The Black Tide

I left Varsac to order a taxi, got the bags from my room and then went through into the bar-restaurant. She was sitting in a corner facing the door into the hotel and she got up with a nervous little smile as I went towards her. There were dark shadows under her eyes and her face was flushed. She held out her hand. ‘I had to come. I want to apologize. I was upset. Terribly upset. I didn’t know what I was saying, or doing. It was such a shock.’ The words poured out of her as we shook hands, her clasp hot and moist.

‘You should be in bed,’ I said. ‘You look as though you’re running a temperature.’

‘It doesn’t matter.’ She sat down abruptly, waving me to the seat on the opposite side of the table. ‘I couldn’t let you leave, like that. As if I had no understanding, no sympathy.’

‘You’re Welsh, aren’t you?’ I asked.

‘Half Welsh, yes. My mother was French.’

‘From Vertou.’

Her eyes widened. ‘So you’ve been making enquiries?’

‘Of course.’ And I added, ‘My wife was Welsh. But not her name. Her name was Karen.’

‘Yes, I know. I read about it. When I heard the news I read all the English papers I could get…’ Her

voice faded, floundering over the macabre memory of what had been printed in the English press.

‘Karen was from Swansea. That’s where we met. In the docks there.’

‘It was nothing to do with my father,’ she whispered urgently. ‘Please. You’ve got to believe that. You must believe it, because it’s true. It was an accident.’

‘And he’s a Welshman, you say?’

‘He was born there, yes.’

‘Where?’

‘In the middle somewhere. I’m not sure.’

‘What was his name then?’

It was on the tip of her tongue, but then she hesitated. ‘Why do you ask?’

‘A fellow Welshman …’ I murmured, not looking at her now, knowing I had tried to trap her.

‘You’re not Welsh.’ Her voice was suddenly harder, an undercurrent of impatience. ‘The way you talk sounds like it sometimes, but if you were Welsh now—’

‘It would make no difference.’

‘If you were, you would have the imagination to see—’

‘I have plenty of imagination,’ I cut in angrily. ‘Too much perhaps.’

She was staring at me now, her eyes wide and the same look of horror dawning. ‘Please. Won’t you try to understand. He’s never had a chance. Ever since the Stella Rosa. You know about the Stella Rosa, I suppose?’

‘Yes.’

‘He was exonerated, you know.’

‘The Stella Rosa was gun-running.’

‘There was no other ship available. My mother was sick and he needed the money.’

‘Honest engineers don’t go gun-running,’ I told her. ‘Then, when the ship was wrecked, he blamed one of his engineer officers, a man named Aristides Speridion.’

She nodded slowly, her eyes dropping to her hands.

‘What happened to Speridion? Has he told you?’

She didn’t answer.

Varsac poked his head round the door to say the taxi had arrived. I waved him away. ‘Tell it to wait,’ I said. And then to the girl, ‘You realize that when the Petros Jupiter went on to the rocks by Land’s End he was in charge of the engine-room? And masquerading under the name of Aristides Speridion. He even had Speridion’s passport.’

‘I know.’ The admission seemed dragged out of her, the words a whisper. She suddenly reached out, touched my hand. ‘There’s some explanation. I know there is. There must be. Can’t you wait — until after the Enquiry? It’s like a court of law, isn’t it? The truth — the real truth — it’ll all come out.’ Her voice was urgent, desperate to believe that he would be vindicated, his innocence proved. ‘He’s such a kind man. You should have seen him when my mother was dying-—’

‘If there were a chance that the Enquiry would vindicate him, he’d surely have stayed. Instead—’ But I left it at that. His action in fleeing the country made it all so obvious and I’d no quarrel with her. I began

to get to my feet. She should have had the sense to face up to the situation. The man was guilty as hell and no good her pleading his innocence when the facts were all against it. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘I’ve got to go now. The flight to Paris—’

‘It’s Dubai, isn’t it? You’re going to Dubai.’

I nodded.

‘When you see my father…’ She got slowly to her feet, tears in her eyes as she stood facing me. ‘Give him my love, will you. Tell him I did my best. I tried to stop you.’ She stood quite still, facing me, with her hands to her side, as though she were facing a firing squad. ‘Please remember that when you find him.’ And then, in a sudden violent outburst, ‘I don’t understand you. Will nothing satisfy the bitterness that’s eating you up? Isn’t there anything—’ But then she stopped, her body stiffening as she turned away, gathering up her handbag and walking blindly out by the street door.