But he was doomed to be disappointed; the memory of this man pulled out of the clutches of the sea did not return. Only his body recovered, drawing new strength from the good ship’s food, new energy from rest and sleep. Soon Keeton was sitting up, and his brown, leathery face, shaved of its ragged growth, looked strong and resolute, the hard beak of the nose matched by an angular chin, the mouth between them wide and thin-lipped.
‘He never smiles,’ Rogerson remarked to Brett. ‘I don’t quite like that. Why doesn’t he ever smile?’
‘Maybe there isn’t a lot to make him smile,’ Brett suggested. ‘Maybe when the past is just a blank you don’t find life so almighty amusing.’
The dull look had gone from Keeton’s eyes, and they had become hard and bright as polished stone. It was difficult to believe that such eyes could not see into their own past; there was so much intelligence in them.
‘I sometimes wonder,’ Rogerson said, ‘whether he does really remember nothing. There are times when you catch some expression, a gleam in his eye — it’s hard to explain just what — but it makes you think he may be hiding something. At least it makes me think so.’
‘Why should he want to hide anything?’
‘Well, that’s the question, isn’t it? Keeton’s been through a bitter experience. Obviously something strange happened to him; how strange we just don’t know. Now, isn’t it possible that he may want to forget that something?’
Brett nodded. ‘Yes, I suppose it’s possible. There’s things I’d like to forget, too.’
‘Exactly, Ned. So perhaps he thinks to himself, here’s a fine chance of rubbing out the past, wiping the slate clean. And the way he does that is to lose his memory.’
‘But he can’t wipe it all out like that,’ Brett objected. ‘We know who he is from the identity discs. He’ll have relations, maybe a wife. They’ll help fill in the gaps. He can’t cut himself off entirely from the past, and that’s why I think your theory breaks down. If you ask me, it’s genuine amnesia.’
Rogerson sucked at his pipe. ‘Well, you may be right. All the same, I can’t get the idea out of my head that he’s purposely hiding something. The question is what?’
‘And why?’
Keeton lay with his arms stretched out along the white bed cover. The arms were dark and thin and sinewy, and the tattooed question mark showed up clearly against the smooth background of the skin. Captain Rogerson, sitting on a chair by the bunk, leaned forward to examine it more closely; he had seen many tattoos, but never that particular design.
‘Where did you have this done?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You can’t remember that either.’
‘I’ve told you. I can remember nothing.’
Keeton’s voice was stronger now; it had a quality of hardness, like the eyes and mouth and the jaw. He might, as Rogerson had said, be little more than a boy, but something had turned him into a man, a tough and possibly a bitter man. Rogerson felt himself to be in the presence of a will that was stronger than his own, and he did not altogether like the feeling. But he persevered.
‘We’ve had a radio signal about you, Keeton. There can be no doubt that you were on board the Valparaiso when she sailed from Sydney. The Admiralty have looked up the records and have discovered that you were a naval rating — a seaman-gunner — helping to man the ship’s armament. It seems that only two survivors were picked up — some weeks after the Valparaiso was sunk. You and the rest of the crew were believed lost.’
Keeton nodded, but said nothing.
‘Now the question is this,’ Rogerson went on, ‘where were you between January and the time we found you? It’s unthinkable that you could have been drifting about the Pacific in that rotten hulk for nearly a year; so where have you been and what happened to any other men who may have been in the boat?’
‘I can’t remember,’ Keeton said.
‘Nothing? Nothing at all? Isn’t there a gleam of light anywhere?’
There was no emotion in Keeton’s voice; it was flat and expressionless. ‘The past is gone, vanished. Between it and me there’s a blank wall. I can’t see through it and I can’t climb over it. I’ve got no past, only a future.’
‘It’s a pity you have no next of kin,’ Rogerson said. ‘Parents might have helped you to regain touch. But it seems you were brought up in some kind of charitable institution. You have no known relations.’
‘I don’t need any. I can look after myself.’
‘All the same, it’s good to have friends.’
‘I don’t need friends. I’ve got my life. That’s enough.’
‘I can’t understand you, Keeton,’ Rogerson said. ‘You sound bitter. But if you have no memories where does the bitterness come from?’
‘I’m not bitter,’ Keeton said. ‘I’m simply a man who’s had time to think — a load of time.’
‘While you’ve been lying in this bunk? Is that what you mean?’
For the first time Rogerson saw the faintest hint of a smile on Keeton’s face.
‘Of course,’ Keeton said. ‘What else could I have meant?’
Part One
Chapter One
Rich Cargo
The S.S. Valparaiso lay alongside the quay in Sydney loading bales of wool while Seaman-gunner Keeton, leaning idly on the rails of the poop, watched other people working.
Keeton was wearing a suit of faded blue overalls with the sleeves cut off above the elbow and very little else. Round his waist was a canvas belt with a wallet in it, a naval jack-knife hanging from a hook, and on his feet a pair of shoes that had once been white. He was nineteen years old but looked older, perhaps because of his dark skin and his lean, bony face. In the gunners’ mess he was known as The Gypsy. He neither liked nor resented the name; he was simply indifferent.
He was still leaning on the rail and watching the cranes dropping their slings into the after hold when Bristow came out of the gunners’ quarters and took up a position beside him.
‘Two more days and they’ll be finished,’ Bristow said. He sucked his teeth loudly. ‘Then we’ll be heading across the great big blue Pacific. Nice long voyage to America and no convoy.’
Keeton did not turn his head. ‘No danger now. The Japs are beaten. As good as.’
‘They’ve still got some subs though.’ Bristow scratched his chest. He was a few years older than Keeton, a thick, fleshy man of medium height. ‘There’ll be no real security until the last one’s been sunk.’
Keeton said nothing. He watched another sling of bales dropping into the hold, twisting as it went.
‘Wool,’ Bristow said. ‘That’s a sight better cargo than some I could name. High explosive, for example. One wallop and up she goes like a flaming rocket. Heavy machinery’s bad, too. I was in a ship once carrying tanks, steel rails, guns, all that sort of junk. Stopped a tin fish half-way across the Atlantic and the old girl went down in less than two minutes.’
‘You told me,’ Keeton said.
‘Did I? Well, that’s how it was.’ Bristow lifted a hand and wiped the sweat from his forehead. ‘My stars, it’s hot. I wouldn’t want to live in a climate like this, not for long.’
Bristow looked as though he felt the heat. His face was soft and lumpy and his hair was red. Wherever his skin was visible, wherever it could be touched by the sun, it was spattered and blotched with freckles. He ran his fingers along the rail and returned to his original subject.
‘Wool, now; that’s a different proposition. A ship with wool in her holds might float a long time after she was hit. Give you time to get away in comfort.’ He took a wad of oily cotton waste from his pocket and dabbed at his face. ‘So you got that tattoo finished. Hurt much?’