Page 23 of Pull Me Under

‘You’ve been here one day and you’ve already memorised his storage system?’

‘I’ve been here one day and his storage system makes sense.’ She still doesn’t look up. ‘Unlike most things in this village.’

I leave her there, surrounded by Peter’s tools and Peter’s manuals and the ghost of a workshop that was always hers underneath. The sun’s going down, turning the harbour gold and shadow, and I can feel her watching from the window as I walk away.

My leg’s acting up, as it always does when the weather’s turning, and I know I’m limping more than usual. I reckon she’s cataloguing that too, adding it to whatever list she’s keeping.

Tom’s waiting by The Ship, probably sent by Tilly to do damage control. ‘Well?’

‘Well what?’

‘Is she staying?’

I look back at the shed, the light in the window making it look lived-in for the first time since Peter. ‘Yeah. She’s staying.’

‘And Reuben?’

‘Is going to make everyone miserable about it.’

‘So business as usual, then.’

‘Pretty much.’

Except it’s not. Because Brynn Trelawney’s back, living in a shed that was always hers, reading the manuals we should have read months ago, diagnosing problems we couldn’t solve. She’s got steel in her spine and sadness in her eyes and she knows things – about engines, about the leaving, about the holes people leave behind.

I should hate her. Family loyalty demands it. Dad expects it.

Instead, I’m standing here wondering what would have happened if she’d stayed. If they’d never left. If I’d held her hand properly instead of shoving a fistful of stolen pick ’n’ mix at her and running. If Peter was still alive to meet her, to compare notes on engines, to hand over the shed with that big laugh and say, About time a Trelawney came back for this. If my mother had stuck around to see any of it.

Too many ifs. Too many ghosts.

‘You all right?’ Tom asks.

‘No,’ I say, surprising us both with honesty. ‘But I haven’t been all right for a while, so what’s one more thing?’

He claps my shoulder, and we head back into The Ship where Dad’s probably telling everyone how the Trelawneys are back to destroy us all. Where Tilly’s managing the fallout with pasties and careful conversation. Where Nina’s absence is just one more empty chair in a village full of them.

Through the pub window, I can see the shed light still burning.

She’s not what I expected. I don’t know what I expected. I never let myself think about it long enough to form a picture, and now she’s here and the picture won’t hold still.

She’s right about the feed line. I know she’s right. I’ve known for two days that I was chasing the wrong fault and I kept at it anyway because admitting I couldn’t fix it felt too much like admitting everything else I can’t fix.

The Mary Jane. Dad’s mind. Kit’s absence. Peter’s death. This family. This harbour. This life I never chose but can’t seem to leave.

She diagnosed the problem in one afternoon with a dead man’s manual and a window.

Maybe that’s what terrifies Dad. Not that a Trelawney’s back – but that she might be exactly what we need.

This won’t end well.

Chapter Seven

BRYNN

The shed still reeks of him – Old Spice and diesel and a brand of self-righteous fury that I reckon must run in the Harding blood. I’ve been scrubbing the mug for five minutes now, like I can wash away the memory of Reuben’s face, twisted with twenty years of hate he’s been saving just for me.

The mug’s clean. I keep scrubbing anyway.