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Maisie always says that if you find yourself wondering what a bloke was like as a boy, then it’s too late, because you’re already in too deep. Not that I am, of course. Mine is simply a passing curiosity about this strange man who appears neither to have nor desire any friends.
So what did happen to him to change him and those around him so completely? I’d thought and thought about it and all sorts of scenarios had flashed through my mind, but none seemed to be the case. He is, I believe, still loved by many of his fellow villagers. The men speak of him as a living legend and yet they resent him, while others merely seem to pity him. The women, on the other hand, seem to be… almost mesmerised by him.
But it isn’t a question of his looks or his reputation for being a heartbreaker. I believe it goes much deeper than that, at least for most. There’s a soulfulness to him that I can’t describe. A depth that he tries to hide. But even I, as a stranger here, had instantly felt that there was something different about Jago. He isn’t your ordinary run-of-the-mill bloke from next door.
There’s something about him that I just can’t put my finger on. Because he isn’t just one man. There are so many others inside him, so many facets to him, different shades that you can never freeze and capture. Because by the time you think you’ve understood him, out comes another side that completely contradicts all of your theories. The man simply throws me.
He gives me a glass of liquor and grins. ‘What a time for me to quit, huh?’
I can see his thirst. I can feel it. But he moves away from the bottle, his body and essence visibly pulsing, quivering, alive with that pure, banked strength that he keeps at bay by the sole force of willpower. The effort and strength it must be costing him to stay dry, especially under these circumstances. One slip – one nanosecond of weakness – and it would all be blown to smithereens, just like the boats in the storm.
I glance at the glass and then at him. ‘Thank you,’ I whisper.
‘Merry Christmas,’ he murmurs, never taking his eyes off me.
‘Merry Christmas, indeed.’
Who knew I’d end up on a desert island on Christmas Eve with the village bad boy? I take a small sip and splutter.
He laughs.
‘What is this?’ I cry.
‘Rum, of course.’
‘From when? The eighteenth century?’
‘Yep,’ he replies. ‘A good batch at that.’
A wave of nausea hits me.
‘Urgh, I’m not feeling very well,’ I admit, my ringing ears playing a concerto of their own, my head spinning atop my wobbly neck.
‘It’s OK,’ he assures in a whisper that seems so much more real than the howling wind outside. ‘Here, take another sip. It’ll warm you from the inside out.’
I do as he says and shudder as the horrid taste burns its way down to my insides. But he’s right. A radiant, slow-burning heat begins to spread from the bottom of my stomach to the rest of me.
‘Another,’ he urges me. ‘A nice slow gulp.’
I take another sip. Not that bad anymore, actually, considering I could be dead instead.
‘Good girl,’ he says, and all too soon, he stands to turn and tend to the fire again.
With a wooden spoon, he stirs the contents of the pot and I can see the chiaroscuro of light and shade from the muscles on his back undulate in the firelight. I take another sip. Definitely better than being dead.
With only the crackling of the lively fire and the smell of soup filling the air, I watch him as he studies the fire without a further word.
After a moment, he looks up at me. ‘We’ll be fine. We’ll eat and get a good night’s sleep.’
‘So you’re not worried about the storm? I’ve heard that a few years ago this very island disappeared underwater.’
He kneels in front of me again, looking up into my eyes.
‘Listen to me, Emmie. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. That I can promise you, OK?’
‘But the forces of nature…’ I babble, feeling another irrational surge of panic welling inside me. ‘You can’t—’
His hands cup my face. ‘Anything at all. Do you understand me?’
