Paradise

by Joanna Nadin

  “Tom loved your mother. And you. That much I knew. I always knew. I tried to tell her. I rang but . . .”

  That phone message. That was why he called. And she deleted it. But it doesn’t matter now. Because it’s out. The last secret is out. That it wasn’t because of her, or me. He didn’t falter, didn’t run, didn’t hide. Didn’t kill. He was a hero. He was my dad. And I need to know. Need to know him again. Everything. Starting with . . .

  “His name,” I say. “I’ve never known it. Tom. Thomas something.”

  He shakes his head. “Not Thomas,” he says. “Tomlinson. Edward Tomlinson.”

  I let out a sound; a laugh, maybe. Tomlinson. Tom. That’s why I couldn’t find him. That’s why I’ve never found him. I was looking for the wrong man.

  “I have to go,” Jonty says, rising, his chair scraping the tiles.

  And I stand, too, because I want him to go. Need to tell Danny. And Mum. Tell her she got it wrong. That he didn’t leave. And that he loved her. He loved us.

  “Call me,” he says. “If you need anything.”

  “I will,” I say. But I know it’s a lie. Because what could I need now? I have everything.

  * * *

  I burst into the kitchen, my heart pounding, my words falling out of me now.

  “It wasn’t him,” I blurt. “He didn’t kill Will. He was saving him. Do you see? Saving him. He was a hero. My dad was a hero, Danny.”

  “Oh, Billie.” Danny takes me in his arms again, but I’m too full of news to let him hold me. “And his name. I got it wrong. It’s not Tom.”

  “No?”

  “No, that was just a nickname. It’s Tomlinson. Edward Tomlinson.”

  And then it happens. Danny staggers backward, as if I’ve punched him. Reeling in confusion, his eyes roll as he tries to find his feet.

  “Danny?” I say. “What —?”

  He holds on to the edge of a table. Bent over. “He had a brother,” he says into the ground.

  “Yes. James or something. But what’s that —?”

  “Jimmy,” Danny murmurs.

  I don’t get it. And like an idiot, a child, I blurt out, “Who’s Jimmy?”

  Danny raises his head, looks at me, his face ashen, contorted.

  And then my world drops away as, through a sob, I hear him say, “My dad.”

  TOM IS late. He is supposed to be at her house now. With his bag packed and his good-byes said. Supposed to be throwing a stone at the window.

  But he has to work. Has to stay late fixing an engine for Jimmy. Jimmy, who knows what he’s planning. Knows he is leaving. And why.

  Tom checks his watch. It is gone half ten already. He’ll be done soon. There’s still time, he thinks.

  He hears them before he sees them. The staggering footsteps, the shouting, the jeering. Knows it is them. Can hear the plums in their mouths, the silver spoons, as they swill their beer.

  They are drunk. Jonty’s mouth gaping open, a trail of saliva hanging, shining like a slug’s trail, then snapping and dropping onto the wooden boards. The other one, her brother, is standing on the bottom rung of the railings like he’s surveying his kingdom. The world that he has inherited. Not the meek.

  Tom should leave them to it. Should walk away. Run, even. He doesn’t have long. But what would she say if she knew? If something happened. So he does the right thing. And the wrong one. He tells him to get down.

  Jonty turns. Sees who is standing there. “Eff off, Gyppo,” he sneers, lager swilling over his wrist as he tries to shoo him away.

  Tom ignores him. “Seriously, Will,” he says. “It’s dangerous. You shouldn’t be up on there.”

  “You know she’s only using you,” Jonty slurs on. “You’re her bit of rough, that’s all.” He takes another swig.

  Tom snaps. “She told me all about you,” he says. “Couldn’t stand you. Any of you. None of you have a clue what she wants. Who she is.”

  “And you do?” Jonty laughs.

  “I do.”

  “Loser.” Jonty takes a swing at him with the bottle, followed by fifteen stone of fullback. But he’s drunk. And Tom is fast. He ducks and Jonty pitches into the railings, hits the side of his head on the top bar and crumples into a heap.

  “Shit,” he groans.

  “Pikey bastard.”

  Tom turns. Will has climbed over the railings and is facing them now. Showing off. To him, to Jonty. An end-of-the-pier show with an audience of two.

  “Will.” Tom moves toward him. “You need to come back over.”

  “I don’t need to do anything.”

  Tom holds out a hand.

  Will punches it away.

  “I don’t want a fight,” Tom insists. “I’m trying to help you.”

  “I don’t need your help,” Will sneers. “Look! No hands!” He lets go of the railings. Holds his arms out wide. Like an angel. Like Christ on the cross. Eyes staring blankly ahead.

  “Will, stop it.”

  Tom lunges to grab him. But it is too late. Will falls backward, plunging ten yards into the blackness below, hitting the water like a deadweight, drink heavy and helpless.

  Tom turns to Jonty, but he is too far gone, no use to either of them. He tries to call out, but the sound of the fair drowns him, the shrieks and music and clunking of machines. He can run. Or he can stay.

  He has no choice. It is Het’s brother. So he climbs over the railings, and jumps.

  Will is panicking, his limbs thrashing in the blue-black ink. Tom grabs at him, but Will kicks out, sending the full force of a size eleven Timberland into his stomach.

  Without thinking, Tom opens his mouth to scream. And as he does, the water rushes in, choking him. He tries to cough it out but a second wave hits him, sends him and Will crashing into the iron struts of the pier.

  He sees Will’s body go limp. Tries to swim toward him. But then he feels it, feels the suck of water around his legs. He grasps at a strut, but it is too quick for him, too clever.

  The undertow has caught him. It is taking him down.

  But he doesn’t see a tunnel of light. Doesn’t see long-dead things. Doesn’t see angels. He sees Het. Waiting at the table. The clock ticking. Her belly swelling. Wondering where he has gone.

  NAUSEA HITS me like a wave. Slamming into my diaphragm, knocking me against the wall and then out the door. I throw up in the gutter, twice, three times. Then retch, bringing up thin, pale bile, and then nothing, my body heaving still, trying to get rid of this sickness. But I don’t feel relief. Just empty. My cousin, I think. Not my true love, or destiny, or anything like that. We are the same because we come from the same. He is part of me. He is family.

  I heave again, but there is nothing left.

  “Billie.”

  I look up. And he is there. His face etched with shock.

  “I’m so sorry,” he tries. “I thought . . . Jones is my mum’s name. I . . .”

  But he can’t speak. And I don’t want to listen anyway. Can’t listen.

  The buzz of the neon signs from the arcades fills the space between us. Building to a crescendo in my head.

  “Danny —”

  But he stops me. “It doesn’t have to change anything,” he says.

  I feel something hit my stomach again. Disbelief. Disgust. And I find my voice. “It changes everything, don’t you see? Everything.”

  “Billie, wait!”

  But I’m gone.

  I walk quickly, half running, but he doesn’t follow me. All the while my head filled with thoughts, frantic creatures, beating their wings, battling to be heard. Why did it have to be him? Why not Eva? Or one of those kids from the arcade? Anyone. Anyone but him.

  I’m a small-town cliché. I’m a joke. I hate it. Hate it here. I want to go home. I hate her for bringing us. And I hate myself for letting her.

  I want to change it. To lose myself. Be someone else. Forget who I am. What I’ve done. I feel in my pocket to see what’s left. A fiver. Enough for a bottle of Thunderbird. And I thank
God that I am tall, tall enough to pass for eighteen; twenty-one, even. Though I guess I should thank my dad.

  I sit on the pier, another stray from the fair. No one takes any notice here. He’s in there, I think. My uncle. My real, live uncle. But the thought is bitter, tainted. And the wine is sweet and strong. It fills me with fire. I drink. I drink to drive the thoughts out. To forget. But I don’t forget. Instead, I start to remember.

  She knew.

  Drink.

  She knew who he was. That time at the piano.

  Drink.

  I saw it in her. A ghost. She had seen a ghost.

  Drink.

  She had seen my father.

  Drink.

  She lied. She’s lied for years.

  Drink.

  If she’d told me his name, this never would have happened.

  And I want an end. Even through the haze of the wine, this one thought is clear. I want an end to secrets. Because they don’t stay buried. They come back. No matter how strong you are, how fast a swimmer, like an undertow, they twist around your ankles, and pull you down.

  HET IS in the kitchen. It is late. Her parents already in their beds, twins now, four feet and a thousand miles apart. She is watching the clock. Seeing the seconds, minutes, hours tick past. Seeing the plans she has made, the life she has imagined, dissolve before her, no more than cotton candy. A tiny crystal of sugar spun into something significant, beautiful. But shrinking on your tongue to nothing.

  Maybe my mother is right, she thinks. That he is like his brother. Feckless. Flitting from one job to the next, one girl to the next.

  Another hour passes, counted off in tiny increments, each ticktock another nail of truth driving into her too-weak flesh.

  At eleven, she realizes it is over. He isn’t coming.

  She leaves the key on the table, heaves her rucksack onto her shoulders, and walks out of the house, out of their lives. All that she needs is in this bag, and inside her.

  At the gate she stops, turns, and looks up at the window of her parents’ room. The heavy velvet drapes drawn, no chink of light entering or escaping. When they wake, she will be gone, a memory. A bad dream, nothing more.

  She turns and walks down the hill to the station. To the eleven-thirty sleeper to Paddington. To Martha’s. To her new life.

  FINN IS in the kitchen eating beans on toast.

  He looks up. “Hey. Billie. I —”

  “Where is she?” I interrupt. “Mum?” As if I could mean anyone else.

  “Swimming,” he says, chewing slowly.

  And in that second I am sober. The blur of anger and alcohol snap into crisp, clear panic. “But she can’t,” I say.

  He swallows, tuts. “I don’t know. Lessons, maybe. She said she wanted to learn. Remember?”

  “Oh, God.”

  I try to think. Where would I go? Where would I go if I’d just told my daughter her father was dead after all? That I’d been lying to her for years?

  “The pier,” I blurt out. “Finn, you need to get help. Get the police. Tell them to come to the pier.”

  “Why?” He’s scared now. Scared of me. Can see me losing it again. But I don’t have time to tell him.

  “Just do it, Finn. Please, for me.”

  And then I run. I run until I can feel my heart bursting out of my chest, the pavement driving splints into my shin bones. I run until I get to the sea.

  She’s wearing a bikini. My bikini. People are staring. Queues of kids and parents at the cotton candy stand, at the coconut game. All staring at her pale, goosepimpled flesh. Embarrassment pricks me again. Then shame. For what we’ve done. This is my fault, too. I lied. Told her there was nothing between Danny and me.

  I’m just a few yards from her now. Too scared to get closer in case she falls. Or jumps. “Mum,” I say. “Mum, it’s OK. Please, come away. It’s going to be all right.”

  But my words are lost in the crash of the sea. Spring tides have swelled its height and filled it with an anger I’ve not seen before.

  But then something rises above them. A voice behind me. Close.

  “Billie.”

  I turn to see Finn. But it’s not the police he’s brought with him. It’s Danny.

  “Finn —” I say in panic.

  “I’ve called the police,” Danny says. “They’re coming.”

  Then Finn sees past me. Sees his mum in a red bikini. Standing at the railings in the freezing rain, the waves crashing across her bare legs. Sees her raise her arms, the fingers elegant, pointed, poised. Like she’s a ballet dancer, a bird.

  “Mum!” he cries.

  But she doesn’t hear him. She bends her knees, just a fraction, then pushes off, dives, graceful as a swan, into the clotted gray sky.

  And it’s like time has slowed, or stopped. Like those bits in films where the noise stretches into a gurgling yawn. But then her fingers pierce the inky black. And she is gone.

  In an instant the film speeds up. Stuff happens really fast. Finn runs to the gap in the railings, and I reach to grab his coat to stop him, but he stumbles, trips on something, and falls, keeps on falling, following Mum’s descent into the water.

  And then I forget. Forget that I’m scared of the still, chlorine-clean swimming pool, let alone a relentless sea. Forget that I can barely float on my back. I just know I have to help them. My family. So I take off my coat and boots. And I jump.

  When I hit the water, the cold takes my breath away. But it’s nothing compared to the terror when the first wave hits me. Water floods my ears, my nose, my mouth. Its strength is overwhelming, carrying me yards in one easy roll. Under the pier, against one of the legs, I grab hold of it, of the rusted metal. Cling on, coughing, choking, as the sea tries to suck me back out again.

  The cold seeps through my clothes, my hair. Like a creeping frost. Within seconds my fingers and toes are numb. Then my legs, pins and needles pricking them under my jeans.

  I look around frantically. See a head bobbing on the surface. I have to get to it. Move, I tell myself. Move. I hear Danny’s voice in my head instructing me. “Kick your legs, Billie. Move your arms, Billie. Billie. Billie. Billie.”

  “Billie.”

  I turn as I hear the voice again. It’s not in my head. He’s not in my head. He is in the water.

  “Don’t let go,” Danny shouts. “I’m getting Finn.”

  And I watch as he pushes out into the water, across the waves, letting them pull him, then moving again, swiftly at an angle. I see him grab Finn. Lock an arm around his middle. Around his kicking-and-screaming eight-year-old body. Around my brother.

  And then I see someone else. I see Will. And I see my dad, his arm around him, trying to pull him to the shore. See Will fighting him, kicking him off. I have to tell her. I have to let her know.

  But it is too late. Because I can feel my frozen fingers loosen their grip on the pier. Feel the rip of the tide against the shelving sand. The pull of the water on my body. I can’t fight it. I don’t have the strength.

  So I give in. I let it take me away. Wait for the water to flood my lungs. For everything to fade to black.

  ELEANOR ANSWERS the door, and though he has rung to arrange the meeting, she still feels a wave of surprise run through her. It is the first time she has seen him since Roger’s funeral. But she brushes it lightly away and paints a smile on her lips.

  “Jonathan,” she says. “Come in.”

  At first she is angry. At the years of living a lie. At the truth that her own son was a bully. And a drunk. Like his father before him.

  But he is gone. And she has cried her tears for him.

  But Het, Het is alive.

  She will find her, she thinks. She will drive to London and find her.

  The minute the words fill her head, joy fills her heart. And she cannot stop herself. She packs a small case, enough for a night, two at most. She will find a hotel. Because it is too soon to stay. There is too much to be said. Too many explanations and apologies. And she will. She w
ill apologize. For that night. And for the years before. The years of never holding her, never telling her that she loved her. Because she was hers.

  Because she was his.

  She will tell her that she has saved money. For her granddaughter. That she changed her will and opened an account. Put back the money that should have been Het’s.

  But first she has to tell Alex. Has to tell him everything. There are to be no more secrets. Because secrets aren’t benign. They aren’t just scratches in the table. Or a single kiss. They are dangerous things. Things that eat away at you, that, when you strive to hide them, beat louder, threatening to reveal themselves. Things that hurt.

  Except this one, she thinks. For the hurt was done long ago. And now, this secret will heal.

  AT SCHOOL once I wrote this story, some complicated thing with a witch and a dragon and a fairy-tale castle. Only I couldn’t work out how to end it, so I just did that “And I woke up and it was all a dream” trick. And I guess I was waiting for that to happen. I thought I’d open my eyes and I’d be back on the sofa in Peckham under that faded duvet, watching Saturday-morning telly. That the mail was just bills, that Mum and Finn would come back with bread and milk, that Cass would charge up the stairs with some raging hangover and a new love bite and a “You won’t believe what Ash did.”

  But it never happens like that. Life isn’t like stories. At least, not the ones I read, or wrote.

  I woke up on the pier, on the damp wood, coughing and puking seawater from my stomach and lungs. The coast guard pulled me out. Then Mum and Finn and Danny, one by one. Our lips blue, our skin white.

  The undertow didn’t drag us under. But the past did. Got all of us, in the end.

  But we’re not burying it this time. Not running away.

  Luka came. Of course he came. With Nonna and Nonno and Martha in her beat-up Toyota. They arrived just before they discharged Finn, packed him in the back, squashed between Nonna and me, and drove us all back to the house. Martha lasted a week before she missed the city. Better than Cass. She lasted a day. Came down on the train with a fake Prada suitcase and a bikini. Then said she couldn’t stay ’cause she had school and everything. Everything.