Jack Higgins - The Thousand Faces of Night

Magellan shook his head in bewilderment. ‘Why this?’ he said. ‘I don’t understand?’

Marlowe laughed shortly. ‘It’s the old tactics, Papa. Officially this has nothing to do with O’Connor’s feud with you. It’s just a coincidence that Johnson works for you.’

Maria’s face was white with anger. ‘We must go to the police,’ she said. ‘He can’t get away with this.’

Marlowe shrugged. ‘Why not? If Johnson went to the police what good would it do? It wouldn’t touch O’Connor. Monaghan would be fined a couple of pounds for common assault and that would be that.’

‘I don’t want to go to the police,’ Johnson interrupted, and there was alarm in his voice.

Papa Magellan frowned. ‘Why not, son? You could have the satisfaction of seeing Monaghan in court, at least.’

Johnson got up. All at once he seemed capable of standing without swaying. His voice was a little shrill as he said, ‘I don’t want any more trouble. I don’t want to get mixed up in this any further. I didn’t know it was going to be like this.’ His face was stained with fear, and there was a crack in his voice. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Magellan. You’ve been pretty good to me, but I’ll have to look for another job.’ He stood there, twisting the cap between his hands. ‘I won’t be in tomorrow.’

There was a moment of shocked silence, and Maria turned away, stifling a sob. Magellan reached out blindly for support, his whole body sagging so that he looked on the point of collapse.

Marlowe found himself reaching for the old man, supporting him with his strong arms, easing him down into a chair. ‘Don’t worry, Papa,’ he said. ‘It’s going to be all right. Everything’s going to be fine.’

He straightened up and looked at Johnson. Shame was beginning to replace the look of fear on the other’s face, and then that terrible, uncontrollable anger that he was powerless to control, lifted inside Marlowe. He surged forward and grabbed Johnson by the throat and shook him like a rat. ‘You dirty, yellow little swine,’ he raged. ‘I’ll give you something you really will remember.’

He flung Johnson out into the hall with all his force. The man lost his balance and fell to the floor. As Marlowe advanced towards him he scrambled to his feet gibbering with fear, and then Maria grabbed at Marlowe’s hair, wrenching back his head. She slapped him across the face and screamed, ‘Stop it! Hasn’t there been enough of this for one day?’

As Marlowe raised an arm to brush her away, Papa Magellan ducked through the door, suddenly active, and clutching Johnson by the shoulder pushed him towards the outside door. ‘Go on, get out of here for God’s sake!’ he said. Johnson threw one terrified look over his shoulder and scrambled through the door and out into the fog.

There was quiet except for Marlowe’s heavy breathing. Maria was not crying this time. Her face was flushed and her eyes were flashing. ‘What is wrong with you?’ she demanded fiercely. ‘Do you want to hang some day? Can’t you control yourself? Is your answer to everything violence?’

Marlowe stirred and looked down at her. He swallowed hard and said, ‘When I was a kid my father wanted me to be a doctor. He was a wages clerk, so I had to be a doctor. I didn’t want to be one, but that didn’t make any difference. He beat me all the way through school until one day, when I was seventeen, I discovered I was stronger than he was. I slammed him on the jaw and left home.’

He fumbled for a cigarette with shaking hands and continued. ‘There was a Chinese officer in charge of the prisoners at that coal mine they sent me to in Manchuria. Li, they called him. A little name for a little man. He had a complex about his size, so he didn’t like me because I was big. I used to work in a low level, up to my knees in freezing water, for twelve hours a day. Sometimes if he didn’t think I’d worked hard enough, he used to leave me in there all night when the others were brought up. I still get dreams about that. He used to turn up in the middle of the night and call down the shaft to me, his voice echoing along the passage. Other times he’d have me strung up and he’d beat me with a pick handle.’

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