I Let You Go

by Clare Mackintosh

  I shake the thought away and pull on my boots, wrapping a scarf around my neck. I have my daily battle with the lock, which grips on to the key and refuses to let it turn. Eventually I manage to secure the door, and I drop the key into my pocket. Beau trots at my heels. He follows me like a shadow, unwilling to let me out of his sight. When he first came home he cried all night, asking to come and sleep on my bed with me. I hated myself for it, but I held a pillow over my ears and ignored his cries, knowing that if I let myself get close to him, I would regret it. Several days went by before he stopped crying, and even now he sleeps at the bottom of the stairs, awake as soon as he hears the creak of the bedroom floorboards.

  I check I have today’s list of orders – I can remember them all, but it wouldn’t do to make a mistake. Bethan continues to promote my pictures to her holiday-makers, and although I can hardly believe it, I am busy. Not in the same way as before, with exhibitions and commissions, but nevertheless busy. I have twice restocked the caravan shop with postcards and a trickle of orders has come through my home-made website. It’s far from the smart web-presence I used to have, but every time I look at it I feel a flash of pride that I made it myself, without help. It is a small thing, but I am slowly beginning to think that perhaps I am not as useless as I once believed.

  I haven’t put my name on the website: just a gallery of photos, a rather clumsy and basic ordering system, and the name of my new business: ‘Written in the Sand’. Bethan helped me choose it, over a bottle of wine in the cottage one evening, when she talked about my business with such enthusiasm I couldn’t help but go along with it. ‘What do you think?’ she kept asking. I hadn’t been asked for my opinion for a very long time.

  August is the busiest month for the caravan park and although I still see Bethan at least once a week, I miss the quiet of the winter, when we would talk for an hour or more, feet pressed against the oil-filled radiator in the corner of the shop. The beaches are busy too, and I have to get up soon after sunrise to ensure a smooth stretch of sand for my photos.

  A gull calls out to us and Beau races across the sand, barking as the bird taunts him from the safety of the sky. I kick through the debris on the beach and pick up a long stick. The tide is on its way out, but the sand is warm, and it is already drying. I will write today’s messages close to the sea. I pull a piece of paper from my pocket and remind myself of the first order. ‘Julia,’ I say. ‘Well, that’s straightforward enough.’ Beau looks at me enquiringly. He thinks I am talking to him. Perhaps I am, although I mustn’t let myself become reliant on him. I see him as I imagine Iestyn sees his sheep dogs: tools of the trade; there to perform a function. Beau is my guard dog. I haven’t needed protection yet, but I might.

  I lean forward and draw a large J, standing back to check the size, before writing the rest of the name. Happy with it, I discard the stick and take up my camera. The sun has risen properly now, and the low light casts a pink glow across the sand. I take a dozen shots, crouching down to look through my viewfinder, until the writing is iced with the sea’s white froth.

  For the next order I look for a clean stretch of beach. I work quickly, gathering armfuls of sticks from the piles thrown up by the sea. When the last piece of driftwood is in place I cast a critical eye over my creation. Strands of still-glistening seaweed soften the edges of the sticks and pebbles I have used to frame the message. The driftwood heart is six feet across: large enough to house the swirling script in which I have written ‘Forgive me, Alice’. As I reach over to move a piece of wood, Beau hurtles out of the sea, barking excitedly.

  ‘Steady!’ I call. I put a protective arm over the camera slung across my body, in case he should jump up at me. But the dog ignores me, racing past in a spray of wet sand, to the other side of the beach, where he bounds around a man walking across the sand. At first I think it’s the dog-walker who spoke to me once before, but then he pushes his hands into the pockets of his waxed jacket and I take a sharp intake of breath because the movement is familiar to me. How can that be? I know no one here, save Bethan and Iestyn, yet this man, who must be barely a hundred metres away now, is walking purposefully towards me. I can see his face. I know him, yet I don’t know him, and my inability to place him makes me vulnerable. I feel a bubble of panic rising in my throat and I call to Beau.

  ‘It’s Jenna, isn’t it?’

  I want to run, but my feet are rooted to the spot. I’m mentally scrolling through everyone I knew in Bristol. I know I’ve met him somewhere before.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,’ the man says, and I realise I’m shaking. He seems genuinely regretful, and he smiles broadly as if to make amends. ‘Patrick Mathews. The vet at Port Ellis,’ he adds. And at once I remember him, and the way he pushed his hands into the pockets of his blue scrubs.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, finally finding my voice, which feels small and unsure. ‘I didn’t recognise you.’ I glance up to the empty coastal path. Soon people will begin arriving for a day at the beach: insured against all weather conditions with windbreaks, sunscreen and umbrellas. For once I’m glad it’s high season and Penfach is full of people: Patrick’s smile is warm, but I’ve been taken in by a warm smile once before.

  He reaches down to rub Beau’s ears.

  ‘Looks like you’ve done a good job with this chap. What did you call him?’

  ‘His name’s Beau.’ I can’t help myself: I take two hardly noticeable steps backwards, and immediately feel the knot in my throat soften. I make myself drop my hands down to my sides, but straight away I find they have risen and have found each other at my waist.

  Patrick kneels down and fusses Beau, who rolls on to his back to have his tummy scratched, delighted by the unaccustomed affection.

  ‘He doesn’t seem nervous at all.’

  I’m reassured by Beau’s relaxed manner. Don’t they say dogs are good judges of character?

  ‘No, he’s doing well,’ I say.

  ‘He certainly is.’ Patrick stands up and brushes the sand off his knees, and I hold my ground.

  ‘No problems with Iestyn, I take it?’ Patrick grins.

  ‘None at all,’ I tell him. ‘In fact, he seems to think a dog is an essential part of any household.’

  ‘I’m inclined to agree with him. I’d have one myself, only I work such long hours it wouldn’t be fair. Still, I get to meet enough animals during the day, so I shouldn’t complain.’

  He seems very at home here by the sea, his boots engrained with sand and the creases of his coat scored with salt. He nods towards the heart in the sand.

  ‘Who’s Alice, and why do you want her forgiveness?’

  ‘Oh, it’s not mine.’ He must think me extraordinary, drawing pictures in the sand. ‘At least, the sentiment isn’t. I’m taking a photo of it for someone.’

  Patrick looks confused.

  ‘It’s what I do,’ I say. ‘I’m a photographer.’ I hold up my camera as though he might not otherwise believe me. ‘People send me messages they want written in the sand and I come down here, write them and then send them the photograph.’ I stop, but he seems genuinely interested.

  ‘What sort of messages?’

  ‘Mostly they’re love letters – or marriage proposals – but I get all sorts. This one’s an apology, obviously, and sometimes people ask me to write famous quotations, or lyrics from favourite songs. It’s different every time.’ I stop, blushing furiously.

  ‘And you make a living doing that? What an amazing job!’ I search his voice for sarcasm, but find none, and I let myself feel a little proud. It is an amazing job, and I created it from nothing.

  ‘I sell other photos too,’ I say, ‘mostly of the bay. It’s so beautiful, lots of people want a piece of it.’

  ‘Isn’t it? I love it here.’

  We stand in silence for a few seconds, watching the waves build up and then break apart as they run up the sand. I begin to feel fidgety, and I try think of something else to say.

  What brings you on
to the beach?’ I ask. ‘Not many people venture down here at this time of day unless they’ve got a dog to walk.’

  ‘I had to release a bird,’ Patrick explains. ‘A woman brought in a gannet with a broken wing and he’s been staying at the surgery while he recovered. He’s been with us for a few weeks and I brought him to the clifftop today to let him go. We try to release them in the same place they were found, to give them every chance of survival. When I saw your message on the beach I couldn’t resist coming down and finding out who you were writing to. It was only when I got down here that I realised we’d already met.’

  ‘Did the gannet fly okay?’

  Patrick nods. ‘He’ll be fine. It happens fairly often. You’re not local, are you? I remember you saying you’d not long arrived in Penfach when you brought Beau in. Where did you live before?’

  Before I can think of an answer, a phone rings, its tinny tune sounding out of place out here on the beach. Inwardly I sigh with relief, although I have a well-worn story now, trotted out for Iestyn and Bethan, and the occasional walker who heads my way in search of conversation. I am an artist by trade, but I injured my hand in an accident and cannot work, so have taken up photography. It’s not so far from the truth, after all. I haven’t been asked about children, and I wonder if I carry the answer so visibly about me.

  ‘Sorry,’ says Patrick. He searches in his pockets and brings out a small pager, buried in a handful of pony nuts and bits of straw, that drop on to the sand. ‘I have to have it on its loudest setting otherwise I don’t hear it.’ He glances at the screen. ‘I must dash, I’m afraid. I volunteer at the lifeboat station at Port Ellis. I’m on call a couple of times a month, and it looks like we’re needed now.’ He pushes the phone back into his pocket. ‘It was lovely seeing you again, Jenna. Really lovely.’

  Raising an arm to bid me farewell, he runs across the beach and up the sandy path, and is gone before I can agree with him.

  Back at the cottage, Beau flops into his basket, exhausted. I load the morning’s images on to the computer while I wait for the kettle to boil. They are better than I expected, given the interruption: the letters stand out against the drying sand, and my driftwood heart makes the perfect frame. I leave the best image on the screen to look at again later, and take my coffee upstairs. I will regret this, I know, but I can’t help myself.

  Sitting on the floor, I put my mug down on the bare floorboards and reach under the bed for the box I haven’t touched since arriving in Penfach. I pull it towards me and sit cross-legged to open the lid, breathing in memories along with the dust. It starts to hurt almost immediately, and I know I should close the box without delving further. But like an addict seeking a fix, I am resolute.

  I take out the small photo album lying on top of a sheaf of legal documents. One by one, I stroke my fingers across snapshots of a time so removed it is like looking through a stranger’s photographs. There I am standing in the garden; there again in the kitchen, cooking. And there I am pregnant, proudly showing off my bump and grinning at the camera. The knot in my throat tightens and I feel the familiar prickle at the back of my eyes. I blink them away. I was so happy, that summer, certain that this new life was going to change everything, and we would be able to start again. I thought it would be a new beginning for us. I stroke the photograph, tracing the outline of my bump and imagining where his head would have been; his curled limbs; his barely formed toes.

  Gently, as though it might disturb my unborn child, I close the photo album and place it back in the box. I should go downstairs now, while I am still in control. But it is like worrying at a sore tooth or picking at a scab. I feel around until my fingers touch the soft fabric of the rabbit I slept with every night when I was pregnant, so that I could give it to my son and it would smell of me. Now I hold it to my face and inhale, desperate for a trace of him. I let out a stifled wail and Beau pads quietly upstairs and into my bedroom.

  ‘Downstairs, Beau,’ I tell him.

  The dog ignores me.

  ‘Get out!’ I scream at him, a madwoman clutching a baby’s toy. I scream and I can’t stop, even though it’s not Beau I’m seeing, but the man who took my baby from me; the man who ended my life when he ended my son’s. ‘Get out! Get out! Get out!’

  Beau drops to the floor, his body tensed and his ears flattened against his head. But he doesn’t give up. Slowly, inch by inch, he moves towards me, never taking his eyes off me.

  The fight leaves me as fast as it arrived.

  Beau stops next to me, still crouched close to the floorboards, and rests his head on my lap. He closes his eyes and I feel the weight and the warmth of him through my jeans. Unbidden, my hand reaches out to stroke him, and my tears begin to fall.

  13

  Ray had put together his team for Operation Break. He had given Kate the role of exhibits officer, which was a big ask for someone who had only been on the team for eighteen months, but he was certain she could handle it.

  ‘Of course I can!’ she said, when he mentioned his concerns. ‘And I can always come to you if I have any issues, can’t I?’

  ‘Any time,’ Ray said. ‘Drink after work?’

  ‘Just try stopping me.’

  They had taken to meeting two or three times a week after work to go over the hit-and-run. As the outstanding enquiries petered out, they spent less time talking about the case, and more time talking about their lives outside of work. Ray had been surprised to discover that Kate was as passionate a Bristol City supporter as he was himself, and they had spent many a pleasant evening mourning their recent relegation. For the first time in years he felt as though he wasn’t only a husband, or a father, or even a police officer. He was Ray.

  Ray had been careful not to work on the hit-and-run during his normal working hours. He was directly contravening the chief’s order, but as long as he wasn’t doing it on job time, he reasoned she couldn’t have an issue with it. And if they came up with a strong lead that resulted in an arrest – well, she’d be singing a different tune then.

  The need to conceal their work from the rest of the CID team meant Ray and Kate had taken to meeting in a pub further away than the usual police haunts. The Horse and Jockey was quiet, with high-backed booths where they could spread out paperwork without fear of being overlooked, and the landlord never glanced up from his crossword. It was an enjoyable way to round off the day and de-stress before going home, and Ray found himself watching the clock until it was time to leave the office.

  Typically, a phone call at five delayed him, and by the time he reached the pub, Kate was halfway through her drink. The unspoken arrangement was that whoever got there first got in the drinks, and his pint of Pride was waiting on the table.

  ‘What kept you?’ Kate asked, pushing it towards him. ‘Anything interesting?’

  Ray took a gulp of his pint. ‘Some intelligence that might end up coming our way,’ he said. ‘There’s a drug dealer on the Creston estate using six or seven smaller pushers to do his dirty work – it’s looking like it’ll shape up into a nice little job.’ A particularly vocal Labour MP had taken to using the drug problem as a basis to pontificate as publicly as possible about the threat to society posed by ‘lawless estates’, and Ray knew that the chief was keen that they be seen to be taking a proactive stance. Ray was hopeful that if Operation Break went well, he might be sufficiently in the chief’s good books to lead on this one, too.

  ‘The Domestic Abuse team has had contact with Dominica Letts,’ he told Kate, ‘the girlfriend of one of the dealers, and they’re trying to convince her to press charges against him. Obviously we don’t want to spook him by bringing the police in for that when we’re trying to put together a job, but at the same time we’ve got a duty of care to his girlfriend.’

  ‘Is she in danger?’

  Ray paused before answering. ‘I don’t know. DA have graded her high risk, but she’s adamant she won’t give evidence against him and at the moment she isn’t cooperating with the unit at all.’<
br />
  ‘How long before we can move?’

  ‘It could be weeks,’ Ray said. ‘Too long. We’ll need to look at getting her into a refuge – assuming she’ll go – and holding the assault allegations until we get him in for the drugs job.’

  ‘Hobson’s choice,’ Kate said thoughtfully. ‘What’s more important: drug-dealing or domestic violence?’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that though, is it? What about the violence caused by drug abuse? The robberies committed by addicts looking for their next fix? The effects of dealing might not be as immediate as a punch to the face, but they’re far-reaching and just as painful.’ Ray realised he was speaking louder than normal, and he stopped abruptly.

  Kate put a calming hand over his. ‘Hey, I’m playing devil’s advocate. It’s not an easy decision.’

  Ray gave a sheepish grin. ‘Sorry, I’d forgotten how wound up I can get about this sort of thing.’ In fact, it had been a while since he had thought about it at all. He had been in the job for so many years, his reasons for doing it had become buried beneath paperwork and personnel issues. It was good to be reminded of what really mattered.

  His eyes met Kate’s for a moment, and Ray felt the heat of her skin against his. A second later she pulled her hand away, laughing awkwardly.

  ‘One for the road?’ Ray said. By the time he returned to the table, the moment had passed, and he wondered if he had imagined it. He put down the drinks and tore open a packet of crisps so it lay flat between them.

  ‘I’ve got nothing new on the Jacob job,’ he said.

  ‘Me neither,’ Kate sighed. ‘We’re going to have to give up, aren’t we?’