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‘Hi, this is Jackson,’ his voicemail says, and her heart stalls.
Dropping the phone into her pocket, she stumbles towards the rocks. A wide red sign reads DANGER, KEEP OFF.Her scarf flies behind her as she clambers over the wet boulders, the cry of wind filling her ears. Her breath is ragged, and spiked thoughts pierce at her, making her mind whirl. She tells herself to focus only on where she is putting each foot, placing one carefully in front of the other.
Ahead something colourful catches her attention. She picks her way over barnacle-lined rocks until she is close enough to see it.
A green plastic tackle box lies open, wedged between two rocks. She recognizes it instantly: she bought it for Jackson last Christmas to house the lures and weights that were gradually filling up his bedside drawer. Now salt water fills the trays, so that two bright blue lures float inside like dead fish.
There is a loud, shattering boom as a wave smashes into the rocks. Icy spray slashes the side of Eva’s face and she drops to her knees, clinging to the rock with numbed fingers.
‘Hey!’ someone shouts. ‘Get back!’
But she cannot move, cannot turn. She is frozen, fear leaden in her stomach. Her face smarts with the cold and the back of her head is wet. A slow trickle of water seeps beneath her scarf.
Seconds later, she feels the pressure of a hand on her shoulder. A policeman is standing over her, taking her by the arm, encouraging her to her feet. ‘It’s not safe,’ he shouts above the wind.
She shakes him off. ‘My husband!’ she cries, her words coming out in gusts. ‘He was fishing! Right here!’
The policeman stares down at her. There is a patch of dark stubble on his jawline, no larger than a thumbprint, which he must have missed when shaving this morning. Something like fear pricks his features as he says, ‘Okay. Okay. Let’s get onto the beach.’
He grips her arm, helping her stand. Her legs tremble as they move slowly over the wet rocks, him glancing over his shoulder watching for waves.
When they reach the sand, he turns to her. ‘Your husband was fishing here this morning?’
She nods. ‘His tackle box – it’s on the rocks.’
The policeman looks at her for a long moment without blinking. ‘We had a report earlier that a man fishing was swept in.’
Her voice is small: ‘Was it him?’
‘We can’t be sure yet.’ He pauses. ‘But it sounds like it’s possible, yes.’
Saliva fills her mouth and she twists away. The grey-green sea swills with current as she searches it for Jackson. She swallows. ‘How long ago?’
‘About twenty minutes. A couple reported it.’
She turns, following his gaze towards a middle-aged man and woman in dark blue parkas, a golden retriever at their feet. ‘Was it them? Did they see him?’
The moment he nods, Eva staggers past him.
The dog’s tail wags frantically as she approaches. ‘You saw my husband! He was fishing!’
‘Your husband?’ the woman says, distress clouding her narrow face. ‘We saw him, yes. I’m sorry—’
‘What happened?’
The woman twists her scarf between her fingers as she says, ‘We’d seen him fishing when we walked past earlier.’ She glances at her husband. ‘You said it looked dangerous with those waves, didn’t you?’
He nods. ‘When we turned to walk back, we saw he’d been swept in. He was in the water.’
‘We called the coastguard,’ the woman adds. ‘We tried to keep sight of him till they arrived … but … but we lost him.’
They must be mistaken, Eva thinks. It couldn’t be Jackson. ‘The man you saw – what was he wearing?’
‘Wearing?’ the woman repeats. ‘Dark clothes, I think. And a hat,’ she says, touching the back of her head. ‘A red hat.’
*
Sometime later, Eva’s mother arrives. She drapes a blanket over Eva’s shoulders and teases a fleecy hat over her short hair while asking questions in a low voice: How long has he been in the water? What has the coastguard said?
Eva watches the lifeboat making a search pattern, as if drawing a square in the water, and then working outward so the square gets larger and larger until at some point the lifeboat is so far away she wonders if it is even possible Jackson could have swum that far.
She wants to focus on anything but the freezing grip of the sea, so she cushions herself with the warmer memory of Jackson surprising her last month when he’d turned up at the hospital after one of her late shifts, holding a bag containing her favourite dress and a pair of gold heels. He’d told her to get changed because he was taking her out.
She’d slipped into the locker room, her heart skipping with excitement, and swapped her uniform for the black silk dress he’d chosen. She’d dabbed on some lipstick and smoothed back her dark hair, and the other midwives whistled and cooed as she came out, giving a little twirl.
Jackson had taken her to a blues bar in north London where the room was lit by candles and the rhythm of the double bass rocked through her chest. She’d leant her head against Jackson’s shoulder, feeling the atmosphere soak through her, washing away the strains of the day. They drank cocktails they couldn’t afford, and she danced in high heels that gave her blisters, but she hadn’t minded: she loved Jackson for his knack of taking a normal day and carving something beautiful from it.
The loud drone of the coastguard helicopter cuts through Eva’s thoughts. The sea beneath quivers and trembles. The white and red colours look bright, optimistic almost, against the darkening clouds, and a ripple of anticipation spreads through the growing crowd.
The policeman stands alone, rubbing his palms together to keep warm. Sometimes his radio crackles and he lifts it to his mouth. Eva glances over occasionally, studying him, watching for a sign to tell her how this day will end.
Mostly they wait in silence, listening to the waves crashing at sea, frothing white water bowling into the rocks. Her mother keeps hold of her hand and every now and then she says beneath her breath, ‘Come on, Jackson. Come on.’
*
When the last bit of daylight is fading, Eva hears crackling from the policeman’s radio. She turns and watches as he lifts it towards his mouth and speaks into it. He looks out over the water and nods once, solemnly. Then the radio is lowered.
He begins moving towards Eva. She shakes her head, thinking, Do not say it!
‘I’m afraid the coastguard’s calling off the search.’
Her gloved fingers clutch her scarf. ‘They can’t!’
‘The boat’s almost out of fuel and the helicopter’s lost the light. I’m sorry.’
‘He’s still out there!’
‘The coastguard has made the decision.’
‘But he won’t survive the night.’
The policeman’s gaze leaves her and settles on the sand at their feet.
She feels her mother’s hand around her waist, holding onto her, squeezing so tightly it’s as if she’s trying to absorb Eva’s pain.
‘He’s out there,’ Eva says finally. She pulls away and staggers down the beach, where the faint lights of the quay glow in the distance. She hears her mother calling after her, but she will not look back. She knows exactly where she needs to go.
Jackson is her husband and she will not give up on him.
*
The fisherman is just stepping onto the quay when Eva approaches him. ‘Is this your boat?’
‘Yeah,’ he says suspiciously.
She snatches a breath. ‘I need you to take me out in it. I’ll pay.’
‘Love, this boat isn’t going anywhere …’
‘My husband was swept from the rocks this morning,’ she says.
‘Your husband? Christ! I heard about it over the radio.’
She moves right past him, climbing into the boat as if she’s about to commandeer it.
‘Hey, listen –’
‘You understand currents? Tides?’ she says, trying to keep her voice level and focus only on the practical details.
‘Sure, but I can’t –’
‘Please,’ she says, swinging around to face him, her composure cracking. ‘You have to help me!’
Once they reach the open water, the boat pitches and rolls with the waves. Eva grips the side, her fingers aching from the cold. She won’t let herself think about this because if she admits that her feet are numb and that the temperature has dropped so low that she can’t stop shivering, then she’ll also have to admit that Jackson could not survive this.
The rocky outcrop looms like low-hanging fog. When they near it, the fisherman cuts the engine. He shouts above the wind, ‘We’ll drift with the current now.’
He moves towards her holding a yellow oilskin. ‘Here. Wear this over the life jacket.’
The material is rough and cold, the long sleeves scratching the chapped skin on the undersides of her wrists where her gloves end. She glances down and sees a thick smear of blood across the breast of the jacket.
‘Just fish blood,’ he says, following her gaze.
Eva glances around the boat deck, where lobster pots and dark heavy nets laced with seaweed are stacked. There are lights on the boat, but they’re not nearly bright enough. ‘Have you got a torch?’
‘Yeah.’ He lifts the lid of the wooden bench and pulls out a torch with a glass face as big as a dinner plate.
He passes it to Eva, who holds it in both hands to support the weight. She flicks the switch and points it at the black water. The beam is dazzling and she blinks several times until her eyes become accustomed to it.
He fetches a second, smaller torch and begins searching the water beside her as they drift. Dark waves swim in and out of the beam like bodies rearing up, and then recede again.
‘Your husband fish a lot?’
Husband. The word still sounded fresh and sweet. They had been married for just under ten months and the sight of his wedding band still made her catch her breath with happiness. ‘We live in London – so he doesn’t fish as much as he’d like. He used to as a boy. He’s from Tasmania.’
‘Where’s that?’
She forgets that some people know little about Tasmania. ‘It’s an island off south-east Australia. Almost opposite Melbourne. It’s an Australian state.’
As she looks down at the inky sea, Eva’s thoughts drift back through the day. She pictures Jackson trudging up the beach with his fishing gear. Would his head have been fuzzy from drinking the night before? Did he walk along the shore and think of her still snug in bed, or remember their lovemaking last night? Was there any point when he’d considered turning around and stealing back into the warmth next to her beneath the duvet?
She imagines him on the rocks threading fishing lures onto the line with numb fingers, then setting out the catch bucket. She imagines that first cast, the smooth flick of the rod. The surf’s good for the fish, livens them up, he’d told her before.
He knew his fish. His father had run a crayfish boat for a decade, and Jackson studied marine biology. Living in London as they did, there wasn’t much call for marine biologists, but he said he got his fix of the coast whenever they visited her mother. In Tasmania, he owned an old sea kayak and would paddle through empty bays and inlets with a fishing rod hooked at the back of the kayak. She loved his stories of cruising beneath mountains and alongside wild coastline, catching fish to cook on an open fire.
There is a loud splash by the boat’s side and Eva gasps.
The torch has slipped from her fingers, an eerie yellow glow falling through the dark water. ‘No! No …’
She wants to reach down, scoop her hands through the sea and save it, but the light flickers as it sinks, and then goes out.
‘I’m sorry! I thought I had it,’ she says, grasping the sides of the boat, leaning right over. ‘I’ve lost it. I can’t see anything now. I’m sorry … I …’
‘No matter,’ the fisherman says gently.
She hugs her arms tight to her chest. Her lips sting with the wind chill as she stares out into the endless darkness. ‘How cold is it?’ she asks quietly. ‘The sea?’
He sucks in his breath. ‘I’d say it’s about eight or nine degrees at the moment.’
‘How long could someone survive in it for?’
‘Hard to say.’ He pauses. ‘But I’d think a couple of hours at best.’
There’s silence save for the creak of the boat and the slap of waves against the hull.
He’s dead, she thinks. My husband is dead.
We only had two years together, Eva. It wasn’t long enough.
There were still things I was only just beginning to discover about you; that your toes wriggle when you’re nervous; that your standards for cleanliness are bordering on slovenly; that smell is your strongest sense and you sniff everything you buy – books, a new dress, the cellophane wrap of a DVD.
I only recently found the ticklish spot behind your knees that makes you crumple to the ground with gulps of laughter. And I love that my friends think you’re so level-headed and pragmatic – yet you cannot get ready for an evening out without hurtling around the flat performing a circus routine of cleaning your teeth while having a wee, or putting on your make-up in between mouthfuls of dinner.
When we met for the first time and you focused your wide, hazel eyes on me, I felt like I did as a boy – light, hopeful, free.
Like I said, Eva, two years with you wasn’t long enough.
But it was two years more than I deserved.
2 (#ulink_ad893cc2-1389-555b-be57-4c777c1fe74c)
Eva sits on the edge of the bed gazing numbly at the phone in her hand. She’s still in her pyjamas, yet she has the feeling it is nearing evening again. Her mother keeps popping upstairs to encourage her to do things: Take a shower. Get some fresh air. Call Callie. But everything feels so utterly pointless that Eva doesn’t even answer. Instead, she stays in her room waiting for Jackson to walk back in, kiss her on the mouth, and say in his beautiful, lilting accent, Don’t worry, darl. I’m here now.
It’s been four days. The coastguard tells them it is possible his body will wash up further down the coast, towards Lyme Regis or Plymouth, because of the strong north-easterlies. But she’s not ready to think about a body, her husband’s body …
The red woollen hat Jackson had been wearing was recovered. An apologetic policewoman brought it around sealed inside a clear plastic bag. Eva had stared at the condensation forming against the polythene, thinking it looked as if the hat were breathing.
Downstairs she hears the low voices of her mother greeting someone. Her name is spoken and then Jackson’s. She catches the word tragic.
