THE THISTLE’S RETURN to Sousse lacked both the stealth and the deception of her departure eight days earlier, and as she crept cautiously towards the same jetty in the sweltering afternoon sunlight it seemed to the weary seamen on her upper deck as if the whole town had turned out to watch.
Crespin stood at the port wing and watched as the mooring lines sagged, tautened and then took the strain and cradled the ship against the jetty wall.
‘Ring off main engine.’ His voice sounded heavy with fatigue, and as he ran his eye around the bridge and forecastle he found himself marvelling at this safe return. There were splinter and bullet holes wherever he looked, and below on the main messdeck the sides of the hull were so punctured there was as much sunlight through them as came through the scuttles. And yet they had made it. In spite of bad weather and the holes along her waterline which at times had almost gained on the desperate efforts of the pumps, they had returned to base as ordered.
On the morning after the raid the bombers had found them. Three Ju. 88s in tight formation had swept out of the clouds, dodging between shell-bursts and tracer, intent only on the Thistle’s destruction. For thirty minutes the battle had raged without pause, the guns glowing hot as the seamen poured burst after burst into their attackers. But the corvette made a small target and the visibility was poor. But for these points, and the fact that the enemy needed every available aircraft elsewhere above the invasion beaches, the ship would have died there and then. There had been two very near misses, the last shaking the hull so badly that several plates had started and two stokers of the damage control party had been cut to pieces by flying splinters. One of the bombers had been hit, too, and had been last seen heading for land with a greasy trail of smoke to lessen the chance of her ever getting there. The others had followed. They had dropped their bombs and had had enough.
Surprisingly, there were no more attacks, nor did they see another aircraft until almost within sight of a friendly coast. And then it had been a Catalina, its lamp flashing a welcome and the wings almost brushing the masthead as it dived down to get a better look at the lonely victor.
Crespin sighed and pushed himself bodily from the rail. He could see the bearded engineer, Moriarty, and a large party of men already hurrying to the brow, while along the jetty a line of khaki ambulances waited patiently to clear the ship of her dead and wounded.
And the people. It did not look like the same place. They must have been in hiding before, he thought dully, for now the sea road and the town beyond were thronged as if for a public holiday. Shops and cafés were open again, and even the old scars of battle could not hide the fact that Sousse was returning to life.
Then he saw Scarlett. He was pushing through the cordon of soldiers, waving a greeting here, pausing by a man on a stretcher there to murmur a few words and flash his famous smile before striking on towards the brow.
Wemyss saluted. ‘Ship secured, sir.’ He was swaying on his feet. Worn out like the rest of them.
Crespin said, ‘Very well. Go and see Moriarty and give him all the help you can. Thank God the hull’s all right. I don’t imagine the resources around here are exactly up to Portsmouth.’ As Wemyss turned to go he added quietly, ‘And thanks, Number One.’
Wemyss looked at him, caught off guard. ‘Sir?’
‘You did damn well. You all did.’
Wemyss’ lined features creased into a smile. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He looked at the squat funnel, which like so much of the ship was etched with bright-rimmed holes through which little trails of escaping smoke moved unhurriedly skyward. ‘She did pretty good, too, I thought.’ There was genuine affection in his tone.
Crespin heard Scarlett’s resonant voice below the bridge. ‘All right, are you, my boy? Good show! Damn good show!’
He said, ‘And make sure the last of the wounded get away, will you? I imagine I’ll be tied up for a bit.’
Wemyss nodded and stepped aside as Scarlett heaved himself on to the bridge.
Crespin said, ‘Mission completed, sir.’ He should have been on the gangway to greet Scarlett, but his mind refused to care. He was half-asleep on his feet and his eyelids felt as if they were gummed together.
Scarlett returned his salute and gave a huge grin. ‘Bloody good show, Crespin!’ He waved at Wemyss who was trying to slip quietly away. ‘Glad you made it, Number One!’ Then to Crespin he added, ‘What’s the bill?’
Crespin studied him calmly. ‘The ship lost five killed and ten wounded. The marines have brought back thirty of their wounded.’ He paused, seeing Scarlett nodding with concern or polite interest. ‘They also left seventy-five killed and missing behind.’
Scarlett rubbed his hands. ‘Better than I’d dared to hope. Pity about Cameron, of course, but it’s all part of the game.’
Crespin looked past him. Part of the game. It was no game. ‘There’s a good deal of damage to the ship. Mostly splinter holes, although we did get a direct hit from a tank gun on the port side.’
Scarlett nodded. ‘So I saw, Crespin. So I saw indeed.’ He was suddenly serious. ‘I’ve already formed what I intend to say in my report, and I’m having an official photographer come down to get some pictures of the ship.’ He saw the astonishment on Crespin’s face and added brightly, ‘No time for being coy or hiding the old light, what? It always helps to push a bit in this game, you know. Then when you make a real boob you’ve got something for you in the balance.’ He laughed loudly and waved to some marines who were marching down the brow, their steps dragging, their eyes glazed with strain.
Crespin said, ‘I take it then that you’re satisfied, sir?’
‘Satisfied? I certainly am!’ Scarlett rested his hand on Crespin’s shoulder. ‘I know how you must feel, how we all feel about seeing good men die. But look at it this way. If every single man had been killed and the ship sunk it would have been worthwhile. You have to weigh up the odds. Learn to use a force small enough to tie down a far greater number of the enemy. And small enough to be no crippling loss if the balance goes against it.’ He patted his shoulder. ‘But I’m being morbid. This is your day, and I’m pleased.’
He looked over the screen and continued briskly, ‘Mostly superficial damage, by the look of it. Moriarty can fix it, or I’ll know the reason why! We have to learn to improvise in this unit. Improvise and make do. If you think Sousse is crude, then just you wait until we really get going!’ He tapped the side of his hooked nose. ‘But that’d be telling, eh?’
Crespin let the words wash over him like spray. It seemed as if Scarlett would never stop, never go away.
Scarlett said, ‘I shall be leaving for Malta tomorrow. With the Sicily invasion going so well we can’t stand still, you know. Plans to make, possibilities to explore and all that sort of thing.’
‘And my orders, sir?’
Scarlett seemed to consider the question. ‘Get your ship repaired and restocked with everything you need. You’ll not get a dockyard refit here so don’t try and make a big thing of it. Patch up and splash on some fresh paint and she’ll be as good as new.’ He laughed. ‘But I don’t have to teach you these tricks, do I?’
Crespin did not answer directly. He was thinking of the blazing tanks, the seaman being dragged by his leg along the pier and Porteous with the dead girl. So many vivid pictures. Then he said, ‘A month at the least, I should think.’
‘What? You’re playing games with me again, Crespin, because I’m a rotten old amateur, eh?’ Scarlett’s face seemed to be swimming in a mist. ‘No, I’m afraid I can’t have that, old chap. Three weeks at the most. I’ve already told Moriarty what I want, so don’t try and get round him, there’s a good chap!’
‘She’s not built for this sort of thing, sir. For that reason she needs extra care, otherwise something will go just when we need her most.’
Scarlett studied him sadly. ‘There you go again. You must try to remember that your command is not a way of life, it’s steel and guns, a weapon! And you must ensure that is how it stays.’ He consulted his watch. ‘Must be off now. Lot to do.’ He grinned. ‘Almost forgot. I’m recommending you for a bar to your D.S.G. I’ll make out a list for you to sign of other possible decorations for your chaps. Oh, and that Sub of yours, Shannon, I’m suggesting that his second stripe is brought forward. It all helps to keep ’em happy, you know!’ He swung round on the ladder and ran quickly to the deck.
Crespin gave him a few minutes and then walked slowly towards the ladder. He had hardly left the bridge for eight days and his legs felt unwilling to make the effort.
As he reached the deck he saw the hands already at work dragging the shore power lines inboard, along with all the clutter of welding gear and nameless pieces of steel plate. They looked dirty and unshaven, but worked as a team in a way he had not seen before. As he passed amongst them some looked up and grinned self-consciously, others merely stared at him with a mixture of awe and pride. The fear and the uncertainty were behind them, the future too remote to contemplate. They were safe in harbour, and every other sailor and bloody civvie in the port had come to see them. It was as simple as that. And to most of them, who had expected to be killed or taken prisoner, Crespin represented far more than the commanding officer of their battered little ship. He was the ship, her strength and her cunning rolled into one.
Crespin realized none of those things, but in spite of his troubled thoughts he was deeply moved by what he saw.
He climbed down another ladder and saw Barker, the steward, clearing the mess of soiled bandages and dressings from the wardroom, with every scuttle open to drive away the stench and pain of death. In his own small cabin he could not completely escape. There were two splinter-holes above his desk and blood on the carpet where a wounded stoker had been laid to die.
There was a tap on the door even as he rested his head on his hands. ‘Well?’ He could hardly get the word out.
It was Shannon. ‘There’s an officer of the Military Police here, sir. He’s had a telephone call from Captain Scarlett.’
Crespin forced his brain back to work. It did not make any sense. ‘Phone call? But he was with me a few minutes ago.’
Shannon stared at him. ‘Nearly half an hour, sir.’
Crespin looked away. Half an hour. He must have been asleep on this chair without knowing it. ‘What does he want?’
‘It seems that our deserter, Able Seaman Trotter, is holed up in some house on the other side of town, sir.’ Shannon seemed irritated. ‘I told the Provost officer that he should have dealt with it, but it seems that Captain Scarlett thought you’d want to handle the matter.’
Crespin groped for his cap. Scarlett obviously considered that an arrest effected by the military might cast blight on the Thistle’s impressive return.
‘All right, I’ll come up.’ He saw Shannon’s eyes exploring the cabin and added, ‘By the way, you’re being promoted. It’s not official, but you can take it for granted.’
Shannon was visibly shaken. ‘Thank you, sir. I—I mean, thank you very much!’
Crespin eyed him emptily. That was odd. Shannon’s voice had taken on a distinct northern accent. It was strange he had not noticed it before.
He could not bring himself to like Shannon very much, but he had certainly shown himself capable of keeping his head in action.
He said, ‘Well, let’s get it over with.’
The M.P. lieutenant had small, gimlet eyes and an aggressive black moustache. He carried a leather cane under one arm, and threw up a salute which would have done credit to the Guards.
Crespin wondered what sort of a picture he made by comparison. Red-eyed, in a sweat-stained shirt with a face still stiff from salt-spray and smoke.
He said, ‘Are you sure it’s our deserter?’
The M.P. replied primly, ‘No, sir. But Captain Scarlett has been informed that it is. And acting on information received I have placed two of my men in a position near the house to await instructions.’ He even sounded like a policeman.
He moved his boots noisily. ‘I have a jeep on the jetty, sir.’
Crespin saw Porteous hovering by one of the working parties and beckoned him across. ‘We’re going for the deserter, Sub. He is in your division, I believe?’
Porteous nodded vacantly. ‘Yes, sir.’
When they reached the gangway Wemyss said quickly, ‘Would you like me to detail a proper escort, sir!’ He shifted under Crespin’s gaze. ‘You could do with some rest.’
He was really implying it was odd to say the least for a captain to go looking for a mere deserter.
Crespin replied calmly, ‘I’m just going for the ride, Number One. I’ve one or two items on my mind and this might help to clear them.’
He climbed on to the brow, and as the pipes twittered in salute he turned and looked along the exposed side of his ship. She had certainly been lucky. The wounds were bad, but by some miracle nothing vital had been touched. He thought of Scarlett’s description. A weapon. Not a way of life. It was strange how deeply he could still feel those words. As if he had been insulted personally.
By the jeep the M.P. stopped to check his revolver, and Crespin said coldly, ‘You won’t need that, Lieutenant!’
‘You can’t be too sure with these chaps, sir.’ The M.P. was frowning severely.
‘In this war you can’t be sure of any bloody thing.’ Crespin climbed into the jeep and lapsed into silence.
Scarlett had said he was going to Malta. So the girl would be leaving, too. It would be interesting to see if she remembered her invitation.
With a jerk the jeep bounded forward, and both ship and jetty were swallowed immediately in a pall of churned dust.
It did not take very long to reach the house where the deserter was said to be in hiding. It was one of a terrace of tall, dingy buildings with flaking plaster and an air of general decay. Some of the windows had iron balconies which were linked to similar structures on the opposite side of the narrow street by lines full of sad-looking washing, carpets and clothes for which there was presumably no room to spare in this rabbit warren of rooms and apartments. Another police jeep was parked at an intersection, and a tall M.P. snapped to attention and saluted as they approached.
‘I’ve sent Thompson round the back, sir.’ He gestured towards a deeply shadowed doorway. ‘This is the only other way out.’ He glanced curiously at the two naval officers. ‘I gather from the old ratbag who runs this joint that the sailor is on the top floor. There’s a brothel on the next landing, and some of the girls have been keeping him supplied with food and that.’ He grinned. ‘Other things as well, I shouldn’t wonder.’
The M.P. lieutenant plucked his moustache impatiently. ‘We’d better go on up. We don’t want a crowd gathering around us.’
Crespin looked up and down the narrow street. Apart from a dozing beggar in a doorway and two scavenging dogs it was deserted. The teeming occupants were either down at the harbour watching the Thistle or still enjoying their siesta, he thought. The whole place stank of dirt and urine, and he found himself wondering what would make a man exchange the clean, ordered world of a ship for this. It was no solution, no matter what trouble he had got into, and he would certainly end up in detention barracks or the local jail.
He followed the two M.P.s inside and started up the great sagging stairway with Porteous close on his heels. Each landing was more seedy than the one before, and only when they passed a door which had been recently painted and bore the words ‘Off Limits to Allied Personnel’ did he hear any sign of life. What must have been a very old gramophone was playing ‘I left my heart in an English garden’, and they could hear some girls giggling and what sounded like someone having a bath.
The M.P. officer grunted, ‘Always chasing our chaps out of here. I’ll bloody well close it if they don’t toe the line.’
On the top landing there were only two doors, and the M.P. lieutenant pointed with his cane. ‘That must be the one. There’s a Greek in the other room.’
Crespin looked at him. He obviously came here quite a lot. Maybe that was why he kept the brothel off limits. So that he could have its dubious pleasures all to himself.
He lifted his cane and rapped smartly on the door. There was no sound in reply, and on the landing below the giggling and the scraping music suddenly fell silent.
The M.P. scowled. ‘So we’re being awkward, are we?’ He rattled the handle adding, ‘Locked, too!’
The corporal put his ear to the door and then yelled, ‘This is the Military Police! Open the door or we’ll bust it down!’ Nothing happened and he added unnecessarily, ‘He’s not going to answer, sir.’
Crespin stood back watching the two policemen with sudden dislike. He should not have come. The preparations for breaking into Trotter’s squalid world were both humiliating and embarrassing.
The corporal stood back and then thrust his shoulder hard against the door. It flew inwards with a splintering crash, and the M.P. lieutenant was inside the room, his pistol in his hand before Crespin could make a move to follow.
But it was in pitch darkness with just a few bright horizontal slits of sunlight from a shuttered window on the far side. There was no sound of movement and only the monotonous buzzing of flies broke the silence around them.
The lieutenant said wearily, ‘The bastard must have gone over the roof. Open that window, Corporal, before I spew up!’
Feet shuffled on the landing, and Crespin could sense the other inmates of the building creeping up the stairway to see what was happening.
But Trotter had not gone over the roof after all. As the shutters banged open and a shaft of dusty sunlight cut across the littered room Crespin saw him sitting slumped sideways against a table, one hand resting on some crumpled papers, the other holding a long-barrelled Italian automatic.
Porteous said quietly, ‘Oh Christ! He’s blown half his head away!’ He retched and then thrust a handkerchief against his mouth.
Crespin made himself walk across to the rigid figure in the chair. Trotter’s eyes were almost shut, the features contorted, frozen at the moment of impact. But in the filtered sunlight Crespin could see the narrow slits of reflected glare, so that it looked as if Trotter might be still alive and would suddenly open them wide and condemn their intrusion. But the right side of his head had almost gone, and Crespin had to swallow hard to restrain the nausea as he stared at the flies which covered the blood and shattered bone in a murmuring, eager mass.
The lieutenant said, ‘Go down and phone for the meat waggon, Corporal.’ He pushed Trotter’s other hand aside with his revolver and held the paper up to the light.
To Crespin he said, ‘It’s easy for them to get hold of these guns, sir. The whole place is full of junk left behind by the enemy.’ His eyes hardened. ‘This is interesting. He started to make a confession.’ He moved closer to the window, his eyes moving busily back and forth over the large scrawling handwriting. ‘He says that he has not been able to sleep or eat because of what he done.’ His lip curled with amusement. ‘Not much of a writer, was he?’
Crespin snapped, ‘Just read the letter! The grammar lesson can wait!’
The lieutenant flushed and continued reading in a strained tone. ‘He says that it was murder. There was no other word for it. That he knows nothing can make it right, but that he had to get it off his mind.’ He turned over the paper. ‘Damn, that’s all he’s written!’
Crespin took it from his hand and stared at it. So it had been Trotter who had killed that German. To Porteous he said wearily, ‘Is it his handwriting?’ He just wanted to get away from this place.
Porteous nodded.
The M.P. lieutenant had recovered his dignity by now. ‘Can you be sure, I mean, if there’s no actual signature?’
Porteous said flatly, ‘I’m sure. He was in my division. He came to me once to ask how to write an allotment form for his mother. I noticed his handwriting then.’
The M.P. eyed him bleakly. ‘You’re something of an expert, are you?’
Porteous looked at him, his eyes suddenly angry. ‘I was a barrister, Lieutenant. I’m used to this sort of thing.’ He paused. ‘And policemen!’
The M.P. snatched the letter and folded it inside his wallet. ‘That wraps it up then. Nothing more we can do here. I’ll go and see if the ambulance is here yet.’ He strode out of the room and could be heard snapping at the silent people on the stairs.
Crespin said quietly, ‘Little bastard!’
Porteous clutched his arm. ‘Look, sir, I don’t know how to say this.’ He swallowed hard, and in the shaft of sunlight his plump features were wet with sweat. He persisted, ‘I remember Trotter’s handwriting for another reason.’
Crespin faced him. ‘Go on.’
‘He was left-handed, sir.’ Some of his confidence faded under Crespin’s level stare. ‘You can check with Petty Officer Dunbar, sir. He’ll be able to confirm …’
Crespin walked back to the corpse. ‘Left-handed, you say?’
Porteous would not go any closer. ‘Yes.’
‘This is a heavy automatic, Sub. Yet he’s holding it perfectly in his right hand.’
Their eyes met across the dead man’s bowed head. Then Porteous replied quietly, ‘Exactly, sir.’ He glanced towards the door. ‘Shall I fetch the lieutenant back?’ He looked wretched.
‘No. It can’t help Trotter now. And neither can we solve anything by warning whoever it was who killed him.’ He saw the uncertainty on Porteous’s face. ‘He’s got a mother, remember? To die away from home is bad enough. To be murdered is another thing entirely.’
Porteous nodded. ‘I see, sir.’
They walked from the room, closing the door behind them.
At the main entrance they found an ambulance and several M.P.s writing busily in their notebooks.
The lieutenant said, ‘I’ll want a brief report from you, sir. All the usual stuff. But it’s just a straightforward case. I expect you’re well rid of him.’
The corporal said, ‘Can I drive you back to your ship, sir?’
Crespin shook his head. ‘Take Sub-Lieutenant Porteous. I’m going to walk for a bit.’ He saw the corporal and Porteous exchange an uneasy glance.
Porteous said awkwardly, ‘Is there anything I can do, sir?’
He shook his head. ‘I’ll be all right, Sub. Number One can cope well enough without me.’
Porteous saluted and climbed into the jeep. As it roared away he was still staring back, his face filled with concern.
Crespin pushed through a small group of chattering onlookers and strode quickly away from the building. Porteous’s legal mind was probably worried by what he had just seen and by the way Crespin had made him withhold what he saw from the proper authority. As he strode down the street Crespin was even surprised at himself. But his mind was too tired to cope, even though he repeatedly told himself that the pattern was clear to see, if only he could concentrate.
If Trotter had been murdered, why was it necessary for his killer to make it look like suicide? Murders were probably two a penny here, and one more would hardly matter. Trotter had been writing what amounted to a confession, and his killer had not bothered to destroy it before shooting him at point-blank range. He halted in his tracks, suddenly cold. Unless there had been another sheet of paper which he had destroyed? It must have been like that. A few more lines to betray another man, someone who had helped him to kill the German and throw him overboard. The man who had pulled the trigger.
Crespin strode on. That was ridiculous. No one else was ashore but himself and Porteous. There had to be another solution, if only he could work it out.
He eventually stopped in a small square, completely spent. He realized that the sun had moved right over the town and the square was almost in complete shadow. He must have been walking for an hour, yet he had hardly noticed it. Like a man in a dream, tied to his innermost thoughts.
He stared at a small, white-painted hotel which faced him across the square. A German eagle and swastika had been crudely daubed out above the door and a new sign stated it was for ‘Officers Only’. Without consulting his notebook he knew why his feet had brought him here instead of back to the ship. He walked through the street door and saw a small soldier sitting behind a desk reading a tattered copy of London Opinion.
The soldier regarded him suspiciously. ‘Sir?’
Crespin looked at himself in a large gilt mirror. He was suddenly near to panic. He must return to the ship. But there was no time. In a few more hours … He looked at the soldier and said sharply, ‘Third Officer Forbes. Which is her room?’
The man ran his eyes once more over Crespin’s stained clothes. Then he replied, ‘First floor, sir. Second room on your left.’
As Crespin crossed to the stairs he picked up a brass telephone and cranked the handle. Bloody officers, he thought. If I came in here like that I’d be on a bleeding charge.
A voice said ‘Hello?’
She had a nice voice, so he could make an exception in her case. He said, ‘There’s a naval gentleman comin’ up, miss. Is that all right?’ He waited, listening to her breathing in his ear.
‘A captain, is it?’
‘Nah. Two an’ a half striper, miss.’ This time there was a definite intake of breath. Most satisfactory. He replaced the telephone and sat down again. After a moment he leafed through London Opinion until he found the full-length picture of a nude. It was quite easy to picture the girl upstairs like that. He recalled Crespin’s dishevelled appearance and chuckled aloud. She’d soon send him packing. Untidy sod.
Crespin did not have time to press the bell before the door was pulled open and he saw her staring at him with a mixture of disbelief and surprise. She was dressed in khaki shirt and slacks and he noticed that her feet were bare and very small.
He said clumsily, ‘I’ve come at the wrong moment by the look of it.’
Then she smiled and brushed a loose strand of hair from her eyes, the gesture so familiar in Crespin’s memory, and said, ‘I was packing. But do come inside. You look all in.’
Crespin found himself in a deep chair and watched her as she closed two suitcases and thrust them towards the door.
He said, ‘Malta this time, isn’t it?’
She nodded. ‘But don’t talk about that. Tell me about you. I was so happy when I saw the ship coming in. I watched you through the glasses. I felt I could almost touch you.’
‘You were there?’ Crespin studied her against the open window. ‘I—I didn’t know.’
‘Of course I was there.’ She stood with her hands on her hips watching him gravely. ‘Did you think I’d miss it? I’ve thought about you a lot since you left. I’ve been keeping my fingers crossed all the time.’
She busied herself at the sideboard. ‘I’m getting you a very large drink. I’ve only got gin, so don’t grumble about it.’ When she turned towards him he saw that her eyes were shining. Just as they had been aboard the Thistle.
‘That will be perfect,’ he said. He meant it.
‘Actually I’ve been packing early.’ She sat opposite him, her knees drawn up to her chin. ‘I thought it might just be possible someone would want to take me to dinner, or something?’ She put her head on one side, her mouth lifting in a smile.
‘I’d like that very much.’
She stood up lightly and crossed to his chair. ‘You really have had a bad time, haven’t you? When did you last eat or sleep?’
Crespin said vaguely, ‘I forget.’ He tried to push the dragging weariness aside. ‘It’s not just that. I’ve just been to a house. To fetch a deserter.’
She nodded slowly. ‘I heard that you were being told about him.’
He shook his head. ‘I thought I’d met him before somewhere. I suppose if I hadn’t been so clapped out I’d have sent someone else. In any case I was too late. He was dead. He’d blown his head off.’ His tone was unnecessarily brutal, and he knew it was to cover a lie.
‘I see. I’m sorry.’ She poured another drink into his glass. ‘I know I should care more than that.’ She shrugged. ‘But I am so glad you’re safe that I can’t think very clearly myself.’
He reached out and took her hand. He did not remember actually doing it. It just seemed to happen. She made as if to pull it away but changed her mind, standing very close, so that he could feel the warmth of her body.
He said, ‘I’ve missed you very much, as it happens.’ He half expected her to laugh it off, or change the subject for all time.
For a moment she said nothing. Then she replied quietly, ‘You’re in no shape to take me out to dinner, are you?’ She did not allow him to protest. ‘If you like we can have something here. There’s a bath adjoining this room, so why not take advantage of it?’ She smiled. ‘You’ll find a razor in there, too. I use it for my legs, but beggars can’t be choosers!’
He squeezed her fingers. ‘I’d like that very much. If you’re sure?’
‘I’m quite sure. I wasn’t until I saw you again. But I am now.’
He stood up still holding on to her hand. ‘When you go to Malta …’
But she put her other hand across his mouth. ‘That’s tomorrow. This is now.’
The next instant she was in his arms and he was pulling her against him, feeling her mouth against his, the desperate longing flooding through him like fire.
Then she pushed him gently away. ‘Go and have that bath. That’s an order, sir!’ But this time she could not look at him. ‘When you’re a bit more presentable I’ll ring down for some food, maybe even a bottle of wine.’
He could see her breasts rising and falling under the shirt, could almost feel the tension in the room like a living force.
He tried to smile. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
But they did not eat, nor did she ring for any wine.
When he left the bathroom the room was deep in shadows, and although the windows were wide open there was not a breath of wind to break the stillness.
She was lying on the bed, the silk cover pulled tight against her chin, her eyes watching him without expression. In the half-light she looked like a child, he thought. He sat on the edge of the bed and touched her hair. It was no longer restricted but lay loose across the pillow and felt very thick and soft.
Her voice was husky and less controlled. ‘I have to go to Malta tomorrow …’
He touched her mouth very gently. ‘You said we were not to talk about tomorrow.’
‘There’s so little time. I just wanted you to know …’ She reached out and gripped his shoulder. ‘You do understand?’
He felt her fingers digging into his shoulders as if she was in pain as he pulled the cover from beneath her chin and threw it on to the floor.
Against the sheet her body was very tanned, except for her breasts which protected from the sun looked very white beneath his fingers.
She closed her eyes and gave a small cry. ‘I don’t want it to end!’
Then he was down and felt her mouth pressing into his, her tongue like a trapped animal. She reached round his shoulders, her nails biting into his flesh, pulling him down and down as her body arched to encircle and hold him.
When it was over he lay for a long time with his face in her hair, feeling her mouth moving against his throat in small, soundless words. Then he slipped on to his side, and as she cradled his face between her breasts he fell into a deep sleep. For once there was no dream to reawake the old memories. Just darkness, and an overwhelming sense of fulfilment.
As the window changed to a rectangle of bright stars the girl stayed very still, holding him to her, watching him as he slept until she, too, could watch no more.