’ she began, her mind searching and failing to find the right words, the words that might begin to convey her utter desolation and her complete and total preoccupation with thoughts of Oscar. ‘I can’t even think of you.’
The Coordinates of Loss Page 3
