Page 5 of Take Me Away

Of course he is. Of course Kit Harding grew up to be the kind of man who saves people.

I pass the fish shack just as the bell above it rings and Bill Tiller pops his head out, apron stained, grin wide. In an instant, I’m eighteen again and a little sunburned across the shoulders. ‘Oh bloody hell, if it isn’t Hollywood herself.’

I freeze. Heart stumbling. My stomach twists and a cool bloom of sweat prickles across the back of my neck. But then I stand up straight, breathe.

Frankie appears beside him, chewing a toothpick and glaring at a lobster like it’s personally insulted him. ‘You’re not dead then?’

Frankie has deep creases around his eyes. Laughter lines etched into perpetually tanned skin. Bill’s hair is iron grey. And something about it makes my insides ache.

I blink, trying not to let the shock of their ageing show. ‘Not yet.’

Bill beams just like he always did. How is it possible to be away so long, to even forget that people exist, but the moment you see them again, they are back. Name. Character. Smile. Memory is an impressive thing. ‘Want a cod bap, Isla? Still got that weak spot for vinegar and regret?’

I laugh before I mean to. It bubbles up, ridiculous and real. ‘Always.’ I shake my head. ‘I can’t believe you remember.’

Frankie flicks his toothpick out from between his teeth, brown spots on the back of his hand. ‘Never going to forget you, love, are we?’

I shrug, not wanting it to seem quite as desperate as it echoes within me. ‘Never know.’ Frankie gives me a broad and dramatic wink and another childhood flashback hits. Hamlet. Frankie. I drop my head to hide my smile.

The smell from the van makes my stomach growl. Got to be about 800 calories in one of their baps. I root myself in place and wait for them to fry it up. ‘Much changed?’ I ask, keeping my tone light.

‘Not much, you know how it is.’ Bill nods out to the sea. I’m not sure what he thinks I know or don’t know. Not sure if there is an accusation lingering there, but then he cracks a weathered smile and adds, ‘Dot’s still at the post office, but she’s got a computer now. Thinks she’s bloody Google.’ He hands me the bap wrapped in paper. When I reach for my wallet, he waves me off. ‘On the house. Figure you need it after what that bastard did.’

My throat tightens.

And here we go.

‘Oh, we’ve all read the headlines, Isla, and we’ve got you, kid,’ Frankie says, leaning on the counter. ‘I always said that Vale had a slimy look, you know? I saw him on Jonathan Ross once and I said he was as slippery as an eel.’ He looks to Bill for confirmation. ‘You remember that, right. He was wearing that silver suit, and I said⁠—’

‘Aye, Frankie,’ Bill cuts in. ‘I remember. I said he looked like a big shiny shit.’ I almost laugh. The great and all-powerful Marcus Vale being described as a big shiny shit.

Frankie, though, is already moving the conversation on. ‘Reuben’s still fishing when he shouldn’t be,’ Bill says. ‘Too old, too stubborn. Jude’s got a limp now – accident few years back, they don’t talk about it. And Kit…’ he trails off.

He chews on his toothpick thoughtfully. ‘The Hardings might be a different story.’ He looks almost apologetic, shoulders shrugging up by his ears. ‘Just warning you. They aren’t quite how they used to be.’

I swear my heart is hammering and the earth is shifting beneath me. But I’m a trained, award-winning actress; there is not a chance in hell I’m going to let it show. ‘So, Kit’s still here then?’ I ask. Innocent. Nonchalant. Like my lungs aren’t going to cave in while I wait for an answer that takes far too long to come.

Frankie gives me a long look. And yes, it’s pointed. ‘He’s got a little girl now. Maisie. Wife passed two years back.’

My stomach twists again and it’s got nothing to do with hunger pangs.

Married.

A father.

Widower.

‘Cancer,’ Bill adds softly. ‘Jess was a good sort. Kit’s not been the same, and who can blame him.’

I swallow hard, but my fingers have the lightest tremor while my mouth takes a moment to find something suitable to say. ‘I didn’t know.’ It’s the truth. It’s also pathetic.

‘Course you didn’t,’ Frankie mutters. ‘Not like you ever came back, is it?’ He’s only stating facts, but they slice down deep into wounds that are too big for me to patch up.

‘It wasn’t that easy,’ I say, although I know it sounds pathetic.

I suppose this is what I fear most. That people won’t be staring at me because I’m that Isla Quinn. No, this will be far worse; they will be staring at me because I’m that girl. The one who wasn’t brave enough to come back.

There’s a part of me that wants to stand on the harbour wall and scream, It wasn’t my fault. I couldn’t come back. You wouldn’t have recognised me if I did.