you.’
‘Nobody’s having to support me,’ he said. ‘I’m making a living.’
‘Only just.’ There was an edge of anger in her voice. ‘What kind of a life is this for a man like you? You started in Havana with nothing. Why can’t you start again?’
‘Maybe I’m tired,’ he said. ‘I’m fifteen years older, remember. I’ve just been talking to Viner. He wants me to start running refugees into Florida. A quick passage by night and no questions asked.’
She leaned forward in alarm. ‘You didn’t accept?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘I’ve still got that much sense left.’ He took the envelope from his shirt pocket and dropped it onto her lap. ‘A letter from your mother.’
She got to her feet with a slight exclamation and hurried into the bedroom. He watched her feverishly tear open the envelope in the light of the lamp and turned away, leaning on the rail.
After a while she came back outside and stood beside him. ‘How was Sanchez?’
‘Seemed pretty fit to me.’
‘Did he say anything?’
He looked down, trying to gauge the expression in her eyes, but her face was in shadow. ‘Only that two of your people were murdered in Honduras last week. He told me to tell you to watch out. That Castro has a long arm.’
‘Then he should take care,’ she said simply. ‘He might lose his hand.’
Manning frowned. ‘Are you mixed up in anything, Maria? Anything I should know about?’
She smiled. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, Harry. Nothing at all.’
Manning turned and leaned against the rail again and she stood beside him so that his shoulder touched hers lightly each time she stirred. The wind was freshening off the water and a light mist rolled across the harbour. He felt at peace and restless, happy and discontented, all at the same time. It had been a bad day and the past came to easily to mind. He sighed and straightened.
She looked up, her face a white blur in the darkness. ‘What are you thinking about?’
‘Life!’ he said. ‘How you can never be sure about anything. Not really.’
She moved close, her hands gripping his lapels tightly, and he held her in his arms. Out beyond the point, the sea was beginning to lift into whitecaps.
‘Storm before morning,’ he said.
She looked out to sea and shivered. ‘Let’s go inside, Harry. My next show’s at eleven. That’s three hours away.’
She gently pulled herself free and went in. For a moment, he stayed there, looking out to sea and then a small wind moaned eerily as it slid over the rooftop, filling him with a vague, irrational unease. He turned quickly and followed her.
He lay there, caught between the shadowy lines of sleep and waking for quite some time, aware that the wind had strengthened and somewhere far out to sea a single clap of thunder echoed hollowly.
After a while, he stretched out a hand and realized that he was alone. He threw back the bedclothes and reached for his watch. It was just after eleven. For a moment, he sat there frowning and then remembered that it was Friday and she had a late show. She’d obviously decided not to waken him.
He got to his feet, padded across the bathroom and turned on the shower. The cold stinging lances of water invigorated him and by the time he was dressed his body was glowing and alive.
It was eleven-thirty when he went downstairs and the wind was rattling the shutters of the windows along the terrace. There were still a few people in the casino, but the bar was strangely deserted.
Morrison was sitting on a high stool, drinking a gin sling and leafing through an old yachting magazine. He looked up and smiled. ‘Hello there. How about a drink?’
Manning looked down at the deserted dance floor with a frown. ‘What’s happening around here? When did the show finish?’
‘There wasn’t a late show tonight,’ Morrison said and a sudden gust of wind rattled the front of the building. ‘Looks like we’re in for a blow.’
As Manning started to turn, that vague, irrational unease moving inside him again, Viner came in from the casino carrying a cash box. As he started to go behind the bar, Manning caught him by the arm.
‘What the hell’s going on here? Maria told me she had another show at eleven. Where is she?’
Viner put the cash box down on the bar and sighed heavily. ‘Maybe you’d better have a drink, Harry.’
Before Manning could reply, a cry sounded outside and the front door burst open, a gust of wind sending it crashing back against the wall.
The man who staggered in had been running hard and his oilskin coat streamed water. He grabbed for the edge of the bar and leaned against it, moaning softly.
He was an old deep-sea fisherman called Saunders who ran a charter boat during the season. Viner went behind the bar, poured rum into a glass and pushed it across.
‘Drink that and pull yourself together. What’s happened?’
‘Jimmy Walker’s gone down in the sea in that old plane of his.’ Saunders swallowed some of the rum and coughed. ‘I was about two miles out close by Blackstone Reef. There’s a sea like a millrace running out there.’
‘Never mind that,’ Manning said. ‘What happened?’
‘Search me. There was one hell of a bang. When I looked up, she fell into the water like a stone.’
‘Didn’t you go back to help?’ Morrison demanded.
‘In my old tub? Mister, the way that sea’s running I’d all I could do to get in here in one piece. I figured the best thing to do was to get some help – real help.’
There was a sudden crash as Viner dropped the rum bottle he was holding. He swayed slightly, his face very white, and steadied himself against the bar.
‘For God’s sake, pull yourself together,’ Manning told him. ‘Grab a coat and let’s get out of here.’
‘But you don’t understand, Harry,’ Viner said. ‘Maria was on that plane.’
Manning stood there gazing at him, the coldness flooding through him. At that moment, the heavens opened with a clap of thunder and rain started to rattle against the roof.
It was raining hard as the Grace Abounding left the shelter
