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Chapters (50)
  1. Cover
  2. About the Author
  3. Dedication
  4. Epigraph
  5. 1
  6. 2
  7. 3
  8. 4
  9. 5
  10. 6
  11. 7
  12. 8
  13. 9
  14. 10
  15. 11
  16. 12
  17. 13
  18. 14
  19. 15
  20. 16
  21. 17
  22. 18
  23. 19
  24. 20
  25. 21
  26. 22
  27. 23
  28. 24
  29. 25
  30. 26
  31. 27
  32. 28
  33. 29
  34. 30
  35. 31
  36. 32
  37. 33
  38. 34
  39. 35
  40. 36
  41. 37
  42. 38
  43. 39
  44. 40
  45. 41
  46. 42
  47. 43
  48. 44
  49. Acknowledgements ♦ Diolchiadau
  50. THIS IS JUST THE BEGINNING

‘I’ve been thinking about your father’s boat,’ he said. ‘The one in the boathouse.’

Nefyn followed his train of thought. ‘Can you sail?’

‘Yes, but not well.’

‘We should go and look at it tomorrow.’

Hamza nodded. He did not know how feasible the plan was, but it seemed like his only choice.

‘Perhaps your friend Efa can help us,’ he offered gently.

Nefyn’s face softened, her eyes warming at Efa’s name.

‘Yes, I’m sure she’ll help us.’

Hamza nodded but she wasn’t looking at him now, she was studying the compass whose pin had been slowing as they talked. It trembled on its axis, and eventually stopped. Nefyn looked up. Levante.

23

Dŵr ♦ Water ♦ Ma’

JOSEPH WOKE IN THE guest house, sweating and thirsty. He lay there, eyes wide open, before running to the bathroom to vomit. Back in his room, clothes strewn on the floor, flickers of the night before revisited him; the stiffness of his limbs, the pounding of his head – the whiskey. He looked across at the glass of water on the table but couldn’t muster the strength to reach out for it. He had paid the woman for a week, almost all the money he had left. Soon he would have to leave, return to the boats in the North. He listened to the sea, the poorly glazed windows allowing a draught to pull at the flowery curtains.

He was cut adrift. He knew that. The way Nefyn looked at that man. All those years he’d taken care of her – forgotten. He’d never thought it would be this way. He had known that this time might come, but assumed he would be the one to force the change. And he had wished for it. Over and over. To not be defined by her. But now that he was free, he couldn’t move. He thought for a moment of a storm petrel he had caught as a child. Its broken wing, the way he looked after it. And when, in triumph, he stood on the cliff and threw it into the air on its recovery, it fluttered down to his feet. He threw it again, longing to see it soar, but it wouldn’t leave. He ignored it, for days, until he found its lifeless body on the cliffs one morning. Perhaps it had tried to show him how futile it was to intervene in fate. Perhaps he should have learnt from it.