Page 72 of Atticus Arnott's Great Adventure

‘In 1760, a group of Genoese sailors who’d been rescued from the Tunisian town of Tabarka were resettled on the island,’ Atticus continued. ‘The island then became known as Nueva Tabarca.’

‘New Tabarca.’ Britta nodded. ‘Wasn’t it also a place for prisoners too?’

Atticus flicked through the guidebook. ‘Yes, you’re correct. In the nineteenth century, Tabarca served as a state prison.’

‘Not too bad a place to be incarcerated.’

‘I would be happy to be incarcerated anywhere with you, my love.’ Atticus grinned. ‘Now, what about finding somewhere to eat before we head back on the ferry?’

A little while later, they sat under a canopy outside a restaurant and sipped cold white wine while waiting for their meal. An old cat sprawled lazily on the pavement, basking in the sun’s heat. It trained one eye on Ness, who, returning the cat’s stare, softly growled from under the table, where she was secured on her lead.

Britta was drawing on her sketchpad, and as he stared, Atticus wondered if now was the moment to askabout the terrible scars on her legs. Placing his glass down, he took a deep breath and gripped his hands together.

‘Britta, I have a question,’ he began. ‘Please tell me about your scars.’

Britta stopped, her pencil poised. Their eyes met, and with a sigh, she closed her pad. ‘Yes, it is time for me to tell you. But the scars are not just on my skin – they are in my heart too, and have taken a long time to heal.’ She reached out and took hold of Atticus’s hand. ‘You have helped me to heal.’

‘Go on…’

‘I want you to know that what I am about to tell you must never affect our relationship. You have helped me to become whole again and bury the past.’

‘Nothing you tell me will ever alter the love I feel for you,’ Atticus said.

‘From the moment I met you in the café, I knew that you were the one for me.’ Britta smiled and stroked his fingers. ‘I love you very much.’

‘So, tell me.’

‘My husband, Daan, was cruel,’ Britta began. ‘He sensed that life on the farm wasn’t for me, and although we were happy at first, as the years went by, I yearned for the freedom of my youth and to return to painting.’

‘What happened?’

‘When no babies came along, he called me names and gave insults, saying I was… how do you say… washed up… barren? Is that right?’

‘Well, no, it’s not right for him to say those things.’

‘We had no children to work on the farm, no family to follow him, and he blamed me.’

‘What happened?’ Atticus’s voice was low, and he squeezed Britta’s hand.

‘He hurt me whenever he could, made me scared; I couldn’t get away.’ Britta hung her head, her voice hardly a whisper. ‘But I had a little money kept from housekeeping each week and began to save.’

‘So, you left?’

‘Well, not exactly. One day, he crept up on me and discovered where I hid the money. He was so angry that he reached for a kettle and threw it at me.’

‘Boiling water?’

‘Yes.’

Atticus felt bile rise in his throat, his anger intense. He took another deep breath and tried to stay calm. ‘What happened then?’

‘There was no choice. I ran out of the farm, and collapsed in the road in such pain… A neighbour passing in his truck saw me before Daan came out… I had to go to the hospital.’ Britta’s voice was hesitant. ‘The neighbour took me, and while I was there, I told a nurse what Daan had done.’

‘Was he arrested?’

‘Yes, thepolitietook him away for questioning. I knew I didn’t have much time, so I discharged myself. Then I returned to the farm, where I discovered his wallet and the key to a safe. I took enough money and valuables to make my escape.’

‘And that’s when you cameto Spain?’