Then one of the men fighting is tossed. Drunk and off balance, he barrels over, and while the rest of the crowd sees it and parts so that he can’t hit them, I don’t see it because I’m back to drowning again, except this time it’s on dry land and in the eyes of a pirate.
The drunkard crashes into me, knocking me clean off my feet, and I almost hit the ground, but Jamison Hook catches me and plants me back on the ground, and then he doesn’t let go.
He ducks his head to meet my eyes. “Are y’okay?”
I nod, a little shaken but happy to have his hands on me again. Why am I happy to have his hands on me again?
He nods once and spins on his heel, and had I known what was about to happen, I’d have stopped him—I swear it!—but he moves quickly. I’ll come to learn that about him—he moves quickly in almost every way but one.
His hand reaches downward, and then a glint of light, a ripple of a gasp through the crowd, and then the man who fell into me falls down dead. Throat cut. Blood spilling everywhere.
My eyes go wide in horror, and I stumble backwards, away from Jamison Hook because I remember with a suddenness that hits me like a train—Jamison Hook is a pirate. A real one. A walk-the-other-way-when-you-see-him-coming pirate, and he sees it on my face, that change. The way I was looking at him before is gone now, smothered in the blood of a dead man.
“Do ye still want to see the town?” Orson asks, coming up behind us, as though he didn’t have to step over a body to get there.
I shake my head. “I’ve seen enough.” I look at Hook. “Just take me to Peter.”
He scoffs. “What am I, yer fucking guide? Find him yerself.” He nods his head back towards the water.
He’s angry, I think. I don’t know why. He’s the murderer, not me.
“I’ll take her,” Orson tells him, and it’s only now he glances between us.
I don’t say anything, but I nod once and then he leads me away.
Once I’m a couple of metres away, I glance back at Hook right in time for him to snatch an ale from someone else and throw it back with an ease that would make one’s mother worry.*
And I wouldn’t know it at the time, because unfortunately I don’t have eyes in the back of my head, but if I did, I would have seen how Jamison Hook watched me walk away, a scowl on his face, impatient and annoyed and ever so slightly sad to see me go.
Orson and I walk out of the town centre and down a white, stony path, and it’s beautiful. Somewhere between Milos and Cortona, olive trees and white cliffs and bougainvillea spilling everywhere, and then we get to a clearing.
Calhoun points straight down into a bay. “Yer boy’s that way.”
I swallow and look over at him. “He’s not my boy.”
He cocks an eyebrow. “I’ll feckin’ say.” And then he walks away.
I climb down to the shore’s edge and watch for a few moments.
Peter’s lying out on a rock, face turned up against the sun, squinting into it, and a mermaid’s resting her head on his shoulder, tracing her finger over his chest.
And for a second, I wonder if I should leave.
Forget Neverland, forget these two boys that I’ve just met, and I know what you’re thinking: not even a day ago, they were strangers, no one to me, and this place was nothing but a rumour of a dream that my ancestors had, so I could leave. Perhaps I should…
But were I to leave, somehow I just know I’d spend the rest of my days wishing to be back here, wondering with an abominable curiosity about what might have been had I stayed, because Neverland is like quicksand for your soul and like the Mafia is to your heart. Once you’re in, you’re in.
“Wendy!” Peter cheers from the rock. He jumps up, laughing happily, and flies over to me.
I want to be cross at him for forgetting my name again, but a bit of me is just happy he’s happy to see me.
“I thought you died.” He laughs carelessly.
I frown. He doesn’t notice.
“Where did you go?”
Where did I go? I wasn’t even sure. Alone for five minutes in Neverland, and I was momentarily （and grievously） seduced by the eyes of a guileful pirate. Embarrassing, really. And pathetic.
I wonder for a second whether I should mention Jamison but decide there’s nothing to mention. Nothing at all, and there isn’t.?
I glance back over to the town, over by the dock where I landed, looking for—never mind. Looking for trouble, I suppose.
I flash Peter a smile instead.
“Looking for you,” I lie.