Find Me (Immersed Book 1) Read online

  The bus lurched around a corner and the ocean filled her vision, hard glittering blue, with infinite points of light stretching to the horizon. Sunlight lit her as she leaned forward, her reflection like mist against the tinted glass, a ghost on the water. The nebulous call of the sea she’d felt all her life rose like a riptide. l

  Minutes later, the bus sighed to a stop at the ferry terminal, the driver making the usual announcements and giving instructions about the ferry to the Bannimor Peninsula. Over her distracting hum of nerves, she tried to process his directions as she collected her things and joined the shuffle off the bus.

  After hesitating over her options, she extracted a cash card and her mobile phone from her bulging shoulder bag and put it with her travel bag on the trolley. With time to kill she explored the nearby shops.

  Forty minutes later she waited at the crossing for the walk signal, idly watching the busy wharf across the road. Odd: from here it looked like the ferry was gone. She stood on tiptoes. It really looked like it was gone. Her heart began to thump. Ignoring honking horns, she crossed, dodging the slow-moving vehicles.

  The ferry mooring was empty, as was the luggage trolley. She looked frantically up and down the wharf. No sign of the ferry in either direction. None of the strolling passers-by looked familiar, and no one was waiting. The ferry wasn’t anywhere. It had left without her.

  Skye felt an edge of panic rising. She couldn’t stay in Fallsmouth by herself, with no gear, overnight. She gripped the handle of the empty luggage trolley. It was a ferry, she reasoned. By definition that meant return trips. Feeling slightly more rational, she crossed to the small ‘Cruises and Crossings’ terminal just yards away.

  The woman behind the counter didn’t even bother checking. “No love, the last ferry to Bannimor was forty minutes ago. When it returns in, oh – about twenty minutes, it’ll be docking for the night.”

  Skye felt like an idiot. In her distracted state leaving the bus she’d heard ‘hour’ ‘departing’ and ‘returning’ and jumbled them together to get ferry departing when it would actually be returning. Duh, it had left straight away.

  “There’s an evening cruise heading up harbour if that’s of any interest?”

  Skye shook her head, panic threatening again. There had to be some way of getting across. She swallowed and met the woman’s mild gaze. “Is there, I don’t know – like, a hire boat? Or water taxis?”

  “Well…not officially.”

  An unhelpful pause followed. Skye prompted, “So, unofficially?”

  “Well, unofficially, the Mulligan boys have been known to run the odd tourist across. Tourist, are you, love?”

  In the interests of moving things along Skye agreed she was a tourist, and was pointed in the right direction.

  Following instructions, at the end of the wharf Skye came across men stacking plastic crates of iridescent fish. The fresh-catch smell mixed with the rank, sweet odours of old salt and bait. She approached the nearest man, wet weathers rolled down to his waist revealing a dirty singlet, hefting the loaded crates as if they were half empty.

  “Hi...um – I’m looking for the Mulligan boys?”

  He looked at her appraisingly. “After a ride to Bannimor?” Skye nodded. He turned and called to one of the others, “Hey, Tank. The Mulligan boys – they left yet?”

  “Yup, ‘bout twenty minutes ago.” Tank glanced over at Skye. “Don’t want to get in with them, sweetheart. Nothin’ but trouble for a nice girl like you.” He spat over the edge of the wharf.

  Trouble or not, they were supposed to solve her little problem of being stranded. Mumbling “thanks” Skye turned away. Then she remembered her phone. She dialled Morgan’s cell: ‘switched off or out of range.’ Ergo, a flat battery. Why today of all days...? Next she tried the Lauder’s apartment, and groaned when their answer-phone picked up.

  “Hey – uh – it’s Skye. You probably already left to meet me. The ferry went without me. Got it completely wrong... Call me back?”

  “Rescue on the way?” Tank called.

  Skye looked around. “Um – not exactly. Hey, do you think...do you maybe know of anyone else going across?”

  He peered along to where the wooden wharf stepped back into concrete moorings. “Try the first few boats there. Any problems say Tank sent you.”

  Skye smiled, “Thanks.”

  “You got it,” he grinned and went back to hefting crates.

  As she neared the first boat he’d pointed out, she heard a voice calling, “Excuse me!” Turning, she recognised a young mother and her toddler from the bus. She’d taken pity on the frazzled woman on the journey, and distracted the little girl with ‘peep-o’.

  “Sorry to bother you,” the woman said, reaching her, “but do you have a boat waiting for you? We missed the ferry...” she puffed a little, peering anxiously at Skye.

  “I’m trying to find a ride over too. You’re welcome to come with me?” Skye offered. The woman’s strained expression relaxed a little. “Yes, thank you.”

  Skye returned to her quest with the newcomers in tow. The first two boats looked empty. The third, a pilothouse boat, had Pixie painted in cursive script on the side. Two guys about her age were on board, one untying the mooring rope, the other firing the motor. Skye broke into a run, yelling “Wait!”

  The boy at the motor looked up, adjusting the throttle, and the revving diminished. “Wait for what?” he said, and both boys laughed as if that had a double meaning. They looked all right though, and she didn’t get any weird vibes off them.

  “Tank said you could maybe...help us out...with a lift to Bannimor?” She was breathless with nerves and the sprint hadn’t helped. Her stranded companions caught her up.

  The guy with the rope shrugged, “All of you? Sure, come aboard.” Skye took his proffered hand and he helped her jump down, followed by the others. “David,” he pointed at himself. “Kurt” he pointed towards the other boy, now pushing off from the wharf.

  Skye and the woman added their introductions – Lisa, and her toddler Emma.

  “And that’s Harvey” David said in falsetto, nodding at a boy coming out of the cabin. Harvey was good-looking behind his glasses, slight compared to the other two. He threw an empty can at David who laughed. Lisa, clutching Emma, sat near the motor.

  “Missed the ferry?” Harvey raised his eyebrows, looking amused.

  Skye nodded sheepishly, then staggered as the boat accelerated away from the wharf in a sweeping curve. Being on the water would be fine, she told herself, pushing down fear.

  A large yellow inflatable passed them, heading in. The two people on board wore yellow shirts with lettering picked out in red. Surf rescue, she guessed. That made the boat an IRB – Inflatable Rescue Boat, she remembered. One of the occupants shouted something that sounded like “jackets” as they passed. Skye grabbed at the side rail as the Pixie surged forward. Reminded by the shouted warning, she glanced around the deck for life-jackets, but didn’t see any. It was a short trip, she told herself. They’d be fine this one time.

  The three guys began a shouting banter among themselves. Realising she wasn’t expected to join in, and seeing Lisa absorbed in her child, Skye made her way to the prow and faced into the wind. Bannimor’s green hills drew closer. The motion of the boat beneath her, the cries of gulls overhead, told her she was coming home. A surge of joy replaced her fluttering fear and she tilted her face to the sky, closing her eyes.

  But when the tone of the boys’ banter changed, she looked around. Closing in on them like a wave over the water was rolling white fog.

  In moments it was on them, blotting the late sun and blanketing Skye in coldness. She shivered in her T-shirt, glad she’d worn jeans. Sound was muffled. Light filtered through swirling particles. She peered around, trying to glimpse something, anything. They were still moving forward steadily, travelling blind. Surely that wasn’t smart, she thought anxiously.

  Then without warning the boat swerved and tilted sharply, and she fell aga
inst the railing. The deck became almost vertical, and she found herself balanced above the water, the railing digging into her stomach. Terrified, she gripped the rail with all her strength, willing the boat not to overturn and herself not to fall.

  She stared into the dark swell, so close its chill seemed to reach for her. Then below her a form appeared. For a moment she looked into silvery charcoal-grey eyes – a boy beneath the surface, her own age or maybe older, his face washed about with a dark halo of hair. Then mist swirled between them and the boat rocked back the other way, tossing her onto the deck.

  Scrambling back from the railing she pressed against the cabin, bracing against the rocking of the otherwise stationary boat. She felt breathless. Icy chills raced through her. She’d imagined him, she told herself. It must have been reflections, her mind playing tricks. But closing her eyes she saw vividly his storm-grey eyes, meeting hers. Her heart pounded.

  The churning of an engine swelled out of the mist, and at the sound of screams she turned to see the ferry bearing down on them. She caught a fleeting glimpse of frightened faces, then an ear-splitting crunching ricocheted through her body. The Pixie fell away from beneath her and she plunged deep into shocking cold water.

  3. Returned

  Skye struggled against the chilling water, too stunned to think, flailing instinctively for up. The sound of distant ocean breakers rolled through her mind. Then her head broke the surface and she gulped misty air. Water slapped her face and spilled into her open mouth. She choked and spat.

  Blinking stinging eyes, she thought she glimpsed figures moving through the mist-enshrouded water. “Over here,” she screamed, “I’m here.” Her throat hurt with the force of her cries, but whoever she’d seen had vanished.

  Casting about, through the shifting fog she made out the faint outline of the Pixie. Hope focused her and she began to pull through the water towards it, trying to ignore her mounting terror. The current was against her, but she kept all her thoughts fixed on the boat. Reaching it, her shouts met with silence. Fear bit deeply. And now she saw the boat was listing, its tilt becoming more pronounced by the second. Would it suck her down if it sank? Her heart hammered with confusion and dread. The cold was numbing, and already every movement was an effort.

  In the distance she caught raised voices and the chug of an engine. Maybe the ferry had circled around to help? Or was it sinking too? Images of drowning passengers filled her mind. Panic choked her, but she fought it. She couldn’t flip out. She had to stay present to survive.

  But her body was losing the energy to stay afloat. She needed to rest. Just for a minute. It wasn’t even really a choice. She gulped a breath of air as she sank below the surface. It was almost a relief; so much easier to just...

  No. Don’t give up. Gathering herself for another push up, she squinted through the water, and horror jolted her. A small, still form sank slowly by. Emma.

  Suddenly the toddler moved. Adrenaline surged through Skye. Lunging, she caught hold of a tiny wrist and dragged the infant up, kicking for the surface like a person possessed, unsure they were rising.

  Then she saw a boat just visible through the water. So close! Relief leant her fresh energy. Her legs like lead, her lungs straining, she hauled Emma up in a last desperate stretch towards the surface. Hands from above seized the little girl and pulled her from Skye’s grip.

  At once the water surged around her, wrenching the boat away, voices silenced as Skye sank once more, spent. She didn’t even know if they’d seen her.

  The water drew her down, dragging her clothes about her like weights. Her heartbeat pounded in her ears. Her lungs screamed, her thoughts battering futilely for a way up. The filtering light dimmed. Familiar waves thundered through her mind and the dark ocean rose to swallow her.

  Then through the gloom, arms reached for her. A face rippled into view, an angel with charcoal eyes. Dark hair washed about his face, all shadows and angles. He took her in his arms. She was dreaming, lost in one of her nightmares. Together they raced up.

  Moments later Skye was choking out water and sucking in air, the channel wind icy on her face. Her throat burned. Cold arms held her, and she looked into silver-grey eyes. Although she couldn’t read his expression, the quickening sense of discovery, of awakening to something that had crept into her dreams, surged as she stared at him. His eyes darkened and her head spun.

  The drone of an outboard swelled into her consciousness. A yellow shape loomed out of the fog. She was turned about and something buoyant was thrust into her grip.

  She felt strong arms leave her. Coldness filled where he’d been.

  There was a shout and someone plunged into the water beside her. She was seized, hefted, humped and bundled, scraping against wet canvas. Seconds later she slumped into the bottom of a rocking IRB.

  “Skye, oh my gosh, Skye.”

  “M-Morgan?” Feeling like her limbs belonged to someone else, Skye struggled upright. Everything tilted, nausea washing through her, and she pressed her head to her knees.

  “Skye, just stay there, don’t move.”

  No problem, she thought. What just happened? She tried to remember, but her thoughts were like water spilling from her open hand.

  Morgan dragged a towel around her. “Just rest. You’re okay, you’re safe.”

  Shivering, Skye rubbed her eyes with the edge of the towel and squinted around. She recognised David and Kirk. Or was it Kurt? She couldn’t see above the side of the inflatable to look, but other motors were audible across the water. The other boy, Harvey, must be on one of those. And Lisa, somewhere with Emma.

  A guy balanced on the side, pulling a yellow shirt over his head. She got the impression of sun-golden hair and skin. A girl in the same uniform was steering, powering them to Bannimor, Skye hoped. What a way to arrive.

  Closing her eyes, she leaned against Morgan, grateful for the warmth of Morgan’s arm around her. Soon the noise of the engine chunked down a few notches.

  “We’re here.”

  Skye opened her eyes and tried to stand, but her legs didn’t want to cooperate.

  “Wait till they stop!” Morgan urged.

  A mooring rope was thrown to someone on the wharf who looped it around a pillar. This wharf was much smaller and older than Fallsmouth’s. Access was via a wooden ladder. Morgan helped Skye to stand. Her wet jeans clung revoltingly to her. Now she wished she’d opted for shorts.

  “Are you okay to climb?”

  “I’m fine.” Her voice felt odd, shaky. She concentrated on gripping the wooden rungs, tinged with the odour of fish scales and salt. Her hands felt twice their normal size, with less than half their usual strength.

  When she reached the top, she staggered as it seemed to pitch. The weathered timber was warm beneath her icy feet. Her sandals must have come off in the channel, she realised. Lucky she’d packed spares. The towel around her shoulders made her feel like an invalid. She tugged it off. It was bad enough arriving bedraggled without looking all voted-off-the-island.

  “Leave it on Skye, you’ll freeze.”

  “Morgan, I’m f-fine,” she insisted. Morgan rolled her eyes but didn’t push.

  Behind them the IRB motored away. Skye turned to follow its path. “I didn’t thank them,” she realised

  “Don’t worry, they’re friends of mine. You’ll be seeing them again soon enough.”

  A wraith of fog still hung in the middle of the channel, shreds and wisps snaking upwards, dissolving, gone almost as quickly as it had arrived. Another IRB circled what looked like debris. A couple of other boats circled slowly nearby. Squinting across to the far side she thought she could make out the shape of the ferry. Seeing it she felt relief.

  “Hey, we need to get you dry and warm. And Mum’ll be freaking out if she’s heard.”

  Skye felt there was something she should be doing, something she was missing. Warm and dry sounded so good though.

  “I’ve got your bags,” Morgan continued, “I won’t tell you how creepy t
hat was: your luggage, but no you.”

  “You didn’t get my message?”

  “Message? No. I came straight from the restaurant. When you weren’t on the ferry I figured – make that hoped – you’d only missed it. The rescue squad were just finishing a training exercise and some of them were heading to Fallsmouth, so I caught a ride. Then we saw – well, heard a collision somewhere in that fog. It was horrible.”

  “Right. Horrible.” Skye agreed woodenly.

  “We can talk about this later,” Morgan said gently. “You’re safe, that’s what matters. Let’s get out of here.”

  Her wet clothes chafing, Skye felt like a walking disaster. Morgan found a couple of spare towels in the boot of Rowena’s pale blue Morris Minor. She put one on Skye’s seat and insisted Skye put the other around her shoulders. She gave in without protest this time. The tension had drained out of her like the water pooling at her feet, leaving her limp and cold.

  Leaning her head back against the hot vinyl seat she closed her eyes. A face swam into her mind. The angel she’d dreamed in the channel. He had seemed real, his face like a medieval poet; melancholy and beautiful, to her eyes anyway. She itched to draw him, his mix of light and dark, eyes in the dim green light the colour of burnt charcoal. He had felt so real, speeding her to the surface.

  Except that he hadn’t, she acknowledged. He’d been a figment, existing only in a weird echo of her night-time dreams. And somehow, because of it, she’d found up. Once she surfaced, she knew she had the surf rescuer to thank. She ruefully inspected her forearms and elbows, grazed on the canvas inflatable. Couldn’t get much more real than fabric burn, she thought.

  Stifling a squeak of alarm, she clutched at the dashboard as the car suddenly hurtled downwards into grey shadow.

  “Relax,” Morgan teased, “Great brakes in this thing.”

  Skye recognised the unmistakeable echo of an underground car park, tyres squealing as they swept into a parking space. “I’d forgotten you were a total speed freak,” she gasped, grateful for the good brakes. Morgan laughed.