Page 96 of Pull Me Under

The village is a blur – cobblestones slick with rain, the streetlights haloed in mist, my boots pounding out a rhythm that matches my heartbeat. Too fast. Everything too fast.

Jude’s somewhere ahead of me. After his alarm sounded, he’d just stared at me. For one long second that a first responder can’t afford, he’d just stared at me… Then he didn’t even grab his jacket, just moved – and now I’m chasing him through the dark like I do this regularly. Like if Jude Harding rushes off into the dark then I will follow him.

And I will. And that’s the terrifying part.

The boathouse lights are blazing when I round the corner onto the harbour. Cal’s already there, shouting instructions, his voice carrying over the wind. Tom’s pulling on his drysuit, face grim. Bill is checking equipment with the kind of focused efficiency that only comes from decades of practice.

And Jude. Jude’s at the kit locker, hauling out life jackets, and he looks up when I skid to a stop at the door.

One look. That’s all we get.

His eyes find mine across the chaos – just for a second, just long enough for a flicker, a moment, to pass between us, and then he’s moving again, all business, all focus.

Right. Okay. We’re doing this.

‘Trelawney!’ Cal’s voice cuts through. ‘You’re with us. Kit yourself out. Two minutes.’

I don’t hesitate. Can’t afford to.

The drysuit is cold, clammy, resistant in all the wrong places. My fingers feel thick and stupid as I yank at zips, adjust straps, fumble with the life jacket clips. Around me, the crew moves like a machine – everyone knowing their role, their position, their purpose.

‘What’ve we got?’ Tom asks, checking the radio.

‘Yacht,’ Cal replies, pulling up coordinates on the navigation system. ‘Thirty-two-footer, three souls aboard. Engine failure, taking on water. They’re about a mile off Pencarrow Point.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Tom shakes his head. ‘Spring tides.’

‘Spring tides,’ Cal confirms grimly. ‘Current’s running hard. Coastguard’s got a helicopter en route, but visibility’s shot. We’re their best chance.’

Spring tides. The words settle in my stomach like stones.

Grandad used to talk about spring tides with a kind of reverence. Twice a month, when the sun and moon align, the water moves with a force that can’t be reasoned with. The strongest currents. The most unpredictable swells. Beautiful, he said, if you respect them. Deadly if you don’t.

‘Everyone ready?’ Cal scans the crew. His eyes land on me last, assessing. ‘Brynn. You good?’

‘Good.’

It’s not a lie, exactly. More like a commitment. A promise to become good, right now, because there’s no other option.

‘Then let’s go. Tom, you’re deputy on this call. Jude, you’re foredeck. Bill, lines. Brynn, you’re on recovery assist. Stay sharp, stay together, and let’s bring everyone home.’

The boat launches into darkness.

The Atlantic in a spring tide is a living thing.

It doesn’t just move – it heaves, great rolling swells that lift the lifeboat like a toy and drop it into troughs deep enough to steal your breath. The engine screams against the current, fighting for every metre, and the spray hits my face like needles of ice.

I’m braced against the cabin rail, one hand locked on the grip bar, the other pressed flat against the hull. The vibration travels up my arm, into my chest, until I can’t tell where the boat ends and my body begins.

Focus. Breathe. Don’t think about the black water. Don’t think about what’s underneath.

Don’t think about Jude, somewhere ahead of me in the dark, preparing to risk his life.

Too late.

The radio crackles. Cal’s voice, steady despite the chaos: ‘Pencarrow Point, bearing zero-four-five. ETA six minutes. Coastguard confirms position – yacht is listing, approximately fifteen degrees. Casualties are on deck, wearing life jackets.’

‘Copy,’ Tom responds from beside me. His face is set, jaw tight. In the dim glow of the cabin lights, he looks older than his years. ‘Visibility?’