The Black Tide

horror in her eyes, the way she’d spat in my face. I lay there, listening to the gusts, remembering that night off Sennen, the fog exploding into flames. And the Lloyd’s agent trying to tell me I’d no proof. The girl, too. It’s not his fault, she had said — ‘She did it herself.’ But they hadn’t been there. They hadn’t seen it. And Choffel. What would he say when I finally caught up with him, when I got hold of the murderous little bastard, my hands at his throat, the flesh yielding …? The wind beat against the window, a cold draught on my face. God damn it! What sort of a monster had I become?

I was shivering then, my eyes wet with tears. God in Heaven! Why should I start on self-recrimination when I’d right on my side? It wasn’t vengeance. It was justice. Somebody had to see to it that he never wrecked another vessel. And then I was thinking about why he’d done it. Greed! Stupid, senseless greed! But that wasn’t peculiar to him. It was a curse affecting us all, the whole human race, harvesting the sea till there was nothing left but oceans and oceans of dead water, drilling for energy, tanking it round the world, feeding factories that poured toxic waste into the rivers, supplying farms with pesticides that poisoned the land, pumping heat and fumes into the life-giving atmosphere until it was a lethal hothouse. What was Choffel by comparison? A nothing, just a symbol, a symptom of human rapacity, and myself a Quixote tilting at the windmill of man’s self-destructive urge.

It was an argument and a view of life that went round and round in my head as gusts rattled the door

and the rafters crackled in the frost. And then I woke to complete stillness in a grey dawn that held everything in a grip of silence, the window panes frosted over and the rooftops opposite a glazed white. It was no longer freezing and by the time I was dressed there was a gleam of watery sunshine, the world outside beginning to thaw.

Baldwick was already there when I went into the bar-restaurant for breakfast, sitting at a table with a pot of coffee and a basketful of rolls in front of him. ‘Take a seat.’ He pulled out a chair for me, indicating the coffee. ‘Help yourself.’ He had his mouth full, chewing voraciously at a roll, his heavy cheeks glowing pink as though he had been for a brisk walk in the cold morning air, his big frame full of vigour. ‘Paris is no go, thick as a pig’s snout. If the fog don’t lift you could be here another night.’

He had settled with the desk and had given Varsac the air tickets. All the time he was talking those little eyes of his were fixed on me intently. Something was worrying him, some sixth sense perhaps — ‘Keep yer mouth shut.’ He was suddenly leaning forward, his face close to mine and nothing in his eyes or his voice, nothing at all to indicate he had been drinking heavily the night before. ‘Understand? Anyone starts talking they could find themselves in trouble. I’m telling you that ‘cos I reck’n you’re far too intelligent not to know you don’t get double rates and a bonus for a run-of-the-bloody-mill voyage. Okay?’

I nodded, finding it difficult to meet the bright beady eyes barely a foot from mine.

‘You still thinking about the Petros Jupiter} ‘Cos if you are …’

I shook my head, reaching for the coffee and pouring myself a cup as I enquired why he had asked.

‘Last night. You were asking questions about the engineer.’

‘Was I?’

‘You know bloody well you were. Did you think I was too drunk or something not to remember? How did you know I’d anything to do with the man?’

‘You were in Sennen when the crew came ashore.’ But the instant I’d said it I knew it was a mistake. He pounced on it immediately.

‘Sennen? Who said I went to Sennen? Falmouth, I told you.’

I nodded, buttering myself a roll and not looking at him. ‘I heard you’d been at Sennen earlier, that’s all.’

‘Who told you?’

‘I don’t know.’ I gulped down some coffee. ‘Everything was a bit mixed up at the time. A press photographer, I think.’

‘I never was at Sennen. Understand?’ His fist slammed down on the table, rattling the crockery. ‘Forget it. Forget everything — okay? Just do the job you’re paid for…’ He looked up as Varsac joined us. The Frenchman’s face was more cadaverous than ever, heavy pouches below the bloodshot eyes. ‘Mornin’, Albert,’ Baldwick said brightly. ‘You look as though you’ve been tangling with Madame all night.’ He picked up the pot and poured him a coffee. ‘You’ll

take it black, eh?’ And as Varsac sat down heavily and buried his long nose in the coffee, he added, ‘Bet yer if a nice plump Baluchi girl walked in now you couldn’t do a thing aba’t it.’ And he let out a great guffaw as he slapped the wretched Varsac on the back.