Page 26 of Pull Me Under

The shed feels smaller now, like his presence expanded it and his absence shrinks it back. The wind’s picked up properly, rattling the cracked pane, promising the storm that’s been building all day.

I go back to my list, add one more line:

Do not notice the way Jude Harding looks at broken things like he understands them.

I underline it four times, until the pen tears through the paper.

The storm they’ve been promising all week finally arrives on Friday evening.

It throws itself at Sea Salt Bay like it’s got a personal vendetta against shelter, rain hammering the shed roof with a violence that makes the corrugated iron sing. I’ve been at the workbench most of the day – stripping parts, cataloguing Peter’s inventory, reading his conservation notes until my eyes blur. He had good ideas. Really good. Corridors for fish migration, rewilding the inlet margins, sustainable quotas that could actually work. It’s deep thinking that sees the whole picture, not just the next catch.

Thinking that dies with the thinker, unless someone picks it up.

By nine, the wind’s bad enough that I check the shed window seals twice and drag the camp bed away from the wall where a new drip has started. Grandad’s half-carved seal is on the workbench. I pick it up, find the carving knife in the third tool drawer, and start working.

See there, little fish? Follow the grain. Let the wood show you.

I carve until my fingers ache. The seal is emerging – Grandad got the shape right, as always. Nose, flippers, the curve of the back. I just need to find the details he never got to finish.

By eleven, the storm is at its worst and I’m thinking about someone who isn’t me.

Nina. I know her name from Tilly, from the fisherman on the harbour wall, from the way the whole village says it like a prayer they’re not sure is working. I keep seeing her on that café floor. Keep hearing that broken sound she made when the siren went. And I know what it’s like to carry grief that ambushes you, that turns everyday sounds into landmines. Not the same grief – I haven’t lost anyone to the sea, just to silence and whisky and giving up – but grief’s grief. It doesn’t care about the specifics when it’s got you by the throat.

The shed’s not going anywhere. The seal can wait.

I pull on my jacket, step into the storm, and walk to the Lavender Café.

Not the café – that’s locked up tight, CLOSED sign still crooked from two days ago. This is the side entrance, narrow stairs leading up to the flat above.

I’ve been standing here for three minutes, which is two minutes and fifty seconds longer than someone who doesn’t care would stand anywhere.

I knock before I can talk myself out of it.

Footsteps, then the door opens. She’s not broken anymore, or at least not visibly. She’s wearing a tea towel as a headband, a jumper that might’ve once been cream but now looks like the inside of a teabag, and mismatched socks – one with sheep, one with what might be puffins or might be blobs.

‘You okay?’ she asks, like I’m the one who fell apart two days ago.

‘Just checking in.’ I aim for casual, probably miss by a mile. ‘Wanted to make sure you were … you know.’

‘Not having a complete mental collapse on my kitchen floor?’ She steps back, opening the door wider. ‘Jury’s still out, but I’ve upgraded to the sofa at least. Tea?’

I should say no. Should maintain boundaries. Should remember that getting involved with locals complicates everything.

‘Yeah, all right.’

‘I’m Nina, by the way.’ She says it over her shoulder, already heading for the kettle. ‘In case you were wondering how to address the village basket case.’

‘I know. Brynn.’ I pause in the doorway. ‘Tilly told me. Among other things.’

‘Tilly tells everyone everything. It’s basically her job description.’ She’s filling the kettle with the mechanical ease of someone who makes tea the way other people breathe. ‘She told me about you too, you know. Brynn Trelawney, back from the dead. Or Leeds, depending on who’s telling the story.’

‘I was never in Leeds. That was my mother.’

‘Right. Well, Tilly also said you helped me through the worst of it. And that you fix boats.’ She sets two mugs down – mismatched, but somehow belonging together. ‘Thank you. For staying, that morning. Most people just hover anxiously and don’t actually do anything.’

‘I’m not good at hovering.’

‘No. You’re more of a door-kicker, I’d guess.’