and then went on, ‘You can come home with me if you like. I’ll bandage that cut for you properly. You’ve plenty of time to spare before the bus goes.’
Marlowe shook his head and moved towards the top step. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’
Her mouth trembled and there was suppressed laughter in her voice as she replied, ‘My father should be home by now. It will be all quite proper.’
An involuntary smile came to Marlowe’s face and he turned towards her. For the first time he realized that she had a slight foreign intonation to her speech and an oddly old-fashioned turn of phrase. Suddenly and for some completely inexplicable reason, he felt completely at home with her. He grinned and took out his cigarettes. ‘You’re not English, are you?’
She smiled back at him, at the same time refusing a cigarette with a slight gesture of one hand. ‘No, Portuguese. How did you know? I rather prided myself on my accent.’
He hastened to reassure her. ‘It isn’t so much your accent. For one thing, you don’t look English.’
Her smile widened. ‘I don’t know how you intended that, but I shall take it as a compliment. My name is Maria Magellan.’
She held out her hand. He hesitated for a moment and then took it in his. ‘Hugh Marlowe.’
‘So! Now we know each other and it is all very respectable,’ she said briskly. ‘Shall we go?’
He paused for only a moment before following her down the steps. As she passed through the gate in front of him he noticed that she was small, with the ripe figure peculiar to southern women and hips that were too large by English standards.
They walked along the pavement, side by side, and he glanced covertly at her. Her face was smoothly rounded with a flawless cream complexion. The eyebrows and the hair that escaped from under the scarf were coal black and her red lips had an extra fullness that suggested sensuality.
She turned her head unexpectedly at one point and caught him looking at her. She smiled. ‘You’re a pretty big man, Mr Marlowe. How tall are you?’
Marlowe shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Around six-three, I think.’
She nodded, her eyes travelling over his massive frame. ‘What kind of work are you looking for?’
He shrugged. ‘Anything I can get, but driving is what I do best.’
There was a gleam of interest in her eyes. ‘What kind of driving?’
‘Any kind,’ he said. ‘Anything on wheels. I’ve driven the lot, from light vans to tank-transporters.’
‘So! You were in the Army?’ she said and her interest seemed to become even more pronounced.
Marlowe flicked his cigarette into the rain-filled gutter. ‘Yes, I think you could say I was in the Army,’ he said and there was a deadness in his voice.
She seemed to sense the change of mood and lapsed into silence. Marlowe walked moodily along beside her trying to think of something to say, but it was not necessary. They turned into a narrow lane and came to a five-barred gate which was standing open. She paused and said, ‘Here we are.’
A gravel drive disappeared into the fog in front of them and Marlowe could make out the dim shape of a house. ‘It looks like a pretty big place,’ he said.
She nodded. ‘It used to be a farmhouse. Now there’s just a few acres of land. We run it as a market garden and fruit farm.’
He looked up into the rain. ‘This kind of weather won’t be doing you much good.’
She laughed. ‘We haven’t done too badly. We got nearly all the apples in last week and most of our other produce is under glass.’
A gust of wind lifted across the farmyard, rolling the fog in front of it, and exposed the house. It was an old, grey stone building, firmly rooted into the ground and weathered by the years. On one side of the yard there were several outbuildings and on the other, a large, red-roofed barn.
The front door was protected by an old-fashioned glass porch and outside it a small yellow van was parked. inter-allied trading corporation – barford, was printed on its side in neat black letters. Maria Magellan paused abruptly and there was something like fear on her face. She darted forward and entered the house.
Marlowe followed more slowly. He ducked slightly under the low lintel of the door and found himself in a wide, stone-flagged hall. The girl was standing outside a door on the left through which angry voices could be heard. She flung the door open and entered the room and Marlowe waited in the hall, hands thrust deep into his pockets, and watched.
Inside the room two men faced each other across a table. One of them was old with grizzled hair and a white moustache that stood out clearly against swarthy skin that was the colour of tanned leather.
The other was a much younger man, powerfully built with good shoulders. His face was twisted menacingly as he said, ‘Listen you old fool. Either you come in with us or you go out of business. That’s Mr O’Connor’s last word.’
The old man’s eyes darted fire and he slammed a hand hard against the table. His English was good but with a heavy accent and his voice was trembling with rage. ‘Listen, Kennedy. You tell O’Connor this from me. Before he puts me out of business I put a knife into him. On my life I promise it.’
Kennedy laughed contemptuously. ‘You bloody old fool,’ he said. ‘Mr O’Connor can stamp you into the dirt any time he wants. You’re small stuff, Magellan.’
The old man gave a roar of anger and moved fast around the table. He swung hard with his right fist, but the years were against him. Kennedy blocked the punch with ease. He grabbed the old man by the shirt and started to beat him across the face with the flat of his hand. The girl screamed and ran forward, tearing at Kennedy with her fingers. He pushed her away with such force that she staggered across the room and lost her balance.
A cold rage flared in Marlowe and he moved forward into the room. Kennedy raised his hand to strike the old man again and Marlowe grabbed him by the shoulder and swung him round so that they faced each other. ‘How about trying me?’ he said. ‘I’m a bit nearer your size.’
Kennedy opened his mouth to speak and Marlowe smashed a fist into it. The tremendous force of the blow hurled Kennedy across the table. He gave a terrible groan and pulled himself up from the floor. Marlowe moved quickly around the table and grabbed him by the front of his jacket. ‘You bastard!’ he said. ‘You dirty, lousy bastard.’
And then a mist came before his eyes and it wasn’t Kennedy’s face that he saw before him. It was another face. One that he hated with all his being and he began to beat Kennedy methodically, backwards and forwards across the face, with his right hand.
The girl screamed again, high and clear, ‘No, Marlowe! No – you’ll kill him!’
She was tugging at his arm, pleading frantically with him, and Marlowe stopped. He stood for a moment staring stupidly at Kennedy, fist raised, and then he gently pushed him back against the table.
He was trembling slightly and there was still that slight haze before his eyes, almost as if some of the fog had got into the room. He clenched his fists to try and steady the
