Clare Mackintosh - I Let You Go

‘Don’t,’ Patrick says. There is an intensity in his eyes that scares me, and I shift uncomfortably in my seat. Patrick drops his gaze and takes a long swallow of his pint. ‘The tide,’ he says softly, ‘it catches people out.’

I nod, and promise I won’t swim.

‘It sounds strange, but the safest swimming is further out.’ Patrick’s eyes light up. ‘In the summer it’s great to take a boat out beyond the bay, and dive straight into the deep water. I’ll take you sometime, if you like.’

It’s a casual offer, but I shiver. The thought of being alone with Patrick – with anyone – in the middle of the ocean is utterly terrifying.

‘The water’s not as cold as you think,’ Patrick says, misunderstanding my discomfort. He stops talking, and there is an awkward silence.

I lean down and stroke Beau, who is asleep under the table, and try to think of something to say. ‘Do your parents still live here?’ I finally manage. Was I always this dull? I try to think back to university, when I was the life and soul of a party; friends throwing their heads back in laughter at something I said. Now simply making conversation is an effort.

‘They moved to Spain a couple of years ago, lucky buggers. Mum has arthritis and I think the warm weather helps her joints – that’s her excuse, anyway. How about you? Are your parents still around?’

‘Not exactly.’

Patrick looks curious and I realise I should have simply said ‘no’. I take a deep breath. ‘I never really got on with my mum,’ I tell him. ‘She threw my dad out when I was fifteen and I haven’t seen him since – I never forgave her for it.’

‘She must have had her reasons.’ He makes a question of it, but I’m nevertheless defensive.

‘My father was an amazing man,’ I say. ‘She didn’t deserve him.’

‘So you don’t see your mother, either?’

‘I did, for years, but we had a falling-out after I…’ I stop myself. ‘We had a falling-out. A couple of years ago my sister wrote to tell me she had died.’ I see sympathy in Patrick’s eyes, but I shrug it off. What a mess I make of everything. I don’t fit into the neat mould Patrick will be used to: he must wish he hadn’t asked me for a drink. This evening is only going to get more awkward for both of us. We have run out of small talk and I can’t think of anything else to say. I’m frightened of the questions I can see brimming in Patrick’s mind: why I came to Penfach; what made me leave Bristol; why I’m here on my own. He will ask out of politeness, not realising that he doesn’t want to know the truth. Not realising I can’t tell him the truth.

‘I should be getting back,’ I say.

‘Now?’ He must be relieved, although he doesn’t show it. ‘It’s still early – we could have another drink, or something to eat.’

‘No, really, I had better go. Thank you for the drink.’ I stand up before he feels the need to suggest we see each other again, but he pushes his chair back at the same time.

‘I’ll walk you home.’

I hear warning bells in my head. Why would he want to come with me? It’s warm in the pub, and his friends are here; he has half a pint untouched in his glass. My head pounds. I think of how isolated the cottage is; how no one would hear if he refused to leave. Patrick might seem kind and honest now, but I know how quickly things can change.

‘No. Thank you.’

I push through the group of locals, not caring what they think of me. I manage not to run until I have left the pub and turned the corner, but then I tear along the road to the caravan park and on to the coastal path that will take me home. Beau chases at my feet, surprised by the sudden change in pace. The freezing air hurts my lungs, but I don’t stop until I reach the cottage, where I once again battle to turn the key in the lock. Eventually I get inside, and I slam the bolt home and lean against the door.

My heart is thumping and I’m struggling to catch my breath. I’m not even sure now that it’s Patrick I’m frightened of; he’s become mixed up in my head with the panic that grips me every day. I don’t trust my instincts any more – they’ve been wrong so many times before – and so the safest thing to do is to stay well away.

15

Ray turned over and buried his face into the pillow to escape the morning light filtering through the slatted blinds. For a moment he couldn’t pinpoint the feeling that weighed heavy inside him, then he recognised it. Guilt. What had he been thinking? He had never felt tempted to cheat on Mags – not once in fifteen years of marriage. He replayed the events of the previous evening in his head. Had he taken advantage of Kate? Before he could intercept it, the idea that she might put in a complaint came into his head, and he instantly despised himself for the thought. She wasn’t like that. But nevertheless the worry almost pushed aside the guilt.

The measured breathing next to him told Ray he was the only one awake, and he eased himself out of bed, glancing at the sleeping mound next to him, the duvet pulled up around her head. If Mags were to find out … it didn’t bear thinking about.

As he stood up, the duvet stirred, and Ray froze. Cowardly though it was, he had been hoping to sneak out without having to make conversation. He would have to face her at some point, but he needed a few hours to get his head round what had happened.

‘What time is it?’ Mags mumbled.

‘Just gone six,’ Ray whispered. ‘I’m going into work early. Catch up with some paperwork.’

She grunted and went back to sleep, and Ray let out a silent breath of relief. He showered as quickly as he could, and was in the office a little over half an hour later, shutting the door and ploughing through paperwork as though he could eradicate what had happened. Fortunately Kate was out on enquiries, and at lunchtime Ray risked a quick trip to the canteen with Stumpy. They found a free table and Ray carried over two plates of what was billed as lasagne but bore very little resemblance to it. Moira, the station dinner lady, had lovingly chalked an Italian flag next to the dish of the day, and had beamed at them as they placed their order, so Ray manfully worked his way through an enormous portion, trying to ignore the persistent feeling of nausea that had plagued him since he got up. Moira was large and of indeterminate age, perennially cheerful despite a skin complaint that caused silvery flakes to fly off her arms when she took off her cardigan.

‘You all right, Ray? Something on your mind?’ Stumpy scraped up the remains of his lunch with his fork. Blessed with an iron stomach, Stumpy seemed not only to tolerate Moira’s food, but to positively relish it.

‘I’m fine,’ Ray said, relieved when Stumpy didn’t persist. He looked up to see Kate coming into the canteen, and wished he had eaten faster. Stumpy stood up, the metal legs of his chair scraping against the floor. ‘I’ll see you in the office, boss.’

Unable to think of a plausible reason to either call Stumpy back, or abandon his lunch before Kate sat down, Ray forced a smile. ‘Hi, Kate.’ He felt a hot flush spreading over his face. His mouth was bone-dry and he swallowed hard.

‘Hey.’ She sat down and unwrapped her sandwiches, seemingly unaware of his discomfort.

Her face was inscrutable, and the feeling of nausea increased. He pushed his food to one side, deciding Moira’s wrath was the lesser of two evils, and looked around to check that no one was listening.

‘About last night…’ he began, feeling like an awkward teen.

Kate jumped in. ‘I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me – are you all right?’

Ray let out a breath. ‘More or less. You?’

Kate nodded. ‘Bit embarrassed, to be honest.’