Last Seen. Lucy Clarke

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      Inside are a pack of large Rizlas, a pouch of tobacco, and a small polythene bag of what I’m guessing is weed.

      I lean back against the foot of the sofa and open the bag, pinching a small amount between my thumb and forefinger. I’ve never caught him with a joint – but it doesn’t come as a surprise to me that he smokes the stuff. Only a fortnight ago he’d returned to the hut one evening with the smell of smoke on his breath. His eyes had that slightly hazy, bloodshot look to them and he’d raided the biscuit tin, and then the crisp drawer.

      ‘Have you been smoking?’ I’d asked from the sofa, where I’d stayed up reading.

      ‘Mum, you might wanna hold your application for detective school. The thing about beach fires is that sometimes there is … smoke.’ He gave me a wide, easy smile.

      Even though I knew he was lying, I didn’t call him on it. Those smiles were rare. He flopped on to the sofa beside me. Up close, I could see his widened pupils, the light slackness to his face. ‘Living in a beach hut – we’re lucky, aren’t we? The sea is just right there. Literally there.’

      I let my questions drift away. Stoned or not, I’d liked that pleasant version of my son who sat next to me and actually held a conversation. We talked for a few minutes, reminiscing about past summers. But then I ruined it. ‘Was Caz at the party tonight?

      ‘Yeah.’

      ‘She’s nice. I like her.’ I told myself I should edit my next thought, but it slipped out so quickly, I didn’t have the chance. ‘Take things slowly, won’t you?’

      I was worried Jacob might scare Caz off. I’d overheard his last girlfriend telling him, ‘You’re too possessive, Jacob. You need to back off. I’m your girlfriend, not your wife!’

      As Jacob looked at me, his expression changed. He leant towards me, his face pressed up close to mine. I could smell the smoke and alcohol on his breath. He stared at me, eye to eye. His voice was low as he said, ‘Intense. Me?’

      I opened my mouth to say something, but Jacob burst out laughing. Then he patted me on the shoulder as he stood, saying, ‘Great chat, Mum. Really great.’

      Now I bring the weed towards my face and inhale.

      The nutty, pungent smell takes me back to long evenings lying on the beach with Isla. We’d put a rug down by the shore and lie with our hair fanning around us, blowing smoke rings to the stars. On rainy nights, we’d bundle into her beach hut – Nick, too – and we’d smoke in there, the fumes so strong that we’d be stoned for hours.

      It’s been years since I skinned up, and my fingers itch to make those practised movements. I almost laugh at the thought of Jacob walking in now to find me smoking a joint. At least it’d be an icebreaker.

      I put the weed back in its bag, and return the tin to Jacob’s drawer. I’m surprised he didn’t take it with him to the party. I commend myself for being relaxed: there are condoms and drugs in his drawer. It’s not a parenting dream, but it could be worse.

      I have a final rummage to see if I’ve missed anything, and my hand meets a white envelope. I pull it out, turning it over in my hands. There is no writing anywhere on it. The envelope is not sealed, so I simply lift the flap.

      Inside is a wad of cash.

      I count out the money. There’s exactly five hundred pounds in a mixture of denominations, the notes dirty and used.

      Over summer Jacob’s been working part-time on the harbour ferry. He does three afternoon shifts a week and makes £70 at the end of it, but I know he’s recently spent much of that on a new skateboard. I wonder why he’d need this amount of cash at the beach, when there’s nothing to spend it on.

      I look again at this envelope of money, wondering what he’s doing with it – and why it’s in a blank envelope.

      I put everything back into his drawer and get to my feet, standing in the centre of the hut. My heart is beating harder now as the facts hit me, one after another: Jacob has not been seen in almost twenty-four hours; his phone isn’t connecting; he doesn’t appear to have taken any belongings with him. He has condoms, weed, and an envelope filled with money.

      I don’t commend myself about being relaxed any more.

      The moment Nick returns, I show him what I’ve found.

      It’s the money that concerns him most. ‘Is there anything he’d talked about buying? I don’t know, like a new music system? A bike, maybe? Or something he knew we wouldn’t want him to get – like a moped?’

      ‘No, nothing.’ I’ve already been through this in my mind, and I can’t think of anything Jacob particularly wanted. I’ve even wondered whether the money was for Caz – to buy her a piece of jewellery, perhaps. She’s a girl of expensive tastes, used to being indulged by her father.

      ‘Maybe my parents gave him the money?’ Nick suggests.

      ‘No, they gave him twenty pounds,’ I say, showing him the birthday card propped on the shelf, a cheque fastened inside. I feel impatient with Nick as he tries to catch up. I hurry him through my thoughts: ‘It doesn’t make sense that Jacob would have that amount of money here. There’s nothing to buy at the beach. Anyway, most people make big purchases by card. Plus the money was in an envelope. Doesn’t that strike you as odd? It’s as if … I don’t know … as if he was going to give it to someone.’

      ‘Or,’ Nick says, ‘someone gave it to him.’

      I press my lips together. I’ve told Nick about the weed, but neither of us have verbalized the possibility that the money could be linked to Jacob selling drugs – although the thought hovers in the back of my mind.

      It’s past nine o’clock when we finally ring the police. Nick makes the call on speakerphone at my request.

      I stand with my back pressed against the kitchen side, my hands clasped as I listen to Nick answering their questions. As soon as he utters the words, ‘male, seventeen’, I can practically hear the sense of urgency slipping from the officer’s tone.

      If Jacob were a girl, I can’t help but think the officer would be sitting up straighter, listening harder.

      Then I have to ask myself, if Jacob had been a girl, maybe I would have called the police sooner, too. Maybe I’d have called first thing in the morning when Jacob didn’t come home – rather than waiting all day.

      Why the hell have we waited? I wouldn’t forgive myself if Jacob has had an accident and Nick and I delayed until now before doing anything about it. My mind fires with images of Jacob trapped between the rocks, with his ankle bent at an unnatural angle, or crumpled at the base of the headland, tonnes of earth and sand heaped on top of him.

      The officer tells Nick that they’ll send someone out tonight, so Nick has to explain for a second time that he’s phoning from a beach hut on Longstone Sandbank. ‘The earliest you can reach us is first thing in the morning when the ferry starts running at eight o’clock.’ It always seems strange to me that many local people don’t visit the sandbank – often don’t even know where it is.

      When the call is over, Nick places his mobile on the kitchen counter. We look at each other – but neither СКАЧАТЬ