Harris’ fists tingled to hit something or somebody. He’d never had this feeling before and it shocked him. He’d seen violence on the island, kids treated roughly as if they didn’t have a right to be upset.
‘You’re so lucky,’ they were told, ‘living in paradise, no school as such, no rules. You can do what you want. Kids at home would give their right arm for such freedom.’
He’d always thought that odd. That adults still called the UK home. It made the kids on Formentera feel as if they’d been adopted and didn’t belong to anyone or to anywhere.
Jonty hadn’t cared.
‘Fuck ‘em,’ he’d said.
That’s why they spent so much time at sea.
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