Silver Bay(68)
Author: Jojo Moyes

But when I reached my room and scrabbled in my pocket the little screen told a different story. I gazed at the name, at the flashing backlight, then flipped the button. ‘Hello?’

There was a pause.

‘Vanessa?’

‘Mike.’

I looked out of the window at the dark night, just able, through the rain, to see the lights of the boats illuminating the inky black. I had no idea what to say.

‘I heard you quit,’ she said. She sounded as if she might be next door.

I sat down on the leather chair. ‘A week ago. I – ah – didn’t work any notice.’ It already felt another lifetime ago.

‘I’ve been off,’ she said. ‘I didn’t know. Dad didn’t tell me.’

‘I would have called,’ I said, ‘but—’

‘Yes.’

There was a long silence.

‘I didn’t want to go in,’ she said, ‘not with you and – and her still there.’

I dropped my head into my palm and took a deep breath. ‘I’m so sorry, Ness.’

There was another silence. I felt the hurt in it, and was crushed.

‘I wanted to tell you . . . it was stupid and – and you deserved better. But you should know that it was only once and I regretted it more than I can say. Really.’

More silence. I guessed she was digesting this.

‘Why did you quit?’

I frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Did Dad make you go? Because I never meant you to lose your job. I mean, I know I went against you at that meeting . . . but I just wanted to – I just felt so—’

‘It wasn’t your dad,’ I said. ‘It was my own decision. I thought it would be . . . best, you know, given . . .’ I was distracted by the sound of the dog barking. ‘In fact he asked me to stay.’

‘I’m glad,’ she said. ‘It’s been worrying me. Mike?’

‘Mm?’ The dog sounded as if she was at the front door. I wondered if I should go down but I knew that if she kept barking I wouldn’t hear a word Vanessa said. And it was important to me that we squared this. ‘Vanessa, I—’

‘What’s that noise?’

The dog was scrabbling at something now, whining. I stood up and went to my door. I wondered if one of the whalechasers was trying to get back in. But the door was rarely locked.

‘The dog,’ I said absently.

‘You don’t have a dog,’ she said.

‘Not my dog.’ I held my hand over the phone. ‘Hannah?’

‘Where are you?’ she said.

I hesitated.

‘Mike?’

‘I’m in Australia,’ I said.

A stunned silence has a different quality from any other, I realised at that moment. It stretches, takes on greater weight, then implodes under the weight of unspoken questions.

‘Australia?’ she said weakly.

‘I had to come back,’ I said, craning over the banister now. ‘I told you I thought this development was a mistake, Ness, and I’m here to try to put it right. I’ve got to go – there’s things going on here – and I’m sorry, okay? I’m sorry for everything. I’ve got to go.’ I switched off my phone and ran downstairs. Milly was hurling herself at the front door, barking feverishly.

‘Hannah?’ I said, sticking my head round the kitchen door, hoping she might tell me what was going on.

But she was not in the kitchen or the living room. She was not in her bedroom, or any of the other rooms upstairs. She was not by the phone in the hallway. I was still so disorientated by my conversation with Vanessa that it took me longer than it should have to grasp that neither was her jacket.

I stared at the empty peg, then at the dog, who was still barking, glancing round at me as if I should be doing something. My heart sank.

‘Oh, Christ,’ I said, and grabbed an oilskin jacket. Then I fumbled for the lead and attached it to Milly’s collar. ‘Okay, old girl,’ I said, opening the door. ‘Show me where she’s gone.’

The worst of the storm might have passed, but the rain still bore down in solid unforgiving sheets, drowning sound, sending rivers over my feet as I splashed down the coast path after Milly. I didn’t think I’d ever experienced rain like that before – it fell into my mouth as I shouted Hannah’s name, had saturated my jeans and shoes within seconds. Only my upper half was dry, protected by the oilskin.

Milly strained at the lead, her whole body a shining missile, hampered only by my own lack of speed on the unlit path. ‘Steady!’ I shouted, but the word was carried away on the wind. I ran through the dark, trying to remember the location of the potholes, and saw trucks arriving by the jetty, their headlights blurred by the moisture in the air. In the bay, as I drew closer, I could see the lights of the boats, maybe a hundred feet apart, bobbing as they struggled against the waves. I couldn’t make out clearly what they were doing.

‘Hannah!’ I yelled, knowing it was pointless. I prayed that Milly knew who she was looking for, and that she wouldn’t lead me to Liza.

The dog skidded to a halt by some large sheds – the lock-ups where some of the whalechasers stored their gear. Several doors were open, as if the crews had been in too much of a hurry to get out on to the water to think about protecting their belongings, and Milly skidded into one, her paws scrabbling on the concrete floor.

I hesitated in the sudden quiet, the wet lead slipping through my fingers, and tried to get my bearings. ‘Hannah?’ I yelled. The rain thrummed dully on the flat roof and fell in ceaseless streams through cracks in the guttering. A low-wattage bulb hung from the middle of the ceiling, and I could just make out a contour map of what looked like sea depths on the wall. There were various plastic canisters, wooden crates full of tools and, lined up against the opposite wall, ropes, buoys and rolls of canvas. I could smell fuel.

‘Hannah?’

I stared at the framed licence on the wall. Greg Donohoe. This was Greg’s lock-up. In that brief moment of stillness I remembered a snatched conversation I had once heard about a little boat that was out of bounds. A boat that lived in Greg’s lock-up.

‘Oh, Christ,’ I said, into the too-vacant space around me, and grabbed a torch as Milly, perhaps coming to the same conclusion, bolted for the waterfront.

I ran, my fingers locked round the dog’s lead, trying to fight rising panic as I drew close to the sea and saw the conditions that the boats were working in. Heavy waves crashed on to the beach, clawing and pounding at the shore, the bastard cousins of those I had jogged past happily on many bright mornings. Out in the bay, perhaps half a mile to sea, boats bobbed and engines whined, trying to maintain position, and now I heard voices, lifted briefly above the noise of the rain. I scanned the horizon, trying to wipe water from my eyes, and the dog strained at my legs. I had no idea where the child might be in that inky blackness, but I could see that even the experienced adult crews were struggling in that water.