'Supposed to be taking me home.' I shot a grim glance at the bridge. 'But it looks as if there's been a change of plan.'

'David?'

'I'm going to talk to Captain Bligh or whatever his name is!'

Furious at being taken for a sap I strode up to the bridge.

'Good morning to you, Mr Masen.' Captain Sharpstone stood there with his hands behind his back. His gaze was not on me but the red horizon. 'Slept well, I trust.' Then he turned to an officer behind him. 'Take her up to eighteen knots, Mr Lehman.'

'Captain Sharpstone,' I began. 'What's happening?'

'We're making a damn good speed, Mr Masen. That's what's happening.'

'Yes, but in the wrong direction.'

'There's nothing mistaken about our direction.'

'West?'

'North-west, Mr Masen.'

'But why? You're supposed to be taking me home to the Isle of Wight.'

'Change of plan, sir.'

'But why the hurry? Couldn't you take me home first?'

'Orders, Mr Masen.'

'But you couldn't have been more than a dozen hours away from the island. Why not-'

'When your commander issues an order, Mr Masen, you obey it, don't you? I have my orders from the highest authority to turn this ship round on its tail and make all speed for my home port. I have no option but to obey them. Or did you have me pegged as some kind of mutineer, sir?'

'Perhaps if you were to radio your HQ and explain the position? If you're running short of supplies my community would happily-'

'Mr Masen. It may be acceptable in your profession to question a commanding officer's orders but in mine it is construed as insubordination. And therefore unacceptable.' He regarded me from beneath those fierce eyebrows. 'I don't doubt that arrangements will be made to return you safely home to your family as soon as is practicable. In the meantime, however, our course is north-west.'

'New York?'

In lieu of an answer he gazed steadily through the bridge windows.

I felt fingers touch my sleeve. Kerris indicated with a tilt of her head that I should leave the captain.

Still grinding my teeth, I followed her below to the passengers' saloon where, I'm sorry to say, she had to listen to my views on the captain's orders. All of them, in the considerable heat of the moment, were well and truly peppered with some very basic English slang.

What do you do in such a situation? When you find that instead of being taken home you are to be carried away to a foreign land? Stage a one-man mutiny?

Hardly.

Nevertheless, I paced the deck for the better part of that day, scowling at anyone who caught my glance. Kerris, Gabriel, Dek, and the oriental girl Kim So were sympathetic. They also acknowledged that the captain had his orders. Captain Sharpstone, however strict, was fair. After lunching on a beefsteak of eye-popping dimensions I was invited to compose a message to my HQ.

With a twinge of homesickness I wrote that I was well, that there had been a change of plan, that I should return in the not too distant future. After that, there was little to do but make the most of the voyage.

Soon I became so accustomed to the background thrumm of the engines that I no longer noticed them. My first full day ended with the sun, now no more than a brick-red splotch, fizzling out into the ocean.

In new boots I took a turn around the deck with Kerris. We didn't brave the cold night air long before returning to the cosy saloon where Gabriel sat at a table, writing up notes, while Rory idly picked at his banjo's strings. I played cards with Kerris for a quiet hour or so, oblivious to a surprise that awaited me just around the next corner.

At a little after nine, Kim So entered, a smile on her face. At first I half suspected some practical joke. She shot quick little glances back over her shoulder. The movements set her thick, lustrous plait swinging.

She looked at each of us in turn, smiling yet more broadly, then: 'May I introduce a new guest to everyone?'

Kim So turned and held out her hand to someone out of sight.

Tentatively, a girl of fifteen or so appeared in the doorway. A broad smile lit her face, while her eyes darted from person to person. When she saw me, the smile became a vivacious grin. She pointed with a finger, laughed, then called out: 'Bang-bang man! Bang-bang man!'

How my wild child of the island had changed.

I hadn't recognized her. The dark dandelion clock of her hair had been tastefully cut. She'd bathed and put on new clothes. The transformation astonished as much as it delighted me. Kim So nodded encouragingly to the girl before turning to us again, smiling proudly. 'Everyone. I would like you to meet Christina.'

The once-wild child patted her own face. 'Kiss-Tina. Kiss-tina.'

'Chris-tina,' Kim repeated slowly. 'Chris-tina.'

'Kiss-tina!'

Kim smiled at us. 'Well, we're getting there. If not by giant strides then by baby steps.'

Kim had spent a night and a day gaining the confidence of the girl. She told us how readily Christina had taken to the shower, and to changing into new clothes. Kim added that in infancy Christina must have been raised in civilized surroundings since washing her face and brushing her teeth and hair weren't alien to her. Now she'd bounced back into society with a vengeance. In a matter of hours she was touching furniture, pictures, articles of clothing and striving to remember what they were called.

I too felt a surge of something very much like pride as Christina ran round the saloon looking at everything with childlike curiosity.

'Chair... table. Table!' She rapped the table with her knuckles in triumph. 'Table. Sit. Eat. Aunt Sue there.' Pointing at one end of the table, she mimed pulling something out of her mouth. 'Huff-huff... Ayah!' She wafted a hand in front of her face while coughing.

Kerris looked at me. 'I take it Aunt Sue smoked like a chimney.'

'Maxie - gerrunder... gerrunder... Maxie naughty.' Now she mimed a dog with his paws on the table.

Rory looked at Christina. 'She'll be able to speak properly? I mean, her vocabulary won't be restricted permanently like this?'

'She's learning at a hell of rate. This is one smart kid.'

Suddenly Christina put her finger in her mouth to make popping sounds. Then she mimed pouring drink from an imaginary bottle. When she spoke again it was in a surprisingly deep voice, like a man's, with what to my ears sounded like a Scottish accent. 'To another year of life... God save the King.'

'Good Lord.' Gabriel shook his head, admiringly. 'I've heard of a photographic memory; I figure she has a phonographic memory.'

'I dare say,' began Kerris thoughtfully, 'if you're suddenly left alone at the age of four or five those early memories of home and family are going to be etched so deeply you're never going to lose them.'

Gabriel nodded. 'Poor kid. What she went through I don't ever want to know.'

'So far, she won't sleep in a bunk,' Kim told us. 'She pulls off the blankets to make a kind of nest in the corner of a cabin. But, as you can see, she's in good spirits. She's lively, intelligent.'

Beaming, Christina moved from person to person, patting them on the arms and head while repeating, 'Hello... hello... hello...'

When she reached me she pointed again, then repeated the words she'd said when she first walked into the room. 'Bang-bang man.'

'So you're the bang-bang man?' Kerris said, amused.

I nodded, still smiling at Christina, and still marvelling at her transformation. 'She's remembering when I startled her with a gun. I took a pot-shot at a triffid that came too close for comfort. The noise scared the stuffing out of her.'

'Well, no harm done,' Kerris observed. 'She's taken to you again.' Her smile broadened as she looked at me. 'Bang-bang man.'

Suddenly Christina bolted from the room.

My smile faded. 'Maybe you spoke too soon, Kerris.'

'Don't worry,' Kim reassured. 'This is all new for Christina. It's bound to get a bit much for her at times.'

I'd supposed that Christina had retreated to her nest of blankets in her cabin. Yet she returned a moment later, glowing with pride.

'Saved it,' she told me, then held up the briefcase in both hands. 'Saved it... you... you!'

She pushed the briefcase towards me.

'You want me to save it for you?' I shrugged, puzzled. 'But it's yours, Christina.'

'You it,' she insisted. 'You it!'

I shook my head. 'Sorry, Christina. I don't understand.'

'You... it!'

I looked round at the others helplessly. They shook their heads, puzzled too.

'Ah! Ah! Ah!' The sound came gutturally from deep in her larynx. More like a bark than a human sound. 'Ah! Ah!'

Suddenly she snatched up a piece of paper on which Gabriel had been writing. Then, moving it from side to side against her face, almost as if she were wiping her eyes with it, she chanted, 'You it! You it! You it!'

'Oh... you mean read it!'

A look of triumph blazed in her eyes. Nodding vigorously, she said excitedly, 'Read it. Read it.'

'All right.' I smiled. 'I understand, Christina.'

She sat down close beside me on the upholstered seat, hugging her knees in a delighted childlike way while she watched me unbuckle the clasps of the case.

The briefcase with its scars and stains - even what seemed to be animal teeth marks - looked like it could have told of its own adventures down through the years. For reasons best known to Christina she'd guarded it carefully ever since she'd been forced to fend for herself as a little girl. With something like reverence I opened the case. Then, one by one, I removed the contents, laying them carefully on the table in front of me. A small Bible. Opening the cover, I read what was inscribed there. 'Presented to Christina Jane Schofield on the occasion of her Christening. From her loving Aunt, Susan Tourraine.'

Eagerly Christina watched me setting out her treasures.

'One doll,' I said, placing the doll beside the Bible.

'Becker,' said Christina, touching the doll's face.

Then came a lump wrapped in paper that I initially took to be a stone. But: 'Bread - very dry, very stale bread. Probably years old.'

Then came a few items of clothes for a little girl of around four or five. A sense of inevitability began to creep over me. I realized I would find clues here to the girl's past. For a moment I didn't want to continue with this ritual with Christina watching me.

Christina touched a cotton garment. 'Bl-owzer.' She thought for a moment, then corrected herself. 'Blouse.' Memory was returning. I could see it in the sudden distant look in her eye. 'Naughty dog, Max... plant bit him.' Her air of animation deserted her. She sat still. 'Plant bit him. Max in ground.'

An atmosphere settled over the room. I think everyone there looking at that bundle of belongings had started to supply their own mental scenario about what had happened to Christina those long years ago. I saw a little girl running through a darkened forest clutching the briefcase into which someone had placed a few basic items. A chunk of bread, never eaten; a Bible that she could not read but that would remind her of happier times. Should she survive, that was.

In the briefcase were a few more items. String. A pocket knife. Pencils with broken points. An empty box of matches. A gold locket with a curl of fair hair inside. The inscription read Margaret Anne Schofield.

The girl's mother?

In the bottom of the bag lay the final item. A metal cigar-container complete with its stopper. From the size of the tube the cigar must have been a Havana, or something equally large. Maybe a reminder of her father? All in all, a piquant clutch of clues.

I'd started to replace the items in the bag when Christina stopped me by taking hold of my wrist. She guided my hand over the table to the cigar tube, then pressed my fingers down against it.

I glanced round at the others. They watched expectantly, the room silent save for the faraway thrum of the engines.

'Read it,' Christina insisted.

There were no markings on the outside of the cylinder. I unstoppered it. Inside, tightly rolled, I could see a piece of paper.

After teasing it out, I took a moment to unscroll the sheet then hold it down flat with two hands against the table. The handwriting looked hurried, but it had come from a once-elegant hand.

I looked at Christina. She sat still, eyes bright, expectant.

There was nothing I could do to postpone the moment further. I read the letter aloud: To Whom It May Concern: The girl who handed you this letter is my daughter. Her name is Christina Jane Schofield. She is five years old.

There is little time to detail what has befallen us. For twenty years we lived in a stockade on the Cornish coast. We were a mixed community of sighted and unsighted. In my estimation, we were comparatively successful, farming mainly, with a little fishing to supplement our diet.

Then a year ago a fleet of yachts approached the coast. We had no time to defend ourselves before we were attacked. The women who were sighted, together with our children, were carried off by the raiders. The remainder were butchered. More by luck than by design, I escaped with my daughter, Christina. We wandered for months. Living hand to mouth. Sleeping in ruins. Ever avoiding the triffids, which started to follow us as wolves trail a wounded animal. Which wasn't far from the mark. I was an old man when we left our community. Now I am ill. Walking more than a mile a day became an ordeal. The more slowly we moved the more the triffids gained on us.

During our travels over the last twelve months we have not encountered a single person. Not one. We are, I conclude, the only people in the whole of the county. The triffids have either destroyed them or driven them out. Now those blasted triffid plants are intent on making a meal of us.

I sit writing this letter to you, a stranger whom I shall never meet. Christina and I have found a temporary refuge in a boathouse on a river. It is dark. Even though I cannot see them, I can hear them. The triffids - beating at their woody boles with their little finger sticks, signalling to more of their kind that we are trapped here.

Christina sleeps unperturbed. She does not know that this is our last evening together.

Although I am no medical man, I understand that my time is drawing to an end. I can feel a hard, fixed mass in my stomach. My skin has turned a sickly yellow. A tumour, I suspect. In any event, I am too weak to move more than a few steps at a time. Soon even that ability will be lost.

However, that doesn't trouble me. My only concern is for my little daughter. My heart breaks at the thought of leaving her alone, unprotected - undefended against those bastard plants.

Even now I wonder if reason is leaving me. I am so drowsy I have difficulty in remaining awake for more than a few moments at a time. This evening Christina slipped out of the boathouse. I half remember asking her where she went. She replied she was looking for apples but other plants kept hitting her with their sticks. Naturally concerned, I asked her if the plants had struck her with their stings. She said they had, that it stung a little, but didn't bother her overmuch. Indeed, there were pink marks on her face, but no evidence of swelling, let alone of poisoning.