Page 49 of Pull Me Under

Nope. Not in front of Dad.

‘Forecast says rain later,’ Dad says without looking up. ‘Make sure you check the bilge pump on the Mary Jane before you head out.’

‘Already on the list.’

‘And that order from the chandlery⁠—’

‘Picked it up yesterday.’

‘There’s weather coming in. Take your waterproofs.’

The weather came in last night. I don’t say anything.

‘Will do, Dad.’

I’m halfway through my tea when my pager goes off.

The shrill beep cuts through the kitchen like a knife. Dad looks up sharply as I fumble for the device clipped to my waistband.

Fishing vessel taking on water. 3 miles SW of harbour. All crew respond.

‘Bollocks.’ I’m already moving, dumping my mug in the sink. ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘Take your waterproofs,’ Dad calls after me again. ‘There’s weather coming in⁠—’

I’m out the door before he can finish the sentence.

The lifeboat station sits at the edge of the harbour, a squat concrete building painted cheerful yellow that does nothing to disguise its utilitarian purpose. By the time I arrive – still in my running gear because there’s no time to change – Cal’s already there, hauling open the boathouse doors with methodical efficiency that comes from forty years of this.

‘Harding,’ he barks when he sees me. ‘Get changed. We launch in five.’

I sprint for the locker room, strip off my sodden running kit, and pull on the layers: thermal base, fleece, waterproof overalls, boots, life jacket. My hands are steady despite the adrenaline starting to spike in my system. This is muscle memory now. Dress, launch, rescue, return. I’ve done it hundreds of times.

It doesn’t mean I’m not scared every single time.

Bill arrives as I’m pulling on my helmet, his face ruddy from the sprint down from The Shack ‘What’ve we got?’

‘Fishing vessel,’ Cal says, already in position at the helm. ‘Taking on water. Three souls aboard.’

‘Christ.’ Bill’s hauling on his own gear, movements quick despite his age. ‘Commercial or recreational?’

‘Commercial. The Jenny B out of Falmouth.’

I know that boat. Everyone knows that boat – she’s older than most of the fleet, held together with rust and prayer and the kind of stubborn optimism that keeps Cornish fishermen at sea when any sane person would’ve sold up years ago.

Cal hits the launch switch. The boat slides down the ramp with a mechanical whine, hits the water with a slap that sends spray over the bow. I’m aboard before the echo fades, clipping in, running checks on the equipment while Cal guns the engine.

We’re out of the harbour in under three minutes.

The sea’s choppy but manageable – grey-green swells rolling in from the Atlantic, foam-topped and cold as death. The Jenny B’s transponder puts her south-west, towards the shipping lanes, and Cal takes us there at full throttle. The boat hammers over the waves, jarring my spine with each impact, and I brace against the gunwale, eyes scanning the horizon.

It’s just the three of us. Three.

Peter would’ve been here. Kit should be here. But Peter’s dead and Kit’s in New York and I’m the one who’s left, because I’m always the one who’s left.

‘There!’ Bill shouts, pointing.

I see her – the Jenny B wallowing in the swell, listing hard to port, her deck already awash. Three figures in orange life jackets cling to the wheelhouse, waving frantically as we approach.