Page 40 of Pull Me Under

And I realise – with a slow, uncomfortable clarity – that she’s not trying to take away from this harbour.

She’s trying to add to it.

‘So you’re not leaving,’ I say.

She meets my eyes.

‘Not unless I choose to.’

I’m pretty sure there’s a pulse in the ground beneath my feet. Not a seismic shift. No earthquake or blast of undeniable magnitude. Instead, it’s a vibration. A hum.

I turn and walk away before I can name it. Before I’m fool enough to tell her that watching her plan a future in a place that tried to forget her is the bravest thing I’ve seen anyone do in this harbour since Peter jumped off a lifeboat to save my brother.

The Ship is too loud.

Too full. Too bright. Too much, and I’ve only been inside for thirty seconds.

Everything feels wrong. The air is close and thick with the smell of fried food and stale beer. The regulars are louder than usual – compensating, maybe, for the empty spaces. For the people who should be here and aren’t.

Sea Salt Bay on a Sunday in March and most of the village are here because there is nothing else to do when the rain has been lashing for days and there’s nothing good on the telly. Hell, even if there was something to watch, we’d probably all still be in here regardless. Small town communities and all that.

Tom’s behind the bar tonight – not his usual spot, but Tilly’s at some crystal healing event in Pencross and Ayo needed the help. Tom’s got that patient, worn-down expression that comes from twenty minutes of mediating Old George and Malcolm’s anchor debate – chain versus rope, as old as the village itself and about as likely to be resolved.

I slide onto a barstool and he shoots me a grateful look.

‘Pint?’ he asks.

‘Yeah. Doom Bar.’

He pulls it without comment, sets it in front of me with such delicacy it’s like he thinks I might shatter. Maybe I will. Everything feels fragile tonight, like someone moved all the furniture in my memories and now nothing sits right.

‘Haven’t seen Nina around,’ I say, because the silence between us needs filling and because I’ve been wondering. ‘She still avoiding the place?’

Tom’s expression shutters. ‘Yeah. Can’t blame her, can you? Peter was in here every weekend for four years. Four years of him on that stool, pint in hand, telling that one about the lobster pot. Before him, it was just a stool. Now it’s…’ He trails off. ‘She says she still sees him. Says it’s too hard.’

‘Maybe she’s right.’

‘Maybe.’ He wipes down the bar with slow, methodical strokes. ‘Grief’s funny, though. Sometimes you have to walk through the places that hurt before they stop hurting.’

I take a drink. The beer tastes like copper. ‘Sometimes walking through just makes it worse.’

Tom gives me a look – the kind that says he knows I’m not just talking about Nina anymore – but he doesn’t push. He never does. That’s why Tom’s still one of the few people in this village I can stand.

The door swings open and Dot bustles in, shaking rain from her coat like a wet terrier. Glasses on a chain, eyes bright with the particular gleam that means she’s got gossip and she’s dying to share it.

‘Tom, love, have you heard about the postman situation?’

Tom’s mouth twitches. ‘Can’t say I have, Dot.’

‘Well.’ She settles onto the stool next to mine, barely acknowledging me except for a quick nod. ‘Trevor’s still off with his hip, poor lamb, so they’ve sent someone from Pencarrow to cover the route. Pencarrow.’

She says it like she’s announcing a Viking invasion.

‘And?’ Tom prompts, because Dot needs prompting like fish need water.

‘And he’s been putting letters in the wrong boxes! Mrs Pascoe got a package meant for the Hendersons, and you know how she is about her privacy. Went absolutely spare. Said if they can’t send someone competent, they shouldn’t bother at all.’

‘Revolutionary,’ I mutter into my pint.