Page 98 of Pull Me Under

Into the water.

Into the spring tide current that’s been waiting all night to claim someone.

Time is strange.

It stretches. Thins. Becomes a substance I can move through, like wading through water, every second lasting an eternity.

I see Jude’s head break the surface – just for a moment, just long enough for me to fix his position. Twenty metres off the port bow. The current’s already dragging him toward the rocks.

I see Tom in the Y-boat, fighting to control it, shouting words I can’t hear.

I see Cal at the helm, already turning the lifeboat, but he’s too far, too slow, the current’s too strong⁠—

I see the throw line, coiled at my feet.

And I move.

Later, I won’t remember making the decision. Won’t remember calculating the distance, the drift, the angle of throw. It’s just there – Grandad’s voice in my head, patient and sure, the way he was when he taught me to cast a line in the harbour when I was seven years old.

Lead the target. Account for the wind. Follow through.

The line sails out across the water.

It lands two metres ahead of Jude – exactly where the current will carry him in the next three seconds.

He grabs it.

‘I’VE GOT HIM!’ I’m hauling before I’ve finished shouting, the rope burning through my palms, my whole body braced against the rail. ‘BILL HELP ME⁠—’

Bill’s there. Then Cal leaves the helm, adding his strength to mine. We pull together, fighting the current, fighting the weight of a man in waterlogged gear, fighting the Atlantic itself.

Jude’s face appears at the rail. White. Gasping. Alive.

We haul him over the side and he collapses on the deck, coughing up seawater, shaking so hard I can hear his teeth chatter.

‘The line,’ he manages between gasps. ‘The Y-boat⁠—’

‘I know.’ I’m already moving. ‘I see it.’

The fouled tether is still a problem. Tom’s struggling to control the Y-boat, the debris wrapped tight around the connection point, and the third casualty is still on the sinking yacht.

But I can see how it’s tangled. Can see the point where one cut will release the tension, free the line, give Tom the slack he needs to manoeuvre.

‘Knife,’ I bark at Bill. He hands me one without question.

I lean over the rail – further than is safe, further than is smart – and I cut.

The line releases. The Y-boat surges forward. Tom gets control, gets to the yacht, gets the last casualty aboard.

And I sit back on the deck, knife still in my hand, lungs burning, heart pounding, and think: We did it. We actually did it.

Beside me, Jude is still shaking. Still coughing. Still alive.

His hand finds mine on the wet deck.

He doesn’t say anything.

Neither do I.