• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

The boy smiled stiffly out of the photo, proud and self-conscious of the new uniform. It was the sort of picture every recruit has taken during his first few weeks of basic training. 'He looks like a good boy,' Marlowe remarked in a non-committal voice.

Papa Magellan nodded vigorously. 'He was a fine boy. He was going to go to Agricultural College. Always wanted to be a farmer.' The old man sighed heavily. 'He was killed in a patrol action near the Imjin River in 1953.'

Marlowe examined the photo again and wondered if Pedro Magellan had been smiling like that when the bullets smashed into him. But it was no use thinking about that because men in war died in so many different ways. Sometimes quickly, sometimes slowly, but always scared, with fear biting into their faces.

He grunted and handed back the photograph. 'That was a little after my time. I was captured in the early days when the Chinese took a hand.'

Maria looked up quickly. 'How long were you a prisoner?'

'About three years,' Marlowe told her.

The old man whistled softly. 'Holy Mother, that's a long time. You must have had it rough. I hear those Chinese camps were pretty tough.'

Marlowe shrugged. 'I wouldn't know. I wasn't in a camp. They put me to work in a coal mine in Manchuria.'

Magellan's eyes narrowed and all humour left his face. 'I've heard a little about those places also.' There was a short silence and then he grinned and clapped Marlowe on the shoulder. 'Still, all this is in the past. Maybe it's a good thing for a man, like going through fire. A sort of purification.'

Marlowe laughed harshly. 'That sort of purification I can do without.'

As Maria pressed plaster over the loose ends of the bandage she said quietly, 'Papa has had a little of that kind of fire in his time. He was in the International Brigade in Spain. The Fascists held him in prison for two years.'

The old man shrugged expressively and raised a hand in protest. 'Why speak of these things? They are dead. Ancient history. We are living in the present. Life is often unpleasant and always unfair. A wise man puts it all down to experience and does the best he can.'

He stood, hands in pockets, smiling at them and Maria said, 'There, it is finished.'

Marlowe stood up and began to turn down the tattered remnants of his shirt sleeve. 'I'd better be going,' he said. 'What time did you say that bus left?'

A frown replaced the smile on Magellan's face. 'Going? Where are you going?'

'Birmingham,' Marlowe told him. 'I'm hoping to get a job there.'

'So you go to Birmingham tomorrow,' the old man said. 'Tonight you stay here. In such weather to refuse shelter to a dog would be a crime. What kind of a man do you think I am? You appear from the fog, save me from a beating, and then expect me to let you disappear just like that?' He snorted. 'Maria, run a hot bath for him and I will see if I can find a clean shirt.'

Marlowe hesitated. Every instinct told him to go. To leave now before he became further involved with these people; and he looked at Maria. She smiled and shook her head. 'It's no use, Mr Marlowe. When Papa decides on something the only thing to do is agree. It saves time in the long run.'

He looked out of the window at the gloom outside and thought about that bath and a meal and made his decision. 'I give in,' he said. 'Unconditional surrender.'

She smiled and went out of the room. The old man produced a briar pipe and filled it from a worn leather pouch. 'Maria told me a little about you when you were outside with Kennedy,' he said. 'She tells me you're a truck driver.'

Marlowe shrugged. 'I have been.'

Magellan puffed patiently at his pipe until it was drawing properly. 'That slash on your arm,' he said. 'How did you say you got it?'

'From a broken hook in the tailboard of a truck,' Marlowe told him. 'Why?'

The old man shrugged. 'Oh, nothing,' he said carefully, 'except that I had a very active youth and I know a knife wound when I see one.'

Marlowe stiffened, anger moving