Page 30 of Pull Me Under

‘What the – Jude? It’s not even five⁠—’

I push past her without asking, already scanning the cramped space like the Mary Jane might be hidden behind the sofa. ‘Where is she?’

‘Where’s what? Who?’ She’s more awake now, indignation replacing confusion. ‘You can’t just barge in here⁠—’

‘The boat. The Mary Jane. Where⁠—’

I stop. Actually see the place for the first time.

It’s not as bad as I expected. That’s the first thought, and I feel guilty for it – guilty for expecting ruins, guilty for the surprise that the walls are standing and the floor’s taking weight. But it’s not good either. The wallpaper’s peeling in the hallway, curling away from the plaster in long slow strips. There’s a bowl under a drip in the ceiling – the bad corner, where the flashing’s gone – tinged brown from whatever’s collected in the roof space. The whole place smells of cold and damp and stale air. No heating. No insulation. And a deep chill that gets into your bones and sets up camp.

On the wall by the kitchen doorway, she’s taped up a list. I can’t read it all from here, but I can see it’s long and methodical – numbered, categorised, the handwriting small and precise. A renovation plan. Nothing crossed off yet.

‘Brynn—’

‘Don’t.’ She crosses her arms, defensive. ‘It’s fine.’

‘It’s freezing in here. You’ve got no heating⁠—’

‘I’ve got a sleeping bag rated to minus fifteen. Army surplus.’

‘The roof’s leaking⁠—’

‘In one corner. I’ve got the bowl. The roofer in Pencross can do the flashing next week if I can scrape together two hundred quid.’

‘You can’t just⁠—’

‘I can. I am. It’s mine, Jude. And I’m going to fix it,’ she says, like a dare, like she’s waiting for me to tell her she can’t. ‘Now where is your bloody boat, because it’s not something I’ve taken, and you barging in here at stupid o’clock won’t change that.’

‘You weren’t in the shed. I went there first.’

‘No. I was here. Working on the list until I fell asleep on the sofa like an idiot.’ She rubs briefly at the back of her neck before gesturing at the front room – sure enough, there’s a blanket bunched on the sofa, a torch on the floor with a notepad. ‘I go up in the evenings when there’s still light. The shed’s for sleeping for now, until I can get a bed. The cottage is for fixing. Two different things.’

‘And you didn’t hear the boat leave?’

‘From up here? Are you crazy? No. I didn’t hear anything until you started trying to break my door down.’

She’s right. The cottage is too far up the cliff and too far inland to hear a single engine in the harbour. I’ve been stupid. Panicked and stupid and now I’m standing in her cold kitchen at five in the morning looking like a lunatic.

‘How the hell would I know where your boat is?’ She steps closer, and I can smell sleep on her – tea and salt and the lingering scent of dusty furniture. ‘If you’re this worked up, maybe it’s not the boat you’re worried about.’

‘How did you—’ I start, then stop, because she’s reading me again. That thing she does. Like I’m a gauge she knows how to interpret.

‘You were staring at the shed from the jetty last night. Don’t think I didn’t clock that.’ Her voice is quieter now. Less defensive. ‘And now you’re here in the dark, terrified, and it’s not about me. So. Who took the boat?’

The truth comes out like air from a puncture. ‘He’s gone out alone.’

Her whole posture changes. The fight drains out of her as understanding dawns. ‘Your father?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Isn’t Reuben Harding the best old sea dog in the south-west?’

‘He thinks he is.’

The words hang between us, heavy with everything I’m not saying. She moves to the kettle, starts filling it from the tap that coughs and splutters. Giving us both an excuse not to look at each other.

‘And you’re worried because…’