Page 44 of The Sirens

43

JESS

FRIDAY, 15 FEbrUARY 2019

Jess does not know how long they have been in the cave. She thinks it has three days, but cannot be sure: she left her phone in Cliff House, and Cameron’s is long submerged. The torch’s batteries have run out, as has the water they brought from the house. They drink rainwater, now, collected in the plastic bottles. There is enough left, she thinks, for two more days, if that.

Twice a day, the tide floods in, forcing them to scramble up the sides of the cave. On these occasions, they huddle in an alcove formed by a jagged column of rock. Water churns below them, runs in milky drips from the stalactites that graze their heads.

The tide draws in and out, like a creature’s breath. Six tides and she has not heard a single note of song. She is running out of time.

Where are they?

During the day, the light is dim, reddish. But now it’s night, and there is nothing but the slick rocks beneath her body, the shush of the sea and Cameron’s ragged breathing in her ear. He has brought a flask of whisky with him – he must have concealed it in the pocket of his jeans before they dumped his car – and the smell of it sours the air.

He, too, has tired of waiting.

Sometimes he yells, makes threats; she has to talk him out of leaving the cave, of making the perilous climb back up the cliff face. But most of the time he begs and whimpers, childlike and afraid.

‘I don’t understand,’ he is saying now, again. ‘The boat – where is it? Jess, it’s been days. Shouldn’t it be here by now? Please – there has to be somewhere else we can go. I don’t like it here, Jess.’

The cave seems to terrify him. He complains of the constant damp, the way that his fingers have become pruned by the water. Sometimes she hears his teeth chatter, as though a fever grips him.

It is different for Jess. Moisture has soaked into her body, her skin tightening and fizzing. She runs her fingers over the rippling surface of her shins, thinking of her painting. She touches her throat and it is furrowed, as if her skin is parting, opening to something.

‘I’ve been here before, you know,’ she says, more to herself than to Cameron. ‘I ran away.’

And she is there, heaving the swell of herself through the crackling bush, she is gripping tight to the rope at the stairs, the coarseness of it stinging her palm. She is climbing down, lower and lower, the sea pulling at her with the pain.

She is there.

She is here.

Cameron swears, startling Jess back into the present. The sea is growing rougher, just as it had the night that Lucy was born. A plume of spray bursts into the cave’s mouth, soaking them. Jess inhales, savouring the smell. The smell of seaweed, of the secret things that dwell beneath the surface.

‘I can’t stand this,’ Cameron says. Jess can hear his teeth chattering. ‘I really can’t. I’m cold and I’m wet and I’m tired and I want to go home.’

‘They tell ghost stories about this place, you know,’ Jess says, the words light in her mouth. ‘A lot of people have died in these waters. A ship sank, full of convicts, women. But the story goes that some of them survived. They’d spent so long tied up in the ship’s hold, weeks without fresh air or sunshine, so that by the time the ship ran aground on the rocks, they’d become something not quite human. Something monstrous.’

‘Stop it, Jess.’

‘Then, of course, there are the men who went missing.’ Cameron says nothing.

‘Eight, at least, that we know about. I think there are more, but people started paying attention too late. You must have heard of them. Everyone has. Eight unexplained disappearances, eight men drowned. No bodies.’

‘I’m not in the mood for this, OK?’ Cameron says, raising his voice. ‘It’s been days and we’re just stuck in this cave. Where’s this fucking boat, huh? Some plan of yours. We probably couldn’t get out even if we wanted to. I’m about ready to fucking give myself up. I want – I want …’ He takes a shuddering breath. ‘I just want to see my wife again. My kids. I want to go home.’

‘I wanted to go home too, you know,’ Jess says now, her voice sharper. ‘That day in the art studio. I liked it, at first. Your hand on mine. It was comforting and safe. I felt …anchored by it. I wasn’t sure of anything anymore. I didn’t know who my parents were. Who I could trust. But then … you kept going.’

‘Stop it, Jess. You’re re-writing history. You wanted it, practically begged me for it—’

‘You kept going,’ Jess continues, ‘and it wasn’t what I thought it would be. It hurt.’

The burn of his fingers inside her. She had told herself, all those years ago, that she was protecting him by not writing it down. But really, she was protecting herself. She hadn’t wanted to remember.

‘Oh, shut up,’ he spits, the venom of it surprising her. ‘It wasn’t like you were a fucking virgin. And we didn’t even have sex!’

In the dark, every sense is heightened. The splitting of her flesh in the water, the roar of the waves on the rocks. She strains, her mind sifting through the sound, searching for the sound of voices, of singing.

Where are they?

‘You’re a liar,’ Cameron is saying now. ‘Just like the others. Fucking manipulative. Acting like you want it, then pretending that you didn’t, because you feel ashamed. Ashamed of being a fucking slut. Well, I don’t care. I’m getting out of here. I’m going to get out and I’m going to get a fucking good lawyer and I’m going to tell the police you held me here against my will.’

He is moving, scraping himself over the rocks.

‘No,’ she says, grabbing hold of him, and then they are tearing and scratching at each other, their bodies edging closer and closer to the mouth of the cave, until Jess feels the cold touch of air at the back of her skull; the sting of a blade on her throat.