Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

‘I wonder where he gets that from,’ Kate said, suppressing a smile.

‘Watch it, DC Evans! Or do you want to end up back in uniform?’ He grinned.

Kate’s laugh turned into a yawn. ‘Sorry, I’m knackered. I think I’m going to call it a night. My car’s in the garage, so I need to check what time the buses run.’

‘I’ll give you a lift.’

‘Are you sure? It’s not exactly on your way.’

‘It’s no trouble. Come on – you can show me what the posh end of town’s like.’

Kate’s apartment was in a smart block of flats in the centre of Clifton, where prices were, in Ray’s view, vastly inflated.

‘My parents helped me out with a deposit,’ Kate explained. ‘I’d never have afforded it otherwise. Plus it’s tiny; technically two bedrooms, but only if you don’t actually want to put a bed in the second one.’

‘Surely you’d have got far more for your money if you’d bought elsewhere?’

‘Probably, but Clifton has everything!’ Kate waved an arm expansively. ‘I mean, where else can you get falafel at three in the morning?’

As the only thing Ray ever wanted at three in the morning was a pee, he failed to see the attraction.

Kate unclipped her seat belt and stopped, her hand on the door handle. ‘Do you want to come up and see the flat?’ Her tone was casual, but the air was suddenly thick with anticipation, and at that instant Ray knew he was crossing a line he had been refusing to acknowledge for months.

‘I’d like that,’ he said.

Kate’s apartment was on the top floor, with a swanky lift that arrived in seconds. When the doors opened they were on a small carpeted landing with a cream-painted front door immediately opposite them. Ray followed Kate out of the lift, and they stood in silence as the doors slid shut. She was looking directly at him, her chin lifted a little, and a strand of hair falling across her forehead. Ray suddenly found he was in no hurry to leave.

‘This is me,’ Kate said, without taking her eyes off him.

He nodded, reaching out to tuck the errant strand of hair behind her ear. Then, before he could question what was happening, he was kissing her.

14

Beau pushes his nose into the crook of my leg and I reach down to fuss his ears. I haven’t been able to prevent myself from loving him, and so he sleeps on my bed as he has wanted to do from the start. When the nightmares come, and I wake screaming, he’s there to lick my hand and reassure me. Gradually, without my noticing, my grief has changed shape; from a raw, jagged pain, that won’t be silenced, to a dull, rounded ache I’m able to lock away at the back of my mind. If it is left there, quiet and undisturbed, I find I’m able to pretend that everything is quite all right. That I never had another life.

‘Come on, then.’ I reach out to switch off the bedside light, which can’t compete with the sunlight streaming through the window. I know the seasons of the bay now, and there is a pleasing satisfaction in having seen almost a full year here. The bay is never the same from one day to the next. Changing tides, unpredictable weather, even the rubbish thrown up on the beach alters it hourly. Today the sea is swollen from a night’s rain, the sand grey and waterlogged beneath heavy clouds. There are no tents at the caravan park now, only Bethan’s static caravans and a handful of motorhomes owned by holiday-makers taking advantage of the late-season discounts. Before too long the park will close, and the bay will be mine again.

Beau races ahead and runs down on to the beach. The tide is in and he dives into the sea, barking at the cold waves. I laugh out loud. He is more spaniel than collie now, with the slightly-too-long legs of a teenager, and so much energy I wonder if he could ever run it off.

I scan the clifftop, but it’s empty, and I allow myself a twinge of disappointment before I shake it off. It’s ridiculous to hope to see Patrick, when we’ve met here on the beach just that one time, but I can’t stop the thought forming.

I find a stretch of sand on which to write. I suspect things will slow down over the winter, but for the time being the business is doing well. I get a jolt of pleasure every time an order arrives, and I enjoy guessing the stories behind the messages. Most of my customers have some connection to the sea, and many email after they’ve received their order, to tell me how much they loved the picture; how they spent their childhood on the beach, or saved for family holidays by the coast. Sometimes they ask me which beach it is, but I never reply.

As I’m about to start work, Beau barks, and I look up to see a man walking towards us. My breath catches, but he raises a hand in greeting and I realise it’s him. It’s Patrick. I can’t hide my smile, and although my heart is racing, it isn’t through fear.

‘I hoped I might find you here,’ he says, before he has even reached me. ‘How do you fancy an apprentice?’ He isn’t wearing boots today, and his corduroy trousers are laced with wet sand. The collar on his waxed jacket is turned up on one side and I resist the temptation to reach up and smooth it back down.

‘Good morning,’ I say. ‘An apprentice?’

He makes a sweeping gesture with his left arm, encompassing most of the beach. ‘I thought I could help you work.’

I’m not sure if he’s making fun of me. I don’t say anything.

Patrick takes the stick from my hand and stands expectantly, poised over the empty patch of sand. I’m suddenly flustered. ‘It’s harder than it looks, you know,’ I say, adopting a serious tone to cover my awkwardness. ‘I can’t have any footprints in the shot, and we have to work quickly, otherwise the tide will come in too close.’

I can’t recall anyone ever wanting to share this part of my life: art was always something to be shut away in another room, something for me to do on my own, as though it didn’t belong in the real world.

‘Got it.’ He has an air of concentration on his face I find touching. It is, after all, just a message in the sand.

I read the order aloud. ‘Nice and simple: “Thank you, David”.’

‘Aha – thank you for what , exactly, I wonder?’ says Patrick, leaning over the sand to write the first word. ‘Thank you for feeding the cat? Thank you for saving my life? Thank you for agreeing to marry me even after I had that fling with the postman?’

The corners of my mouth twitch. ‘Thank you for teaching me flamenco dancing,’ I proffer, pretending to be serious.

‘Thank you for the selection of fine Cuban cigars.’

‘Thank you for extending my overdraft.’

‘Thank you for…’ Patrick reaches his arm out to complete the final word and loses his balance, toppling forward and only managing to stay upright by planting a foot firmly in the middle of the writing. ‘Oh, bugger.’ He steps back to eye the ruined message and looks apologetically at me.

I burst out laughing. ‘I did say it was harder than it looked.’

He passes me back the stick. ‘I bow to your superior artistic skills. Even without the footprint, my effort isn’t terribly impressive. The letters are all different sizes.’

‘It was a valiant attempt,’ I tell him. I look around for Beau, calling him away from a crab he is intent on playing with.

‘How’s this?’ Patrick says. I look at the message he has written in the sand, expecting a second attempt at the ‘thank you’.

Drink?

‘Better,’ I say, ‘although that’s not one of—’ I break off, feeling foolish. ‘Oh, I see.’

‘At the Cross Oak? This evening?’ Patrick falters a little, and I realise he’s nervous too. It gives me confidence.

I hesitate, but only for a second, ignoring the thumping in my chest. ‘I’d like that.’