Medusa

‘Aye, aye, sir.’ But before the petty officer could move Mault had reached for the bridge phone. He had been followed now by several other officers. ‘I’ve closed the duty watch up, sir,’ one of them reported.

‘Good.’ The acknowledgement was barely audible and Gareth didn’t turn his head, his hands gripped on the rail, his body leaning intently forward as he watched the two figures advancing in step and without hesitation towards the group that now stood in a huddle blocking the exit at the eastern end of the shed. For a moment everything seemed to go quiet, the Maltese all standing very still, so that the only movement was the two uniformed figures advancing across the quay. I thought I could hear the sound of their marching feet, and then they had reached the group blocking the exit and were forced to stop. The young lieutenant might have made it. He was standing there, talking to them quietly, but whatever it was he was saying could not be heard by the group at the other end of the shed. They were starting to move, a little uncertainly, but their intention was clear. They were headed for the foot of the gangway to cut the two Navy men off.

‘Shall I recall them?’ It was the First Lieutenant and he had a microphone for the upper-deck broadcast system ready in his hand.

Lloyd Jones’s hesitation was only fractional, but then one of the Maltese shouted something and in the instant the whole quay was in an uproar, the figures moving like a shadowy tide to engulf the dark blue uniforms. ‘Lieutenant Kent to report back to the ship.’ Mault’s metallic, magnified voice seemed to fill the night. ‘Both of you at the double.’

Lloyd Jones suddenly came to life, seizing the microphone from the First Lieutenant’s hand, his voice booming out of it as he countermanded the order for the men to double and called for the signal lamp to be switched on to the quay. Instantly the whole concrete apron was flooded in a harsh light, the figures no longer shadowy, but leaping into focus, a sea of faces. They checked, and while they were held there, like a crowd scene under the glare of a film-set spotlight, Kent and the burly PO marched smartly back to the gangway. ‘Where’s the photographer?’ Lloyd Jones’s voice was crisp.

‘Here, sir.’ A man in a crumpled sweater with his equipment slung round his neck stepped out on to the wing of the bridge.

‘I want pictures. Clear enough to identify individuals.’ He raised the mike to his lips again. ‘This is the Captain speaking. I don’t know why you have gathered on the quay in front of my ship, but I would ask you all to disperse now and allow my officer to proceed. I should add that my photographer is now taking pictures so that if he is impeded going about his duty each of you will be identifiable when I raise the matter personally with the authorities here in Malta.’

I think he would have succeeded in getting them to disperse, for some of them, particularly those nearest the ship, had turned away their heads as soon as the signal lamp had been switched on and quite a number of them began to drift away at the threat of being photographed. But then a motor bike appeared round the corner of the shed and a man in black leather, like a Hell’s Angel, thrust it on to its stand and began haranguing them in a voice that was almost as powerful as Gareth’s had been with the use of the loudhailer.

It checked the backward flow, but by then Kent had reached the bottom of the gangway and was standing there staring up at us, white-faced in the hard light, waiting for orders. ‘What do you think, Number One — can he make it?’ Lloyd Jones was still leaning on the rail, still looking down on the scene, the bullroarer gripped tight in his right hand. ‘Take a party to the foot of the gangway,’ he ordered. ‘See what a show of strength does.’ He leaned over the rail, his voice quite calm as he ordered Kent to proceed. ‘But you’ll have to move fast when you get to the roadway, before that man whips them up into a mood of violence.’

Kent and the Leading Hand moved smartly back across the quay, the Maltese watching them and the motor cyclist shouting at the top of his voice. They reached the corner of the shed, and then, as they disappeared from view, the crowd began to move, Gareth yelling at them through the megaphone to hold fast while men from the ship tumbled down the gangway to form up at the foot of it. The mob took no notice, all of them streaming out towards the roadway, to come to a sudden halt as the lights of a car went blazing past, the engine revving in low gear.

Standing as I was, right next to Gareth, I heard his breath come out in a sigh, saw him relax momentarily. But then he braced himself, turning slowly as he gave orders for the men on the searchlight to be ready. The quay was almost empty.

‘You think they’ll be back, sir?’