She murmured soft words, cutting away the makeshift bandage and cleaning the wound.
The man groaned and squeezed his eyes tightly shut, but she kept her tone steady and coaxed him to breathe slowly.
While she worked, she noticed Tash, who was now sitting nearby, beside a different little girl who wouldn’t stop crying. Tash began telling a story about a brave princess and a talking donkey. It was quite an exciting tale and Cleo’s ears pricked as she tried to listen in.
Within minutes, the child was giggling, hiccupping through her tears. Tash smiled and wiped the corner of the child’s cheek with her sleeve.
A warm glow spread through Cleo’s body. She was proud of her friend for rising above her own very real fears to give comfort to someone who needed it even more than her.
When she’d finished treating the fisherman, she looked up and saw an extremely old man approaching. He was being carried by two younger men who’d interlocked arms to form a sort of human chair.
Behind them came Marina, the artist, Anthea, the hairdresser and masseuse, and a younger woman who looked very like her. Cleo thought this was probably Anthea’s daughter.
‘Thank you so much,’ Marina said, when the young men set the old man down. ‘My father couldn’t have made it on his own.’
The old man was extremely tall, wrinkled and scrawny and Cleo wasn’t sure she’d ever seen anyone quite so old. He was able to stand unaided, though, and even managed a rather charming, rakish smile.
Cleo explained she was a nurse and would check him over.
‘Someone’s bringing more blankets and, hopefully, food and water.’
‘At your service!’
A male voice behind made her start.
Spinning round, she was taken aback to see none other than Achilles, with that lopsided grin on his face, brandishing a large duvet. When had he got here? She hadn’t seen him arrive.
Marina stepped forward to take the duvet and wrap it round her father’s bony shoulders.
Meanwhile, Cleo felt heat rise to her cheeks. Achilles’s hair was tousled and he’d clearly thrown on the first clothes he could find – a creased white shirt, rolled-up jeans and leather sandals.
He couldn’t have had time to do the shirt up properly before leaving the village, as it gaped open, revealing his tanned, taut chest.
‘I-um…’ she stuttered, feeling stupid.
Anthea gave a nervous giggle and Maya arched an eyebrow.
‘Another volunteer?’ she asked.
‘Volunteer, yes, and occasional entertainer,’ Achilles replied, shrugging. ‘And unofficial morale-boosting officer. I managed to rescue my guitar. It’s over there.’
He pointed to two small boys a little way off, squatting beside the instrument with torches in their hands, taking it in turns to strum.
He beckoned to the boys to bring the guitar over and played a few chords, as if to prove his point.
‘You’ve got a strange sense of timing,’ Cleo said, a faint smile tugging at her lips.
‘Fear makes people musical, or something like that,’ Achilles replied, casually slinging the guitar over his shoulder. ‘Did you get my text last night? I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone that drink.’ His smile widened and his brown eyes seemed to drag her in.
For a moment, nothing else seemed to matter. The quake, the flood, the chaos, it all seemed inconsequential. Here they were, victims of a real-life disaster, yet somehow, in that instant, Cleo felt the stirrings of life return once more to her chest.
It was a surprise to realise she still wanted him, even in the midst of such confusion. And for the first time in months, she thought perhaps she could survive all this. Not just the quake but the unravelling of her own life that had begun long before she set foot on this island.
Throughout the rest of the night, Cleo moved swiftly. Her hands were steadier now as she assessed cuts, bruises and shock among the villagers. Adrenaline pumped through her veins as she wrapped bandages, offered sips of water and quietly directed those who offered to help.
Maya, having found a pen and pad from somewhere, had already started taking stock – sorting out what they’d need in terms of temporary supplies, equipment and volunteers.
Her usually sharp features were softened by exhaustion, yet she remained precise and determined. Every now and again her gaze flicked to Cleo, as if to remind herself the human element mattered just as much as the logistics.
