SAMANTHA: 

Razor is a classic case of post-traumatic stress.  Because of what happened to him in prison, physical thingamy makes him very uncomfortable.  He doesn’t even like sitting close to someone on the couch.  That’s why he’s the right man for me.  He doesn’t know it yet, but that’s what he is.  My whatsit.  No two ways about it.  He’s not going to use me for my body, because he’s not interested in my body.  He’s getting better, though.  We held hands last Tuesday at breakfast. 

There seem to be a lot of eerie coincidences in our story – which is a love story, even though Razor doesn’t know it yet.  Here I am writing a thesis on post-traumatic stress when along comes this man – tall, dark, handsome, scarred – a classic PTS whatyamacallit.  Fate handed me a guinea pig and a thingy all rolled into one. 

Wait.  Stop.  We’re getting ahead of ourselves.  We haven’t even seen each other semi-naked yet, never mind mentioning thingy.

Morgan sailed from Jamaica on 14th August 1670 with eleven vessels and 600 men for the Isle la Vache, the usual rendezvous, whence during the next three months squadrons were detailed to the coast of Cuba and the mainland of South America to collect provisions and intelligence.

Sir William Godolphin was at that moment in Madrid concluding articles for the establishment of peace and friendship in America; and on 12th June Secretary Arlington wrote to Modyford that in view of these negotiations his Majesty commanded the privateers to forbear all hostilities on land against the Spaniards. 

I suppose I’m jealous of Razor, in a way.  By that I mean I want my own problems to be easily explainable.  I’ll be the first to admit I’m an emotional oojamaflip.  I just have no idea why.  You can speculate all you like – blame my cold-hearted parents, or my string of failed sexual relationships.  It’s just guesswork.  The conclusion that many prefer to reach is that some people are a bit thingy. 

Well, kiss farewell to the old Sam.  Razor’s changing things.  This is going to be nothing like the last four times.  I can feel it already.  The boy stops me from thinking like a scientist.  I’m not logical when I’m with him.  Not everything needs a whatsit.  An explanation.  

Like this whole “murder” malarkey.  I don’t mean to speak ill of the dead, but Barry was a tosser.  I’m mildly curious as to who killed him, but it’s not going to keep me awake.  I didn’t do it, and Razor didn’t do it.  That’s good enough for me. 

These orders reached Jamaica on 13^th August, whereupon the governor recalled Morgan, who had sailed from the harbour the day before, and communicated them to him, "strictly charging him to observe the same and behave with all moderation possible in carrying on the war." The admiral replied that necessity would compel him to land in the Spaniards' country for wood, water and provisions, but unless he was assured that the enemy in their towns were making hostile preparations against the Jamaicans, he would not touch any of them. 

First and foremost, I’m not kidding myself that I’m trying to “fix” Razor.  There’s nothing about him that needs fixing.  I know that he’s prone to losing his temper.  That just means he’s passionate.  Doesn’t it?

On 6^th September, however, Vice-Admiral Collier with six sail and 400 men was dispatched by Morgan to the Spanish Main. There on 4th November he seized, in the harbour of Santa Marta, two frigates laden with provisions for Maracaibo. Then coasting eastward to Rio de la Hacha, he attacked and captured the fort with its commander and all its garrison, sacked the city, held it to ransom for salt, maize, meat and other provisions, and after occupying it for almost a month returned on 28th October to the Isle la Vache.  One of the frigates captured at Santa Marta, "La Gallardina," had been with Pardal when he burnt the coast of Jamaica. Pardal's own ship of fourteen guns had been captured but a short time before by Captain John Morris at the east end of Cuba, and Pardal himself shot through the neck and killed.

-         Who the fuck is reading about pirates? 

-         Dunno, it’s probably Craig’s.  You know what he’s like with his second-hand books. 

-         “The Buccaneers In The West Indies In The XVII Century” by Clarence Henry Harding.  Jesus Christ, why can’t he read normal books? 

-         I don’t think he actually reads them, Gogo.   

-         No?

-         No, I think he “collects” them.

-         Why?  What does he collect them for? 

-         You tell me.

-         I don’t know. 

-         No, but you could offer an opinion – you usually do. 

-         OK, he’s a prick. 

-         I knew you were going to say that.  Feel better now?

-         Yes, actually. 

-         What do you want for dinner?  

-         Sex.

-         Nice try, Gogo.  I’m not in the mood. 

-         Is it because I’ve been slagging off your new friend Craig? 

-         No. 

-         You could just go and fuck him if you like.  Everyone else does. 

-         Maybe I will. 

-         Christ I was only joking. 

-         So was I.  You’re not jealous, are you? 

-         I’ve got nothing to be jealous of.  Just try living here a bit longer, and you’ll see what I mean.  Fucking pirates, indeed …

He was called by the Jamaicans "the vapouring admiral of St. Jago," for in June he had nailed a piece of canvas to a tree on the Jamaican coast, with a curious challenge written both in English and Spanish:--

"I, Captain Manuel Rivero Pardal, to the chief of the squadron of privateers in Jamaica. I am he who this year have done that which follows. I went on shore at Caimanos, and burnt 20 houses, and fought with Captain Ary, and took from him a catch laden with provisions and a canoe. And I am he who took Captain Baines and did carry the prize to Cartagena, and now am arrived to this coast, and have burnt it. And I come to seek General Morgan, with 2 ships of 20 guns, and having seen this, I crave he would come out upon the coast and seek me, that he might see the valour of the Spaniards. And because I had no time I did not come to the mouth of Port Royal to speak by word of mouth in the name of my king, whom God preserve. Dated the 5th of July 1670."

I like living here.  I never thought I’d say that, because sharing a house with a bunch of strangers certainly wasn’t my first thingy.  I’ve been here for six months, and it’s taken me that long to settle in.  You don’t realize how crazy people are until you live with them.  That’s how I got into this situation in the first place – moving in with another unsuitable man, despite being warned off him by friends and family.  When it didn’t work out, I had no other choice.  I couldn’t afford to stay on my own, and there was no way I was moving in with any of those “I told you so’s”. 

It’s funny the things you learn about people when you live with them.  You can tell a lot about someone from their eating habits.

Razor takes so much pleasure in eating, after all that institutional canteen crap.  He feasts on the food of freedom – McDonalds, KFC, Dominoes Pizza – things he didn’t have access to inside.  To Razor, a Big Mac is an obscene luxury.  I like sitting across from him and watching him devour one, like some half-starved whatchamacallit. 

Barry ate two tubes of Pringles for dinner.  Breakfast was a bag of Doritos.  I suppose he must’ve eaten other things, but I never saw him touch anything other than crisps.  I’m sure if he hadn’t been thingied, a heart attack would’ve seen him off soon enough.   

Craig has meat with every meal – bacon in the morning, chicken sandwich at lunchtime, and the flesh of various other animals in the night.  But he wants to be vegetarian.  He talks about it all the time.  Every time he eats meat, he feels genuinely thingy about it.  Sometimes it makes him physically sick, but he can’t stop.  (I’ve scoured my textbooks for a match for Craig’s personality type, but I’ve drawn a blank.  Freud would’ve had a field day.  He’s a genuine one-off.)   

Pet and Gogo eat off the same plate.  They’ve done it ever since they started going out.  If they’re having pie and chips, they’ll have half a pie each, half a plate of chips, and split the vegetables.  They feed each other too, like babies.  Foxy says it makes her feel slightly sick, but I think it’s cute.  I wonder, are they just doing it for show, or do they do it when there’s other people around?  I don’t know if they’ve lost weight, but I’m sure they’re both looking whatsit.   

Dunder mainly survives off liquid.  He’s totally unapologetic about his drinking, but insists he isn’t addicted.  The man necks a can of Special Brew for breakfast.  Still, he doesn’t hurt anyone.  He isn’t an aggressive drunk.  He just likes a drink, he says, and that’s all there is to it.  One day, I’d like to sit down and talk things through with him, and perhaps try to uncover what’s made him the way he is, but that’s not going to happen if he continues to insist he drinks out of choice rather than compulsion.  (Second thoughts, whatsit.  I can’t be bothered.) 

Foxy hardly eats at all.  All she ever eats is salad and the occasional banana.  She’s still overweight, though – that’s what I don’t understand.  I think she might have secret take-away whatsits when no one’s watching.  Bless her. 

Meanwhile, in the middle of October, there sailed into Port Royal three privateers, Captains Prince, Harrison and Ludbury, who six weeks before had ascended the river San Juan in Nicaragua with 170 men and again plundered the unfortunate city of Granada. The town had rapidly decayed, however, under the repeated assaults of the buccaneers, and the plunderers secured only £20 or £30 per man. Modyford reproved the captains for acting without commissions, but "not deeming it prudent to press the matter too far in this juncture,” commanded them to join Morgan at the Isle la Vache.[291] There Morgan was slowly mustering his strength.

Razor was nicknamed ironically.  It dates back to his schooldays.  He was an early developer, and got a beard at fourteen.  He didn’t shave it off, because it made him look thingy.  He could buy beer in shops.  He didn’t mind the nickname either – it made him sound like a gangster.  Not that he’ll ever hurt a fly.  He’s a gentle giant, my Razor.  People expect him to be a murderer because he’s big.  Negative stereotyping, that’s all it is.  That’s all.  It’s just another kind of prejudice.  That’s all it is.  Another kind of prejudice. 

He negotiated with the French of Tortuga and Hispaniola who were then in revolt against the régime of the French Company; and he added to his forces seven ships and 400 men sent him by the indefatigable Governor of Jamaica. On 7th October, indeed, the venture was almost ruined by a violent storm which cast the whole fleet, except the Admiral's vessel, upon the shore.

I don’t want to spoil things by getting to know him too well.  That always happens, and it has to stop.  I don’t want to discover too much about his past, and I don’t want to know everything that goes on in his head.  It would take away the mystery, and it’s the mystery I’m attracted to.  There’s something magical about him, and if I were to work out what it is, the magic would be destroyed.  There’s no such thing as magic, after all.  It’s all just trickery.  This is the problem with getting to know people too well.  You realize how thingy human beings really are.