Free The Sun and Catriona by Rosemary Pollock Page B

approve of. He must have a job, and he must be a good Catholic. That is very important.’
    Catriona stared thoughtfully at a couple standing near the edge of the kerb. ‘I can see that his religion would be important,’ she conceded. ‘But—no job, no girl-friend. That’s hard, isn’t it?’
    ‘Life is hard,’ he pointed out, frowning a little as he negotiated a particularly dangerous right-hand bend They reached the town of Sliema, a busy resort three miles from Valletta, and Catriona looked around her with interest. Sliema had an imposing promenade, numberless hotels and a large selection of smart shops. It was alive and bustling, and there was a very modern feel about it. He told her that it was a Mecca for tourists from all over the world.
    ‘Many Maltese feel that it is a place one is wise to avoid,’ he remarked. ‘At least between May and September.’
    Night had fallen now, and the sky was ablaze with stars. Sliema faced the open sea, and it was possible, too, to look across an intervening harbour to the lights of Valletta. There seemed to be a lot of café s and brightly-lit bars, and the streets were thronged with people who were apparently out to enjoy themselves. They passed through the graceful Victorian streets of the old town, then turned into a side street and stopped. There was a sound of rock music, and Catriona glanced round, wondering where it was coming from.
    The Count opened her door for her, and in silence he helped her out, his fingers cold and hard against her warm skin. For a fraction of a second she looked up into his face, and realised with a shock that it was like a mask. He led her down a brightly lit passageway between two buildings, and as he pushed her in front of him through a low doorway she felt as if she were stepping into some kind of inferno.
    They were in a small, overcrowded night-club and peering through a stifling haze of cigarette smoke she could see that there was barely room to move. The noise, which was ear-splitting, emanated from a six - piece rock group which had been squeezed into an alcove facing the bar, and a dozen or so couples were swaying languorously to the beat. Many-coloured, constantly changing lights flickered over them and over the shadowy faces of others who were seated at the tables. There seemed to be hardly an y air.
    Catriona had been in night-spots before, but she had never seen anything quite like this. The heat and the lack of space combined to give it the quality of a nightmare.
    The place was crowded almost to capacity, but there was still one table vacant, and without the slightest loss of composure Peter Vilhena cleaved a way towards it. It was difficult to move an inch without being jostled, but with the Count’s firm fingers lightly clasping her elbow Catriona found that the crowd tended to part in front of her. They reached the vacant table, and a perspiring boy with black curly hair arrived to place a tattered menu in front of them. Peter surveyed the untidy scrawl with distaste.
    ‘The melon,’ he requested, after a moment’s consideration. ‘And the timpana —for both of us.’ He glanced at Catriona. ‘You would like an aperitif?’
    She shook her head. ‘I don’t drink.’
    ‘Really?’ His brows ascended sharply. ‘A tomato juice, then, for the signurina .’ He pushed the grubby menu away and leant back in his chair. In front of them a very young girl was dancing with a man who was obviously a good deal-older than she was, and several people were staring at her. Her dress left very little to the imagination, and it was abundantly clear that she had had more than enough to drink. Without the support of her companion’s arms she looked as if she might have fallen. As they watched, her escort half led, half carried her back to their table, where she subsided, giggling weakly, in an oddly pathetic heap.
    Catriona looked at Peter Vilhena. ‘That girl can’t be more than sixteen.’ In order to make him hear she had to