Free The Last Refuge by Craig Robertson Page A

The black porkpie hat sat back on the lustrous dark hair, the extravagant quiff protruding in front of it. Her face was very pretty but almost boyish; gamine, like a young, dark-haired Twiggy. Like a Faroese Audrey Hepburn.
    Her look was topped off by a purple scarf coiled high round her neck, and purple fingernails. A tattoo, something Chinese by the look of it, peeked out beneath the capped sleeves of her T-shirt. Boyish or not, welcome company or otherwise, she was beautiful. That wasn’t what interested me, though; something else about her intrigued me, and I knew I’d been dragged into this conversation whether I liked it or not.
    ‘So what do you do?’ I tried to sound interested enough to be polite, but not so interested that she’d tell me her life story or ask me mine.
    ‘Well, I guess I’m an artist.’ She said it shyly, almost dismissively. I couldn’t help but like her.
    ‘What kind of stuff do you do?’
    ‘Stuff?’ she laughed. ‘I paint.’
    ‘People or places?’
    ‘Whatever interests me. You interest me. So you have come to Faroe Islands for a holiday?’
    I felt like I’d answered this question more than once, and my irritation crept into my voice.
    ‘No. I’ve come here to live.’
    ‘ Here? Why?’
    I dodged it. ‘Why not? Don’t you like your own country?’
    She blew out a sharp breath coated in anger.
    ‘Yes, I love it. And I hate it. It’s why I came back here to paint.’
    ‘Back?’
    ‘From Denmark. I studied in Copenhagen. Most young people who go to Denmark get their eyes opened and don’t come back. Maybe I shouldn’t have but . . .’
    ‘But . . .’
    ‘But it’s where I’m from. It’s in my blood. I want to . . .’ She paused. ‘Promise me you will not laugh.’
    ‘I promise.’
    ‘Okay. I want to change things. Through my art. Crazy, huh? You think I’m crazy.’
    Maybe I did a little. ‘No. Of course not.’
    ‘Ha. You do! And that’s okay. I don’t mind being a little crazy. It’s good for the soul. Especially if you paint. Maybe I should paint you.’
    That wasn’t a good idea at all. ‘But I’m not from the Faroes.’
    ‘True. But you interest me. You didn’t tell me why you came here.’
    I forced a smile. ‘But if I tell you then I might not be interesting any more. I’m going to get another drink. Do you want one?’
    Karis looked down at her glass and shrugged. ‘Why not? No more beer, though. Vodka and Coke, please, Mr Scotsman. What’s your name?’
    It couldn’t be avoided any longer. ‘It’s John Callum. Just “Callum” would do.’
    ‘Okay, John. Put some ice in it, will you?’
    So we talked. We talked about her art and her time spent in Copenhagen. About her schooling in Torshavn. About how she felt women were given a raw deal on the islands and that this was the reason why so many left and didn’t return. And about how the Church had so much control over what was said and done and how she hated that, saying it wasn’t the way the world should be. A lot was said and I was impressed by my ability to make so little of it about me.
    There was some game being played whose rules I didn’t entirely understand. Cat-and-mouse courtship? Maybe, but I was sure enough of my own intention to steer a solo course, and I wasn’t really sure that she was trying to win me over. Despite myself, I was enjoying her company. That was the easy bit. She was passionate when she spoke and I could see the same fire in her eyes that had flamed when she’d had the argument with her friend. It coursed through her when she talked about Torshavn and the islands, and it was almost mesmerizing to watch.
    ‘It is the most beautiful place on the planet.’ The broad smile with which she delivered the statement was utterly convincing. She meant it. ‘And we have to maintain that beauty as we drive the islands into the future. That is our duty, as much as it is our duty to make this place somewhere for all the people of the Faroes to live. Especially the