Page 37 of Pull Me Under

‘Better.’

I turn left, because apparently I’m making all sorts of questionable decisions today. The road winds up through farmland, stone walls and sheep and views so expansive, so beautiful, they can make people uproot their lives and move to Cornwall. But then when they get here, they realise views don’t pay bills.

‘Why do you care?’ I ask finally, when the silence gets too heavy. ‘About the boat. About Plymouth. About any of it.’

He’s quiet long enough that I think he won’t answer. Then: ‘Peter would’ve cared. He would’ve wanted to make sure you got a fair deal, got a boat vaguely seaworthy. He would’ve…’ He trails off, staring out the window. ‘He would’ve helped.’

‘So you’re helping because a dead man would’ve wanted it? A man I never got to meet.’

‘I’m helping because—’ He stops. Starts again. ‘I don’t know why I’m helping.’

It’s honest, which is more than I expected. More than I know what to do with. I push my hair back from my face. It’s hot in here.

‘Well,’ I say eventually, ‘try not to help too much. I’ve got a reputation as a dangerous independent woman to maintain.’

‘Your secrets are safe with me, Trelawney.’

We drive on through countryside that’s trying its best to be picturesque despite the grey sky. He doesn’t complain about my driving again, and I don’t mention that he was right about the route. The shortbread sits between us in its paper wrapping, a small, sweet thing in all this complicated salt.

‘Play your music if you want,’ he says suddenly. ‘Can’t be worse than Maisie’s Disney soundtracks on repeat.’

‘The radio’s broken.’

He reaches over, and fiddles behind the ancient dial, and suddenly there’s sound. Crackling, staticky, but sound.

‘How did you⁠—’

‘Magic,’ he says, echoing my earlier word back at me. ‘Or, you know, actual mechanical knowledge.’

‘You just hit it, didn’t you?’

‘Percussive maintenance. Very technical.’

I laugh – actually laugh – and his mouth twitches like he might smile. The radio finds a station playing nineties grunge, all guitars and anger, and neither of us moves to change it.

Two hours to Plymouth. Two hours back. Four hours with Jude Harding in an enclosed space, voluntarily. Yesterday I was diagnosing his hydraulic problem like a smug mechanic. Today he’s protecting me from potentially sketchy boat dealers.

This town really is making me soft.

Or maybe that’s just what happens when someone sees your rough cottage at dawn and still worries about you driving alone. When someone fixes your radio with percussive maintenance. When someone helps because a dead man would’ve wanted it, because maybe that’s the only way any of us know how to be kind anymore – in memory of those who did it better.

‘The turning for Plymouth’s coming up,’ Jude says.

‘I know.’

‘Just making sure.’

‘I’m not an idiot, Harding.’

‘Never said you were, Trelawney.’

The city sprawls ahead, all concrete and possibility, and I’m driving towards a boat that might or might not be everything I need, with a man who might or might not be an enemy, carrying shortbread that’s definitely going to be eaten before we get there.

‘The boat better be worth this,’ I mutter.

‘The company’s not that bad.’

‘I meant the drive.’