Jack Higgins - The Thousand Faces of Night

When he came to the station he paused and examined the railway map that hung on the wall in a glass case. He had little difficulty in finding Litton. It was on the main line, about eighty miles from Birmingham. The nearest place of any size was a town called Barford, twelve or fifteen miles away.

The hands of the clock above the station entrance pointed to three and he frowned and started down the hill towards the village, dimly seen through the fog. He had obviously slept on the train for longer than he had imagined.

The main street seemed to be deserted and the fog was much thicker than it had been on the hill. He saw no one as he walked along the wet pavement. When he paused for a moment outside a draper’s shop his reflection stared out at him from a mirror in the back of the window. With his cap pulled down over his eyes and his great shoulders straining out of the sodden raincoat, he presented a formidable and menacing figure.

He lifted his left hand to wipe away the rain from his face and cursed softly. Blood was trickling down his arm, soaking the sleeve of his raincoat. He thrust his hand deep into his pocket and hurried on. He had to find somewhere quiet where he could fix that slash before he ran into anyone.

The street seemed to be endless. He had been walking for a good ten minutes before he came to a low stone wall topped by spiked railings. A little farther along there was an open iron gate and a sign which read Church of the Immaculate Heart, with the times of Mass and Confession in faded gold letters beneath it.

He walked along the flagged path and mounted the four or five steps that led to the porch. For a moment he hesitated and then he pulled off his cap and went inside.

It was warm in there and very quiet. For a little while he stood listening intently and then he slumped down in a pew at the back of the church. He looked down towards the winking candles and the altar and suddenly it seemed to grow darker and he leaned forward and rested his head against a stone pillar. He was more tired than he had been in a long time.

After a while he felt better and stood up to remove his raincoat and jacket. The handkerchief had slipped down his arm exposing the wound and blood oozed sluggishly through the torn sleeve of his shirt. As he started to fumble with the knotted handkerchief there was a slight movement at his side. A voice said quietly, ‘Are you all right? Can I help you?’

He swung round with a stifled exclamation. A young woman was standing beside him. She was wearing a man’s raincoat that was too big for her and a scarf covered her head. ‘How the hell did you get there?’ Marlowe demanded.

She smiled slightly and sat down beside him. ‘I was sitting in the corner. You didn’t notice me.’

‘I didn’t think anyone would be in church in the middle of the afternoon,’ he said. ‘I came in out of the rain to fix my arm. The bandage has slipped.’

She lifted his arm and said calmly, ‘That looks pretty nasty. You need a doctor.’

He jerked away from her and started to untie the handkerchief with his right hand. ‘It’s only a bad cut,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t even need stitching.’

She reached over and gently unfastened the knot. She folded the handkerchief into a strip and bound it tightly about the wound. As she tied it she said, ‘This won’t last for long. You need a proper bandage.’

‘It’ll be all right,’ Marlowe said. He stood up and pulled on his coat. He wanted to get away before she started asking too many questions.

As he belted his raincoat she said, ‘How did you do it?’

He shrugged. ‘I’ve been hitch-hiking from London. Going to Birmingham to look for work. I ripped myself open on a steel spike when I was climbing down from a lorry.’

He started to walk away and she followed at his heels. At the door, she kneeled and crossed herself and then she followed him out into the porch.

‘Well, I’d better be off,’ Marlowe said.

She looked out into the driving rain and the fog and said, with a slight smile, ‘You won’t stand much chance of a lift in this.’

He nodded and said smoothly, ‘If I can’t, I’ll catch a bus to Barford. I’ll be all right.’

‘But there isn’t a bus until five,’ she said. ‘It’s a limited service on this road.’ She appeared to hesitate 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.’