Rachel always thought it felt like a gift to wake up smiling.
Today was no different.
She stretched her tanned arm over her head and took a deep breath, considering that this, the gentle rocking of a boat, was quite possibly the best alarm clock in the whole wide world. Her mind flitted to the cold winter mornings of her youth when her dad whistled through the flimsy bathroom wall as he shaved, rain beating on the double-glazed picture windows and the smell of toast wafting up the stairs of her mum and dad’s flat-fronted 1970s house. It had been a struggle to heft her body from the warm nest of duvet that covered the dip in the mattress where she liked to curl. A struggle and a chore, the promise of a loo floor, chilly underfoot, and the long walk to school along grey pavements, avoiding the spray from speeding lorries, no real incentive to get on with the job.
This morning, she nestled back on to the soft mattress and took another deep breath that developed into a yawn. Slowly she opened one eye, closing it again quickly. Sunlight filtered in from the hatch above their bed in the rear berth, warming the air into a pleasant fug that cocooned them in this tiny space. There was something unique about sleeping like this, in a boat out on the ocean. It felt like an island, an oasis, away from the pace of real life; away from everything. Safe and sound, away from traffic, machinery, people and all the things that might bring them harm. It was as close to heaven as she could imagine.
It always took her one night to settle into the pace of life on the boat, and as she lay there, after the first night of three out at sea, she knew she had arrived. The rest of the trip stretched out ahead of them like a promise and she could barely quell the leap of happiness in her gut.
What’s on the agenda for today? Spot of fishing. Swimming. More swimming. Supper on the deck, maybe a bottle of fizz or a cold beer, as we watch the sunset . . .
She smiled and turned on to her side, running her finger over the strong, tanned back of her husband.
‘I am not prepared to wake up yet. So you can cut that out,’ James groaned, in the groggy voice she knew meant that they had gone one bottle too many in the champagne stakes last night.
She laughed her throaty chuckle. ‘I told you we should call it a day after that first bottle, but no.’ She leaned forward and kissed his skin. ‘Come on! Life is for the living! That’s what you said.’
‘You win. You were right. But that doesn’t help me right now,’ he moaned.
‘Plus’ – she flicked her long, chestnut hair over her shoulder and sidled against him, lifting her leg and wrapping it around both of his as she pulled against him – ‘you should be glad I still want to disturb your beauty sleep in this way after eight years of marriage.’
‘I am glad,’ he whispered. ‘But can you let me show you how glad after a bit more sleep? Just five more minutes.’
‘It might cure your hangover,’ she suggested, kissing the back of his neck and running her hand over the flat of his stomach, reaching down.
‘Is the door locked?’ He turned and lay back on the bed, glancing at the varnished oak door. ‘I can see you’re not going to take no for an answer.’
‘That’s right.’ She nodded and climbed on to him, bending to kiss him full on the mouth, this beautiful man she got to wake up next to every day . . .
‘Coffee?’ She yawned again, slipping on her vest and calf-length, cotton PJ bottoms, as James sat on the side of the bed and scrolled through his phone.
‘Oh, yes please, and lots of it.’
‘How’s your hangover?’ she asked cockily.
‘Gone, would you believe.’ He smiled at her over his shoulder before something on the screen caught his attention.
‘Remember the rule, no work while we are out here. This is family time.’
‘I’m looking at the footie scores!’ He flashed her the screen and poked out his tongue, happy to have proved his innocence.
‘I’ll let you off.’ Rachel fastened the white cotton waffle robe around her midriff and opened the door, treading the single step down into the quiet cabin.
She had half-expected to hear the zany burble of cartoons coming from the wall-mounted TV, or at least the canned laughter from one of the Nickelodeon programmes that seemed to be permanently playing on her son’s iPad. She filled the kettle and set it on the stove, igniting the ring by bending low with one finger on the button and her hair coiled and bunched in her other hand as she watched the tick, tick, tick of gas flare into life. A quick glance at the clock told her it was six forty-five. Her boy, usually an early riser, had slept in. Thank the lord!
She had enjoyed her leisurely wake-up this morning and even more what came after . . . It was good for her and James to have these stolen moments of bliss away from the busy whirl of life where either one or both of them were permanently dancing in and out of the wide front door with car keys in hand and one eye on the clock. It seemed crazy that they lived in the same house, shared a bed, and yet she missed him, missed quality time with him. It was an irony, how life in paradise came at this cost.
Tiptoeing to the door that sat parallel to theirs, she carefully pushed it open. The second berth, a little smaller than theirs, was warm. She looked up at the hatch and decided to open it right up, get some fresh sea air into the space and remove the smell of a little boy who thought it funny to parp beneath the covers.
‘Good morning, sleepyhead.’ She eyed the lump of duvet, pale blue and covered in crudely drawn sailing ships; red, with darker blue-and-white striped sails. She’d bought it three or four years ago when he still had one foot in toddlerhood, but now considered replacing the bed linen with something a little more grown up, maybe Star Wars? She’d have a look online or get her mum to do it back in the UK; she liked to set her chores that were connected to her grandson, knowing it made her feel involved and less remote.
‘Oscar?’ she called, softly now. ‘It’s a beautiful day and I thought we could have our breakfast out on the deck, how about that? Croissants and juice. And before you ask, that is all we have.’ She pre-empted his regular request for whatever she hadn’t listed. It was like a game to him and one she heard him and Cee-Cee laughing over of a morning.
‘I can make you French toast?’ the housekeeper would offer.
‘Can I have bacon?’ his countermove.
‘No! No bacon. I’ve got cornflakes?’
‘Do you have Choco Puffs?’ and on it went.
Cee-Cee had more time and patience than she.
‘Oscar?’ she called again. Still nothing. Bending down, she noted that his head wasn’t on the pillow. She reached down and pulled the duvet back to reveal her son’s bed, empty.
‘Where are you, you little rascal?’ She looked around the confined area, knowing logically that there was nowhere for him to hide in here, nowhere big enough to conceal a seven-year-old boy.
‘Oscar?’ she walked back into the cabin and let her eyes glance at the banquette on the other side of the fixed dining table, knowing he sometimes liked to lie on it. But he wasn’t there. A similar look around the tiny bathroom revealed it to be empty. Next, she scanned the curved sofa that ran the length of the galley-cum-sitting room, before climbing the steps and pulling herself through the hatch up on to the deck.
‘Oscar?’ Her tone soured a little now, as the beginnings of anger flared. He knew he wasn’t to come up here alone, not ever. She held the port-side guardrail and walked carefully along, scanning ahead to the sunbathing area at the foredeck where he liked to languish with his iPad resting on his raised knees and a cushion under his head. She could see it was empty, but stood there nonetheless, staring at the white vinyl cushions with the blue-piped edging, almost as if she believed that if she looked long enough, he might pop up.
The kettle whistled. And fear started to bloom in her chest.
Rachel turned and looked towards the back of the boat from where the yacht could be steered either with the steering wheel when they were under power, or with the tiller, now resting in its neutral position, when they were under sail. Here there was also seating on either side with storage cubbies below.
The kettle stopped whistling.
Moving now with speed, swinging from the rear stanchion and with her breath coming fast, she jumped down into the rear of the boat and with a sense of urgency yanked the cushions from the seats, flinging them on to the floor before fixing her finger in the brass loop handles and pulling up the base of the cubbies. She stared into the stowage space. Her eyes registered the coiled ropes, a spare fender, a pump and two pairs of flippers, one large and one small. Shielding her eyes with her hands, trying to dampen the glare of the morning sun, she searched the water from the back of the boat. There were cresting arcs of foam, a bobbing blue, plastic rope trailing from the rear deck, and even the flash of iridescent scaled skin – fish on an early-morning hunt.
But no seven-year-old boy.
‘Coffee!’ James called from below. ‘Rach, Oscar! Coffee’s ready!’
She stood still, as if frozen and more than a little confused, as she waited for her husband to pop his head through the hatch as he climbed from the galley.
‘Coffee, darling!’ He raised two mugs. ‘Do you want me to bring it up or are you coming down?’
‘I can’t . . . I can’t find Oscar.’ She swallowed, using up the remainder of her spit to speak.
James laughed. ‘What do you mean you can’t find him?’ He knitted his brows, still smiling, and yes, she had to admit, it was just as ridiculous as it sounded. They were only three on this thirty-two-foot yacht – a space smaller than their entrance lobby at home and with only so many places to be, and yet she couldn’t find him.
Ridiculous.
‘Well, he’ll be hiding!’ He turned back and disappeared. ‘You look up there and I’ll do down here.’
She didn’t want to say she had already looked; better right now to think that she had been outfoxed, searched badly, and that James would extract him from whatever nook or cranny he had managed to secrete himself in. Yes, this was much better, because the alternative . . .
She walked back to the front of the boat, her heart beating loudly in her throat, and began to plead silently under her breath as she removed the cushions that lay flat on the foredeck; of course he wasn’t there. Logic should have told her that for someone to hide beneath the cushions, there would have been a giveaway lump, a bump, but there was not.
Please, please, please, Oscar, please come out now . . .
Rachel was not thinking logically; she had entered the beginning of panic.
She ran her eyes over the top of the boat at head height, knowing that had her solid boy been standing on that at any point it would have been obvious, but she looked nonetheless.
Her limbs began to shake and her blood felt simultaneously icy and yet thick in her veins. ‘James?’ she called.
He appeared on the deck, his mouth wide open, his head jerking and his eyes wide.
‘Where is he?’ he asked, as if hoping she might have the answer.
She noticed he too was having difficulty catching a breath.
Instantly, and in an almost choreographed move, she raced to the port-side and her husband starboard, each holding the thin metal rails as they peered overboard, scouring the water. ‘Oscar!’ she called loudly.
‘Oscar!’ he called louder.
‘Oscar!’ she yelled.
‘Os-caaar!’ he bellowed.
All the while their eyes darted about the surface of the ocean, drawn to any change in light, any flicker of movement.
‘Oscar!’ She was screaming now. ‘Oscar!’ she screamed again, as loud as she could, her body folded over.
She heard a splash; heartened, she ran to the other side of the boat, but it was only the sound of James, who had jumped in and now bobbed in the water, turning his head this way and that, still calling, yelling with a rawness to his tone that was petrifying; it told her he was out of control, flailing. ‘Oscar!’
Taking his lead, she ran back to the other side of the boat and did the same. She jumped, hitting the Atlantic Ocean and not caring that she was in her pyjamas, careless about anything other than finding her son.
‘Oscar! Oscar!’ she screamed, crying now, her tears clogging her nose and the back of her throat, making shouting harder and blurring her vision. She ducked under, looking as far as she was able at the hull, and then came back for air; nothing. Her hair hung in a heavy, waterlogged curtain over her face; she dug at it with her fingers as she trod water, spinning this way and that, looking, hoping and crying, as her teeth chattered in her gums.
She could hear her husband screaming louder than she had ever heard and in a way that was chilling, desperate. His lack of control and fear only fuelled her own.
It was in that moment of realisation that Rachel Croft looked towards the horizon, weakened, weary and with the certain knowledge that her life had changed.
It had changed forever.
Someone had wrapped a grey wool blanket around her shoulders, but still she shook – every part of her, trembling and shaking. Her head jerked, her knees jumped and even her eyelids fluttered. She was, despite the warmth of the midday Bermudian sun and the thick blanket, cold. Colder than she had ever felt, as if the chill started in her gut and filled her right up.
Rachel felt like the world was covered in gauze. Everything she looked at was hazy, every voice a little distorted. It was as if she were floating high above, scanning the sea around the boat, watching the coiled shape that was her.
She kept repeating, ‘This is a dream. This is a dream.’ Followed by, ‘It’s okay. It’s okay.’ Worried that if she stopped saying this then she just might give in to the scream that sat at the base of her throat.
At some level she wanted to scream, pull out her hair, smash something, and at the same time she wanted to hide. Rachel didn’t know what she wanted.
She found it hard to think straight. Her mind jumped from minutiae like the fact that Mr Cardew, the garden man, was coming to cut the grass today and she wasn’t sure if Cee-Cee knew where the key was to the back storage shed, to wondering why James, sitting opposite, was crying, folded over on the narrow bench at the back of the police boat, rocking silently, but with thick lines of spit looped in a lacy bib of distress from his lip to his chest. And then she would remember why he was crying, why they were there, and in the nick of time lift the plastic orange bucket to her face and retch into it again. The pain in her stomach muscles reminded her that this was not the first time she had vomited.
It was a significant moment and one Rachel would only ponder in the coming months. Ordinarily, to see her husband, the man she loved, so distressed would have pulled at every thread in her body and she would have leaped to offer comfort in any way she could. It would only be later, much, much later, that she would recognise that in this, his moment of need, she felt nothing. Nothing. It was as if she stared at a stranger.
‘So, Mrs Croft.’ The officer spoke in a way that told her it was a call to arms, he needed her to concentrate, participate. ‘You last saw Oscar at?’ he almost prompted, as if he knew the answer.
She wiped her mouth on the damp sleeve of her dressing gown and held the bucket to her chest with both hands. Looking up at the policeman in his immaculately pressed, short-sleeved white shirt, she studied the thin, neat line of his moustache on his top lip. She read his name badge: ‘Mackenzie’.
She kept thinking about the day before, throwing on her clothes, grateful for the early-morning hiatus from the heat and excited about their excursion on the boat. A couple of days of bliss to look forward to with the people she loved.
With the large cooler that Cee-Cee had packed in tow, it was with happiness and without any sense of foreboding that she’d trod the open planks of the dock with her bare feet. Oscar’s hand sat snugly in her free palm as they skipped and hopped, navigating the gaps, stepping behind James, who walked with purpose, assuming, as he always did, the role of captain before they had even left the shore. He turned to speak over his shoulder. ‘Are you sure we’ve packed enough?’ He laughed, rolling his eyes at the large beach bag he had slung about his body and the stuffed knapsack in his hand.
‘I’ve actually pared it down! It’s only towels, dry clothes, suntan lotion, snacks; you’d be surprised how much stuff we need.’ She smiled at her man.
‘You’re right, I would!’ He laughed again.
She recalled looking him up and down, appreciating the look of him in his khaki cargo shorts with his hands on his hips and his feet inside his battered, tan deck shoes; his mirrored sunglasses hid his eyes, but his wide grin spoke volumes. He had the healthy glow of a man who slept well, ate right and woke every morning with very little to trouble him. A man who was on the right side of happy with all he could ever hope for and more. Lucky.
Oscar broke free from her hand and ran. ‘Be careful, darling!’ she shouted after him.
The little boy ignored his mum’s warning, trotting ahead without looking back.
Fearless.
After they had cleared the marina the boat picked up speed. Oscar wriggled back into the space next to her as the hull bumped on the waves and kicked up spray that peppered their skin with salt-filled droplets.
‘Woo-hoo!’ her son shouted with his arms in the air, as if he were on a rollercoaster.
Hold on, please, Oscar, don’t fall from the seat, don’t go over the edge, stay close to Dad . . . She remembered having these thoughts. A premonition? Why didn’t she say anything?
When the engine changed tone and the boat slowed, it was as if a cloak of peace and well-being enveloped them. Sitting at the mercy of the ocean, with only the faintest lick of breeze, was as quiet and calming as ever.
She and James had looked back from where they had travelled; the beautiful wide stretch of beach was fringed with lush, green plants, spiked through with palm trees. Vast, colonial-style homes painted in shades of sugared almonds sat in grand manicured plots with decadently crafted water features that flowed into infinity pools.
She loved seeing their beautiful island from this vantage point. It had promised to be a perfect trip.
‘Mrs Croft,’ Mackenzie said her name again, a little more forcefully, and she wondered how long it had been since he spoke; it could have been seconds or hours. ‘When did you last see your son?’
‘It was . . .’ She tried to focus. ‘It was when we put him to bed, about eight thirty last night. He usually goes a little bit earlier, but as we weren’t at home and there’s no school tomorrow . . .’ She let this trail.
‘You both put him to bed?’
‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘James put him to bed and I called out “Love you” from the bathroom.’
‘So you didn’t see him in his bed?’
‘I know he was in his bedroom,’ she countered.
‘How do you know that?’
‘Because James had put him to bed and he called out—’ She broke off, as a fresh batch of tears gathered. ‘He called out, “Night night, Mummy” and it came from his berth and I called back.’ She stopped and swallowed.
‘What did you call back?’ he asked with his pen poised.
‘Just “Love you . . .” That was it. “Love you.”’ She pictured holding her hair in one hand and spitting the blue/white foam into the minute corner basin, emptying her mouth to call out of the side, not heartfelt or sincere, but more a reflex, ‘Love you!’ Her mind had been on cleaning her teeth, wondering where her perfume was and thinking about her evening to come with James and a glass or two of something chilled . . . Why didn’t you say more? Did he hear you? Does he know how much you love him? Come back now, Oscar, come home to me, darling . . .
She tried to gather herself. ‘You . . . you are still looking? He might be tired, he will be swimming or floating but, but we need to keep looking for him.’ She felt a wave of desperation at the idea that instead of sitting here, trapped in this police boat, she would be better off rowing, searching, or in a speedboat in which she could circle around and around, confident that no one would look as thoroughly as her.
She began to shrug off the blanket. ‘Can I go now? Can I go and help look for him? He might not answer to a stranger, but I know his voice and he knows mine and I know what his pyjamas look like and he might be listening out for me, listening to hear me call!’
The man answered with a softened tone. ‘I promise you that there is an extensive search under way, Mrs Croft. The coast guard, my colleagues, volunteers; there is quite a party out there. You are best off here, helping us build a picture of what happened. And if he is . . .’
She looked up at him now, daring him to speak further. He closed his mouth.
‘We need to get to him,’ she pressed. ‘He will be getting tired. And he might be scared.’ This thought sent a fresh bolt of pain through her chest and her shakes increased. She bent forward and let out a high-toned mewl that was visceral, wounded. The other policeman stepped forward and repositioned the blanket around her shoulders.
Mackenzie nodded and waited for her to calm. ‘I know this is difficult, but just to clarify this one point, Mrs Croft: neither you nor your husband have actually seen Oscar since around eight thirty last night.’
She shook her head and wiped her eyes, trying to catch her breath. ‘No, but if he’d left his cabin while we were on deck, we’d have seen him.’
‘We would,’ James interjected, his voice raw. ‘We were in the seating at the stern, which faces the stairs, almost opposite his cabin, and he’d have to pass through to get to the upper deck.’
Why didn’t I check on you, baby? Why didn’t I lock the hatch? Why did I not get up the moment I woke up? Where were you then?
She couldn’t help the questions that rolled in her mind.
‘Mrs Croft?’
‘What?’ She was again unaware that he had been speaking.
‘I asked if you heard anything in the night, any unusual noises, any sounds of movement or another boat?’
She exchanged a look with James, who sat up at this suggestion. ‘You think another boat came? Do you think . . . do you think someone came and took him?’ Her chest heaved and she closed her eyes, hardly able to process one more piece of information and all the possibilities associated with it.
‘I think at this stage we really don’t know and so it’s good to keep all options open.’
‘I didn’t hear anything.’ She shook her head. ‘I had had . . . a drink and the cabin was very warm. I slept heavily.’
She watched Mackenzie and his colleague glance at each other and then back to her.
‘Why would someone take him?’ she asked quizzically, and then a thought occurred. ‘It might have been a . . . a school friend, erm, lots of the parents have boats, they . . . they might have come and got him for a trip or so that the kids could play, they might have forgotten to leave a note, can you’ – she swallowed – ‘can you check with the school or . . . or with the coast guard, they might know about other boats.’ She felt the first glimmer of hope. This could be possible. Her son could right now be playing with a friend or bumping along on an inflatable, or he could be on the beach!
Mackenzie nodded and she saw the flicker of something that looked a lot like pity in his eyes. ‘We are doing exactly that, Mrs Croft. Don’t worry; we are doing everything we can. And just to get back to the questions, this morning you woke at?’
She shook her head, trying to clear the fog. ‘I suppose it must have been about six or quarter past.’
‘And you got up and’ – he checked his notepad – ‘put the kettle on and that was when you noticed your son was not in his bed?’
She could hardly bear to look at her husband, who answered on her behalf. ‘We made love and we lay in bed for a little while after. We both got up at around a quarter to seven, sevenish.’
The policeman didn’t flinch, but she felt the flame of mortification lick at her throat. It wasn’t the fact that they were talking about sex, it was the admission of how they had been so very distracted, pleasure-seeking while their boy . . . Again she bent her head inside the grubby walls of the orange bucket.
Rachel spat and straightened, and wiping her mouth on her sleeve, she looked through the window across the water. Some twenty feet away, she could see officers climbing all over Liberté. She thought the boat looked small. No longer the shiny, grand vessel over which James had beamed as he enthusiastically described her proportions, her speed, her electronic wizardry. Their boat had been photographed in a thousand different lights and angles, on a thousand days out, each picture posed, edited, glossed and sent back to friends and family in grey, cold Blighty. Look what we’ve got! Look at the life we lead! It wasn’t intended to taunt, but rather make them proud; proof that she had made the right choices. She pictured the photograph of the three of them on board, tanned and smiling, pinned to her parents’ kitchen wall.
She remembered the first time she trod on her shifting deck, a girl who grew up in a suburb of Bristol, a girl who thought a brisk walk around the Downs and a hot chocolate drunk on the terrace of the Avon Gorge Hotel with a grand view of the Clifton Suspension Bridge as the sun dipped, was living the life!
And it had been. A lovely life, until she met James. Clever James. Handsome James. James who had a well-paid job working in reinsurance, an industry she had never even heard of.
Do you mean insurance? she had giggled, coyly.
No! I mean reinsurance . . .
James who was heading for the very top. James who wanted to take her with him.
She remembered the first time she had set foot on the boat. Oscar had waved from the deck; he’d only been three and had looked too cute in his tiny life vest. James held his hand. She had quickly learned where to plant her feet. It had been a sunny day with the lightest of breezes, not long after the America’s Cup had been held on the island, everyone was boat-mad and she wondered if this were just a phase in which James would lose interest. She pictured the scuba equipment in the cellar and the chassis of the Jaguar E-Type, sitting under a tarpaulin in his parents’ barn in Sussex. ‘I’ll restore it and we shall take it to Le Mans! God, it will be bloody brilliant!’ He had leaped around the rusting carcass, hands on hips, smiling, doing what he did best: painting her a picture that would make her fall in love with his idea. ‘We can camp! We can stop the car somewhere pretty en route, a bend in a river! And we’ll eat good bread and cheese, washed down with a fine red, and we’ll lie on a tartan blanket and wear leather goggles! Vintage style! We should get you a fancy silk scarf and some of those flick-up-at-the-side sunglasses!’
She had smiled, bitten by the bug, drawn into his daydream, committed. He stared at the car as if he could actually see it whizzing around the track with the glorious racing-green paint restored and shiny. But the leap between the adventure in his mind and the project in front of him was time-consuming and demanding. James certainly had energy for anything new, but always fiercely underestimated the level of time and commitment required to make it come to life. Far from holding his flights of fancy against him, Rachel loved the fact that her man had this impetuous, spontaneous lust for adventure. It was as infectious as it was thrilling. She often thought of her dad in Bristol, popping pennies in a jar and waiting for the day his life might start – ‘When the kids get older,’ ‘When the weather clears up,’ ‘When I retire.’ As far as she could tell the last time she saw him, over two years ago now, he was still waiting.
As for James’s E-Type, it had been mothballed and still sat in darkness, waiting for discovery and its promised trip to Le Mans. As she gripped the handrail on that first trip and felt the slight pull of the vessel, she wondered how one mothballed a boat.
‘One hand for you, Rach, and one for the boat. Always, always hold on to something,’ he had called. James was instantly at ease on the water, as was his way; naturally adept, competent in everything. He had laughed at her concerns. ‘Oscar lives on a tiny island! He practically lives in the ocean! Sailing will be second nature to him, he will love it, our water baby . . .’ Determined not to let him down, she had learned to bob with the boat, bending her knees and taking it slowly. Gradually she had quashed the leap of fear in her gut, until spending time on the sleek boat that dipped and rose at the will of the ocean became almost second nature to her.
Quite unexpectedly and very quickly, Rachel had fallen in love with her, finding it hard to describe the sense of freedom she felt when heading towards the horizon with the sun and droplets of sea peppering her skin. Nor could she relay the sense of perfect isolation when the only sound was waves lapping the hull, when, with the salt spray dried in wavy lines all across her limbs, she, James and Oscar would lie under duvets on the foredeck, looking at the dazzling array of stars in the purple-tinged, Bermudian sky. Just the two of them and their water baby.
Now, though, as she looked at the shiny boat being picked over by men in heavy boots and peaked caps in the way scavengers might go after bones, she saw none of the glamour and there was no joy. If anything, she felt a flicker of hatred for Liberté, a foul vessel that had brought harm and heartache to her family. To her son! She shot her husband a misplaced look, laden with dislike.
Why did you get this fucking boat? Why did I listen to you? How come you got to put him to bed? Did you tuck him in properly? Did he have Mr Bob with him? He can’t sleep properly unless Mr Bob is on his pillow . . .
‘Where are you, Oscar? Where are you, darling? Come back now. Come back to me.’ She only realised she had spoken the words out loud when her husband sobbed in response. She looked at him, quite unable to help him in his moment of distress. Although they sat on either side of the narrow boat, the distance between them was a million miles. She looked back at Liberté and saw a policeman stuff Oscar’s duvet into a plastic bin bag.
And once again, she lowered her head and retched into the orange bucket.
‘We need to think about heading back.’ She heard Mackenzie speak to his deputy. His words were like lava chasing her, and as her heart raced she looked left to right in the confined space, wondering how she could outrun them.
How can I make them understand that I do not want to leave here? How can I? It’s crazy to think I could just turn my back and head home – to what? What waits for me there? Nothing!
‘I don’t want to go back.’ Rachel planted her bare feet on the floor and shook her head, adamant.
‘Mrs Croft, we need to get you and Mr Croft back to shore and we need to tow your boat back to the harbour.’
She shook her head, ‘No!’ and a small laugh escaped, not that anything was funny. ‘I am not leaving here! Not until we have got Oscar! He might be trying to get back to the boat and if it’s gone, can you imagine that?’ She heard the high-pitched note of panic in her voice. ‘He will be tired, he will be floating and it’s going to get cold and dark soon!’ She pointed outside, as if this fact might have escaped their attention.
‘Rachel, we need to go back.’
‘How can you say that, James? How the fuck can you think it’s okay to leave him out here on his own?’ She was aware her voice was thin and reedy through a disgusting combination of distress and exhaustion.
‘I don’t, I don’t, I . . .’ She watched him struggle and give in again to his tears.
‘I can’t leave him! I won’t leave him out here! He’s only a little boy! He’s only little!’ The strength left her legs and they folded beneath her. Her body slipped from the bench and she found herself sitting on the bottom of the boat, weeping and making a noise that was part scream, part wail; it came from a place beyond her consciousness. It was the call of an animal, hurt, cornered and desperate.
‘No, no, no, no!’ she screamed and kicked.
‘Rachel! Rachel! Please!’ She was vaguely aware of her husband’s voice and then a heavy, weighted blanket covering her, clamping her arms and legs, already weakened by fatigue. It pushed her further into the floor. She continued to whimper, to call out ‘Oscar! Oscar! I don’t want to leave you! I am sorry, I am sorry, my baby! Hang on, Oscar! Hang on! Don’t be scared! Mummy is here! I am right here!’ The boat shuddered to life and with a feeling of utter and complete helplessness, she felt it make a turn on the water, taking her back to the marina at Spanish Point, speeding away from the place her little boy now dwelled.
With the movement of her limbs restricted, all she could do was bang her head on the floor and continue to emit the loud wail of distress.
Shock had begun to dissipate her rage and with leaden limbs she was assisted from the boat. Someone, a young American doctor Rachel had never seen before, was waiting on the jetty, at whose request she didn’t know. He smiled benignly, avoiding her eyeline, as one of the policemen pulled up the sleeve of her dressing gown. And like a magician revealing synthetic roses from a secret pocket inside his jacket, the doctor exposed the sliver of steel that would slide beneath her skin and deposit the drug into her system. A drug that would round off the edges of her grief, soften the spike, smooth the shards.
A small group of people huddled in the car park, all with horror-struck expressions, witnessing her at her most vulnerable. Not that she cared; she cared about nothing other than staying mentally focused on her boy, willing him to make himself known. Come home, come on, keep swimming, Oscar. Come back to me . . .
She felt strangely more like an observer than a participant. With the drug coursing in her blood, she felt a little drunk, a little faded, ethereal . . .
She sat slumped on the back seat, her body yielding to the forced torpidity. Lilting to one side, she lay her head on the cool glass of the window. James, in the front seat, kept looking back at her, his eyes bloodshot and searching, as if she might have the answers.
She looked up at the scrolled, wrought-iron gates of their home, waiting for them to whir open. Her eyes swept to the right and she saw the pool where an outdoor four-poster canopy bed sat strategically positioned. White muslin curtains fluttered in the breeze.
‘Beautiful . . .’ she muttered.
She remembered lying on that very bed last year with Oscar next to her, his bare feet curled against her thighs and his head sharing her pillow. He smelled of sunshine and was fidgety, kicking her gently as he chattered. She only half listened as he verbally juggled topics as varied as Lego, lunch, swimming, his best friend Hank, sports day . . . she nodded and cooed, but she was listening to the hum rather than the actual words. How she wished she had paid better attention. Later that same day, as the temperature cooled, they had abandoned the car at the dock and gone fishing on Liberté, and while James navigated the sandbars and reefs that littered the exit route that would lead to open water, she and Oscar had sat on the foredeck, letting the wind batter their faces as they bumped along, exhilarated, happy.
‘How much do you love me, Mummy?’
Rachel had paused, looking out over the horizon as she tried to find the words. ‘I love you deeper than the ocean and higher than the sky.’
Oscar looked up at her and smiled. ‘I think I will marry you when I get older.’ He jostled a handful of small shells in his palm.
‘Well, how lucky am I?’ She cursed the tears in her eyes.
‘Why are you crying, Mum?’ he asked, his freckled nose wrinkling in the sunlight and his long, tawny fringe falling over his eye.
Because you will change your mind; because how you love me now at six will wane, change and become something different; and because I love you so much that the very thought of that change makes me weep . . .
‘I think I have some suntan lotion in my eyes.’ She coughed.
‘Oh.’ Oscar shrugged and despite the bob of the vessel, gripping with his toes, he shifted over towards the starboard side of the boat and hurled his shell booty into the Atlantic.
Rachel didn’t recall leaving the car, but evidently she had because she now stood at the foot of the grand, sweeping staircase. She looked towards the kitchen and saw Cee-Cee slumped over the countertop with her head on her arms.
‘Cee-Cee,’ she called softly.
‘Oh! Oh! Sweet Lord in his heaven.’ Cee-Cee, whose face bore the evidence of tears, ran from the kitchen and stopped short in front of Rachel, as if suddenly aware that theirs was not a tactile relationship and remembering her role as housekeeper.
‘We . . . we can’t find him, Cee-Cee. We can’t find Oscar! They made me come back . . .’ She spoke with a slight slur to her voice.
‘They will be looking, they will.’ The housekeeper spoke words designed to reassure.
‘Is . . . is he here? Did he come home?’ she whispered.
Cee-Cee shook her head and pushed the dishcloth in her hand over her face, whether to hide her own distress or shield herself from Rachel’s she wasn’t sure.
Time again slipped and Rachel didn’t remember climbing the stairs, but evidently she had, because now she stood in the entrance to their bedroom. Exhaustion pulled her to the wide, freshly laundered bed, but she was also jumpy, as if every fibre of her being urged her towards the balcony from which she had an uninterrupted view of the sea.
‘How are you feeling, Mrs Croft?’ It was the doctor’s voice. She didn’t know he had come too and yet there he was, magicked from the ether.
How do I feel? She blinked away the tears that gathered.
Like I have just fallen to earth.
And I am made of glass.
She looked at the doctor and realised James was standing next to him. ‘I don’t know,’ she managed.
‘I think it best you rest now. Try to get some sleep.’ He gestured towards the bed.
Rachel looked at him with a narrowed gaze and softly shook her head. ‘My son, Oscar, he’s missing. He’s out there somewhere.’ She pointed at the ocean, because this man must not know or might have forgotten. Surely if he knew of the situation, then neither he nor anyone else would have taken her from the place where Oscar had gone missing and forced her back here to this ivory castle. Her fear, sadness and impotence sat on her chest like a physical weight. It prevented her from taking a full breath. She felt her body crushed beneath it.
‘Yes.’ He nodded, again avoiding looking directly at her. ‘I know, and rest assured there are lots of people out looking, but you getting ill or collapsing with exhaustion is not going to help anyone. Quite the opposite.’ His words were blunt, but his delivery kind.
‘He’s, he’s seven. He is seven.’
With a shiver snaking over her skin, she walked with a wobble to the bed and fell on to it. Keeping her eyes on the window and with the glimmer of distant blue stretching for miles and miles, she gave in to the pull of slumber, talking in her mind to her little boy, as she drifted. Don’t be scared, my darling. Don’t be scared, Oscar. I will find you. I will. I love you . . . always . . . I’m right here . . .
Rachel sat up with a jolt, thankful to find herself in her bed. She had had the most horrific dream, too awful to recount.
Oscar! She kept picturing him waving at her from the other side of the swimming pool or the opposite sofa in the sitting room or from the back of the car, but always, always just out of reach.
The instant throb of a headache behind her eyes and the bolt of sadness in her chest told her that it had been no dream.
Gently she pulled herself into a sitting position and swivelled her legs around, pushing the soles of her feet on to the cool floor.
‘I’m here.’ She looked up at the sound of James’s voice, which came from the wide wicker chair in the corner. James, the man she had chosen to marry, the man she believed could fix anything, the man who would always fight for what she wanted, needed. He had let them bring her back to the house, when all she wanted was to be on the ocean, close to her son.
‘Is there any news?’ She hardly dared ask. ‘Have they . . . have they found . . . ?’
‘No.’ He spoke with what sounded like a throat full of grit. ‘Nothing.’
‘How long did I sleep?’
‘Less than an hour,’ he croaked, reaching out his hands, beckoning her to him.
Ignoring the gesture she made her way out on to the balcony and sat, scanning the water. Suddenly, she sat forward and gasped, alerted by a swell of white a few metres from the shore. She pointed, her eyes narrowed and her teeth hooked on her bottom lip. ‘What’s that? What, what is that movement? Something . . .’ She let this hang as she placed the flat of her palm over her heart.
James rushed outside and stood at the balcony edge, trying to follow her pointing finger.
‘Where?’ It was infectious, this crumb of hope cast in his direction, this comforting diversion, the small swell of optimism in her tone. James appeared to catch the verbal lasso and held it fast as he craned his neck, shielding his eyes. ‘Where?’
‘There! James, there! Just off the shore. It could be something; it looks like . . .’ She jumped up and stood by his side, as if this metre or so might give further clarity to her vision. But she had lost sight of it. It had gone.
‘I need binoculars. You need to get me some binoculars,’ she whispered.
Rachel stumbled backward and slid into the chair she had only recently vacated. Her tears again fell and she did nothing to stop them. This was her new normal. Her husband walked forward and dropped to his knees; his tears matching her own.
‘Rachel.’ He seemed to be calling to her, which struck her as odd, as he was so close. ‘Rachel,’ he cried again.
The telephone on the dressing table rang. She spun around and jumped up, racing back inside.
‘Cee-Cee will get it,’ James called after her. ‘She is pretty upset, but said she wants to stay here. I asked her if she wouldn’t mind getting the door and answering the—’
Ignoring him, Rachel lunged for the phone and grabbed the receiver, casting him a look. She didn’t want Cee-Cee to get it! Was he stupid? It could be the police! She needed to speak to them!
‘Mrs Croft?’
‘Yes.’ She held the phone close to her face with the lift of hope in her heart.
‘My name is Elspeth Richardson and I work for the Hamilton Daily. We have heard police reports that your son has drowned somewhere off the coast of Spanish Point; would you care to comment? I know this must be a difficult time for you, but our readers—’
Rachel let the phone fall from her shaking hand. She turned to head for the bathroom. James, on high alert, grabbed the receiver from the floor. ‘Who is this?’ he asked sternly.
Clicking the bathroom door closed behind her, she heard the rise of anger in his voice, a tone that previously would have made her feel love for him and his assumed role of protector. ‘How dare you call me like this? How did you get our number? No! I will not give you any comment and don’t you dare print anything about our son, about us – don’t you fucking dare!’
Rachel heard the tears in his voice and sat on the toilet with the seat down. She bent forward and placed her head on her knees. She heard her husband yell and then the smash of china against the floor tiles. This she understood, barely managing to contain her desire to smash everything she could lay her hands to.
Standing slowly, she pulled the dressing gown, now dried stiff with sea salt, around her form; it did nothing to warm her. She leaned against the wall and noted the fresh, white, fluffy towels that Cee-Cee had placed on the rail. The glass shower door gleamed and the sinks and mirror were all smear free. She hated the pristine perfection of it all, knowing her boy was in the cool salt water. She decided to change into the pale-grey dressing gown that hung on a hook by the shower, thinking it might help bring warmth to her bones.
Gently, she peeled off the white garment. The sleeves and hem were smeared with marks from having been under the ocean and from whatever muck had gathered in the bottom of the police boat. She ran her palm over the bulges in the two front patch pockets and felt the grind of sand between her fingers and the material, deposited no doubt when she had dived into the sea. Dipping her fingers into the space, she scooped out a slug of damp sand, run through with tiny shells and crushed sea matter. A similar dig in the other pocket yielded the same. She ran the pad of her thumb over the sludge and felt tears thicken in her throat and drip once more from her eyes, which were now swollen and red. This paste cupped in her palm was from the place where Oscar had gone and she was overcome with an urgent, desperate need to preserve it.
With her one free hand, she pulled open the drawers of the vanity unit, yanking out packets of tissues, cotton buds, hotel freebie sewing kits and sanitary items, none of which she was hunting for. The search in the second drawer was equally fruitless. Running into the bedroom, she barely registered James sitting in the armchair in the corner, flopped forward with shards of a vase scattered around his feet and bent flower stems lying forlornly in a pool of water. Sitting down on her side of the bed, she ran her hand around at the back of the shelf on her nightstand and pulled out a Tic-Tac box, about a third full. She flipped the lid with her thumb and disgorged the orange and lime contents, before using the box to scoop the sand, pushing the remainder of it in with her thumb. Gripping it in her palm, she took comfort from its weight before rubbing the smooth side along her cheek.
Where are you, Oscar? Where are you, my darling?
She made her way across the cool, pale-tiled floor and out on to the balcony. Carefully, as if her limbs were made of fine china, she lowered herself once again into the wooden steamer chair that sat opposite its matching twin with a small table between the two, perfect for a glass of something cold or a novel to rest on when such things had mattered.
Their whitewashed home in the parish of Pembroke was grand by any standards, and like many along this strip on the North Shore Road, owned and maintained by companies specialising in insurance and reinsurance – the largest employers on the island. She remembered when they arrived, four years ago – four years? It felt simultaneously like the blink of an eye and a lifetime. That first time she had opened the French doors of their bedroom and walked out on to this most magnificent space with a perfect view of the sea and the big, big blue sky!
‘Oh my God, James!’
She had stood with her hand over her mouth and tears in her eyes; this was everything she had hoped for and more. Oscar, a toddler, had run out and walked right to the edge of the balcony, jumping up and down and laughing.
‘Don’t go near the glass, I don’t like it,’ she had urged.
James laughed. ‘He is fearless, and don’t worry, darling; it’s toughened. He’s not going anywhere.’
He walked slowly towards her and stood behind her with his arms wrapped around her waist as he kissed the back of her neck. ‘Didn’t I promise you paradise?’ She leaned her head back against his chest, inhaling the glorious scent of him. This view. This life. This was the reason she had eventually agreed to leave their lovely flat in Richmond, Surrey, her friend, Vicky, her parents in Bristol, indeed all that was familiar to her. This was to be her consolation: year-round sunshine, a house that she had dreamed of and a view of the big, big blue sea.
‘I love you,’ she had breathed, turning and kissing his face.
We should have stayed in England. I could have kept you safe there, darling. An ordinary life. A safe life. We would never have been on the boat, never have been at sea . . .
James appeared to her left, casting a shadow. She continued to stare out at the water, looking for any sign of movement.
‘Rach.’
She looked briefly towards him and away again.
‘I spoke to your parents and I left a message for mine. They were the hardest calls I have ever had to make. It was terrible.’
‘You shouldn’t be saying anything yet, we just don’t know,’ she whispered.
‘Rach,’ he began again, his voice thick with yet more tears, ‘I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.’ He spoke with a tremor to his tone before giving in to the sob that robbed him of speech.
She stared at him now. ‘I can’t even . . .’ she began, her mind searching and failing to find the right words, the words that might begin to convey her utter desolation and her complete and total preoccupation with thoughts of Oscar. ‘I can’t even think of you.’
She would never forget the look on his face, the beginning of realisation that they had both lost so much more than their son.
He rallied a little. ‘Mackenzie is downstairs. We need to go and answer some questions when you are ready.’
‘More questions?’
‘Yes. More questions.’ He wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. ‘I’m going to have a shower and then we’ll go down together?’
She nodded, her eyes fixed on the ocean. The sun was starting to dull and the thought of the darkness that would blanket the island sent a jolt of fear through her gut.
I can’t stand it. I can’t stand the thought of you out there waiting for me. I think you will be hungry or cold or scared . . . And just like that she was wailing again, loud and unrestrained, a noise that came from deep within; a desperate, visceral outpouring of her pain.
James, alerted by the noise, ran from the bathroom in his towel, evidently about to jump into the shower.
‘It’s okay, Rach, it’s okay!’ Dropping to his knees he held her tightly in his arms, as she screamed.
‘It’s not okay!’ She flailed, beating her fists on his chest, and he let her. ‘It’s not okay! It’s not okay! It’s not okay! Where is he, James? Where is my boy? I want him home! I want him here with me!’
‘Shh . . .’ he cooed, gripping the back of her head with his palm, trying fruitlessly to bring comfort.
Mackenzie had taken a seat at the kitchen table. He had removed his cap and it now sat next to a glass of iced tea. His notepad was open and she noticed the illegible scrawl of notes that he no doubt wrote as they occurred. She pulled out the chair opposite him and jumped as Cee-Cee placed a mug of strong tea in front of her.
Rachel barely noticed the woman’s hollow, sad expression. But she heard the sound their housekeeper made, a quiet but continual whimpering, that was interrupted only when she drew a snatch of breath through her tears. She watched as Cee-Cee ran her fingers over the melamine plate on the countertop, a plate with Spider-Man on it, Oscar’s favourite and one on which she had placed countless croissants, sandwiches, slices of toast . . .
Thank you, Cee-Cee.
You are welcome, my little darling!
Rachel placed her little box of sand on the table and cupped the mug in her palms. ‘Thank you, Cee-Cee,’ she managed, glad of the prop.
James stood leaning against the countertop. She thought he looked grey, like a thing once shiny and full, now faded and deflated, and wondered if she were similarly altered in such a short space of time. The look of pity Cee-Cee flashed her told her this was probably true.
‘Forensics are still going over the boat, but there is no sign of Oscar on it.’
Rachel stared at him with a crease to the top of her nose; did they think there was any chance that they hadn’t searched the vessel front to back and inside out? Of course they had; this was a waste of time!
‘They have also said that at this time they can find no evidence of any struggle or distinguishing marks that might indicate an altercation or violence.’
‘What do you mean? Why are you saying that to us?’ She banged the table with her flattened palm. ‘Of course there isn’t! We had a lovely evening. We . . . he . . . we had supper and he was laughing.’
‘It is standard procedure in any unexplained disappearance for us to explore all possibilities.’ Mackenzie nodded. ‘We are just doing our job.’
‘There wasn’t any violence.’ She hated the shape of the word in her mouth but thought it best to press the point. ‘We woke up and he was gone!’ Again, the onset of tears threatened to defeat her. ‘We have told you this over and over. He was gone and we need to be out there looking for him!’ She pointed towards the water, disliking the croak to her voice, feeling it somehow diluted the strength of her message.
‘I promise you, Mrs Croft, we have teams searching and they will resume at first light tomorrow.’
‘Resume? They can’t stop! They can’t stop looking!’ She raised her voice. ‘That’s when he will need us the most, in the dark! You can’t leave him out there in the dark! I am begging you, please, please don’t leave him out there on his own!’
Cee-Cee left the room, as if this raw outburst were more than she could bear or more than she felt Rachel would want her to witness. Rachel saw Mackenzie and her husband exchange a knowing look and it infuriated her – why wasn’t James demanding they stay out looking? She glowered at him as she laid her hand on the Tic-Tac box.
‘You said you were looking for other boats, boats that might have come and picked him up, his . . . his friends . . .’ She let this trail, unwilling to admit to just how unlikely it sounded, even to her ears.
Mackenzie licked his lips and shifted his position in the chair. ‘We can find no evidence of any other boats, either approaching or docking near Liberté. We will of course keep checking.’
She didn’t believe him and this sent another lightning streak of frustration through her core. ‘Did you ask his friends and his friends’ parents?’ she fired.
Mackenzie nodded and she saw the first etchings of sympathy on his brow. ‘We did, but I promise you, Mrs Croft—’
‘I don’t want you to keep promising me things!’ Again she banged the tabletop. ‘I just want you to find Oscar and bring him home!’ Her voice cracked again. ‘Bring him home to me now!’
There was a second or two of hush before Mackenzie turned to James and asked, ‘What kind of child is Oscar?’
‘He’s lovely. Lovely.’ She spoke, through her tears, on her husband’s behalf. ‘He’s funny and sweet.’
‘Is he boisterous? Does he wander off? Is he impulsive?’ Mackenzie waited. It was James who responded.
‘He is confident and enthusiastic about the world he lives in. He likes to try everything; he’s not one of life’s observers.’
Mackenzie gave a single nod. ‘Can Oscar swim?’
She watched her husband brighten a little, his lips set in a thin line. ‘Yes. He’s a good swimmer. We have a pool and he’s been swimming since he was little.’
‘I took him for lessons when he was a baby. In Richmond where we used to live. In England,’ she added. She pictured him in his waterproof nappy, his chubby body snug inside her outstretched arms as she dunked him under the water and watched as he came up giggling, surprised but happy.
Mackenzie made a note in his book. ‘Would you describe him as a strong swimmer, a weak swimmer or somewhere in between?’
‘Strong.’
She and James answered at the same time. Again Mackenzie lifted his pen.
Her mind raced. ‘He is a strong swimmer, James, isn’t he?’ She sat forward, looking at her husband, as a thought formed and her tone bordered on hopeful. ‘Mackenzie, you need to find out where the closest boats to ours were and check if he swam to them!’ She allowed herself a small smile. ‘Or if one picked him up. He is a strong swimmer! He could have got to a boat! They might have him now and maybe, erm, they don’t speak English and he can’t tell them his name and they don’t know what he’s saying! You need to check that!’ she urged.
Mackenzie blinked and laid his pen on his pad. ‘As I said, we are exploring all possibilities.’ He drew breath and she instinctively stood, thinking that if she ran away then she wouldn’t have to hear what he was about to say. She felt the policeman’s eyes on her as she crossed the kitchen and stood next to James, her safe harbour, and she like a little rowboat, sheltered in his shadow from the encroaching storm.
‘When someone falls or jumps overboard . . .’ He paused. ‘There is data, evidence . . .’ He paused again, longer this time.
Rachel shook her head and wrapped her arms around her trunk.
‘And the data suggests,’ Mackenzie continued, ‘that a fit adult in warm water can survive for a while, hours, even. But in the cooler Atlantic and if someone has banged their head as they’ve fallen in or been surprised and taken a breath or is young or old or weak – then that is very, very rare. Data shows that it is far more likely people do not survive beyond seconds, minutes, because of an accident, trauma, shock, and so for a little boy . . .’
Data. Data. Data. Data! We are not talking about bloody data; we are talking about Oscar! My child!
‘I think I would know if’ – she faltered – ‘if he had come to harm.’
I will never use the word
D.
E.
A.
D.
She spelled it out in her head. I will not use that word.
‘Why do you say that?’ Mackenzie looked at her quizzically.
‘Because’ – she swallowed – ‘because I am his mum.’ Her voice broke. ‘I am his mummy.’ Her voice was now barely more than a rasping whisper. ‘And I would know. I would feel it.’ She placed her hand on her chest. ‘I would feel it here, but right now, all I feel is that he needs me.’
‘Okay.’ Mackenzie reached for his cap and closed his notebook.
‘Can I ask you a question?’ She wrung her palms, kitting her fingers at her chest.
‘Of course.’ Mackenzie placed his cap on his head and turned it into position.
‘How, how long exactly do these fit adults in warm water survive for? How long can they be in the sea?’
She noticed that he looked first at James, and she again hated the feeling that the two were conspiring. Mackenzie coughed to clear his throat, either to tell a lie or to try for deflection, an embellishment of the truth. She didn’t know which. He gave a slight shrug to his left shoulder. ‘I think about six hours is a record, but the circumstances were quite unique.’ He let his arms rise and fall to his thighs.
Six hours . . .
Rachel took these two words and used them as a solid foundation on which to build hope. She looked at the oversized clock above the breakfast nook. It was coming up to six in the evening. They first noticed him gone at six forty-five that morning.
Eleven hours.
Eleven hours, it was a new record. Please . . . please come home to me, Oscar! Come home now! She prayed silently, looking out of the window into the evening sky.