The Black Tide

Saltley’s warning proved only too accurate. The following day, when I returned from buying some clothes after opening an account at the local bank and paying in the cheque he had given me, Mrs Steinway informed me the police had been asking for me. ‘Haven’t done anything wrong, have you, luv?’ She was a real Eastender, and though she said it jokingly, her eyes watched me suspiciously. ‘Cos if you have, you don’t stay here, you understand?’

They had asked when I would be back, so I was not surprised to have a visit from a plain clothes officer. I think he was Special Branch. He was quite young, one of those shut-faced men who seem to rise quickly in certain branches of the Establishment. He wasn’t interested in what I could tell him about the hidden tanker or about Choffel, it was the political implications that concerned him, his questions based on the assumption that the whole story was a concoction of lies invented to cause trouble. He asked me what my political affiliations were, whether I was a communist. He had checked with the Passport Office that I was the holder of a British passport, but was I a British resident? Was there anybody who knew me well enough to vouch for me? He was a little more relaxed after I had told him I owned a cottage on the cliffs near Land’s End and that my wife had died in the Petros Jupiter explosion. He remembered that and he treated me more like a human being. But he was still

suspicious, taking notes of names and addresses and finally leaving with the words, ‘We’ll check it all out and I’ve no doubt we’ll want to have another talk with you. when we’ve completed our enquiries. Meanwhile, you will please notify the police if you change your address or plan to leave the country, and that includes shipping as an officer on board a UK ship. Is that understood?’ And he gave me the address of the local police station and the number to ring. ‘Just so we know where to find you.’

It was dark by the time he left, a cold, frosty night. I put on the anorak I had bought that morning and walked as far as the river. I was feeling isolated and very alone, quite separated from all the people hurrying by. Lights on the far bank were reflected on a flood tide and the sky overhead was clear and full of stars. I tried to tell myself that an individual is always alone, that the companionship of others is only an illusion, making loneliness more bearable. But it’s difficult to convince yourself of that when loneliness really bites. And what about my relationship with Karen? I leaned on the frosted stonework of an old wharf, staring at the dark flowing water and wishing to God there was somebody I could talk to, somebody who knew what it was like to be alone, totally alone.

I was very depressed that evening, staring at the river shivering with cold and watching the tide mark. And then, when I went back to pick up the typescript so that I would have something to read over a meal, Mrs Steinway came out of her back room with the evening paper in her hand. ‘I just been reading about

you. It is you, isn’t it?’ she asked, pointing to a paragraph headed: Missing Tanker Man Returned to UK. It was the Reuters story datelined Karachi. ‘No wonder you’ve got the law keeping tabs on you. Is it true about the tanker?’

I laughed and told her I seemed to be about the only one who thought so.

‘They don’t believe you, eh?’ The bold eyes were watching me avidly. ‘Well, can’t say I blame them. It’s a funny sort of story.’ She smiled, the eyes twinkling, the heavy jowls wobbling with delight as she said, ‘Never mind, luv. Maybe there’s one as will. There’s a young woman asked to see you.’

‘Me?’ I stared at her thinking she was having a bit of fun. ‘Who? When?’

‘Didn’t give her name. I didn’t ask her, see. You’d been gone about ten minutes and she said it was urgent, so I told her she could wait in your room. ‘Course she may be a newspaper girl. But she didn’t look it. I’ve had them before, see, when there was that Eddie Stock here and they mistook him for the fellow that did the Barking shotgun hold-up…’

But by then I had turned and was hurrying down the basement stairs. It had to be her. There was nobody else, no girl at any rate, that could have found out where I was. Unless Saltley had sent his secretary with a message. I don’t know whether the eagerness I felt stemmed from my desperate need of company or from a sexual urge I could hardly control as I jumped down the last few stairs and flung open the door of my room.

She looked up at my entrance, the jut of her jaw