Renée Knight - Disclaimer

And then he raced in, brushing her aside as he ran past, then diving like a lifeguard into the waves. Why were there no fucking lifeguards on this beach? There was not even a flag. He was the one who responded to her cries for help. “No,” she screamed and the word left her mouth before she could stop it. A howl which no one understood. She didn’t want it to be him. Not him, please. She watched as he swam towards the dinghy. It was tipping back and forth wildly: Nicholas was trying to stand up. Oh God, please don’t stand up, you’ll fall in. She tried to gesture with her hands for Nick to sit down, but he was too far out to see her.

Others were standing with her now. A couple with a toddler and another family, English, kind, the mother’s arm around Catherine. And Spanish families too, all gripped by the sight of the little boy bobbing dangerously out to sea and the young man striking out to reach him. She remembered how strong he was, and she knew he would make it to Nicholas. There would be no stopping him. And he did and the people around her smiled and the English mother squeezed her shoulder and smiled too but she didn’t smile. She felt sick as she watched.

He was swimming back, dragging Nicholas in the dinghy behind him. It was hypnotic watching him: one armed, one handed, just keeping going. It was heroic. He was brave. She was thinking this when she heard the fear in the voices around her. A gabble of Spanish and then the English father: “He’s in trouble, they need help,” and he was about to run in himself when a younger Spanish man beat him to it. Not as young as Jonathan, but still young. Late twenties? Her age? He swam out, grabbed the rope, then turned back and swam towards the shore with Nicholas safely behind him. For a while it looked as if they weren’t moving, the waves beating them back, the current pulling them away from the shore, but he managed it, this other Spanish man. He moved closer and closer to the shore and to safety. And everyone looked at him and Nick, not Jonathan. They all assumed he was okay.

And then Nicholas was back on the shore and she scooped him out of the dinghy, wrapped him in a towel and held him close. He was shivering from cold, his chattering teeth rendering him speechless. He buried his head in his mother’s chest and she pulled the towel right up over his head, like a hood, protecting him, holding him. Then she turned and saw the young Spanish man and the English dad swim out to Jonathan, who had been left behind. He didn’t seem to be making any effort to get back to shore. He was flapping his arms, pushing down at the sea. It was all in slow motion.

People were speaking to her in Spanish, kind voices, smiling, stroking Nicholas’s head, happy at the rescue of this little boy. And then the English mother pressed against her ear and whispered:

“Don’t let him see. He mustn’t see.” And a few of them gathered round to screen Nicholas’s view of the beach. Catherine turned to see Jonathan’s body being carried from a boat. A speedboat had come but too late to help and she watched as Jonathan’s body was laid out on the sand. Then she looked away. She shielded Nicholas.

“You’re hurting me,” were his first words.

She hadn’t realised how hard she had been pressing her son against her. Other mothers had gathered round, forming a barrier to protect the child from seeing the body of the man who had saved him.

“You should take him back to your hotel,” said the Englishwoman, her hand on Catherine’s arm. “Where’s your stuff?”

And Catherine pointed to her towel and bag and the woman went and gathered them up and Catherine put a T-shirt on Nicholas, and took his hand.

“Shall we go and see if the hotel will do you a hot chocolate?” She was shocked by the calm in her voice.

“Yeah,” he said brightly, and he picked up the rope to take the dinghy with them.

“Let’s leave it here, Nick. We’re going home tomorrow. We won’t be able to take it on the plane. Someone else can play with it.” She braced herself for tears, but he was fine about it. Forgotten already. The novelty worn off. He didn’t mention it or the incident again. Ever. She waited for it. For the memory of his fear, of the realisation that he was too far out and she wasn’t with him, that the sea was too rough, that he had been rescued, but it never came. He never said a word about it. He was freezing, he had said that, but he never said that he thought he would drown. He never said he was scared. Perhaps he hadn’t been. He’d been cold and he’d wanted to get back to the beach, but then someone came and got him. Simple as that. He had never really feared for his life.

As they walked up the steps from the beach, Catherine looked back one last time and saw Jonathan lying on the sand, covered in two towels. Dead. She knew he was dead. And what did she feel? She presses herself. What did you feel?

A story has been playing on the news all day, a story of children who have died of shame, unable to tell their parents about pictures they have posted on the Internet to predatory adults who pretend to be their friends. Some of these children are as young as eight. This has been the sound track as I have pored over photographs of Jonathan as a child, the news story running through my head as I search for the picture which best captures my son, the one which shows him as I wish him to be remembered. If Jonathan were a child today, I don’t believe he would have become a victim of those monsters. He would never have died of shame because he knew he could always talk to his mother. He knew he could tell her anything and she would never love him any less. They were as close as a mother and son could be.

So close, that it was Nancy, not me, who was the one to tell him the facts of life.

His mother, not his father. You’d think it would have been easier for me, but it was Nancy he listened to, Nancy he talked to. When I tried to tackle the subject with him he’d stuck his fingers in his ears and la-la-laad so loudly he’d drowned me out, and Nancy and I had laughed about it afterwards, how funny he was, how silly. He’d hit puberty early, he was only eleven, but he needed to know what was what so she said she’d do it and I remember thinking, good luck, he’ll be even more embarrassed listening to his mum talk about sex. But he wasn’t.

She’d sat him down and made him look her in the eye and told him there was nothing to be frightened or shy about. It was natural. One day he would meet the right person and then his uncomfortable urges would make sense. There was nothing to be ashamed of, he should feel free to explore his own body, in fact she encouraged him to do so and told him that if he was ever worried about anything he could always talk to her. I remember a few occasions when I walked past his closed bedroom door and heard the murmur of their voices. He knew he could trust her and I knew not to intrude on them. Jonathan could be sure that no matter what he did his mother would always understand. Our son would have been safe from Internet predators like me.

I have lied about my age to lure someone younger than me into being my friend. I have pretended to be someone I am not.

Last night I posted up the rest of the photographs. No child should have to see their mother like that. What would it do to you, seeing your own mother exposed like that, everything on show, the shame, the filth? I doubt whether he’ll ever be able to erase those images from his mind. But there’s no going back now. We are on a mission.

Little Nick. He is waiting for me — he wants to know more about the photos. Who took them? And so I tell him. Then I post up the picture I have chosen of Jonathan. A little boy age ten, wearing the sweater his grandmother knitted him for Christmas. He looks as pleased as punch, chest out, showing off the Ninja turtle she’d stitched into the front. And I add the words: