Page 114 of Take Me Away

Nina. The thought of her makes me physically ill. The look on her face when they confirmed Peter was gone – I’ll never forget it. The slow drain of hope. The terrible, blank stillness that followed.

‘Have they—’ I can’t finish the question.

Jude shakes his head. ‘Not yet. Coastguard’s still looking, but—’ He glances at Maisie, chooses his words carefully. ‘But they don’t expect to find him soon.’

Not soon. Not ever. Not alive. All the things he’s not saying crowd the room.

‘I should be out there. I should be the one looking.’

‘You’re in no state. Besides, you’ve done enough.’

The words land like a punch, though I know he doesn’t mean them that way.

I close my eyes again, and the sea is right there waiting. The waves. The dark. The cold. The crushing weight of water.

The sea’s still in my ears. Roaring. Hissing. Like it’s carved out space and never plans on giving it back.

‘I can’t do this,’ I whisper, too low for Maisie to hear.

Jude’s hand finds my shoulder, squeezes once. ‘Yes, you can. One minute at a time.’

The minutes stretch. The room darkens as evening falls, but no one moves to turn on lights. The TV glow paints Maisie’s face in shifting blues and greens. Jude paces between kitchen and living room until his phone beeps. My stomach lurches. They’ve found him. Found Peter…

His gaze meets mine. ‘Just Dad, they’ve righted the Mary Jane. Should be able to bring her back in.’

I don’t care though.

I never want to set foot on that boat again.

The waves keep rolling in my head. Endless. Relentless. Drowning me one breath at a time.

A knock at the door jolts through the quiet.

I don’t move. Can’t. Dad, who’s swapped Watch Kit Duty with Jude, glances at me, then goes to answer. I hear the creak of the hinges, the murmur of a voice too low to make out. A woman’s voice.

Then soft footsteps in the hallway.

And then she’s there. Isla. Soaked through, eyes raw, hair dripping rain down her cheeks.

For a second, she just looks at me. Like she’s making sure I’m still real.

She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t hesitate. Just crosses the room and kneels in front of me, her hands finding mine where they rest lifeless on my knees.

Her touch is warm. Real. The first thing that’s felt real since they pulled me from the sea.

‘Kit,’ she says, just my name, but it breaks something loose inside me.

I try to speak, but there are no words. Just a sound that tears from my throat, raw and wounded.

Isla moves without hesitation, rising from her knees to sit beside me, arms slipping around my waist. And suddenly I’m holding onto her, face buried in her hair, body shaking with the grief I can’t contain anymore.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says. Over and over like it’ll undo it. It won’t. But it doesn’t stop me from holding on tighter.

I cling to her like a drowning man, which is what I am – drowning in guilt, in grief, in the knowledge that Peter is gone and I’m still here. Her sweater grows damp under my face, but she doesn’t pull away. Just holds me tighter, one hand coming up to cradle the back of my head.

‘It’s on me,’ I rasp. ‘He went in for me. I shouldn’t have been out there.’

‘No.’ Her voice is fierce, surprising in its intensity. ‘No, it’s not your fault. It’s the storm. The sea. Not you.’