(Part 3 of the Truths & Lies series, but can be read as a standalone. See A Reader's Guide to Truths and Lies.)

I found the pirate brand and the sparrow tattoo the first time I set eyes on him, which would have been the last time if Port Royal's redcoats were not such very poor shots.

It was only after we became lovers that I uncovered the rest of Jack's frankly unnerving array of tattoos, scars, and marks, only a few of which rub off. Two years later, I'm still learning about them. Apparently, each one tells a story, and, since there are approximately as many stories as the number of times you ask Jack how he came by them, it's a slow process. Happily, I enjoy my research.

On account of all the lash marks, bullet scars, masturbating mermaids, et cetera, I discovered the small tattoo on the underside of his right wrist relatively late in my investigations. It was one night in his cabin when I had taken it upon myself to peel off every scrap of detachable embellishment and explore him inch by disreputable, naked inch.

His wrist wasn't my first port of call, obviously, but there it lay, flung out across the sheets as he slept, and it seemed the perfect place to wile away a drowsy interlude between more strenuous explorations. Taking care not to wake him, I picked undone the tangle of thongs, laces and grubby scraps of cloth to expose skin the colour of Demerara sugar.

The tattoo thus revealed intrigued me as soon as I laid eyes upon it, precisely because it was so ordinary and unassuming: little more than a rather wobbly blue circle. It looked as though someone had placed a small coin there and drawn around it, not very neatly, then finished it off with a wiggle in the centre that I at first took for a lightning bolt, but decided upon closer inspection was definitely an off-kilter capital letter M.

I licked and nuzzled Jack's ear until he opened one eye. "So," I asked him, congratulating myself on having neatly bypassed my usual what's-this-one-then-Jack line of inquiry, "what does M stand for?"

"M?" He raised his head blearily. "Oh, that!" Drowsiness gave way to consternation as he followed my gaze to his recently bared wrist. "Mother, of course!" He made tragic puppy eyes at me. "I was ever so young when I went to sea, James, my darlin', practically a babe, really. He bit his lip. "'S why the writing's a bit wonky."

"Poor Jack. You must have missed her terribly."

"Oh, Jamie, my love, you have no idea." He pulled me closer and hid his face in my shoulder.

"Lying bastard."

He chuckled wickedly against my collar bone. "I was very young. But I never saw that much of me Mam because, well... on account of her being busy or asleep most days. We sprats was mostly raised by our granny."

"I do hope you're not intending to claim her name was Mary?"

He propped himself on my chest and gave me his best wounded look. "Wasn't going to say anything of the kind."

"Martha? Marguerite? Mercedes? Marjolein?"

"Now you're thinking, James! It was Manoleta, as it happens, and I cried for her every night in my hammock all the way across the Line and round..."

"Jack..." I shifted so I could nudge his privates threateningly with my knee.

He pouted at me. "Awright, it was Tayanita and I never missed her enough to get a tattoo. Satisfied?"

"Not... entirely." I turned the threatening nudge into a slow massage, feeling his cock harden again. "How about you?"

"Any minute now, love." He moaned and wriggled and kissed me on the mouth.

I ask you. Who would attempt to resist distraction of such high quality?

I didn't forget the mysterious tattoo, however. In fact, I developed a few theories about it that I was eager to put to the test at the next opportunity. In the meantime, lacking the occasion for direct investigation, I could only observe how carefully he kept it hidden. As if those bindings of leather and fabric weren't perfectly adequate to remove it from view, during the day he generally adds a broad strap to attach the leather pad that supposedly protects his palm from rope burn.

True, he's also fond of tying rags and tatters around his un-tattooed left wrist, but not to the same extent. All it requires to expose the left is a gentle kiss and a little finger work, whereas the right poses a serious challenge. Ultimately, I was forced to take the direct approach, or as direct as is sensible when negotiating with Jack Sparrow.

I smiled his favourite smile and crooned, "Show me the tattoo again, Jack darling." (I'm not normally one for endearments, but I've noticed they can be remarkably effective, used sparingly.) "The one you were got when you were missing Granny Myfanwy."

"Granny Meffanwhat?"

I knew that would catch his curiosity. "Myfanwy. It's a Welsh name, Jack. It means 'my woman'."

"My granny was not your woman! But how comes it you know Welsh, mate?"

"Well, there has to be something I know that Captain Jack Sparrow doesn't. I'll tell you about it if you let me look at the tattoo."

Jack pouted, as he tends to do when caught between caution and curiosity. "Why that one? I thought you liked the mermaids..." He rolled onto his front and rippled his buttock muscles to rub three tails together in a particularly lewd fashion.

Nonetheless, and following heroic resistance on my part, he eventually sighed and flopped over onto his back, presenting his wrist with all the flourish of an effeminate young earl waiting for his manservant to buff his cuticles.

"Myfanwy, eh?" he muttered, then grew uncommonly silent as I curled my body around his hand and tried very hard not to look smug. I could sense his eyes burning into the back of my head and his breath catching as I opened the first knots.

Naturally, I ignored this, as I ignored his audible swallow when I unwound the last scraps of leather and exposed the tattoo. But the knowledge of his barely suppressed agitation rendered my exploration intensely intimate, like a first lover's touch. It appeared one of my guesses, at least, was correct.

I rather expected him to pull away when I leaned to kiss the spot, but although the breath hissed out of him, he kept his arm where it was. As I pressed my tongue against the wobbly blue circle, I could feel Jack's blood pounding against me through the fragile skin. Plainly, whoever had made the tattoo had placed it exactly over the pulse point; I might have been kissing his beating heart.

"It's a matelot mark, isn't it?" I said, carefully not turning to look at his face.

He brought his left hand round to stroke my hair. "Smart as paint, ain't you, James?" He sounded pleased—proud almost. "But tell me, since when are fine British navy officers like yourself allowed to know of such things?"

"We are human in the navy too, Jack. I am aware of matelotage."

I decided it wasn't the moment for my first bosun's favourite joke. (How do you separate the men from the boys in the navy? With a crowbar and a bucket of cold water.) Instead, I asked him what I suddenly wanted very badly to know: "Is he out there somewhere, Jack, with a J tattooed on his wrist?" My stomach clenched with fear, although I'm not sure what answer I was dreading.

He shook his head. "I lost him. To the depths."

Odd phrasing, that, because Jack isn't generally given to euphemisms. Nor to brooding, apparently, for he grinned at me and commanded, "Cover it up again, Jamie, and I'll show you a trick I know with my tongue—used to make him damn near flip the hammock over."

"We are in my bed, Jack. On dry land."

"Wouldn't suggest it otherwise. At your age, you want to experiment in comfort and safety, savvy?"

It's been a long time since I could claim to be incorruptible, so I retied the leather thongs and accepted Jack's bribe with pleasure. It was indeed an experience one would be most ill-advised to attempt in a hammock.

Another trick I learnt from Jack is the value of waiting for the opportune moment. In this case, it occurred in the attic bedroom of an only moderately dubious Tortuga inn following (and in the course of) a great deal of rum. So much rum, in fact, that we were sitting fully clothed on the still-made bed having somehow become totally engrossed in a rambling discussion about former ships, battles, ports, narrow escapes, and so forth.

To be honest, my recollections are somewhat hazy, but I do remember the impulse to catch hold of his wrist as it waved the rum bottle in my face, and kiss it where I knew the tattoo lurked.

"I want to hear about the Mystery Matelot."

"Nothing to tell."

"So why keep it hidden?"

On previous occasions, he'd denied doing any such thing and spun me a yarn about the practicality of not letting sweat run down his arms, or seawater run up them, greasy leather being a proven deterrent against sea-serpents, something of that nature.

However, it seemed this particular rum-flavoured moment was more opportune than most, for he leaned closer, gazed into my eyes, and growled, "Thought you of all people would know about that, love."

I still held his right wrist, so he transferred the bottle to his left hand to take a swig. Then, apparently as an afterthought, he poured a portion into my mouth, and licked the drops that spilled down my chin.

"I was there, remember?" He pursed his lips and widened his eyes as he mimicked Elizabeth's high tones. "'Oh, please would you rescue Will for me as an eensy weensy wedding present, please, James?' Bloody knew it then, didn't ya? Whole ship's crew and the governor there to witness it, and you knew you was making a prize dunderhead of yourself. But you hoped, eh? Now, suppose the chit tattooed an E on your wrist into the bargain, would you want to look at the bloody thing every day?"

"I imagine not."

"He imagines not—astonishing perspicacity. Now say, 'Sorry, Jack'."

"Sorry, Jack."

"And now shut up."

I pulled him onto my lap and we finished the rum in silence, slumping down at some point to lie on the bed without actually getting under the covers, although I did at least manage to remove both pairs of boots.

"It doesn't seem fair," I grumbled as I dropped the last boot (one of his) to the floor. "You know all about Elizabeth and myself, but you won't tell me about Matty."

"Not meant to be fair—and his name wasn't Matty."

"Well I can't go on thinking of him as the Mystery Matelot."

"Well don't think of him at all, then. I don't."

"Not one of your better lies, Jack."

"I don't! Only when I've got a commodore in me bed banging on about it." He somehow got to his feet, but he was in no shape to stay on them, so flopped back down beside me, holding his head. "Look, if I tell you the basics, it'll likely bore you to death. Then you'll let me sleep. Agreed?"

I nodded, which set the room spinning faster, so I lay still and whispered, "Agreed."

Jack settled carefully on his back. "Usual story," he began, addressing the cracked and cobwebby ceiling. "Boy meets man. Boy swept away by man's greater experience, level-headedness, fortitude, and general... manliness. Man lusts after boy's pretty face and, let's face it, exceptionally fuckable physique." He threw me a glance to check how it was going down.

I gave him a gentle grope, just to show willing. "Not much change there then."

"You'd be amazed..." He cut the words off with a flick of his hand and a grunt of something between anger and disgust. "Nothing but love-struck young halfwits, the pair of 'em. Thought they were the first to discover love, and promises and tattoos would bind it forever. But once it starts to unravel, there ain't a thing what can hold it, not for one lousy second.

"You can guess the rest, eh? Boy becomes a man. (Although we'll still call him Boy, or things'll get hideously convoluted). Man looses interest. Boy shaves his beard by way of encouragement—not so easy on a pirate ship, that—but, contrariwise, he chases after the lasses each time they make port. Man gets a child on his lass, and dreams only of going home. Boy stops shaving and tells himself he don't care, but he lives for the nights when Man's been so long at sea even a half-mad, bearded, pirate captain (such as Boy has meantime become) starts to look good."

He sighed and swivelled his head towards me. "You still awake there, James?" he whispered.

How could I not be? I cupped his face between my hands, pressed my lips into his hair, muffling my next words. "I'm truly honoured, Jack. You've more than kept your side of the bargain: I'll let you sleep now."

He snuggled closer, squirmed until he found a comfortable position, and settled down. The night was cooler now, so I drew a blanket over us.

A few minutes later, Jack started to wriggle again. Gently, I stroked his back, but he still fidgeted. Finally, his head popped out from under the blanket. "'S no good," he announced. "I can't sleep unless I finish the story."

"I'm listening."

He burrowed back under the blanket and rested his face against my chest. I couldn't see him, but I could feel his warm breath through my shirt in time with his muffled voice. "Could have gone on like that for years, maybe, but one day—in Asuncion it was—Boy and most of the crew go whoring, while Man and a few of the quiet ones go to buy lace and that for sending home. Dunno how it happened, but Man winds up by his onesies in a church with a Dutch Jesuit priest what speaks passable English. Ends up thinking Boy is some kind of heathen devil sent to lead him from the path of virtue. After that, the only thing binding him to the ship is the promise of gold undreamed of so's he can do right by his family in England."

He stretched, then rested his head on the pillow again, his eyes watching me sidelong. "Boy should've done what you did. Should've let him go. Only he panicked instead and used all his womanly wiles, not to mention a few manly wiles by way of seasoning. He could be very effective in that direction, though I say it myself—had Man begging at his door on a number of occasions."

"I'm sure the poor man stood no chance," I murmured, but my smile wilted in the face of Jack's despair.

"That's how it ends, Jamie. I made him hate me."

I held him close for a long time, determined to watch over him until he went to sleep. I'm not sure if I actually succeeded.

I woke to the clatter of beaded braids against my face and Jack tugging at my shoulder. "Come here!" he insisted, hauling me up to recline by his side on a pile of pillows. "You've been looking at it all cockeyed, mate."

"What in heaven's name...? Oh!"

He'd bared his right wrist, and was brandishing it in my face for inspection. His arm was bent at the elbow, as if holding up a book, so the zig-zag in the circle was the other way up. Not M but W.

Jack beamed as if I'd discovered the hidden treasure of the Incas. "'S right: double-you!"

"Still looks more like an upside-down M," I protested, needled at having been wrong for so long. "The final stroke's too vertical."

Jack nodded enthusiastically. "He always did write it that way: South-East, North-East, South-East, North. Never had the heart to put him right." He grinned. "Anyway, I didn't love him for his handwriting, did I?"

"Do I take it you're now prepared to reveal your illiterate matelot's name?"

That earned me a hurt look. "Can't do that, love. Not fair on somebody else, savvy?" He bounced off the bed. "Don't look so glum! You've got the story you wanted and the right initial. Just call him whatever you like that starts with a wuh and we can get on with enjoying ourselves!"

Ignoring my groans, he manhandled me to the edge of the bed, stuffed my feet into my boots, and draped my coat around my shoulders. His only mercy before bundling me through the door was to press a soaked rag to my aching head. I noticed as he held it there that he hadn't replaced the bindings around his wrist.

"No time to lose, James," he insisted with a cheeriness I could only aspire to. "We've still four taverns and one whorehouse to inspect before you sail for Port Royal!"

The next times I saw Jack, I let the topic lie; it didn't seem fair to ask again after he had told me so much. (Although, paradoxical as ever, he had told me both everything and nothing at all.) But between our meetings, I found myself brooding on the mystery of W's identity.

If the man had been merely some long-dead, obscure pirate on the Black Pearl, then surely Jack would have told me his name. So it had to be someone whose reputation or connections were still of relevance today. "Not fair on somebody else," Jack had said, which probably meant only that he was reluctant to be associated with the man now.

I tried in vain to think of notorious pirates beginning with W, perhaps someone memorably stupid or ugly, or wracked with the pox, although I couldn't quite see Jack—assuming he fell for such a person at all—apologising for his choice later. A more plausible idea was that, like Teach, W had married. (I disbelieve the story of Teach's fourteen wives, but Jack wouldn't want it known that he'd lost a lover to even one mere mortal.)

I searched the naval records for men older than Jack, who'd sailed on the Pearl while he was captain. Almost all were long dead. (Not a few of them hanged at Port Royal under my authority, which sent a tremor of fear up my spine, but thankfully none of those was a W.) Aside from Barbossa, who lacked the necessary initial—being born Hector Cardew Tink in St. Agnes, Cornwall—not one of them exhibited either depravity or respectability in sufficient measure to embarrass Jack Sparrow.

It seemed Jack had been telling the truth again: he was protecting some living descendant of W's, who could be damaged by knowledge of their association... I slammed the naval ledger shut, thrust it into the arms of the startled clerk, and ran out into the Jamaican midday heat, heading for Brown's smithy. Will Turner's father had sailed with Jack! I'd heard his name only as Bootstrap Bill, or perhaps I wouldn't have been quite so dull-witted.

Halfway down the hill, I came to my senses. There were a hundred reasons why I could not simply burst into the smithy and demand whether Will's father was Jack's matelot. Among the least scandalous (but of greatest practical significance) was that Will, in all probability, didn't know the answer.

In spite of the heat, I forced myself to take a turn around the harbour and clear my thoughts before returning home. There, in the privacy of the shuttered drawing room, I contrived a nasty kink in the blade of my sword, one that only Will's expertise could remedy.

As I had hoped, young Mr. Turner was working alone in the smithy and my visit developed into a social call. After the usual, interminable niceties, I succeeded in directing our conversation to Will's childhood in England. Sadly, he did not remember whether his father had any tattoos.

With cunning learned by observation of Jack Sparrow in action, I proceeded stealthily towards the topic of keepsakes and memories, finally venturing the opinion that traces of a man's soul might be found in his handwriting. Will took the bait. By a miracle, it turned out that he still had a packet of letters his mother had kept and, with no further prompting, he went to fetch them.

The letters were crinkled and somewhat smudged from being in his pocket during the shipwreck on the crossing from England, but the waxed paper wrapping had served them well and, save for a little water damage along the folded edges, they remained perfectly legible. As he smoothed them out and sorted through them, I took the liberty of reading over his shoulder.

"Your father wrote a fine hand." I remarked, with a stab of disappointment, for it was nothing like the wobbly lettering of Jack's illiterate tattoo.

"My father didn't write these himself. He had a... a friend... who penned his letters for him," William explained, with more embarrassment than the revelation warranted.

I wondered what shameful secrets young Will knew or guessed about Turner the elder's friend. If only the letters had exhibited Jack's sublimely elegant, albeit overly embellished, penmanship! As it was, I could not muster much interest in the good, plain hand, surprisingly controlled for a common sailor, but plausible for a painstaking man with modest book-learning. In fact, it rather resembled the simplified longhand I employ myself when writing for a servant or child unaccustomed to more developed script.

Naturally, I offered Will my assurances that illiteracy was no shame in a hardworking sailor (remembering just in time that the phrase 'honest sailor' would be somewhat tactless, given what we both knew).

Will waved my justifications aside. "I do have one sample of his writing," he announced, producing a small, wrinkled square of yellow paper, lovingly smoothed out with a hot iron by the looks of it. "It's only his name—or my name, in this case. He knew how to write that for himself."

And there it was. Three diagonals and an upright:




The End