The jump, p.10
The Jump, page 10
They were away from the crane now and round the other side, which was lower in the water. She could see inside because of the slope, pipe supports keeping the whole thing together, keeping the weight of the water out.
She heard shouts from the walkway and looked up to see two figures waving and pointing to the water next to the Porpoise. She looked and spotted a rock poking through the waves. She checked the depth gauge and it was almost at zero, stupid she hadn’t noticed earlier, she’d presumed the water was deep all the way round.
‘Hold on,’ she shouted at Ben, then swung the tiller hard to port to send the boat away from the rocks.
Ben was thrown to the deck with the sway of the boat as it pitched in the water. The hull was part way out the firth as they banked steeply, the other side of the deck almost under the surface. Ben was on the wrong side, hanging on. If they’d been sailing he should’ve been on the starboard side, feet over the edge for ballast and balance, arms wrapped around the guard rails. But as it was he was clinging on to the jib sheet for the smaller sail, and if they didn’t right themselves soon he’d be in the water.
Ellie kept turning the boat, leaning over the edge to see if she could spot rocks under the surface. She waited for the sound of ripping, the scream of stone through hull, but it didn’t come. She’d experienced it once before, a sickening lurch in her gut as her frame of reference got torn apart, but this time it didn’t happen and the Porpoise glided away past the outcrop.
Ellie straightened the steering and the boat righted itself. She turned and saw Ben holding the jib sheet, shaking his head and looking into the water.
‘You OK?’ Ellie said.
‘Lost my air monitor into the drink,’ he said.
It was a small price to pay for not being shipwrecked, but it was Ellie’s fault in the first place, she hadn’t checked the readings, hadn’t been watching things as closely as she should.
20
Ben was fumbling with his key in the front door when Ellie felt an overwhelming rush of sorrow wash over her. She reached for him as he pushed the door open and wrapped her arms around him from behind. The sudden hug threw his momentum, making him stumble and put an arm out against the door jamb to balance. She couldn’t even cuddle right.
‘Hey,’ he said.
She held on tight. He tried to turn and face her but she strengthened her grip. He squirmed round, keys still in his hand, and put his arms round her waist. She was surprised to hear sobs coming up her throat, then felt tears in her eyes.
‘It’s OK,’ Ben said, rubbing her back. ‘Shhh.’
He dropped his kit bag on the ground with a thud. Ellie buried her head into his chest, scared to look at him, afraid to let him see her crumpled face. She squeezed his body tight, trying to get comfort from the heft of him. He felt so solid compared to her, she was a ghost drifting through her own life, a lost spirit. Ben felt real, made of flesh and bone and muscle. She pictured him on the boat earlier, almost overboard because of her stupid mistake, because she wasn’t paying attention. But how could you pay attention to the world when you were barely in it?
She imagined Ben tipping over the side of the Porpoise into the same sea that took her son. But that was wrong, that’s not what happened, the water didn’t take Logan, he went willingly into it, gave himself to it.
She was aware of how awkward this was, standing in the doorway, hugging and crying. She sensed people walking past in the street, felt Ben acknowledge them with a look and a nod of the head. She didn’t care. Let them all see what the world can do to you. Eventually her crying began to subside. She felt like she wasn’t in possession of her own body, she’d lost all control.
Ben gave a final rub of her back then eased himself from her grasp.
‘You OK?’ he said.
‘Not really.’
‘Come inside, I’ll put the kettle on.’
In the kitchen, everything looked like it always did. Same scuffed table, same worn worktops, same bridges skulking outside the window. She felt like an impostor in her own house, like the real Ellie would ring the doorbell any minute and claim her house and husband and son back.
She scratched at her arm, that damn tattoo. She pulled the shoulder of her cardigan down, examined it. Red raw still, angry. Was that pus, was it getting infected? She dug her nails into the skin, felt relief with the pain, then covered her arm up.
They’d walked back from the marina in silence. They hadn’t spoken before that either as they brought the Porpoise back to berth, pressed the kill button on the outboard and switched on the bilge pump under the floorboards of the cabin. They’d taken on a fair amount of water but nothing too dangerous, the level was quickly down. After securing the boat they got changed out of their wet gear in the locker room, then began the walk back. Ellie glanced at the deserted warehouse and imagined what Sam was doing inside.
‘I thought you were overboard,’ she said.
He filled the kettle. ‘Is that what this is about?’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘It was my fault, I was in charge of the boat and I wasn’t paying attention. You could’ve died.’
Ben put the kettle on. ‘Nobody died.’
There was silence as those words hung in the air like poison.
Ben turned. ‘I meant . . .’
‘I know what you meant.’ Ellie’s tone was gentle.
She thought of sitting at this table, talking to Sam yesterday morning. Trying to bring him down from the edge, keep him alive. She preferred being the one doing the comforting, it was a million times easier. She rubbed at the surface of the table where Sam’s cup of tea had been, wiped away imaginary biscuit crumbs, just as Ben placed her own tea in the same spot.
‘I need to tell you something,’ Ellie said.
Ben sat down opposite. ‘What?’
He had his mug in his hand. Ellie stared at it. It was from the high school up the road, picked up at a spring fair the first year Logan was there. It had the school crest on it, an abstract thing with a yellow cross and three red flowers. It said Mente et Manu underneath – ‘with mind and hand’. That had always seemed so vague as to be almost meaningless. She knew what they were getting at but it was hardly inspirational. She stretched her fingers out in front of her and stared at them. Her hands seemed so disconnected from her mind, as if she had no power over them. She imagined her hands slapping her cup of tea on to the floor, or rising up to her own throat and squeezing, or picking up a kitchen knife and burying it in the belly of a child abuser.
She should tell Ben, she knew that. Now was the time, before things unravelled. But they’d already gone too far, she couldn’t imagine starting this conversation now. She tried to think of all the different ways into this story, what had happened since yesterday morning, but in the bleached autumn light coming through the window they all felt ridiculous. What seemed like a simple case of doing the right thing had become more tangled. She’d wanted to help someone in trouble, and she still wanted to help, but her possible courses of action were disappearing. As long as she didn’t tell Ben she had a sliver of control over this whole situation.
‘Nothing,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t matter.’
He blew the steam from his tea and stared at her. ‘Are you sure?’
She knew he wouldn’t force it; that was one of the million little things she loved about him.
‘Yeah,’ she said.
‘OK.’
She lifted her own mug, blew on the tea and tried to smile.
21
She checked the local news app on her phone as she strode back to the marina. The grumble of traffic overhead as she walked under the bridge made her feel insignificant as always, the thick bridge legs seemingly growing out of the earth.
There was nothing new on the story, the police still appealing for witnesses. She thought about how she’d been at that house twice now. No, three times. She’d been to Inchcolm Terrace three times, hadn’t she? God, she was losing it. And the police were still seeking to trace the whereabouts of Sam McKenna, the victim’s seventeen-year-old son. ‘Seeking to trace the whereabouts’ and ‘appealing for witnesses’ – why did the police succumb to their own clichés of language, their own verbose patterns? It was a unique and awkward vocabulary, as if the public couldn’t handle the truth of crime delivered to them in plain language. There was a hint of Orwell about it. Maybe it wasn’t sinister, just that the organisation found it easier to fall into that language as a comfort, a code handed down from generation to generation of copper, sticking to their own obscure linguistic rules.
While she still had her phone out she stopped walking and opened Facebook, went straight to Logan’s page. Nothing new. She sent a quick message, just Love, Mum xxx. She flicked to Sam’s page, then Libby’s, then back to Logan and swiped through the pictures. Touched her thumb to the screen, zoomed in on one he was tagged in with her and Ben. He’d said it was embarrassing, talked about untagging himself so his friends wouldn’t see it, but he never did. They were in France, sitting outside at a table next to a vineyard, three glasses of red wine raised in a cheers. The owner of the vineyard had taken the picture, a fat, happy man who insisted on pouring a glass for Logan even though he was only thirteen. Logan had that weird mix of embarrassment and excitement about alcohol, and they let him drink it. He sipped and winced at first, but kept drinking. She zoomed in as far as possible on the photograph until it was just a grainy blur of colour, the burgundy of the glass, the green of his T-shirt, the paleness of his skin. She rubbed her finger on the screen as if trying to get a stain out.
She closed Facebook and stared at the icons on her phone. Her thumb hovered over Video. She pressed it. Just the one clip on there, from the bridge. She pressed play, stared at the grainy screen, the grey, blank bridge, then the figure of Logan coming into shot, his back to the camera. She wished he’d been facing the CCTV. He stopped at the railing, looked up and down, then faced out to sea. Flicked at his hair. Waited for a moment. Ellie paused the video and raised a hand to her forehead. Closed her eyes then reopened them. Pressed play. Logan hoisted himself up and over the railing, stood on the ledge. She paused it again. Touched the screen. Play. A short wait then her son stepped off the edge and the bridge was empty again. She wiped a tear off the screen and closed the app. She bent double where she stood, and put her hands on her thighs, trying to breathe. She felt something come over here and puked into the grass verge at the side of the lane, her throat convulsing three, four times. She spat sick out her mouth and wiped tears from her eyes. Waited like that, crouched over, for a few moments then straightened her back and put her phone away.
She began walking, stumbling at first like an old woman unsure of her footing. She skirted round the back way to the warehouse, avoiding the likely huddle of activity at the marina this time of day. The wind was fresh and the leaves were beginning to fall from the trees in the woods opposite as the branches swayed in the breeze. They rustled in competition with the bridge traffic and the faint shush of the water. Things were never quiet around here, she couldn’t remember a time of peace and tranquillity.
She heard voices and her shoulders tensed. They were coming from inside the warehouse. She crept to the window and listened. Two voices, both young. One a girl, the other Sam. She looked through the empty frame and saw Sam and Libby standing together next to a decrepit workbench in the corner of the room.
‘What’s she doing here?’ Ellie said, clambering through the window.
Sam and Libby turned as Ellie landed in a scuff of rubble.
‘I could hear you arguing a mile away,’ she said. ‘That’s not exactly safe. She has to go home.’
Sam approached her, Libby behind.
‘I was just telling her that,’ he said.
Libby folded her arms. ‘I’m staying here.’
Her body language was full of exaggerated, pre-teen melodrama, hip stuck out and pouting.
‘You have to go,’ Ellie said.
Libby threw a thumb in her brother’s direction. ‘He’s here, why not me?’
Ellie tried to keep her voice calm. ‘Because you’re an eleven-year-old girl.’
‘I’m almost twelve,’ Libby said.
Ellie held in a laugh. ‘Your brother is technically an adult, but a missing eleven-year-old girl is an entirely different story.’
Sam turned to his sister. ‘I told you, Lib.’
‘This is bullshit,’ Libby said.
‘Does your mum know where you are?’ Ellie said.
Libby shook her head. ‘She thinks I’m at school.’
‘But they have an automated system. If you’re not in registration, the parents get a text and a call.’
Libby was thrown off. ‘I forgot about that.’
Sam raised his eyebrows. ‘You forgot?’
Ellie spoke to her. ‘We have to get you home right now.’
‘No.’
Ellie raised a finger at her, the nagging point. ‘Do you want to get your brother into more trouble, is that what you want?’
‘Of course not.’
‘You’ve got a funny way of showing it.’ Ellie hated how her voice sounded, like her own mother’s when she told Ellie off. Falling back on familiar patterns of speech, she was no better than the police.
Libby looked uncertain.
‘What’s the plan?’ Sam said, flicking his hand through his fringe.
Ellie stared at him. ‘I still need to work that out. In the meantime we have to get Libby home.’
She turned to Libby. ‘Does anyone know you’re here?’
Libby made a face like she was talking to a toddler. ‘Of course not.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Have you texted anyone today, posted anything online?’
Libby stuck her bottom lip out. ‘I texted my mate Cassie.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘Just that I was meeting Sam, that’s all, and I’d see her later.’
‘When was that?’
‘I don’t know, an hour ago?’
‘Text her now, tell her to delete it and not mention it to anyone.’
‘What?’
Ellie moved her face closer to Libby’s. She could see clumps of concealer on her face, trying to cover the spots. ‘Do you realise how fucking serious this is?’
‘Of course I do.’
Libby shuffled her feet in the dirt and Ellie could see tears welling up in her eyes.
Sam moved between them. ‘Take it easy, she’s only a kid.’
Ellie sighed. ‘I’m sorry, but you have to understand. I promise I’ll take care of both of you, but you have to do what I say. The best place for Libby at the moment is at home, that way the police won’t be looking so hard for Sam. Your dad’s still in hospital, so there’s no danger on that front. We can’t arouse any more suspicion.’
Sam was rubbing Libby’s arm. ‘She’s right, Lib. Mum will go mental when she realises you’re not there.’
‘I suppose.’
‘And I’m always on the phone, I’ve got a battery charger now, so I won’t run out of juice like yesterday, Ellie sorted it.’
The tone of his voice had a calming effect on her. Ellie wondered how Logan would’ve been with a little brother or sister. Would he have been caring and considerate, or would they have been at each other’s throats like so many siblings?
Libby looked at her brother now. ‘We can meet up again, yeah? It’s weird in the house, just me and Mum.’
Sam gave her a hug. ‘Of course we can. We just have to be careful.’
He pulled away as Ellie looked at her watch.
‘We need to get you back,’ she said to Libby.
The girl looked at Sam for a long moment, as Ellie held out her hand. Then she began walking, dragging her feet, following Ellie.
Libby stopped at the window and turned to Sam. ‘See you.’
‘See you soon,’ Sam said.
22
Ellie waited till they were well away from the marina before she spoke. She turned to Libby who was scuffing her trainers, shoulders hunched in a red hoodie.
‘I need to get some things straight with you,’ Ellie said.
Libby shrugged. They were heading back under the bridge. How many times had Ellie walked under this thing? Must be hundreds. She imagined the concrete crumbling, huge slabs of the stuff raining down, crushing them, steel cables whipping as they lashed about, cars and vans and lorries piling down and smashing into the dirt around them. She pictured the shockwaves spreading along the length of the bridge, the overhead cables snapping like threads, the entire length of road tumbling into the water, sending a colossal wave to drown the towns and villages along the coast, collapsing the rail bridge and swamping the oil terminal, a chain reaction that would destroy the world.
‘If I’m going to help you and Sam I need as much information as possible,’ Ellie said. ‘Do you understand?’
Libby nodded, just a twitch of her head.
‘It might not be easy to talk about,’ Ellie said.
Libby looked at her. ‘I don’t mind.’
‘So tell me what happened yesterday.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I presume you’ve spoken to the police.’
‘Yeah.’
‘What did you tell them?’
Libby shoved her hands further into her pockets. ‘Nothing. I said I wasn’t home, and I didn’t know anything about it.’
‘Is that true?’
Libby lowered her head and mumbled.
Ellie ducked closer to her. ‘What?’
‘No.’
Ellie pointed up the access road to the bridge. ‘Let’s take the back way, less chance of being seen.’
They crossed the road and headed up the hill, traffic getting louder.
‘So,’ Ellie said. ‘What really happened yesterday morning?’
