My Beautiful Boy by Elly James

I catch Luke only in glimpses, weaving through the Holkham pines, a flicker of red rugby shirt and that hair, still the brightest blond.

I lengthen my stride in an effort to reach him, as though he is a toddler again stumbling towards danger, as though the forest will hold him captive if I’m not there to keep him safe.

At first, I seem to be drawing close, the flashes of red becoming brighter, more insistent. But he’s so much faster than me now and when I emerge panting after a dip in the trees, he is gone.

I stop to catch my breath, pressing my thumb into my side to ease a stitch. I’ve run every night since we’ve been here but my body is out of practice.

The light is fading and I should probably make my way back to the carpark. But I long for a final view of the sea before we head home tomorrow. To draw in that sense of rolling permanence that will help shore me up in the months to come. And so, I wind my way towards the glow of light at the edge of the trees, where the forest thins and the spongy pinecones and bracken give way to sand.

Holkham Sands stretch ahead of me, vast and empty, smudged in violet-grey twilight. There are no edges, no distinguishable horizon. The effect is disorientating and I can see how easy it would be to be venture out too far in search of the sea, to be caught out by a creeping, insouciant tide.

I’m about to turn back when a high-pitched shout carries across the sand. I can’t sense which direction it has come from but over to my right, along the edge of the dunes, a shape takes form in hazy silhouette. I squint. Is that a person? Two people? I make out a woman sprawled flat, and someone else looming over her. I glance around for help but there is no one and the only sound is the distant press of the sea.

I run over, readying myself to call out or to launch into him, when the man stands and at once I recognise the set of his shoulders and the outline of his hair.

‘Luke?’ I call. And then with certain relief. ‘Luke!’

He turns to me, backlit by the setting sun, hair glowing and cheeks flushed pink. ‘Hey Mum.’

The young woman has come to kneeling and Luke has hold of her elbow. He turns to her. ‘Are you ok to stand?’

I stop beside them, feeling suddenly as though I am intruding. ‘What happened?’

The young woman, dressed in neon green with pink trainers, comes to kneeling.  ‘No biggie, I tripped. Trying to go too fast.’

‘And you’re sure you’re ok?’ I say.

She nods. ‘Just winded. He… your son saw me fall.’

She smooths her hair out of her eyes and as she takes her hand away, her forehead is slicked in blood.

‘Shit, you’re bleeding,’ says Luke.

He peers in at her head and then takes hold of her hand. ‘It’s not your head. It’s your palm,’ he says. ‘Stay here a moment.’

The blood is seeping from her hand over her wrist. She must have landed on something sharp, one of the shells half-buried in the sand. I dig in the pocket of my leggings for a tissue but Luke grabs the corner of his rugby shirt and dips it into a narrow channel of water running up from the sea. It is dripping wet and he wrings it out.

‘I’m just going to clean up the cut. That ok?’

She nods. ‘So stupid of me. I wasn’t looking where I was going.’

With the corner of his shirt he presses at the cut, gently at first and then squeezing to let water flow down her arm.

‘Need a hand, Luke?’ I say.

He shakes his head without looking at me. His gaze is focused purely on the cut.

‘It’s quite deep,’ he says to the woman. The blood shows no sign of letting up, coursing down over her wrist, vivid in the muted landscape. ‘We need to stem the flow.’

Luke tugs at the seam of his rugby shirt and rips off a scrap of fabric. ‘Let me wrap this around.’ He dips it full in the water and wraps it tight around her hand, fastening a knot.

‘Thank you,’ she says, allowing Luke to hold her hand high to direct the blood away from it.

Initially the rust red fabric darkens crimson with blood but after a moment or two the colouring abates.

ELLY JAMES was born in south London and has lived in London for most of her life.

Elly attempted her first novel aged twelve and returned to writing and storytelling around ten years ago. Her writing explores themes of loss, love and sacrifice and she writes in the evenings and weekends, around her job in higher education. She has taken several creative writing courses, at City Lit in London and with London Lit Lab, and is a member of three longstanding writing groups and one storytelling group.

Elly wrote the first draft of My Beautiful Boy while attending the year-long fiction masterclass at City Lit. Like all her work, it explores themes of loss, love and sacrifice. Elly has been listed for the Caledonia Novel Award and Exeter Novel Prize.