widened and she reached forward and grabbed his arm. ‘But you’re hurt. There’s blood on your sleeve!’
He smothered an oath as the sudden wrench caused a stab of pain to run through him. ‘Take it easy,’ he said and moved away to examine the wound under the light of the street lamp. His jacket had an ugly, bloodstained slit in it and when he wiped away the blood with a handkerchief he saw that he had sustained a superficial slash, more painful than anything else.
‘How bad is it?’ she asked him anxiously.
He shrugged. ‘Not too bad. Hurts like hell, though.’
She took the handkerchief from his hand and twisted it neatly around his arm. ‘Is that any better?’ she said.
As he nodded he saw that her dress was badly torn. She’d made a pathetic attempt to pin it together, but it hardly measured up to the usual standards of decency. He made a sudden decision. ‘There’s only one way to get you back to your hotel,’ he told her. ‘We’ll have to walk.’ She nodded gravely and he added: ‘We’d better call in at my hotel. You can fix this arm properly for me and I can get you a coat or something to cover yourself with.’
He nodded towards the bodice of her dress and she seemed to blush and instinctively put a hand there. ‘That seems the best thing to do,’ she said calmly. ‘I think we’d better hurry, though. That handkerchief is proving an inadequate bandage.’
He was surprised at her calm acceptance of his suggestion. Surprised and also intrigued, because for a young girl who had just been through a pretty bad experience she seemed remarkably unaffected. His hotel was only a quarter of a mile away and as they approached it he suddenly felt uncomfortable. As he held the door open for her he reflected bitterly that the place looked what it was—a flea-bag. A blast of hot, stale air met them from the small hall and an ancient fan creaked, slowly and uselessly, above their heads, hardly causing a movement in the air.
The Chinese night-clerk was asleep at his desk, his head between his hands, and Hagen motioned the girl to silence. It didn’t work. Half-way across the hall a polite cough sounded behind them and Hagen turned wearily. The night-clerk, now fully awake, smiled in an apologetic manner. Hagen felt in his pocket and then remembered that he was broke. ‘Have you got a petaka?’ he asked the girl. She frowned and looked puzzled. ‘I’m broke, flat, and I need a petaka.’ He gestured helpfully at the fly-blown sign on the wall: NO FEMALES ALLOWED UPSTAIRS. He grinned tiredly as she turned from reading the notice. ‘They much prefer to supply their own, you see!’ This time he had her in a better light and she did blush. She fumbled in her handbag and gave him a Straits dollar. He flipped it to the clerk and they mounted the rickety stairs.
He felt even more ashamed of his room than he had done about the hotel. It looked like a pigsty and smelled like one. Empty gin bottles in one corner and soiled clothing in another, combined with an unmade bed, did not make a very savoury picture. The girl didn’t seem to notice. ‘Have you got any bandages?’ she demanded.
He rummaged about under the bed and finally produced the first-aid kit he had salvaged from the boat, and she led the way into the bathroom and told him to strip to the waist.
She carefully washed the congealed blood away and frowned. ‘This should be stitched.’
He shook his head. ‘I heal quickly.’
She smiled and pointed to the numerous scars on his chest and stomach. ‘You must do.’
He grinned. ‘Souvenir of the war. Shrapnel. Looks worse than it was.’
She carefully bandaged his arm and said, ‘Which war—Korea?’
He shook his head. ‘No, my war was a long time ago, angel. A thousand years ago.’ She pressed surgical tape across the loose ends of the bandage and looked quickly up into his face. The sharp triangle that formed his chin was covered with a dark stubble that accentuated the hollowness of his cheeks and the dark sombreness of the eyes. For a brief moment he looked down at her and then he said, ‘You’ve done this sort of thing before,’ and gestured to his bandaged arm.
She nodded. ‘A little—but even that was too much.’
Suddenly she began to shiver uncontrollably and Hagen slipped his arm about her shoulders and squeezed. ‘You’re all right,’ he told her. ‘It’s all over.’ She nodded several times and broke away from him, and stood over by the window, her back towards him. He opened a drawer and by a miracle discovered a clean shirt. By the time he was properly dressed again she had recovered.
‘That was rather silly of me,’ she said. ‘The essential feminine weakness coming out, I suppose.’
Hagen laughed. ‘What you need is a drink.’ He poured gin into two moderately clean glasses and, crossing the room, kicked open the window and led the way out on to the balcony. The girl sat in the only chair and Hagen leaned on the balcony rail and for a short time there was silence.
‘Do you think I might have a cigarette?’ Her voice spoke gently from the darkness. He fumbled in his pocket and finally discovered the battered packet. As the match flared in his cupped hands, and she leaned forward, the delicate beauty of her face was thrown into relief. He held the match for a moment longer than was necessary, and they looked briefly into each other’s eyes, and then he flicked the match out into the darkness in a long, curving arc. ‘I’d like to thank you for what you did back there.’ She spoke slowly and carefully as though searching for words.
‘Girls like you shouldn’t be on the waterfront in the early hours,’ he told her.
As if she had suddenly arrived at a decision her voice sounded again from the darkness, this time more assured and confident. ‘My name is Rose Graham.’
So he had been right about one of her parents, at least. He half-turned towards her. ‘Mark Hagen. Captain Hagen I’m known as in these parts.’
‘Oh, you are a sea captain?’
‘I have a small boat,’ he told her. It came to him that he was wrong. The operative word was ‘had’. I had a small boat, he thought. What have I got now? Another thought struck him, more immediate, more urgent. ‘Was I in time back there?’ he said. ‘I mean, did those mugs really harm you or anything?’ He felt suddenly awkward.
The chair creaked as she stood up. ‘They didn’t harm me, Captain Hagen. It wasn’t that kind of an assault.’
She moved to the rail and stood beside him so that his shoulder touched hers lightly each time he stirred. The wind blew in from the sea and the mist rolled across the harbour, and the riding lights of the ships glowed faintly through the gaps that appeared every so often when the wind tore a hole in the grey curtain. From the balcony the view was magnificent and suddenly Hagen felt at peace and restless, happy and discontented, all at the same time. It had been a bad day and the past came too easily to mind. He decided that it was all the girl’s fault. It had been a long time since he had been so close to someone like her. He sighed and straightened up.
She laughed lightly. ‘What are you thinking about? It must be something pretty sad to make you sigh so heavily.’
He grinned and took out another cigarette. ‘I was contemplating a misspent life, angel,’ he told her. ‘I seem to be making a habit of it lately. I must be getting old.’
She laughed again. ‘How ridiculous. You aren’t old. You’re still a young man.’
‘I’m
