Nash’s enraged roar stopped everyone in their tracks. Barging a path through the crowd, he yanked the woman free.

‘Back off!’ he snarled at the men. ‘Go home, now!’

Nash knew it was only his size – and the element of surprise – holding these men at bay. With his back to the river, he desperately wanted to know how close the Albany was to the wharf, but to look away for even for a second would show weakness.

The big man in the ragged shorts fronted up.

‘Yu wanem, faka tu?’ he jeered, thrusting his hips forwards lasciviously.

The men laughed, and the release of tension had an immediate and undesirable effect. A new opponent – this one a scarred, heavyset man with a bushy black beard – rushed forward, swinging a long-handled club at Nash’s head.

Nash did not try to block the swing, because it would have broken his arm. Instead, he caught the club high before it could descend – an almighty slap which stung like hell. Ripping the weapon free, Nash raised it over his own head.

‘Come on!’ he bellowed in genuine rage. ‘You gutless pricks!’

The bearded man stepped back in alarm as Nash swung the club in menacing arcs. His third swing caught the guy with the knife on the shoulder. Shrieking, he dropped the weapon. Suddenly, a deafening blast from the Albany’s siren split the air and a volley of gunshots whizzed overhead. The crowd broke and ran. The skinny man took off with the woman’s luggage. Weighed down, he had only made a few strides before Nash took his feet out from under him with a one-armed swing. With a shout of pain, the man hobbled away empty-handed.

The Albany’s big diesels seemed to growl in defiance as Kaboro switched to maximum reverse thrust, just metres from the wharf. The river boiled. Two sailors clutching hawsers jumped ashore to secure her.

‘Thank you,’ the woman shivered.

Nash was instantly struck by her eyes – a hypnotic shade of electric blue which reminded him of something he could not put his finger on.

‘You’re welcome.’ He handed her the smaller of her bags and she held it protectively against her chest. The Albany’s fenders squealed under the shock of 235 tonnes nudging the concrete. Nash hoisted her backpack over his shoulder as the sailors finished roping ship to wharf. ‘Come on, let’s get out of here.’

For a moment she hesitated, looked around. Then, with a shrug of her shoulders, she followed him aboard.