There were footsteps on the iron stairs behind him and Tree-Trunk glanced round to see Davey Day, the first mate, arriving in the wheelhouse looking pale and cold.

Davey peered out at the boiling sea and sniffed. ‘This is bad,’ he said.

‘Stinking weather,’ said Tree-Trunk, and he spat on to the floor.

‘How long now, d’you reckon?’ asked Davey, shivering.

Tree-Trunk glanced briefly at the compass, bobbing and twisting in the binnacle. ‘It not good,’ he said. ‘We’re into the weather all the way.’

‘Will we make Tunis before morning?’ said Davey.

‘No. And if it gets worse we’ll have to put into Malta. Wait till it blows itself out,’ replied Tree-Trunk.

‘Do you want to tell the boss, or shall I?’ said Davey.

‘I go,’ said Tree-Trunk. ‘You take the wheel.’

Davey reluctantly took over and Tree-Trunk clattered down the stairs below deck. He was almost too tall and too wide for the corridor and bowled along it, bouncing off the sides and muttering dark curses under his breath.

When he reached the captain’s door he knocked and barged in without waiting for a reply. Zoltan the Magyar was sitting at his table with the girl. His short blond hair was greasy and his strange silvery grey eyes were filmed with moisture as if he might be about to burst into tears. He was sick. It was clear. Blood was leaking from his injured shoulder into his shirt.

Zoltan listened as Tree-Trunk explained their situation, but he didn’t seem concerned.

‘We press on,’ he said. ‘We’ve weathered worse than this.’

Tree-Trunk nodded and left without saying anything.

Zoltan poured himself some thick red wine, steadying the cup with his feeble left hand.

His cabin was small and dark, lit by a wildly swinging oil lamp whose guttering flame was turned low. Down here the sound of the engine was very loud. It was like being inside a great beast, next to its beating heart.

Across the table from Zoltan sat Amy Goodenough. She was pale and unwashed, her dark eyes glinting feverishly in the half-light.

‘Are you sure you won’t join me?’ said Zoltan, putting the bottle down in a rack. Amy said nothing; she merely shook her head with a tiny, almost imperceptible movement. She didn’t want to accept anything from the man who had killed her father.

‘When you are in the belly of a storm, the only thing to do is drink,’ said Zoltan, raising his glass. ‘Bull’s Blood,’ he said. ‘You know why is called this?’

Amy glared sullenly at him but didn’t speak.

‘I am going to tell you anyway,’ said Zoltan. ‘Times like this are made for stories.’ The ship keeled over and the two of them were thrown sideways. Zoltan automatically tried to brace himself with his bad arm and gasped with the pain. ‘There was a great fight hundreds of years ago,’ he said, straightening up and raising his cup. ‘Between the Hungarians and the Turks. The Hungarians were weak and beaten, but their commander gave them wine and they were filled with the spirit of battle. The Turks run away, thinking the Hungarians must have drunk the blood of bulls to give them such strength.’ Zoltan laughed and winced, clutching his arm. Amy’s knife had gone in beneath the shoulder bone, severing the tendons around the joint. A doctor in Istanbul had tried to repair the wound, but it had recently opened up again and now seemed to have become infected.