TRACY BUCHANAN

Published by Avon

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015

Copyright © Tracy Buchanan 2015

Cover Design © Lisa Horton 2015

Tracy Buchanan asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780007579396

Ebook Edition © July 2015 ISBN: 9780007579402

Version: 2015-07-28

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Praise

Dedication

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Acknowledgements

About the Author

How Far Would You Go for the One You Love the Most?

About the Publisher

Join the readers who love Tracy Buchanan!

Praise for THE ATLAS OF US

‘The best book I’ve read in a long time’

‘Full of secrets and surprises’

‘One of the hot summer reads of 2014’

‘Kept me hooked’

‘A captivating story’

‘Will keep you guessing till the end’

‘Beautifully written, exciting and unpredictable’

‘A gripping journey packed with adventures, secrets, struggles, devastation, but also courage and love’

‘Each page brings a new revelation’

‘A fab summer read to take on holiday’

‘When it was finished, I wanted more’

‘I don’t have enough words to describe how fantastic it is’

‘I totally recommend it’

‘If you thought you knew what was coming next you were wrong’

‘A thrilling ride’

‘Wow! What a book!’

‘One of the best debuts of 2014’

‘Found myself going to bed early just so I could read more’

‘Can’t wait for her next one!’

‘A beautifully atmospheric page turner’

‘I was enthralled’

‘I heartily recommend it’

‘Easily one of my top reads of 2014’

‘My goodness, what a spellbinding book’

‘I found myself sneaking off just so I could read the next chapter’

‘Extremely powerful’

‘Raw emotions that fill your heart’

‘Engaging, passionate, romantic and full of heart-warming and heart-wrenching moments’

‘I am highly anticipating her next book’

‘One of the best books I’ve ever read’

‘I simply loved it’

‘I highly, highly recommend this book to anyone’

To Paul and Jessica, my brother and sister

Prologue

Busby-on-Sea, UK

March 1977

Faith lay still, the rain wetting her face and bouncing off the soft skin of her outstretched palms. She heard voices, footsteps, but couldn’t move, couldn’t call out. She looked up at the soaking tree branches above. If she narrowed her eyes slightly it almost looked like she was underwater, floating under a submerged tree…

Wouldn’t that be wonderful, discovering the drowned forest she and her sisters had spent their summers searching for? She remembered the first time she showed them the map she’d made. Three years ago. She was sixteen, so naïve then, so excited too. She’d hurried down the beach, the pebbles stretching out before her, the sky bright blue above, sun hot and hazy. When she caught sight of her sisters, she slowed down. She liked watching them when they were like this, quiet and still. Her thirteen-year-old sister, Charity – the youngest of the three – lay on a towel, chin tipped up towards the sun, eyes closed, wild black hair a tangle above her head. Her sunburnt legs stretched out from faded denim shorts, her halter-neck top matching her red knees. She was at that confusing age between girlhood and womanhood that Faith remembered so well.

Sitting behind Charity on a large white rock, her pale knees tucked up to her chest, was Hope. She watched the sea pensively as it foamed against the beach, the end of her pen in her mouth, notepad open in her other hand. The swimsuit she was wearing – an old one of their mother’s, swirling colours of green, red and blue – and the turquoise swimming cap that hid her long red hair made her look more like thirty than fifteen.

Faith quickened her step towards them, bare feet scrunching pebbles, the object of her excitement hidden behind her back.

Hope peered up first, face lighting up when she saw her older sister.

‘How’s the poem going?’ Faith asked her.

‘I’m stuck on the colour of the sea.’ A frown puckered her pale skin as she turned to look back out towards the sea. ‘It’s such a strange colour today, not blue or grey or green.’

‘Ribbons,’ Charity lazily murmured without opening her eyes. ‘Blue, grey and green ribbons.’

Faith smiled as she sat down next to Charity, pebbles warm beneath her bare calves.

‘Ribbons. I like that. You’re not so useless after all, Charity,’ Hope declared, scribbling in her notepad as Charity stuck her tongue out at her.

‘I’ve got something to show you both,’ Faith said.

Charity opened one eye, squinting up at her sister. ‘Please not another type of snorkel? Because honestly, they all look the same to me.’

Faith laughed. ‘I promise it’s not.’ She looked over at Hope, impatient. ‘Come on, I want to show you both together.’

Hope put her hand up. ‘Wait, I have one more line to write.’ She finished scribbling then snapped her notepad shut, shouting, ‘Finished!’ Then she jogged over to them, pulling her swimming cap off and raking her fingers through her wavy red hair as it fell around her thin shoulders.

‘So,’ Faith said as Hope joined them. ‘You know we’re going to travel the world when we’re old enough?’

Charity and Hope exchanged a smile. Faith always came up with fun adventures.

‘As Daddy pointed out, we can’t visit every single country in the world,’ Faith continued. ‘That would take us a lifetime. We need a focus.’

‘I quite agree,’ Hope said as Charity nodded.

‘Well, I’ve decided what our focus will be.’ She took a deep breath, looking at each of her sisters in turn, drawing out the drama.

‘Oh come on, Faith, don’t torture us,’ Charity said, bouncing up and down on her toes in anticipation.

‘We should focus on visiting submerged forests!’ Faith declared. ‘I was looking through the photos from Mum’s field trip last week in Austria, they’re beautiful!’

Charity went still. ‘Submerged what?’

‘You never listen when Mum tells us about her trips,’ Hope said, rolling her eyes.

‘They’re forests that disappear beneath the sea over time,’ Faith explained.

‘Mrs Tate read a poem in class about a whole town that got flooded in Wales after I told her where Mum was going,’ Hope said. ‘You can still see the remains of its forests when the tide goes out.’ She flicked through her notepad then tapped her finger on a page. ‘Here it is. “When waves crashed on the sea-shore / with thunder in its wake / The bells of Cantre’r Gwaelod / are silent ’neath the wave.”’

‘So these forests are a bit like Atlantis?’ Charity asked.

‘Kind of,’ Faith said. ‘But minus the buildings. And they’re not just beneath the sea. You can find them in lakes and rivers too. There’s one in Austria that only appears in the summer when the snow melts. The water floods the trees, and even a park bench. I found a book in the library about them, and drew a map of all the forests I could find in it.’

Faith pulled out what she’d been hiding behind her back and laid it on the towel. It was a large and rather beautiful drawing of the world map, tiny illustrated trees dotted in different locations. At the top, in Faith’s pretty looped handwriting, was: ‘World Tour of Submerged Forests.’

The three sisters bent over the map, hair trailing across it, dark, red and blonde. They traced their fingers over the trees then all peered up at one another.

Charity smiled. ‘This is so cool, Faith.’

Faith’s pretty face lit up. ‘Isn’t it? I can collect samples from the trees as we travel. I’ll be a marine biologist by then anyway.’ She looked at Hope. ‘And you can write poems about them.’ Hope nodded, grey eyes sparkling. ‘And Charity, you can—’

‘Sunbathe after each dive?’ Charity suggested.

The three girls laughed.

There was the sound of crunching pebbles. They all looked up to see their friend Niall approaching. The top half of his wetsuit was around his waist, exposing the tanned skin of his chest. His face was very tanned too, his blue eyes even more vivid as a result. He looked like he’d grown up in the weeks since they’d seen him last. Faith supposed he wasn’t the annoying little boy they’d first met on this beach four years before. He was fifteen, after all, nearly a man.

She noticed Charity staring shyly at him, her cheeks flushing. Clearly Charity had noticed the change in Niall too. Hope on the other hand was oblivious, rolling her eyes as she always did when Niall appeared.

‘Come join us, Niall,’ Faith said, beckoning him over. ‘We’ve decided to do a world tour of submerged forests.’

Niall crouched down and looked at the map. ‘There’s a submerged forest off Busby’s coast, apparently.’

Hope looked at him cynically.

‘Seriously. A fisherman saw the branches of a tree during a storm.’

‘That’s hardly proof,’ Hope said.

‘But it’s something,’ Charity said, jumping up and shading her eyes as she looked out to sea. ‘I’d love to see it.’

Niall smiled at Charity. She bit her lip, looking away. Hope shot her a warning glance, but Faith smiled. It was nice, watching the way they were together. Niall was a good kid, despite his troubled background. It wasn’t his fault his parents drank too much and lived on the grim estate at the other end of Busby, was it?

He pulled a pencil from the small blue rucksack Faith always carried around with her and quickly drew a little tree over Busby-on-Sea on the map.

‘If we find it, it can be the first forest we visit,’ he said.

‘We?’ Hope replied.

‘Yeah, who else will teach you all to dive properly?’

The three sisters looked out to sea, the waves crashing and receding before them. Then Niall picked Charity up, throwing her over his shoulder and running into the sea with her as Faith laughed.

The happy memory dissipated. A tear slid down Faith’s cheek. She was so cold, so frightened. Her sisters would find her though. They’d see her bed was empty and they’d come looking for her. Then she’d tell them every little thing that had happened during the past few weeks and they’d figure it all out together, because that was what they always did.

No more secrets, she thought to herself.

She closed her eyes.

Chapter One

Willow

In the middle of the Aegean Sea, Greece

August 2016

My friend Ajay reckons the Aegean Sea is named after Aegea, queen of the Amazons. My aunt Hope disagrees. She says it’s named after a famous sea goat.

I know which one I prefer.

In fact, I feel like I’m channelling a female warrior when I do dives like this, all swaddled up in my diving ‘armour’, ready to do battle with the sea and unearth its treasures. I feel it now as the dive boat we’re on bounces over the waves, the sea spreading out around us, the island of Rhodes just a shimmer of land behind us.

‘Nearly there,’ Ajay says, smiling at me. Without him, I’d have never got on to this wreck dive. I smile back, grateful.

One of the other divers who’s with us – an Australian called Guy, all blond hair and muscles – paces the boat, frustrated. ‘I might just jump off this boat and swim there myself if it doesn’t get a move on.’

The rest of the crew laugh.

I haven’t worked with Guy before but I’ve worked with divers like him, all bravado and testosterone. I can guarantee that by tonight he’ll be telling me stories of all the times he’s nearly died diving wrecks. Usually that’s a sign of someone who puts their ego above competence.

I throw Ajay a ‘where’d you find this one?’ look. He mouths back, ‘He’s good.’

We’ll see.

‘You dived a cruise ship before?’ Guy asks me.

‘Not a cruise ship,’ I reply, standing on my tiptoes as I crane my neck to see any sign of the site.

‘Willow dived the Russian tanker with me,’ Ajay said.

Guy looks me up and down. ‘Oh yeah? Pretty risky salvage dive. Big payout though, right?’

‘Not bad,’ I murmur.

That was a good job. I was in between contracts in Brighton at the time, whittling away the money I’d accrued from my last gig on a North Sea oil rig. I’d seen the tanker on the news and wondered if the commercial diving company Ajay worked for would be hired to salvage it. It looked like a risky dive, lots of wielding and moving of heavy equipment…lots of opportunity for that equipment to tumble on top of the crew. When Ajay called asking if I was free to work on it, I hadn’t hesitated. It wasn’t just the job, it was Ajay too. We’d clicked straight away when he was my diving instructor. He’s one of the good guys – and he never once tried it on with me after a few too many beers.

‘This job will be risky too,’ Guy says, eyes lighting up. ‘Why’s it been allowed to stay under for twenty years, anyway?’

‘The cruise company went bust so couldn’t pay to salvage it,’ one of the other divers shouts over. ‘The Greek authorities couldn’t afford it either.’

‘I heard a mystery benefactor stepped in to pay,’ Ajay says.

I look at him. ‘Really? You didn’t tell me that.’

‘Just found out this morning, Foivos told me,’ he says, gesturing to the old Greek guy captaining our ship.

‘How many casualties?’ Guy asks.

‘A hundred and eleven died,’ I say.

‘Rogue wave, right?’ Guy says. ‘Dived a ship in the Atlantic Ocean that was taken down by one of those. Must’ve been big news at the time.’

‘Very big news.’ I pick up my stabiliser jacket – or stab jacket, as we call them – checking it all over.

‘The rich dude who owned it died too, didn’t he?’ Guy continues. I give Ajay another look. This man talks too much. ‘Man, I can’t wait to get under.’

Ajay shoots him a look. ‘Remember to keep the excitement in check. Safer that way.’

‘Yep, you won’t get much diving done when you’re dead,’ I say.

‘You didn’t tell me what a firecracker we have on our hands,’ Guy says to Ajay. ‘Was she this bad when you were training her?’

‘Worse,’ Ajay says, smiling.

‘I am here, you know,’ I say.

Ajay looks contrite. ‘Sorry, Willow.’

‘You will be sorry when I kick your arse at table football tonight.’

Everyone laughs. This is what I’ve learnt working as a diver the past few years. Let them know when they’ve gone too far then lighten the tone, no hard feelings. The commercial diving world is tight and it’s hard to fit in, especially as a woman. I manage though, I’ve even made some good friends, my ‘tribe’, as I call them.

Guy catches my eye and shoots me a sexy smile, his blond hair hanging in his eyes. I ignore him. Ajay thinks I’m too fussy when it comes to men, comparing them all to my dad. But it’s hard when every time a man looks at me, I think of the way my dad looked at my mum when they were young.

One of my earliest memories is of us all sitting in our huge garden. I watched my parents gaze at each other beneath the willow tree I was named after. Then my dad noticed me watching them so he pulled me into his arms, telling me he loved me over and over.

I loved those summer days at the cottage. That memory of my parents still haunts me now.

We all grow quiet as the buoy marking the ship’s location comes into view. I take a deep breath.

Finally, we’re here.

I focus on the routine of preparing for the dive to calm myself, pulling the shoulder straps of my stabiliser jacket down so it’s nice and snug. Then Ajay helps me get my air tank on. I check my diver computer on my wrist, pressing the small buttons around its large clock face to set all the measurements up. Then I pull my weight belt up and grab my fins before walking to the edge of the boat and looking down at the calm sea. The ship is right under my feet, right here. I press the button to inflate my stab jacket, feeling it expand against my chest. Usually that feeling sends a thrill of excitement through me: time to head in and grapple with the sea. But I’m suddenly feeling apprehensive, even reluctant, to jump in.

Ajay squeezes my shoulder, looking me in the eye. ‘All set?’

‘She can handle herself,’ Guys says. ‘You said yourself she’s dived worse wrecks.’

‘This is different,’ Ajay says.

Guy nods. ‘Yeah, I guess the fact no one’s dived it since the rescue operation makes it more dicey.’

‘It’s not just that,’ I say, glancing at him. ‘That rich dude who owned the ship? That was my dad.’

Shock registers on his face. ‘No way.’

The rest of the crew are quiet as they watch me. I’ve been wanting this for such a long time, campaigning the Greek authorities to let me dive it as soon as I got my first set of qualifications when I was eighteen.

And now here I am.

I turn back to contemplate the sea. It’s gentle and aqua-coloured, tempting me in. I know how deceiving it can be, how in one moment it can turn into a death trap, like it did for my parents.

‘Ready?’ Ajay says, standing beside me as the rest of the crew line up.

I take a deep breath, channelling that queen of the Amazons, then put my snorkel into my mouth.

This is it.

I jump in before I can stop myself, the warm salty water splashing on to my face. My inflated jacket makes me bounce up and down for a few moments, then I start deflating the stab jacket and the weights around my waist pull me under.

The sound of the boat’s engine, birds squawking above, the rippling sea all disappear as I descend. There’s just the deep quiet, that special quality of silence that only comes with being underwater.

The colour of the water around me changes the further down I get, from aqua to green to deep blue then misty black. The warmth dissipates a little and everything seems to slow down.

Is this how Mum and Dad felt before they were eaten up by the sea? I try to picture them. The last time I saw my mum, I was so tired, I barely took it in. Why had I been so bloody tired? If only I’d held on to wakefulness just a few moments longer, there would have been more than just fragments of memory to grasp at: the red of Mum’s lipstick, that crooked tooth of hers. If I’d been more awake, I could have held tight to her, told her not to go away, cried and begged.

Then Dad. I still remember the feel of his soft fingers against my forehead as he brushed my fringe away from my eyes a few days before, the smell of his citrus aftershave as he leant down to kiss me, green eyes like the sea. Maybe he would have delayed the launch if I’d begged him to? Aunt Hope said he was like putty in my hands, one of the country’s richest businessmen and his daughter had him wrapped around her little finger. Would it have been enough, my desperate plea for him to stay?

How different things would have been if he had.

Ahead of me, I see the yellow of the other divers’ fins. The mist disperses and Ajay swivels around, his long legs like reeds. He shoots me a thumbs up and I do the same.

At first I can’t see the ship, it’s so murky down here. But then it comes into view. I grab the torch attached to my wrist and shine it ahead of me. The ship is vast, stretched across the ocean floor like a white beached whale. Half its upper deck is smashed into the ocean floor’s surface, the side of the ship with its name – Haven Deluxe – emblazoned across it is tilted towards me. What was once floating is now submerged, wood and metal as one with the seabed as it rests on its side in the foggy sea. My aunt Hope says the ship’s dead, an underwater coffin. But it still feels alive to me, as though any moment it might pounce into life and spill out all the memories from my parents’ last night alive.

I stare at it, feeling an unbearable sadness. The first time I saw it was on the front of the brochure. Even at just seven, I could sense my dad’s excitement. Finally the cruise ship he’d dreamt of building was ready for its maiden voyage. He used to read the brochure to me like it was a copy of The Very Hungry Caterpillar.

The next time I saw that same photo, it was shown alongside photos of the ship languishing at the bottom of the sea the week it sank. My aunt Hope had been looking after me in the ramshackle pebbledash house she and Mum had grown up in in Busby-on-Sea. We got the call in the middle of the night to confirm they’d died.

‘They’re gone,’ she said as she peered up at me in the darkness.

I’ve never quite forgiven her for that. They’re gone.

I hadn’t been able to process it properly, I was so young. I remember running to my room and slamming the door, saying ‘no’ over and over. My aunt didn’t come to comfort me. Instead, she went outside and knelt on the shore, smashing her fists into the waves as though she was punishing the sea for taking her sister away from her.

The memories dissipate. I can’t get caught up in them, I must stay focused.

So I continue swimming towards the ship, trying to stifle my grief and sadness. After a while, I see the hole in the side of the ship that the rescue divers must have made all those years ago. The lights from our torches join up to illuminate the area in front of us. The hole’s ragged and just about wide enough for two to swim through without snagging skin.

Am I really about to go in there?

I stop a moment, floating in the water, staring at the ship. Then I kick my legs hard and head towards the hole. Guy goes to follow me but Ajay holds him back. I know why he’s doing it: I have to be the first one in there. My heart clenches at that.

Thank you, Ajay.

I slide my body through the hole and the ship’s once grand dining room is right there in front of me, an eerie shadow of what it once was. I find it hard to breathe for a second, my chest struggling to take in the air being pumped from the tank on my back. The tank itself suddenly feels heavy, too heavy, and my heads swims slightly.

I try to focus on my breathing as I look around me, the rest of the divers are spilling into the hall behind me and spreading out around the area, cameras ready to take photos, to assess what needs doing. Some divers have large nets to bring items of note up to surface. But my camera stays floating from my belt. I need to see this with my own eyes, not through a camera lens.

Faded Garden of Eden murals line the walls above, a large staircase winds its way up to a gilded balcony. Nearby, a huge chandelier lies on its side, its smashed crystals glinting in the light from our torches. To my right are tables and chairs embellished with gold leaf, piled on top of each other. And in the middle of it all, now lying on its side but once lying across the dining room floor, a glass viewing pane that’s splintered and thick with sea moss.

Survivors said the first wave hit as dessert was served that evening.

I imagine the whole area coming to life before my eyes as it does still in my nightmares: the tables and chairs righting themselves, silver cutlery clinking into place, fragments of glass floating back together to form large wine glasses. I pass a smashed piano and can almost hear the soft lilt of music echoing in the background, the sound of laughter and chatter around me.

Maybe Mum would have been sitting at one of these tables in her long black dress, the silver mesh purse I’d got her for her birthday clutched in her lap. Dad would be dressed in his smart tux, his blond hair swept over his forehead. He’d be whispering something to Mum and she’d laugh in response as they clinked their champagne glasses together. This would have been a big night for them, the launch of Dad’s ship. In those last few months, he had worked into the early hours. Mum often waited up for him, and I sometimes watched her without her realising. She’d be curled up on the sofa in her silk nightie reading a book, glasses perched on the end of her nose. When the key turned in the door, her face lit up and Dad would walk in, twirling her around in his arms as she laughed.

A few nights later, they were here, in this very dining room.

But then the scene disintegrates, chairs splintering, tables collapsing, glass and silver smashing apart as my parents fade away until I’m back in the foggy depths of this sea coffin again, still an orphan, still alone.

This is harder than I thought. I’ve wanted it so long I’ve lost track of what it really means: I’m here, in the belly of the ship where my parents died.

The yellow of Ajay’s fins catch my attention. He’s filming the scenes around him for the video we’ll all watch later to assess just how much work needs doing. He heads down a corridor leading away from the dining room and I follow. Some paintings are still secured to the walls, including one of a woman in her fifties with black hair and penetrating blue eyes. My grandmother from Dad’s side. Like my other grandparents, she passed away before I was born. I slide my fingers over the canvas and it bubbles under my fingertips.

In the distance, I see the remains of a bar, stools toppled on to their sides. A large balcony appears on my right, providing a route out on to the ship’s decking area and the sea beyond.

There’s a loud creaking sound. Ajay and I both pause, his limbs floating, almost disappearing into the haze. One of the pictures falls from the wall, bobbing towards me. I push it away.

Another creaking sound.

Ajay waves his hand from side to side, the diver signal that something is wrong and we need to head back to the surface. My first chance to see the place where my parents died and I have to leave after less than five minutes here?

I shake my head. He grabs my arm. We look at each other through our masks, my eyes pleading with his to give me more time. He shakes his head and points towards the surface.

In the distance, the other divers start heading back. I feel like taking my snorkel out and screaming. Instead, I follow Ajay out of the ship.

Before I head towards the surface, I look back once more and say a silent goodbye to my parents.

That evening, I walk into the restaurant of the large beachside hotel where we’re staying in Rhodes. People turn to stare as I pass them. I suppose I look out of place here among all these tourists, a lone wolf, as Ajay calls me, pale skin, tattoos and short black hair. Wait until they see all the other divers pile in.

Ajay and Guy are already here, sitting in a quiet corner, two bottles of beer nearly empty already. I slump down across from Ajay, unable to hide my disappointment.

‘It sucks, doesn’t it?’ Guy says.

‘Sure does,’ I say, trying to get the attention of a waiter, desperate for a beer too.

‘So you must have been young when your folks died? Did you have family who took you in?’

I nod. ‘My aunt.’

I spent that first week after my parents died imagining them coming back, found and safe. Then my aunt had come to me one morning, her bag slung over her shoulder. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s see your new school’.

That’s when it hit me, my parents were really gone and the wonderful life I’d had with them gone too. Waves of grief overwhelmed me and the emptiness of the life that lay before me seemed to unravel. I yearned for the huge cottage I’d grown up in just outside Busby-on-Sea. I yearned for my lovely room with its aqua walls like the sea. I yearned for my dog, Tommy, but Aunt Hope had refused to take him in. I didn’t want this decrepit old seaside town with its soulless school and strange homeless woman with her trolley full of shoes.

I’d burst into tears. My aunt had to postpone the visit I was such a mess.

The only thing that got me through those first few months was imagining the grey sea outside my aunt’s house was the Aegean Sea. I’d envisage diving under the waves, plucking my parents to safety. It wasn’t long before I begged my aunt to take me swimming. She reluctantly agreed, and would sit perched on a rock with her notepad and pen in hand as she watched me teach myself to swim in the shallow sea just outside the cottage. Occasionally, she’d look up and shout out some half-hearted words of advice. ‘Kick your legs harder, Willow!’ or, ‘Not like that, you look like a rhino.’

‘Did you get into diving because of your folks?’ Guy asks now.

I nod as I order a beer. ‘If the rescue divers had got down there quicker all those years ago, they might have saved more passengers. I guess I wanted to see if I could do better.’

‘Why didn’t you get into rescue diving then?’

‘I did at first. It wasn’t enough. So I did my commercial training with Ajay.’

‘What inspired you to get into all this?’ Guy asks Ajay.

‘I used to dive the forest in the lake near where I was born. I suppose it got under my skin. You?’ he asks Guy.

Guy smiles. ‘Grew up by the sea.’

When the waiter arrives with my beer, I take a sip, savouring its coolness. We all grow quiet, looking out at the sea. White buildings scatter across a nearby hill that stretches out above the waves, tourists walking up a set of steps towards some ancient ruins, the setting sun casting them in yellow. Beyond, the sea stirs, flexing its muscles, ready for another night.

Ajay tilts his bottle towards mine. ‘To the sea getting under our skin,’ he says.

I cling my bottle against his. ‘To lost souls,’ I say.

I wake the next morning, eyes adjusting to the glare of light slicing through my hotel room. There’s a ringing sound and I can’t quite figure out where it’s coming from.

‘Your phone,’ Guy says, handing it to me. He’s lying naked in my bed, his arm flung over his head to protect his eyes from the sunlight.

I take the phone, see it’s Ajay, and so I drag myself out of bed, grabbing on to the desk nearby to steady myself when I see stars. I put the phone to my ear.

‘Ajay?’ I say as I squint out of the window at the bright blue skies, the clear sea. Behind me, Guy rises and pads into the bathroom.

‘I’ve been looking through the items some of the divers recovered from the wreck,’ he says.

‘They managed to recover stuff?’

‘Only a few bits and pieces. I think there might be something here that belonged to your mother.’

My heartbeat gallops. ‘I’ll be there in half an hour.’

Twenty-eight minutes later, I’m standing in a large warehouse by the main port in Rhodes, looking at one of four tables laid out with items taken from the ship. Before me is a bag threaded with silver, its straps made from satin and silver leaves. It’s faded by the sea and time, but it looks like the bag I’ve seen in photos, the same bag Dad helped me buy Mum for her thirty-fifth birthday just a few months before I lost her.

I gently pick it up and open it…and there it is, etched into a tarnished silver plate inside:

Mummy,

Happy birthday.

Lots of love, Willow x

I clutch it to my chest, emotions so intense I can hardly breathe. I remember how excited I’d been to give it to her. Dad had made her breakfast, setting it all out in our gorgeous garden. I’d patiently sat at the table, waiting for her to come out, the bag carefully wrapped in my lap. When she’d opened it, she’d been delighted.

I look inside, not surprised to find it empty. I wonder what she kept in there that night. Her trademark red lipstick, a small bottle of perfume – that rose scent of hers. Maybe a comb?

I slide open the small zipper, carefully dipping my fingers in. There’s something in there.

A necklace.

I pull it out. It’s rusty and twisted but the pendant hanging from it is still intact. It’s a symbol of some kind, half a circle with a curved thread of gold inside.

‘Was that in the bag?’ Ajay asks, looking over my shoulder.

I nod. ‘I don’t recognise the symbol though.’

‘Looks like two initials, a C and an N. Wasn’t your mum’s name Charity?’

I frown. ‘Yes, but Dad’s name was Dan.’

Ajay shrugs. ‘Maybe it’s not initials then.’ Someone calls him over. He puts his hand on my arm. ‘You okay?’

‘Yeah. Thanks for calling me, I’m pleased we found the bag.’

He smiles. ‘Me too.’

As he jogs away, I stare at the necklace. It’s not in any of the photos I have of Mum and God knows I’ve stared at them enough to know.

I pull my phone from my pocket, dialling my aunt’s mobile phone number. It takes a few rings for her to answer.

‘Willow?’ she says, voice curt.

‘Hi. Are you at the cottage?’ I ask.

‘I am.’ She pauses. ‘Well, how did it go?’

‘Not great. The ship’s unstable, they’ve had to cancel the recovery. To be honest, I don’t think I’ll get a chance to dive it again, it’s just too dangerous.’

‘Good. It’s best left alone.’

I suppress a sigh. We’d argued when I’d told her I was going to be part of the dive crew who’d be salvaging the ship. She had this romantic notion that it would be disturbing the dead passengers’ souls, even though all the bodies had been recovered long ago.

‘They found some items though,’ I say, looking at the necklace, ‘including the silver bag I got Mum for her birthday.’

My aunt doesn’t respond for a moment. I just hear her breath, quiet and slow. ‘That’s good,’ she says eventually, sounding a bit choked up. ‘I’d like to see it when you come back.’

‘I’ll bring it with me. There was a necklace inside that I don’t recognise.’

‘She had lots of jewellery.’

‘This one’s unusual though. Ajay thinks it might be two initials intertwined, a C and an N?’ My aunt’s silent again. That silence speaks volumes. ‘Did you see Mum wear it?’

‘No, never.’

‘Then why did you go quiet?’

‘No reason.’ She’s lying. I can always tell when she’s lying, her voice goes up an octave. ‘So if the dive’s cancelled, does that mean you’ll be coming to clean up the cottage with me?’

I think of stepping into my parent’s cottage for the first time in twenty years. ‘I might stay here for a few days actually.’

‘Don’t make excuses. It might be the last chance you’ll get to see it.’

I’ve been trying to forget the fact that I finally relented to putting the house I grew up in on the market. I haven’t stepped foot in there since my parents died. Maybe if my aunt had taken me there after, like I’d begged her to, it might have been different. But she’d insisted it would just upset me. And the more months and years that passed, the more painful the thought of going back there became.

I look down at the necklace. Maybe it’s finally time I go.

Chapter Two

Willow

Near Busby-on-Sea, UK

August 2016

I peer up at the large white cottage that was my childhood home until my parents died. It seems to blur into the clouds above, the green of the grass that spreads out behind it and the blue of the sea in front add the only hint of colour.

I walk the stones I used to skip up. They’re overgrown with moss now, barely visible. And those large bay windows, I’d once sat by as I waited for Dad to return from work. But they’re so grimy now, no way anybody could see through them. The rose bushes are still here. They used to be so beautiful, Mum tending to them, dark hair wrapped up in a scarf, lip caught in her teeth. Now they’re overgrown and tangled with weeds.

I haven’t cared for this place.

I breathe in the sharp clear air and remember doing the same as I set off for my first day at school from this very spot, uncomfortable and rigid in my bulky new uniform. I’d stared out towards the sea and realised, even at that young age, the perimeters of my little world were widening. Then Mum had put her hand on my shoulder and squeezed it.

‘Come on then,’ Dad had called out as he held the door to his Range Rover open for me. ‘Time for you to break some hearts at school.’

‘Come on then,’ a sharp voice says right now.

Aunt Hope is standing at the door, arms crossed, an impatient look on her face. Her grey eyes – the same colour as my mum’s – drill into mine. Her long red hair is loose around her shoulders, silver bits threaded through to the ends. I didn’t realise she’d started going grey, but then the last time I saw her was a few months ago, a brief visit to drop in her birthday card and present, an old book of poetry I’d found while visiting Scotland for a dive. She’s wearing one of her eccentric long dresses, blue-green like the sea with pearlescent gems all over.

I lug my bag over my shoulder and walk up the mossy stepping stones towards her. She pulls some keys from her bag and places them in the door. It creaks open and I pause before entering, noticing the slate-grey floor tiles, the beginnings of a long staircase. Memories accost me: me skidding down the stairs with a screech as Dad chases me; Mum greeting me at the door after playing outside.

I step into the house and the warmth of the memory disappears, replaced with the dust and the cold. The awful pain of my parents’ absence hits me in the chest.

‘Dust didn’t have a chance with the housekeeper your father hired,’ Aunt Hope says, marching down the hallway towards a small window in the middle. She yanks the yellow flowered curtains apart, dust billowing around her. The sea is unveiled in the distance, vast and blue. ‘Remember her? All ruffles and disapproving glances. What was her name?’

‘Linda, I think,’ I say, but I’m not really listening to her. I walk down the hallway, taking in the photos on the wall. Mum and Dad on their honeymoon, all tanned and smiling, against some pretty mountainous backdrop. Mum looking down at a newborn me in hospital, face soft with disbelief and love. Another of Dad holding a tiny me curled into his arm, a huge smile on his face. Then the three of us dressed in woolly coats, huddled up together outside this very house in the snow.

I walk up to it, tracing my fingers around my parents’ faces, the grief bubbling inside, almost unbearable.

‘Were they happy here?’ I murmur to Aunt Hope. ‘They looked happy.’

She looks into my eyes a moment. ‘I think they were, yes.’ Then she heads towards the large kitchen as I follow. The white marble floor tiles are now filthy; the pine units streaked. Aunt Hope pulls the sheet off the marble island in the middle of the kitchen, dust making us both cough.

‘Tea?’ she asks, pulling a travel kettle from her bag. I can’t help but smile, typical of my aunt, always needing a cup of herbal tea wherever she goes. I often wonder if that’s all she eats, too, she’s so thin.

I try to peer out of the grimy French windows, catching a glimpse of the willow tree.

‘Still have lots of sugar?’ my aunt asks.

‘Yep.’

She shakes her head with disapproval, heaping three spoonfuls into my tea.

‘You could do with some sugar yourself. You’re looking really thin,’ I say.

She waves her hand in the air like she always does when I bring up her weight.

‘So,’ I say, getting the necklace out and dangling it between my fingers. ‘Recognise this?’

She looks over her shoulder at it. ‘Nope.’

I examine her face. I can’t tell if she’s hiding something from me. She sits down across from me and we sip our tea in silence, the necklace lying between us.

Sometimes it’s better if we’re quiet, that way there’s no chance of an argument brewing. The argument we had before I moved out was the worst. She’d always told me the reason she didn’t have many photos of Mum from when they were young was because she’d lost them all. But on my sixteenth birthday, I’d crept up to the loft and found a photo album. Inside was a photo of Mum sitting in the sun, tanned pretty face tilted up to the camera, black hair piled on to her head with a red halter-neck top on. On the back was the year: 1974. Mum would have been thirteen. I flicked through the rest of the album, noticing blank sections that suggested photos had been removed.

When I’d shown the album to Aunt Hope, she’d said some must have fallen out. I could tell she was lying. We argued bitterly – she was holding bits of my mother back from me and I couldn’t forgive that. In the end, I packed all my things and stormed out of the house, staying with an older girl I’d met at swimming classes. I still saw my aunt, working at her café at weekends and in evenings, and we settled into a strange relationship, half aunt and niece, half manager and employee. When I handed in my notice after getting a job as a lifeguard in Brighton, she’d wished me good luck. ‘You know where I am if you need me,’ she’d said.

Since then it’s just been a case of popping in for birthdays and at Christmas, and the occasional phone call. I guess I’ve preferred my own company over the years. Coming back to Busby-on-Sea and seeing my aunt just brings back too many memories, not just of my parents but also those sad empty years after they passed away.

I study her thin face over the rim of my cup, take in the lines around her pale grey eyes that seem more pronounced than last time I saw her, the pinch of her lips, the pale shade of her skin.

She’s definitely getting older.

After we finish our tea, she stands up. ‘Well, we can’t sit here and sip tea all day, can we? How about we tidy the place up a bit and you can have a think about what you want to do?’

We spend the day in awkward comradeship getting cleaning supplies from the local shops and ringing around local handymen to get some broken windows sorted. By the time darkness falls, we still haven’t finished the last room: the living room, a long room divided by a pretty alcove with plaster-clad butterflies around its edges. One part of the room used to be dedicated to the TV and sofas; the other to all my toys. I remember winter nights with the fire roaring, the three of us snuggled up watching TV or playing games.

It’s cold and draughty now, dust and spider webs clogging the walls. The once thick rug I used to love is dirty with dead flies and mud.

‘Shall we just stay here?’ Aunt Hope suggests. ‘We can work into the night, get it out of the way. There are clean sheets in storage.’

I peer up at the ceiling. It’ll be strange staying here again, the first time since my parents died.

‘I presume you’ll be wanting to get away again?’ my aunt continues as she examines my face. ‘If we leave now, it might mean another whole day of clearing up.’

I take a deep breath. ‘Alright, let’s stay.’

Aunt Hope helps me roll the rug up and we place it in the hallway. We then scrub the dark wooden floorboards, both seeming to take comfort in the repetitive nature of the task.

‘Your mum loved these floorboards,’ Aunt Hope says after a while. ‘Your dad wanted to get a posh carpet but she insisted on stripping these down and restoring them.’

‘Yeah, she used to get annoyed when Dad pulled me along the floorboards on that rug. But then she’d join in after a while.’

My aunt wipes a grimy hand across her forehead, leaving a dark streak behind. ‘Put this in the bin bag, won’t you?’ she says, handing me the filthy rag she’s been using. I pull the bin bag in the corner of the room towards me and go to throw the rag in. But something catches my eye, an envelope with my name on it. I pull it out. It has the cottage’s address on it, a postal stamp from a few days before.

‘What’s this?’ I ask.

‘Just some junk mail.’

‘But it’s addressed to me, why would I get post here?’ I say. ‘And why would you open it if it was addressed to me?’

Aunt Hope shrugs. ‘I didn’t notice your name on it.’

I open the bag wider, sorting through the rubbish until I come across what looks like an invitation.

To Willow,

You are invited to a private viewing of

Niall Lane’s next exhibition:

The Charity Collection, a Retrospective and

Commemoration.

10th August 2016

7pm

Brighton Museum & Art Gallery

Beneath the text is a beautiful photograph of a tree that appears to be underwater with an etching in the bark.

I look up at my aunt. ‘This is the same symbol that’s on the necklace. And have you seen what this photographer called his collection? What’s this all about, Aunt Hope? Is there something you’re trying to hide from me?’

‘Oh, you’re so dramatic, Willow. There’s nothing to hide.’

‘But why would you throw the invite away?’

She shrugs. ‘It was yesterday, too late for you to go.’

I squeeze the invitation in between my fingers in frustration. Deep breaths, Willow, deep breaths. ‘How is this photographer connected to Mum?’

‘He was just some kid who had a thing for her a long time ago,’ my aunt says, dismissively waving her thin hand in the air.

‘What do you mean a thing?’

‘Your mother had lots of admirers. It was nothing.’ She stands up, wiping the dust off her long skirt. ‘I’m going to put some soup on for us.’

‘Why can you never be straight with me, Aunt Hope? She’s my mum! It’s like you’re jealous of her memory.’

She shoots me a cold, withering look then leaves the room. I quickly pull my phone from my pocket, Googling ‘Niall Lane’. A photographer’s website appears at the top of the results page. I click on the link and a page with dozens of photos materialises, all of submerged forests, underwater trees or ghostly tree stubs littered across vast beaches. They’re beautiful, eerie and atmospheric.

I click on the ‘About Niall’ page. The description is brief:

Niall Lane is a renowned underwater photographer whose photographs are exhibited around the world. His Charity Collection has won a number of industry awards.

There’s a black and white photo of a rugged-looking man in his fifties. A memory suddenly comes to me of digging up pebbles on Busby-on-Sea’s beach around the time I lost my parents. I try to grasp at the memory before it slips away again. There’s so little I remember from my time with my parents that when a hint comes, I’m desperate to gather it in. I close my eyes, press my fingers into my temples, willing the memory to hold steady.

There! A man. Tall, very tanned, dark hair shaved close to his head. He was dressed in a wetsuit, a camera hanging from his right hand, dark tattoos scrawled all over his arm. I remember him because he grabbed Mum’s arm while they were talking.

It was him. Niall Lane! Many years younger but definitely him.

I click around the site then find a map featuring all the locations where Niall Lane has taken photographs. I peer closer at the map. It’s hand-drawn, small illustrated trees marking the location of various places. Another memory stirs.

I dart upstairs.

‘Where are you going?’ I hear my aunt call up after me.

I ignore her, pulling the loft hatch down and climbing the stairs attached to it. There are only a few boxes up here. I pull the closest one over and open it. Inside are some of Mum’s counselling books – except for one book, old and musty-smelling with a green cover, a fish symbol overlaid on it: Submerged Forests by Clement Reid. I open it and there it is, the map folded in four. I pull it out and unfold it, laying it on the floor. It’s the size of an A5 piece of paper and seems quite old. I take it downstairs and show it to my aunt.

‘Why is there a picture of this on that photographer’s website?’

Her brow furrows as she takes the map. ‘It was your mother’s. She wanted to visit all the submerged forests in the world. Silly notion.’

‘Why does Niall Lane have it on his website?’

‘They used to dive together. He must have taken a photograph of it.’

‘Mum dived?’ I ask, incredulous. ‘Why wouldn’t you tell me? It makes no sense!’

‘We all did. We spent our childhoods by the sea, remember.’

‘So this photographer and Mum used to hang out when they were kids?’

She nods.

‘They must have been close,’ I say.

‘Back then, yes. But they were children.’

‘Then why did Mum have the necklace in her bag the night she died? She wasn’t a kid then.’

My aunt hands the map back to me. ‘Why torture yourself with all these questions, Willow? The past is the past.’

‘It’s my past. Why are you being so elusive?’

‘Honestly, the way you read into things.’

‘And the way you hide things. Like those photos of Mum I found the day I moved out, all those blank sections.’ I scrutinise her face. ‘You’re not being honest with me.’

‘This isn’t an episode of EastEnders, Willow.’

‘Really? You’d make a good actress, the amount of times you’ve lied to me.’

She shakes her head. ‘I can’t listen to this nonsense. I’m going to finish tidying the dining room, your soup’s in the kitchen.’

I don’t sleep all night. I’m in my old room but it’s a ghost of what it once was, the sea-themed wallpaper faded, the cream carpet filthy. So I get up and pace the freezing house. I eventually end up in the garden. It’s very early, mist still a sheen over the grass, the air very still and quiet. There’s a sheet of grey clouds above, one indiscernible from the other. I walk the length of the garden. It seems to go on forever, a two-tier fence running around its edges to mark it from the rest of the land.

There’s a patio area just outside the house that’s overrun with weeds now. A beautiful sundial sits at the centre of the patio and, to the side, a large gazebo with circular benches. The rest of the garden is simple, a long green lawn that’s like a meadow now, grass shin high. Around it, beneath the fence, are tangled roses. And then, right at the end, a huge willow tree that seems to have doubled in size since the last time I saw it.

My heart clenches as I notice the swing swaying below it. Dad made that for me. No big deal for some dads. But it was for mine. He usually got other people to do stuff like that, but he’d sanded down the wooden seat with his own hands, painted it glossy white with red stars then attached the ropes.

I sit on the swing, feet still on ground so I don’t break it as I sway back and forth. I close my eyes, try to imagine Dad pushing me.

Then out of the corner of my eye, I notice something in the tree’s bark. I lean closer and there it is:

Willow and Daddy

1996

The year the ship sank. Sobs build up inside and I put my hand to my mouth.

‘Oh, Dad,’ I whisper.

When I walk back inside, I’m surprised to see my aunt standing at the table. She’s usually an early riser but never this early. She’s looking down at the map I found, her grey eyes glassy with tears. When she notices me, she quickly folds it up.

‘Was Mum serious about visiting all these submerged forests?’ I ask, more gently than before.

‘She was just a kid,’ she says dismissively.

‘Was it the submerged forest off Busby’s coast that sparked her interest?’

Aunt Hope takes a sip of her tea. ‘That wasn’t discovered until we were older.’ She peers up at me. ‘In fact, it was your parents who discovered the forest.’

I look at her in surprise. ‘But I had no idea.’

‘Why does it matter?’

‘Everything to do with my mum and dad matters. That’s why I’m going to try to contact that photographer,’ I say, using my phone to do a web search for contact details. All I get is a generic email address.

Aunt Hope shoots me a cynical look. ‘What good will that do?’

‘He’ll have memories of Mum he can share. He must’ve invited me to his exhibition for a reason. I’ll email him, see if he wants to meet.’

I grab the map from her and unfold it again, taking in all the different locations.

‘And maybe I should to try to visit some of these,’ I say, feeling excitement swell inside. I realise then that the idea has been growing since the moment I saw the map. ‘It can be a homage of sorts, doing something Mum always wanted to do.’ I look up at Aunt Hope. ‘Mum would like that, right?’

Aunt Hope gets a faraway look in her eyes then she shakes her head as though shrugging it off. ‘Fine life you live, isn’t it,’ she says, ‘being able to follow some teenager’s pipe dream at the drop of a hat. I bet you’ve whittled all your inheritance away?’

How typical of my aunt, ruining a special moment. I sigh. ‘Actually, I haven’t. I earn decent money with the diving and anyway, I’m between jobs right now. I can do what I want.’

Aunt Hope looks around her. ‘What about this place? Will you sell it or not? I need to know so I can tell the estate agent, who’s due to value it.’

‘Not yet,’ I say, unwilling to let go of the past right now.

‘Good,’ she says. ‘Your mother was very happy here.’ We both stand at the window in silence, looking out over the overgrown garden. A gust of wind makes the long grass ripple, and the swing sways, a ghost of a past I so desperately miss.

Chapter Three

Charity

Busby-on-Sea, UK

March 1987

Charity peered out of the café’s window. The sun was a soft globe as it sank into the horizon, the air no longer so cold that she had to run from table to table to clear up just to keep warm in the arctic temperatures. The spatter of sea spray now felt less like daggers of ice on her cheeks and more like the spit of a mermaid, as her dad used to say.

Spring was coming.

While others rejoiced, the improving weather made Charity anxious. She’d promised herself she’d be back on her feet by spring after being made redundant. But there was still no job, no money. Every extra day she spent back in Busby-on-Sea, dark memories pressed even closer, gaping and roaring with every sight she saw, every person she spoke to, the smell of seaweed and brine, the squawk of seagulls and the hoot of distant ships feeding the old grief again and again.

She had to get away before it swallowed her whole.

‘Charity, love?’

Charity looked up to see Mrs McAteer peering at her. She was the queen of gossip here with her coiled grey hair and pearl necklace. Her daughter Addie used to be best friends with Charity’s big sister. Addie had managed to escape Busby-on-Sea for good. Most people did escape now.

‘So sorry,’ Charity said. ‘Got lost in my thoughts there for a moment. So, you were saying about your son?’

As Mrs McAteer launched into a story about her ‘poor Gav’, Charity nodded sympathetically. People had started coming to the café to bend her ear about their personal problems after hearing she was a qualified NHS counsellor. She didn’t mind so much, it was good to know she could help. But it would be even better if they could pay her. Then she might have a chance of getting out of this town.

It hadn’t always been like this. She used to love it here. Busby-on-Sea was one of several small towns on the south coast of the UK, a few miles from Brighton. It had felt like the only town in the world to her and her sisters when they were kids, the three of them its rulers. Their parents let them run riot along the stretch of pebble beach outside their house, collecting shells and rubbish washed up ashore. The town centre was too tidy for them with its smart shops circling a grand old ship; the long promenade that led from the marshes near their house too civilised with its white railings and gleaming pavements. Even worse were the new houses that lined it, all modern and posh. And then there was their mother’s café which sat smart and welcoming on the opposite end of the promenade to their house. Each sister took a job there as they grew older.

Some kids walked past with a ghetto blaster, music blaring out from its speakers. How different it was now, Charity thought as she watched them walk past the disintegrating white panels of those houses. Everything seemed to be rotting now. The only thing that remained new and gleaming was the large white house that sat overlooking the town from the cliffs above, renovated just a year ago, according to Charity’s sister, Hope, for a millionaire and his wife. It was glossy but it looked isolated and vulnerable up there alone, exposed to the elements.

‘That’ll be ten pounds,’ a voice said from behind Charity.

It was Hope, her long red hair tied in a knot above her head, a bright patchwork dress with long sleeves worn beneath her purple apron.

Mrs McAteer looked indignant.

‘I’m including twenty minutes of Charity’s time,’ Hope said with a serious look on her face.

Charity smiled to herself. Typical of her sister to be so blunt. If it weren’t for Hope’s delicious cakes and the arty facelift she’d given to the café since their parents passed away a few years ago, they’d have no customers. Charity could see the way people regarded Hope with wary eyes. What if one day they had enough of her sister’s attitude and stopped coming? Then where would her sister be? She couldn’t rely on her poetry, that never made much money. And she’d taken on the remaining mortgage repayments on their cottage.

‘Don’t listen to Hope,’ Charity said to Mrs McAteer, smiling.

Mrs McAteer looked Hope up and down, then placed some coins on the side before squeezing her ample frame out from behind the table, patting Charity on the arm and smiling. ‘You’ve always been a good girl.’ Then she left the café, turning once to throw Hope daggers.

‘Silly old bat,’ Hope muttered.

Charity rolled her eyes. ‘You’re wicked, Hope.’

‘Can’t you see she’s taking advantage of you, expecting a free counselling session each time she visits? We could turn this place into a café-come-therapy practice the way you’re going.’

‘I can see it now,’ Charity said, putting her arms in the air, making the shape of a sign with her hands, the sleeves of her bright red jumper sliding down her arms. ‘Shrink Shack: cakes and counselling.’

‘We’ll make millions.’

They both laughed. For a moment, it almost felt like old times, like Charity hadn’t moved to London eight years ago with just weekly letters and the occasional visit bringing them together. When she’d been made redundant, leaving her with no choice but to move back to Busby-on-Sea, she’d worried things would be awkward with her sister. But after a couple of weeks, it felt like they’d slipped right back into their childhood routines.

The sound of screeching tyres could be heard from outside. Everyone looked up as a red sports car pulled to a stop outside the café. A woman stepped out, tall like a model with glossy caramel hair and bee-stung lips. She was wearing a black fur coat over tight red trousers, and was tottering on tall black stilettos. A handsome blond man in his mid thirties slid out of the passenger side, adjusting the collar of his expensive-looking suit and shooting the woman a smile.

As they strode into the café, the whole place fell silent.

‘Dan and Lana North,’ Hope whispered to Charity.

‘The ones who own the mansion?’

Hope nodded, looking the woman up and down. ‘So they finally decide to grace us with their presence.’

Lana North stopped in the middle of the café, peering around her. Charity wondered how it must look to this rich, privileged woman. At least it no longer had Formica tabletops and orange tiled walls. But the driftwood tables and paper sculptures made from pages ripped from poetry books hanging from the ceiling might look odd to her.

‘Well, look at this place,’ Lana said to her husband. ‘Isn’t it sweet, darling?’

‘Quite the hidden gem,’ her husband replied smoothly. Charity looked at him as she wiped the sides down quickly. He looked alien among the teacups and perms and half-eaten slices of Victoria Sponge. Tan too bronze to be from anywhere but some distant island; blond hair too perfect for the salty air here.

He caught her eye and she smiled at him. ‘Hello, welcome to the Art Shack,’ she said. ‘What can we get you?’

‘I really fancy a glass of champagne,’ Lana said, throwing herself into one of the pastel painted chairs.

‘I don’t think they’re licensed to sell alcohol, darling,’ Dan said, smiling to himself as he sat in the chair opposite her.

‘You’re right,’ Charity said. ‘We have coffee though, the Busby-on-Sea special: piping hot, black and sickly sweet.’

Dan looked up at Charity, green eyes holding hers. ‘Now that sounds like my type of coffee. I’ll have one of those. Darling?’ He looked at his wife.

She shrugged. ‘I suppose that will have to do. And maybe one of those things too,’ she said, flicking her hand towards a tray of shortbread.

‘Make that two,’ Dan said.

As Hope and Charity prepared the order, the hubbub returned to the café and Charity watched the couple out of the corner of her eye. They were laughing about something, Dan leaning close to Lana’s ear as he whispered to her. They looked completely in love.

She’d felt like that about someone once.

Hope handed Charity a tray with the coffees on, interrupting her thoughts. ‘You take them,’ she said under her breath. ‘I’ll only pour the coffee over that bimbo’s head for being so disdainful about my shortbread.’

‘I don’t think she’s a bimbo. She managed to attract a millionaire, after all.’

‘That doesn’t take brains.’

Charity smiled as she walked towards the couple with their order. Her sister’s view of the world was rather black and white.

‘Busby’s famous coffee times two,’ Charity said, placing the coffees down on the table. ‘And my sister’s fantastic shortbread,’ she added, placing their plates in front of them.

‘That’s the real reason we came. My staff tell me the cakes here are to die for,’ Dan said. He took a bite of his shortbread and raised an eyebrow. ‘Looks like they were right. You’re very talented,’ he said to Charity.

‘Oh, I can’t take the credit. My sister Hope is the cake connoisseur.’

Dan peered towards Hope, shooting her a huge smile that lit up his handsome face. ‘Divine, thank you!’

Hope’s face flushed. Charity smiled. She rarely saw her sister blush.

‘Do you cater for events?’ Dan asked Charity.

‘No, but maybe we should.’

‘Well, just shout if you need any financial advice.’

He held her gaze and she felt herself blushing too.

‘I will,’ she said, walking back to the counter and mouthing the word ‘divine’ to her sister.

Half an hour later, as the last customers trickled out of the café, including the Norths who left an almighty tip, Charity and Hope worked together quickly and quietly, putting dishes away, clearing tables, wrapping leftovers up to take home. They’d been doing this for three months now and it was beginning to work like clockwork. They quickly closed up then started the short walk home. Their house was away from the hustle and bustle of the town, down a lane that sloped away from the promenade and ran through long grass by the sea. There were just three pebbledash houses there, their backs to the sea, wild gardens reaching out to the pebbles beyond. Though the houses had been battered by the salt and the grit, white exteriors discoloured and damaged, they looked charming in the right light, the long green grass and stretch of blue sea in the distance almost giving a picture postcard look.

But right now, under the fierce glare of the setting sun, they looked old and tired, like the town itself.

Hope let them both in and they walked down the small hallway into the messy living room with its red patterned carpets and tatty old chairs, dusty books higgledy-piggledy in a tall oak bookshelf, its shelves bending under the weight.

The kitchen looked just the same as it had when Charity had grown up there with its beige cupboards and dusty glass cabinet filled with old china cups. Even the thick oak table had her name still etched on its surface. Maybe Hope had done that on purpose, keeping it the same after their parents passed away? She’d never left home and had helped her father care for her mother when she got cancer, then her father when he had a heart attack not long after, the heartache from losing his daughter and his wife finally taking its toll.

She walked to the fridge, shaking the memories away, and reached in for a courgette and some peppers, throwing them to Hope. Hope caught them with a smile, finding an ancient chopping board and knife. Preparing meals had been a big part of their household as kids. One of Charity’s early memories was from when she was five, her podgy hands kneading some bread dough on a speckled old wooden board as her dad stood over her, his bushy white eyebrows sprinkled with flour, his livered cheeks red from the wine he’d been drinking. Nearby, Hope would sit with their mother at the dinner table peeling carrots, the same solemn look she still held now on her face, her mind no doubt conjuring words to describe the orange of the carrot and the spiral shape its skin made when peeled for a poem she was writing.

And then there was Faith, who usually stood at the sink, singing softly to herself as she made a fruit salad, the orange glow of the setting sun highlighting the outline of her long blonde hair, her neck arched gracefully as she peered out of the window towards the school fields behind the cottage, always searching for something beyond what lay within that family kitchen. Probably one of those submerged forests she’d become so obsessed with.

Charity glanced now at the old map of the world they still had pinned to the corkboard, illustrated trees marking the location of all the submerged forests Faith wanted to visit. Her eyes settled on the tree Niall had drawn. She wondered where he was now.

Hope, Faith and Charity had first met Niall as a grubby-faced boy on the beach outside their house when Charity was just nine. He’d told them his parents were never around and he didn’t even go to school; that he could come and go as he pleased. The sisters were in awe. When he taught them to dive, they spent summer days searching for the submerged forest he was so sure existed off the coast of Busby. Faith was the best diver. She’d scoot ahead with Niall, her long legs sweeping gracefully through the water. When Hope wrote a play about the submerged forest, Faith insisted on being the goddess of the sea, Charity and Hope demoted to mere nymph status. But that’s what she was, a sea goddess, completely at home in the ocean.

In contrast, Niall powered through the water. As he got older, he got stronger from working at the docks. Charity couldn’t help noticing how muscular he was becoming. When Charity was fifteen and he was seventeen, Hope had got into trouble one day when they were swimming. Niall had dived into the sea and saved her, and something had changed in Charity’s attitude towards him. Instead of being the kid she and her sisters played with, he became a romantic figure, a man strong enough to save her sister.

She’d sought him out at the docks to thank him the next day, and he suggested they meet up after he finished work. She’d pretended to be disgusted at the idea. But of course, she went. They’d both walked to a beach just outside Busby-on-Sea and Niall introduced her to her first taste of oysters – illegally sourced, as it turned out. They talked until it grew dark, finally sharing their first kiss. When Faith met her at the front door coming in later than her curfew, she’d expected a telling off from her oldest sister. But Faith had just smiled. ‘Don’t go breaking his heart,’ she’d said. ‘I like Niall.’

Hope hadn’t been so happy, she just glared at Charity then shook her head.

Faith had always been so kind, so understanding. God, she missed her so much.

That night, Charity pulled the small wooden box she kept full of Faith’s keepsakes from beneath her bed. It was the size of a shoebox, intricate flowers etched around its sides. She opened it and gently lifted out the photos she kept that told the story of Faith’s short life. She looked at each one, trying to control her emotions. One was of the three sisters standing with their parents outside the café the day her mum opened it twenty years ago. Charity was just six, her dark hair frizzy like her mum’s, her knees chubby; an eight-year-old Hope stood awkwardly beside her, just a wisp of a thing with red hair down to her elbows. And then Faith, nine and already so beautiful, smiling directly into the camera, the blonde hair she’d inherited from their grandma shining under the glare of the morning sun like it might evaporate any minute. There were more photos too, one of Faith picking up a swimming award when she was twelve, another of her at her fourteenth birthday party, all legs and glossy hair. Then one taken the day she got all the A-Level results she needed to get into the marine biology course she’d applied for at the University of Southampton, face flushed with happiness as she gave a thumbs up to the camera.

The last photo was of Faith standing outside the University of Southampton. Charity recognised that nervous smile of hers. Faith used to get it the morning of her exams, or that time when her dad discovered she’d been storing underwater plants in the café, stinking the place out. Despite all her bravado about leaving Busby-on-Sea to go to university, Charity remembered how nervous Faith had been that day. Charity hadn’t wanted her big sister to go.

Charity set the photos aside. Beneath them was the pale pink lipstick Faith always wore; a small Petri dish; a solitary silver pearl earring…and then the ornate silver necklace Faith had been wearing the night she died, a bejewelled anchor hanging off it. Charity picked it up, tangling it around her fingers.

She thought of that terrible evening. Faith was back from university for the Easter holidays. She seemed distant, tired. Her parents explained it away, saying the course was hard work and Charity and Hope must leave her to study. Charity remembered being disappointed. She’d envisaged days on the beach with the sister she so worshipped, even some diving if the weather behaved. The first sign something was wrong was the doorbell ringing in the early hours. There’d been the sound of shuffling from their parents’ room, then the door opening, her dad’s heavy steps as he’d walked downstairs. Charity stood at her bedroom door with her ear to it.

There was the sound of muffled voices then her father’s footsteps on the stairs again.

‘Faith?’ he shouted out. There was a slight hint of panic in his voice. That had worried Charity. Her father was so calm, not easily ruffled.

‘What’s going on, Tony?’ her mother had asked, appearing from her room.

‘Get Faith, wake her up.’

Charity opened the door then, saw Hope doing the same. They exchanged a look then watched as their mother knocked on the door to Faith’s attic room.

‘Darling?’ she asked, voice trembling.

Nothing.

‘Faith, it’s Mummy.’

‘Oh, Mother, honestly,’ Hope had said, pushing in front of her mother and opening the door, her usual bolshie self. But then she’d gone very quiet. ‘She’s not here.’

Her mother had run downstairs and the two sisters leant over the banister, watching as two police officers followed their parents through into the living room. Charity learnt later they’d found Faith’s student card in the pocket of a woman’s body they’d found near the main road out of Busby-On-Sea and had come straight to the house. A few minutes later, Charity heard her father’s low desperate moan.

Charity felt as though the world was tilting. Her father never cried. She’d grabbed Hope’s hand and they waited quietly as the police officers left. When their parents came to them, Charity could tell from the looks on their faces something dreadful had happened. She’d run into her room and buried her face into the pillow, unable to face it. It had been Hope who’d eventually said the words.

‘Faith died,’ Hope said into the darkness, her voice close to Charity’s ear. ‘We’ve lost her. It’s just the two of us now.’ Then she’d felt her sister’s tears on her cheeks, mingling with her own. The grief had been astounding, making her head swim, her breath come short. She saw her sister in a quick succession of images: by the sea, hair sweeping out behind her; tucked up beside Charity in bed, reading stories to her; at Christmas, the three sisters sipping hot chocolate around the tree.

All gone.

The last item in the box was an article she’d kept, reporting Niall’s sentence.

LOCAL MAN JAILED OVER HIT AND RUN FATALITY.

Eighteen-year-old local Niall Lane has been sentenced to two years for causing death by dangerous driving. He was seen driving from the scene by a witness after knocking over nineteen-year-old Faith Winchester on Ashcroft Road in the early hours of 21st March this year. The witness found the victim at the bottom of the steep verge sloping down from the road into Busby Forest. An autopsy revealed she died from a traumatic brain injury, believed to have been caused by her head impacting with a rock. Faith Winchester lived in Busby-on-Sea all her life with her parents, the owners of the Busby Café, and her two younger sisters. She was a promising student in her first year at Southampton University and hoped to become a marine biologist.

Charity looked at the clock in her room. Midnight. It was now ten years ago today and yet the grief felt as sharp, as painful, as it did then.

Charity dug her hands into her long blue coat, the early morning mist swarming around her ankles. The road ahead of her curved around a corner, disappearing over a hill. Trees lined it, dipping over the road, making it seem darker than it was. It was hard to believe the sea glimmered just half a mile behind her, Busby-on-Sea now waking to another day.

She paused as she got to the precarious bend that had caused so many accidents as cars struggled to negotiate it. Exactly ten years ago today, Faith was found in a foetal position. Her scarf was later found on the road just above.

Why had she been walking on this road alone so late at night? She should have been in bed, asleep. That question had tortured the grief-filled silences her family had shared those first few weeks and months after Faith died, and ten years later, still no answer. Their parents died not knowing.

Charity closed her eyes, tears squeezing between her lashes.

When she opened her eyes again, a tall figure was approaching from the bottom of the hill. He was wearing a black leather jacket, blue jeans, dark hair shaved close to his head.

She recognised him instantly.

Niall Lane.

He paused, blue eyes narrowing. ‘Charity?’

She opened her mouth to say something but suddenly a roar filled the air.

Niall’s eyes widened as he pointed behind her, shouting her name. She turned to see a small red sports car bouncing around the bend and hurtling towards her.

Chapter Four

Charity

Busby-on-Sea, UK

March 1987

The light from the rising sun illuminated the car’s exterior and in a flash, Charity saw a woman’s face streaked with mascara.

Tyres screeched over the road, the smell of petrol filling the air. Charity couldn’t move her legs, panic flooded through her.

But then strong hands were gripping her under her arms, pulling her out of the way as the car careened past her.

She looked up, saw Niall staring down at her. His cheeks were stubbled, his face tanned, dark circles under his eyes. Her whole body throbbed from being so close to him, from feeling his warm breath on her face, seeing those lips so close. She was shocked to feel the urge to press her lips against his like she used to do again and again.

Then the reality of the situation hit her.

She dragged her gaze away from Niall’s, watching the car zigzag across the road, finally coming to a stop with a shudder.

They both jumped up and jogged over.

Sitting in the driver’s seat was a dazed looking Lana North, the woman from the mansion, a small graze on her head, blood dripping down into one eye.

She peered up at Niall and Charity. ‘Whoops,’ she said sheepishly.

Charity placed the two mugs of steaming hot coffee on the table, avoiding the intense gaze of the elderly couple sitting there. It was clear word was getting out about what had happened that morning…and that Charity had been there with Niall. By the time the paramedics arrived to check Lana over, the road was busy – it was the only main road linking Busby-on-Sea to Southampton – giving residents plenty of time to see Niall and Charity standing there together. She’d been desperate to leave but Lana had grabbed her hand, told her to stay, a vulnerable look on her face.

How could she say no?

Niall could have left. But instead, he’d hovered nearby, watching Charity as though he were trying to figure out if she was real or not. She daren’t look back at him, her thumping heart betraying emotion she was trying hard to bury.

Charity peered towards the entrance to the café. Hope was at a doctor’s appointment so they hadn’t seen each other that morning. But she was due in soon, so Charity was hoping she could pull her to one side to break the news gently to her.

Charity wrapped her thick orange cardigan around herself and hurried back into the café. Was it her imagination or was it even busier than normal, despite spring being held off today by sharp winds and the threat of rain? People glanced up at her as she passed but she kept her eyes ahead of her, jaw clenched.

It was a small town. Gossip spread like wildfire, one of the many things that hadn’t changed in the years she’d been gone.

The door swung open then and her sister walked in. Hope paused at the entrance, eyes on Charity, and Charity knew in that moment Hope had already heard. Then she slammed the door shut and strode to the counter.

‘Tell me you didn’t know Niall was back,’ she hissed as she flung her purple suede coat off and grabbed an apron, barely looking at Charity.

‘No, of course not, Hope!’

‘They’re all loving this, aren’t they?’ Hope said, lowering her voice and casting her eyes over the busy café as Charity passed an order to her over the counter. ‘Nice bit of gossip to stave off the monotony. I just can’t believe Niall bloody Lane really is here. It makes me sick. What’s worse is people won’t just focus on the fact Lana North crashed her car. They’ll also be talking about the fact the man who killed Faith Winchester was with you, her sister, at the time.’ She scrutinised Charity’s face.

‘It was a coincidence, I swear,’ Charity said. ‘I just needed to go to the road, it is the anniversary of Faith’s death after all. Niall told me he’d gone there for the same reason. We—’

Charity fell silent as Mrs McAteer approached the counter.

‘What can I get you?’ Charity asked her, forcing a smile on to her face, pleased for an excuse to get away from her sister’s rage.

‘Just a hot chocolate, love,’ Mrs McAteer said, patting Charity’s arm. ‘Good work saving Lana North’s life.’

‘I didn’t save her. She was fine, just a bit dazed.’

‘My Gav knows one of the ambulance men. Apparently she’d had too much to drink.’

Charity thought of what Lana had said to her and the unmistakable smell of stale booze in the car.

‘Poor you, having to witness it after what happened to your poor sister on that road,’ Mrs McAteer continued, shaking her head. ‘And then to have Niall there too, the scum.’ Her lip curled up. ‘Bloody cheek, him returning to town. My Addie will be mortified when I tell her. Your poor sister must be rolling in her grave.’ Charity tried not to catch Hope’s eye. ‘And then to have some drunken rich girl driving her—’

She clamped her mouth shut and a hush fell over the café as Lana’s husband walked in.

He looked just as otherworldly as he had the day before. But when he stepped into a beam of hazy sunlight shining through one of the windows, the perfections slipped away. Dark shadows showed beneath his green eyes, the faint hint of stubble on his chin and cheeks and, as Charity peered closer, what looked like a trace of oil on the cuff of his shirt.

He looks better in the light, Charity thought. He looks better with those imperfections.

‘Can we talk somewhere, Charity?’ He glanced towards Mrs McAteer and smiled tightly. ‘Somewhere quiet?’

‘Of course, let’s go out back,’ Charity said, grabbing a bag of rubbish.

Dan took the bulging bag from her and smiled, following her out of the door. He threw the rubbish into it then got a pristine white handkerchief out with his initials on it, wiping his hands.

‘Long time since I put the rubbish out,’ he said.

‘How’s your wife?’

‘Fine. I must thank you for being there, she said you were a real comfort.’ He looked down at the tomato skin on his handkerchief. Then he peered back up at Charity and she noticed how very black his pupils and long lashes were, making the green of his eyes even more prominent. ‘I heard you’re a psychiatrist.’

‘A counsellor.’

He seemed to think about something for a moment then leant closer, lowering his voice. ‘I was wondering if you might talk to my wife? I’d pay of course: double whatever your hourly rate is.’

She frowned.

‘I’m afraid I’m not practising in any official capacity at the moment,’ Charity said. ‘Your wife would be better off going to a proper clinic or via the NHS.’

‘Lana will refuse, I know what she’s like. But she seemed to really like you. If we arranged for you to come to the house, have some privacy, she might open up more. I can pay double, treble.’

Charity sighed. She really wanted to help but it didn’t feel right. ‘I’m sorry. I can recommend a great counsellor a few towns away though?’

Dan raked his fingers through his blond hair. Then he forced a smile. ‘Of course. I’m sure she’s okay. Look, why don’t you come to dinner as thanks?’

Charity examined his face. Was this a ruse to try to get her to treat his wife over dinner?

‘That’s very kind of you,’ she replied, ‘but that’s really not necessary. It’s been enough for you to come here in person to thank me.’

‘Let’s say seven on Saturday evening?’ he said, as though not hearing her. ‘I know Lana would love to see you. I presume you know where our house is?’

‘But I—’

He smiled. ‘If you turn up, wonderful. If you don’t, then we feed the food to the fish. And if you see Niall Lane, can you mention dinner to him too? I hear he was quite the hero. I’ve tried to track him down but I think he may have left town.’ Charity felt a strange mixture of relief and disappointment. ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ Dan said. ‘But I very much hope we see you Saturday night, Charity.’

Charity watched him stroll away, his hands in his pockets. He paused a moment to watch a seagull fly across the grey skies above, then he disappeared around the corner.

‘So Niall’s left town, has he?’

Charity turned to see her sister standing at the door. ‘You heard that?’

‘Some. That’s good news though isn’t it? That Niall’s left.’ Her sister was scrutinising her face again.

Charity nodded. ‘Yes, I’m relieved. Very relieved.’

‘He better not come back. Now he knows you’re here, he might not be able to resist.’

‘Don’t be silly, Hope, it’s been years.’

‘Why silly? Feelings grow more intense with absence, especially when someone’s behind bars. They have time to think, to obsess…’

‘Hope, please don’t do this.’

Hope sighed. ‘Fine. So, are you going to go for dinner?’

‘It’ll be awkward, I don’t know them.’

‘It’ll be good for you to make new friends. I go out with the writing club lot, you ought to get out a bit too. Who knows, maybe you’ll become friends with Lana North and you can teach her how to drive properly?’

‘Oh, Hope,’ Charity said, shaking her head in disapproval. ‘You really are naughty.’

Charity went to walk back in but Hope grabbed her arm, looking Charity in the eye. ‘Just remember one thing if Niall does come back. He killed our sister. No matter what spin he puts on it or how you used to feel about him, he killed her.’

Charity peered up at the ruby-coloured gates guarding Dan and Lana North’s huge white mansion. This place had been a dilapidated mess when she was a kid, once owned by a duke and then left in a state of disrepair after a fire. Local kids would sneak in through the gates, smoking drugs and making out in the rooms. She’d even come here with Niall once but they preferred the comfort of the sea shore and caves near her house. It was quite something to see what the Norths had done to it since.

She paused at the marble steps leading up to the house, smoothing her hands down her cream trousers and adjusting the collar on her cerise blouse. She hadn’t been sure what to wear; these weren’t the kind of people she’d usually have dinner with. Back in London, all her friends and associates were other NHS counsellors. It was an unspoken rule that every dinner was a casual dinner, so Charity usually turned up in what she’d been wearing to work, jeans and a large bright shirt cinched at the waist with a belt.

She took a deep breath and walked up the stairs. Behind her, the sea rippled, the cliff the house was sitting on diving into the craggy rocks below. She put her hand out to lift the ornate gold knocker made from a lion’s mouth. But before she had the chance, the door was whipped open by Dan. He was wearing a casual white suit rolled up to the elbows, a pastel blue shirt beneath it, the shirt undone slightly to reveal the smooth tanned skin of his chest.

‘You came!’ he said. ‘I have to confess, I was worried you’d be a no-show.’

She had thought she would be a no-show too. But Dan had seemed so worried about Lana, and the vulnerable look in her eyes as she’d clutched at Charity’s hand after the accident ate away at her.

The truth was, Lana reminded her of Faith a little. Beautiful, vivacious, a slight hint of vulnerability. No one else noticed that about Faith apart from her sisters. All everyone saw was confident, clever, beautiful Faith. While she was all of those, she also had her insecurities. Charity recalled an Easter holiday when Faith returned from university and was blanked by a group of girls she used to go to school with while out shopping with Hope and Charity. She’d laughed it off at the time but later, Charity saw her crying in her room.

Charity stepped inside the mansion, taking in the huge hallway and marble floor draped with a black and gold rug. Ahead of her was a long stairway that swept up to a balconied landing, like a scene from Gone with the Wind. When Dan closed the door, she felt stifled. It was as though the heating had been on all day.

‘Your place is gorgeous,’ she said as he took her lime-coloured jacket. ‘I remember when it was a crumbling mess.’

‘So do I. It’s taken us two years to sort it out. Well, I say us. Lana’s done most of the work. She found the place too.’

‘I’m very impressed.’ Charity held out the bottle of Blue Nun. ‘Sorry, it was the only bottle of wine I could find at the local newsagent’s. My dad used to say it tastes like vinegar.’

Dan laughed. ‘I happen to like vinegar very much.’ He led her to a set of doors on their right, pushing them open to reveal a large room with a gilded table running down its centre. She realised with a shock that on the dark walls around it were murals of couples in various states of undress. Her eyes homed in on one particular image of an olive-skinned man kissing the neck of a voluptuous woman with blonde hair and porcelain skin.

‘Lana has a very vivid imagination,’ Dan said, following her gaze.

‘It must be interesting when the in-laws come for dinner,’ Charity joked.

‘Don’t worry, we use our other dining room for them,’ Dan replied.

‘You have two dining rooms?’

‘I know. It’s a bit much, isn’t it?’ Dan gestured to a number of bottles sitting on a small gold table in the corner. ‘Champagne? Wine?’

‘Red wine, please.’

Dan pulled out a chair for her then reached for a bottle of expensive looking wine, pouring Charity a glass. As she took a sip, her mouth filled with a delicious cherry flavour and she relaxed a little.

‘Thank you so much for coming, Charity,’ Dan said. ‘I know Lana will be very pleased.’ There was the sound of heels clicking along the marble floor outside. ‘Ah, speak of the devil.’ Dan leant forwards, lowering his voice. He was so close, she could smell the black cherry scent of the wine on his breath. Behind him was a mural of a man’s blond head dipped in between the legs of a woman, her head thrown back in ecstasy. Charity felt her face flush hot. ‘I’m not expecting you to do a psychological profile,’ he said. ‘But maybe you can give me some advice on how I might be able to help her?’

‘But I didn’t say I would, Dan. Really, I—’

The door swung open and the overwhelming scent of musky perfume wafted in as Lana stepped into the room. She was wearing a short red V-neck dress with huge shoulder pads that engulfed her tiny frame. It was more suited to a society party than dinner. She blew Dan a kiss then quickly strode down the room and took the chair across from Charity’s, leaning over the table and taking her hand. Her glossy curve of caramel hair covered Bambi-like eyes. She licked her bee-stung lips nervously. Charity noticed her hand was trembling.

‘Thank you so much, Charity, you were so lovely the other morning,’ she said, her words almost tripping over one another, her navy blue eyes bright.

‘It’s fine, I’m pleased I was there to help you. How are you feeling?’

‘Oh fine,’ she said, sweeping her hand through the air. ‘Back to my old self.’

The truth was, beneath the glossy veneer were telltale signs all was not entirely well. Lana’s movements were erratic and jittery; she was incredibly thin, even thinner than she’d been in the photos Charity had seen of her in the papers; the purple bruises under her eyes suggested problems sleeping; and, though immaculate from the front, her hair was all matted at the back. There was also a large stain on the hem of her dress and bruises down her legs.

Dan stared at his wife’s matted hair then he looked imploringly at Charity.

Lana glanced at Charity’s glass of wine and smiled. ‘It’s delicious, isn’t it? We got it from this wonderful vineyard in Umbria last year. Did you know the rate of divorce is at its lowest in that part of Italy? They say it’s down to the Umbrian “super” wine, as they call it. It makes couples crave each other.’ Lana looked into Dan’s eyes. ‘I can confirm it’s not just an urban myth.’

Charity took another gulp of wine, feeling increasingly uncomfortable.

Lana peered towards the door. ‘Is Niall in the bathroom?’

Charity spluttered on her wine. ‘Niall?’

‘Lana managed to find him in the end,’ Dan explained. ‘He’s been staying just out of town.’

‘He’s coming to dinner?’ Charity asked, struggling to get her words out. Dan nodded.

‘Didn’t you both come together?’ Lana asked Charity, a confused look on her face.

Charity shook her head. She should never have come. She looked towards the door. She ought to make her excuses and leave right now. What would Hope say? What would the whole town say?

Dan frowned as he looked at Charity’s face. ‘Have we put our foot in it by inviting him?’

Charity didn’t know what to say.

‘But the way he looked at you the other day,’ Lana said, looking at Charity. ‘I really thought you were together.’

‘We weren’t together,’ Charity said, peering at the door to the dining room, imagining Niall walking in any minute. What would she say to him? ‘We haven’t been in touch for years,’ she added, trying to compose her face.

‘Oh well,’ Lana said, reaching for the bottle of wine and sloshing more into her glass. ‘It’ll be good for you to catch up then, won’t it?’

Dan looked at his wife, an exasperated expression on his face.

‘So what’s the deal with you two, anyway?’ Lana asked, scrutinising Charity’s face. She smiled. ‘Oh look, she’s blushing!’

Dan put his hand on his wife’s arm. ‘Darling…’

‘Were you childhood sweethearts?’ Lana continued, ignoring him.

The door clicked open and Niall stepped in, a bike helmet under his arm. So Niall was riding a motorbike nowadays.

His eyes rested of Charity, a frown appearing on his face.

Dan rose from his seat, shooting Charity a concerned look before composing his face and smiling. ‘Please, do come in, Niall.’ He walked around the table and pulled out the seat next to Charity. As Niall walked behind her, Charity looked down at the table, trying to control her thumping heart.

He sat next to her, the scent of him making her think of the sea and the summer evenings they used to spend together on the beach.

She curled her hands into fists. Damn it, why had she come?

‘I’m sorry, I didn’t realise you were coming,’ he said quietly.

‘I didn’t realise you were.’

His frown deepened. She took the chance to properly look at him. He was wearing black jeans and a grey t-shirt, his cheeks flushed from the cold. The long black hair she’d once so loved was now shaved close to his head. There were fine lines around his eyes that weren’t there ten years before and a small scar across his chin. She wondered if that had happened in prison, and her stomach twisted with nausea at the thought.

There were new tattoos entwining his arms too, black warped clock faces and gothic anchors, even a whole tree stretching up the olive skin of his right arm. And then that tattoo etched onto the side of his neck, the same tattoo she had on the small of her back, a black cresting wave beneath a blue moon. As she stared at it, she could almost feel the needle burning into her skin.

He caught her eye and a host of emotions seemed to run over his face.

Niall shifted uncomfortably.

She could pretend to be ill and leave, couldn’t she? Say the wine had been too rich, that her tummy was fragile. What would it matter? She didn’t have to see any of them again.

Dan looked from Charity to Niall and took a deep breath. He could definitely sense the atmosphere. ‘What can I get you to drink, Niall?’ he asked.

‘Do you have beer?’

‘Of course.’

Niall looked around him, brow furrowing as he finally noticed the explicit murals on the walls.

‘Oh, do you like them?’ Lana asked, twisting around in her chair, one thin arm elegantly draped across the back of Dan’s chair. ‘I had them done when we moved in. They’re wonderful, aren’t they?’

‘They’re different,’ Niall said.

Dan handed his beer to him and sat down.

‘Your house is gorgeous,’ Charity said, desperate to bring some sense of normality to the dinner. ‘You must feel a bit lost in a big house like this, just the two of you?’

‘We manage to fill it with all Lana’s knick-knacks, don’t we, darling?’ Dan said to Lana.

‘I may have a teensy bit of an obsession with antiques,’ Lana replied, laughing. ‘It fills the time. We’re off to Paris soon so I can’t wait to do some shopping there.’

‘You really do live the life, don’t you?’ Charity said, smiling.

‘A very bourgeois life,’ Niall said as he looked around him.

Dan frowned. ‘We’re hardly bourgeois. Lana’s dad was a dustman. My father worked on ships, my mother was a nurse. My shipping business wasn’t handed to me on a plate, I started out in the docks with my father, hauling equipment about.’

Niall’s eyes lit up the way Charity remembered they did when the subject turned to politics. ‘Doesn’t matter how you got there,’ he said, ‘you’re still an owner. That makes you bourgeois. It’s nothing to be ashamed of, I’m just making the point.’

‘Fine,’ Dan said with a smile. ‘If working hard makes me one of the bourgeoisie, then so be it.’

‘What about your staff, do they work hard too?’ Niall asked Dan.

‘I don’t operate that kind of business culture,’ Dan replied. ‘My staff aren’t expected to work long hours.’

Niall fixed him with his blue eyes. ‘But they do, don’t they? Some of them, anyway. And yet you’re still the one with the mansion, the fast cars, the expensive champagne,’ he said, gesturing around him.

Charity noticed the tops of Dan’s cheeks going red.

‘Ladies and gentleman,’ she said to ease the tension, ‘meet the modern-day Karl Marx.’

Dan’s shoulders relaxed and Lana laughed.

‘Never could impress you with my political rants, could I?’ Niall said, holding her gaze.

‘So, Charity, what brings you back to Busby-on-Sea?’ Dan asked her. ‘You worked as an NHS counsellor in London, right?’

‘Counsellor?’ Niall asked. ‘I didn’t realise that was your thing.’

‘It is now.’ She turned to Dan. ‘I was made redundant so had to return.’

‘Bloody Thatcher,’ Niall said.

Dan smiled to himself.

‘I bet that must be fascinating,’ Lana said, ‘hearing about people’s more intimate secrets as they lie on a couch.’

‘It’s not quite as exciting as that,’ Charity said. ‘More like a battered old chair in a stuffy office with stained carpets. People are referred by their GPs and a lot of the issues are ones many people deal with: insomnia, anxiety, depression.’

‘Oh, you must speak to Dan then,’ Lana said. ‘He’s a terrible sleeper, up most of the night.’

‘That has nothing to do with my state of mind, darling,’ Dan said, ‘and everything to do with your snoring.’ He turned to Charity. ‘So what’s next for you? I presume the plan isn’t to work in your sister’s café all your life, as wonderful as it is?’

Charity sighed. ‘I’m looking for jobs but there’s nothing out there.’

Niall nodded. ‘Hearing that a lot lately.’

‘Have you thought about going private?’ Lana asked. ‘Setting up your own practice?’

‘I’d love that. But I don’t have any capital.’

‘Dan can give you money,’ Lana declared, clapping her hands. ‘I can decorate your office!’

Dan laughed. ‘Darling, you’re getting a bit ahead of yourself.’

‘Why couldn’t you?’ Lana asked. ‘It would help Charity out.’

Charity laughed nervously. Lana didn’t seem to have any kind of filter. ‘I’m sure Dan has better things to do with his money.’

‘Like buy my wife antiques in Paris,’ Dan said with a raised eyebrow. He turned to Niall. ‘What about you, Niall?’

‘I’m not into antiques,’ Niall said with a smile. ‘Don’t have a wife either.’

Dan laughed.

Niall leant back, his long legs stretching out in front of him. Charity glanced at his thighs, remembering how she had found it hard to hide her feelings from her sisters as she watched him strip his wetsuit off to reveal his muscular thighs the day after their first kiss.

‘I’m an underwater photographer,’ he said. ‘Mainly advertising jobs.’

Charity looked at him, surprised. Sure, he used to lug around an old camera, but she didn’t realise that was what he’d ended up doing.

‘Wonderful. How did you get into that?’ Lana asked.

‘Happened by accident really,’ Niall replied. ‘An old school friend ended up working for an advertising agency, knew I was a photographer and that I could dive, asked me to do a last-minute job a couple of years ago. More assignments came in.’

‘Is that why you’re back in Busby-on-Sea, an assignment?’ Dan asked.

‘No. I’ve been trying to find a submerged forest that’s supposed to be here actually.’ His eyes caught Charity’s briefly then flickered away.

Charity went very still. Faith’s underwater forest?

‘Why would a forest be submerged?’ Lana asked.

‘They were once land forests,’ Niall explained. ‘But due to lots of different reasons – dams bursting, floods – they get submerged by water. They’re all over the world, in oceans and lakes, even rivers. Some are quite beautiful to look at.’

‘So, like a woodland Atlantis?’ Lana asked. Charity thought back to the first time Faith had told her and Hope about them. She’d asked the same thing.

‘Exactly like that,’ Niall said. She wondered if he was thinking of Faith too. She wished he’d change the subject, this was becoming too painful.

‘What makes you think a submerged forest lies off the coast here?’ Dan asked Niall.

‘A fisherman got lost at sea once and thought he saw it,’ Niall explained. ‘Became a bit of a local legend.’

Dan went quiet, a thoughtful look on his face. ‘I think that fisherman may have been right about that forest, you know. I have a viewing glass on my boat and I saw something very interesting during a trip the other day.’

‘Really?’ Charity and Niall asked at the same time.

‘Really.’ Dan rang a bell by his side – an actual bell! – and an older woman with dark hair walked in. ‘Those photos you had developed for me the other day, Clara, can you bring them down?’

When Clara reappeared with a bunch of photos. Dan handed one to Charity and her eyes widened. In the top right corner of one was a shadowy outline of what looked like branches.

‘Where exactly did you see this?’ she asked Dan.

‘Across from the lighthouse. The co-ordinates are in the top right corner, see?’

She looked at Niall, unable to contain her excitement despite how painful the memories were. It was just where he’d suspected. He smiled at her and Charity’s stomach contracted. He rarely smiled but when it happened, it set the room on fire, the lines around his mouth deepening, his blue eyes sparkling. It suddenly felt like something was blossoming inside Charity again; something she’d stifled for so long. Had she ever stopped loving him?

She thought of Faith. If she hadn’t started loving him maybe her sister would be there now?

‘Can I have the co-ordinates?’ she asked Dan.

‘I can do one better,’ Dan said. ‘How about we go out on my boat tomorrow. You can both dive off it, see if you can find the forest for yourself?’

Charity looked at Niall. How could she possibly spend the day with him? It was out of the question. ‘I’m afraid I’ll be working at the café.’

‘The weekend then?’ Dan asked.

She shook her head. ‘Sorry.’

Niall sighed, looking down at his plate.

The door opened and Clara walked in again with a large gold tray. At first, Charity thought it was a tray of seashells of all different shapes and sizes but, as Clara drew closer, she noticed eight plump oysters in their shells were lying on a bed of seashells, a dollop of what looked like black beads on each one.

Niall’s eyes lifted to meet hers. She knew he too was thinking about their first date.

Dan lifted one of the oysters into the air and looked at Charity then Niall. ‘To real-life heroes and damsels in distress.’ Then he tipped his head back and let the oyster slither into his mouth, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down. When Charity ate hers, it tasted just as the oysters had that moonlit night with Niall: of the sea, salty and earthy, the subtle taste of the caviar now making it even more delicious.

‘So how did you first meet?’ Lana asked Charity and Niall.

Charity looked down into her drink. She didn’t want to talk about the past.

‘On the beach,’ Niall said. ‘We were just kids.’

Lana leant her chin on her hands and smiled dreamily. ‘Oh, how romantic, meeting on a windswept beach!’

‘Don’t get ahead of yourself,’ Dan said, laughing.

‘No. I have a nose for these things,’ Lana said, tapping the side of her nose. ‘You can sense the chemistry oozing off these two. I’m right, aren’t I?’

Charity squirmed in her seat while Niall’s neck flushed red.

‘I am right!’ Lana said.

Dan put his hand on Lana’s. ‘Darling, I don’t think—’

‘So you’re not together now,’ Lana said, tapping her lower lip with her finger as she narrowed her eyes at them. ‘Why did you break up?’

Charity peered at the door. She should have left.

Niall opened his mouth to say something but Lana put her hand up. ‘No, wait, let me guess. You cheated on Charity!’

‘Lana, that’s enough,’ Dan said sharply.

‘No, wait,’ Lana said, looking between Charity and Niall. ‘She cheated on you.’

‘It wasn’t like that,’ Niall said quietly.

Charity felt tears sting her eyes. She took a quick sip of wine and looked away. Her last meeting with Niall had been so abrupt, a few moments on a windswept dark beach the week after Faith died, the terrible incident throbbing between them. It had been horrific enough to be told by her parents the day after she’d learnt of her sister’s death that she’d been knocked down in a hit and run. But then to discover Niall’s car was seen screeching away from the scene of her death. It was unbearable.

Hope had been livid. ‘You must never see him again,’ she’d hissed at Charity.

‘It was an accident,’ Charity had said, so confused, still in shock and trying to process the news herself.

‘He killed our sister.’

Charity hadn’t said anything. What could she say? She knew she must talk to Niall. But she hadn’t seen him since Faith had died and he wasn’t in their usual spot that night either. Each night, she waited for him, until a few nights later when she saw him waiting in the moonlight, head down, shoulders hunched.

That’s when he’d told her they couldn’t see each other again; that she had to get on with her life. She’d been devastated. People might think him a murderer but she knew he wasn’t. He was as grief-stricken as she was. He’d loved Faith too, spent many summers with her.

It was a terrible, terrible accident.

But Charity knew he was right. When she got back to the house, Hope was waiting for her.

‘You don’t have to say anything,’ Charity had quickly said, before Hope could say anything. ‘It’s over.’

Relief had flooded her sister’s face. ‘Thank God.’

How would she feel now, knowing Charity was having dinner with him?

Charity stood up. ‘I’m sorry, but I have to go.’

Niall looked up at her, brow creased.

‘Oh, that’s a shame,’ Lana said, pouting.

Niall stood with her. ‘I’ll walk you out.’

‘No,’ she said, her voice firmer than she’d intended. ‘Please don’t.’

His blue eyes flickered with an unbearable sadness. She felt that same sadness well up inside her. That fateful night had changed the course of both their lives. Charity hadn’t just lost a sister and Niall a friend. They’d lost each other too. Seeing him again made her realise just how utterly sad that part of the whole tragedy was. And how painful it was to dredge it all back up again. It also made her realise how much she still cared for him.

‘Take care, Niall,’ she said softly.

His eyes seemed to grow glassy. Then he blinked, forcing a smile on to his face. ‘You too, Charity. I hope you get a job soon, yeah? Don’t let Thatcher the Milk Snatcher beat you down.’

She smiled. He seemed to understand. ‘I won’t.’ She turned to Lana. ‘You take care, too, Lana.’

Lana shot Charity a flimsy smile then turned away.

When Charity got outside, instead of walking to her little car, she headed to the edge of the cliff. It was dark now, the moon above bright enough to light up the grass in front of her and the sea below. To the right, the cliff stretched out for miles, the odd light or two beaming in the distance. To the left, lights flickered from Busby-on-Sea, one road that stretched away from it in darkness: the road Faith died on.

Charity looked out over the sea as it splashed against the cliffs below. How Faith would have loved to dive that submerged forest.

She peered behind her at the huge white mansion. Over the years, she’d been unable to stop herself imagining how things would have been if that fateful night hadn’t happened. Would she and Niall have stayed together? How would their relationship have evolved over the years? Maybe they’d be here together, a loving couple? Maybe they’d be at Hope’s…or Faith’s.

She imagined them sitting around a large dining-room table made out of driftwood – Faith had always loved driftwood – bookshelves lined with oceanography books, beautiful underwater photos of submerged forests on the wall. She saw them laughing, drinking, Faith’s long hair a sheen of blonde down her back. Or maybe she’d have it cut, more practical for diving for samples. She’d still look stunning. She saw Niall relaxed, smiling; Hope happy with some man or another, the book of poetry she’d just got published lying on the side. Yes, that would be what the dinner was for, a celebration of Hope finally being published. Maybe having Faith around would have pushed her to do more with her poetry, Faith had always been so inspiring, making her two sisters want to do something special with their lives. With her gone, any real hope and ambition left them.

The scene disappeared. The truth was, she was on this cliff top alone, Faith gone, Hope a closed book. She collapsed to her knees and let out a sob.

‘Charity?’

She looked up to see Niall peering down at her in the darkness, face filled with concern. He put his hand on her shoulder. She quickly stood up, brushing grass and mud off her trousers and wiping her tears away. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

‘I had no idea you’d been invited.’

‘I know, don’t apologise.’

‘I shouldn’t have mentioned the submerged forest.’

She got her car keys from her bag, unable to look at him. She went to walk past him but he softly grasped her arm.

‘I feel like I have so much to say to you,’ he said, eyes pained. ‘I didn’t reply to all your letters because I wanted you to just get on with your life.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it.’

‘On Tuesday, when I saw you on the road…’

‘Niall, I said I don’t want to talk about it. Please just leave me alone.’

She shrugged his hand off and strode away. He stayed where he was, watching her with hooded eyes. More tears started rolling down her cheeks. She angrily wiped them away and then jumped into her car. She felt bad for walking away from him like this but she couldn’t let the past infringe on her future, she just couldn’t.

As she drove away, she saw Niall standing at the edge of the cliff, looking out towards the unlit road where Faith had lost her life.

Charity quietly let herself in when she arrived home ten minutes later. She was hoping she could sneak upstairs without her sister noticing.

But before she had the chance to even step foot on the first stair, Hope appeared at the door to the living room. ‘You’re back early.’

‘I had a funny tummy,’ she lied. The thought of telling her sister she had been sitting at the same table as Niall Lane was just too daunting.

‘That’s a shame.’ Hope lifted her pen to her mouth and nibbled on it. ‘So what are they like, the glamorous couple?’

‘A bit strange. I think Lana gets very bored in that huge house.’

‘I’m not surprised. And Dan North, is he still as charming and handsome as he was the other day?’

Charity shrugged. ‘I suppose, if you like that sort of thing.’

Hope narrowed her eyes. ‘No, I suppose your sort is tall, dark and murderous.’

‘Jesus, Hope!’

‘I can see it in you. It’s happening all over again.’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Niall. He was there, wasn’t he?’

Charity clutched the banister. ‘I didn’t know how to tell you.’

‘I knew it!’ Hope said, sighing as she looked up at the ceiling. ‘You’re sullying Faith’s memory by seeing him.’

‘That’s not fair,’ Charity said in a raised voice. ‘I had no idea he’d be there.’

Her sister didn’t look convinced. ‘And now what?’ Hope asked.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Will you see him again?’

‘Of course not!’

Hope shook her head. ‘I don’t believe you,’ she said before slamming the door of the living room behind her.

Chapter Five

Charity

Busby-on-Sea, UK

March 1987

Charity looked down at herself as the boat she was on powered out to sea. She’d somehow managed to squeeze her curves into the old wetsuit she used to wear when diving as a teenager. Behind her lay Busby-on-Sea’s small coastline, ahead the disused lighthouse, foaming waves crashing up against the craggy rocks it stood on.

If there was a submerged forest out there, and Dan’s photos suggested there really was, she was determined to find it for Faith.

She’d woken that morning after a restless night, images of Faith winding her graceful body through a forest of underwater trees infiltrating her dreams. What better way to honour Faith’s memory – not sully it, as Hope accused her of – than to discover the forest for her? So she’d called a local boat company as soon as she woke and arranged to go out to the area where the co-ordinates on the photo suggested the forest was. The next morning, she’d woken even earlier than Hope – a relief because she didn’t want to argue again. And now here she was, an impulsive decision, one she was starting to regret. It had been years since she’d dived. In fact, the last time had been a week before Faith died. Charity and Hope had finally convinced her to come out diving with them and Niall. Faith had refused at first, said she was too busy studying. But then Charity had told her how much they missed her. ‘Just one hour,’ she remembered pleading with Faith. She’d smiled a smile that had seemed so rare since she’d returned from university for the Easter holidays and the three sisters had set off with Niall. Charity remembers sneaking a kiss with Niall behind the rocks as they’d got changed. She saw Faith watching them. But instead of smiling, she’d been frowning.

Only a week later, all their lives would be shattered.

‘Right,’ Charity whispered to herself as the boat came to a stop. ‘Let’s do this.’ She shrugged on her old stabiliser jacket, pulling her mask over her face. She did her checks like Niall had taught her as the boat’s captain, an old man with a grey beard, looked at her disapprovingly, knowing she shouldn’t be diving alone. Yes, it was risky. But what other choice did she have? Hope had refused to even step into the sea since Faith died and Charity couldn’t go with Niall, could she?

When she was ready, she took a few breaths then she jumped in, the bitter cold of the sea seeping into her skin as she deflated her jacket and descended. The tank felt awkward on her back, the wetsuit digging into all the wrong places. But as she got deeper, the shrieking seagulls quieting, the water misty and cold, a calmness descended upon her. She stayed still for a moment, taking it all in, the sea rippling and swaying, lifting her with it. She looked up, caught glimpses of the sun above, sparking off the surface. There was no sound but the gurgle of her snorkel and the deep low hush of her breath as she kicked her legs and glided through the water, trying to find some sign of the forest in the murky depths.

After ten minutes, the calmness dissipated. Emotion swelled inside her. She seemed to see Faith everywhere. She struggled to breathe in the air from the tank on her back, felt panic whir inside.

She couldn’t do this.

She started inflating her jacket, slowly rising to the surface, trying desperately to control her emotions as she moved up and up. When she broke the surface, she pulled her snorkel off, taking quick gasps of breath. She’d been a fool to come alone.

She looked up and was surprised to find another boat bobbing up and down next to the one she’d hired. It was gleaming white with chrome railings, Salacia written down its side in midnight blue. On its deck were two men.

Niall and Dan.

‘Great,’ Charity muttered under her breath.

They both looked imposing, tall and broad-shouldered in their wetsuits, Niall in his token black, Dan in a navy blue one. Beyond them, the sun peeked up from the horizon beneath wispy white clouds, the air feeling more like spring than ever.

‘Charity!’ Dan called out to her as Niall regarded her with hooded eyes. ‘Why didn’t you just get in touch with me, you could have come with us?’

‘I didn’t know you were coming this morning.’

‘Well, here we are,’ Dan said, spreading his arms out as he smiled. ‘You joining us?’

‘No, it’s alright,’ she said, swimming towards the boat she’d hired. ‘I’m going to head back.’

‘So you saw it?’ Niall asked her.

‘The forest? No sign of it.’

Dan’s face lit up. ‘Then you were looking in the wrong place, it’s another half a mile out.’

She paused, looking at Niall who was standing behind him, arms crossed, frown on his face. ‘Are you sure?’ she asked.

‘You saw the photos,’ Dan said. ‘Still want to go back to shore?’

‘Jim’ll take me, won’t you?’ Charity asked the old captain.

‘I have to be back to shore by ten,’ he replied.

He had told her that. She peered out towards where the forest might be. Could she forgive herself if she didn’t see the forest Faith so desperately wanted to find with her own eyes? But she’d been so panicked before. Would it be the same if she went down again?

She took a deep breath. No, she mustn’t be scared. She couldn’t miss this opportunity. So she put her hand up and let Dan pull her on to his boat as the captain handed her stuff over to Niall.

‘You were diving alone?’ was the first thing Niall said to her when she embarked.

‘Yes.’

‘That was stupid.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘And you haven’t dived alone before?’ He didn’t answer. ‘Thought so.’

‘Charity!’ She turned to see Lana skipping towards her. Her long caramel hair was coiled up on top of her head and she was wearing a bright red wetsuit that clung to her perfect body. It made Charity feel self-conscious with her too-tight, too-old wetsuit on and the curves she’d inherited from her mum. She wrapped her arms around herself. ‘I’m so pleased you joined us,’ Lana said, squeezing Charity’s arm.

Thirty minutes later, they dived into the sea. As she descended, Niall not far away, memories from the summer she’d spent diving with him and her sisters seemed to flow over her even more intensely than when she’d dived alone earlier. But she felt more in control with people around her. She could do this.

She noticed Niall watching her, his vivid blue eyes blinking at her through his mask. Was he remembering those days too, the way Faith would twist her body around like a pro, blonde hair fanning out behind her?

Did he remember how they’d sneak quick kisses, pulling their mouthpieces out when Hope and Faith weren’t looking?

Charity turned away. It was all in the past.

Dan kicked his legs and scooted downwards, Lana following. Charity thrust herself through the water after them, Niall not far behind her. Niall had always kept behind the sisters when they’d dived all those years ago, letting Faith lead the way, him ‘keeping the flank’, as he used to call it. He’d grown to be protective of them, checking their gear after they’d already checked each other’s, making them each give him the thumbs up. Faith used to call him a ‘big softie beneath all that brooding’. Charity felt safe with him behind her now, just as she had all those years before.

Charity peered into the distance. It had grown so misty, Dan and Lana were just faded outlines in the deep. She felt Niall’s fingers brush against hers and she turned, saw him floating beside her. He gave her a thumbs up. She did the same. Maybe he’d sensed her nervousness on the boat.

The mist dispersed a little and Dan and Lana came into view, hovering in the distance as they looked at something. For a moment, she thought it was a line of fish. But as she drew closer, she realised it was a misty branch.

The submerged forest!

She exchanged an excited look with Niall. It was like they were hovering over a foggy forest, just a hint of a branch the only evidence it existed.

She propelled herself towards the branch, feeling like she was in a snow globe, bubbles of water shimmering around her. Then the fog dispersed and the top of a tree appeared before her and beyond, several other sunken trees.

Charity took a moment to take it in. Faith would have loved this, Hope too. Beside her, Niall stared at the forest too, eyes wide. This was all supposed to be so different.

She headed to the closest tree, a great oak, surreal without the context of sky and leaf-infested grounds. Its surface was clogged with small barnacles and, when she reached for the uppermost branch, yellow fish darted out from behind it. She sank lower, swirling her fingers around at waist level, paddling the fins on her feet until she was aligned with the tree’s trunk.

Faith had told her the trees in a submerged forest were petrified, meaning the conditions beneath the sea had almost turned them to stone, fossilising them. The reason she used to get so excited about them – beyond how beautiful the photos showed them to be – was that studying them could reveal so many important facts, such as how sea levels had raised over aeons. She was determined to write her own thesis on it and tell the world something new and exciting.

Charity tentatively reached out again, carefully brushing her fingers against the barnacled wood, imagining her oldest sister beside her. It felt furry with moss, bumpy beneath her fingertips. Up close, she could see crabs sheltering in the bark’s knots. Charity felt emotion well inside. For years Faith had wanted to find this and here it was, right before Charity’s eyes. If only her sister was alive to see it. Niall turned to her, and she could see his eyes were glassy too. Maybe coming back here to find the forest was an homage for him too, a way to make amends.

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