Page 16 of Pull Me Under

‘Here for the fishing?’ Small talk on autopilot. ‘Or just passing through?’

‘Bit of both.’

‘That’s usually code for running away from work, romance, or existence.’ She slides the coffee across, and honestly, it smells like salvation. This woman knows her way around an espresso machine. ‘Not that I’m judging. Half of Sea Salt Bay’s here because they were running from somewhere else.’

‘The other half?’

‘Never left in the first place. Not sure which is worse.’

There’s a story in the bitter twist of her mouth, but before I can decide whether to pull at that thread⁠—

The siren.

It cuts through everything. The lifeboat call – that low, urgent wail that carries across the harbour and up the cliffs and into every corner of the village. My hands go still around the mug.

Nina’s mug doesn’t go still. It goes through her fingers like her bones have dissolved. Shatters on the tile floor in a spray of porcelain and coffee, and she’s backing away from the counter, hands pressed to her ears, making a sound that isn’t crying and isn’t screaming. It comes from somewhere deeper than tears. Somewhere words don’t reach.

‘Hey,’ I start, already around the counter, broken porcelain crunching under my boots. ‘Hey, it’s okay⁠—’

‘He was supposed to be careful,’ she says to her knees. ‘Promised he’d be careful. But Kit needed – and Peter couldn’t just⁠—’

Peter. Pete. Pete’s Sweet Stuff. The sugar tin in the shed. The camp bed, the oiled hinges, the shadow boards. Peter was the one who maintained the workshop. Peter was her someone.

I don’t know what happened. But I know what grief sounds like when it’s ambushed by a trigger, and I know that right now the best thing I can do is stay low, stay quiet, and not touch her unless she reaches first.

The door bangs open before I can decide what else to try.

A woman rushes in – not old, maybe late forties, with sun-bleached hair, stacks of bangles that jangle as she moves, and flowing clothes that suggest she either runs a yoga studio or deals tarot cards. She takes in the scene with one sharp glance – Nina on the floor, me crouched beside her with porcelain dust on my knees, the general air of catastrophe – and she’s across the café without breaking stride.

‘Nina, love. It’s all right. I’ve got you.’ She’s already gathering Nina into her arms, making soothing sounds that are both nonsense and exactly right. ‘That’s it, breathe with me. In and out. Just like we practised. That’s my girl.’

Nina collapses into her, sobbing properly now. The woman guides her towards the door behind the counter – the flat above, probably – with the steady competence of someone who’s done this before. Many times.

‘Through here, love. That’s it. One step at a time.’

Once Nina’s through the doorway, the woman turns back to me. Studies me for a moment with eyes far sharper than her flowing scarves suggest.

‘Brynn Trelawney,’ she says. Not a question. ‘You won’t remember me. I’m Tilly – run The Ship Inn with my husband. You were tiny when you left, used to steal peanuts from the bar and drink fizzy pop with a straw.’

Before I can respond to this unexpected piece of my own history, she’s gently but firmly steering me towards the door.

‘Thank you for staying with her, dear. You did well. But I’ve got her now. This happens when the siren goes. We have a system.’

‘Will she be okay?’

‘Eventually.’ She’s already turning the sign to CLOSED, hand on the door. ‘She lost her Peter. Six months now. The siren takes her back every time.’ A beat, then softer: ‘Your grandfather was a good man, by the way. Shame what happened.’

Before I can ask what happened, she’s closing the door in my face – not unkindly but definitively – leaving me on the wrong side of the glass with questions stacking up and the unexpected image of myself at three feet tall, fists full of stolen peanuts.

I stand on the harbour wall, coffee-less, feeling like an intruder in grief that doesn’t belong to me but sits in a shape I recognise.

She lost her Peter.

The siren’s still going, and now I can see them – the crew converging on the lifeboat station from various directions, pulling on gear as they run, the choreography of emergency.

An older man, moving faster than his age and his limp should allow. The bloke who was with Jude yesterday, also in gear, covering what should be two positions. And Jude, of course, because apparently he has to be everywhere I look, every time I turn around.

‘Not enough,’ I mutter. ‘That’s not enough crew.’