The Black Tide

We had known, of course, the instant we turned into the khaivr that this was where the ship lay; what came as a surprise was to find her jammed hard against the side of the inlet instead of anchored out in the open. The light was going fast, the shape of her merging into the towering background of rock, no colour now, the red darkening to black, and the gloom of the heat-stored cliffs hanging over us. She was a VLCC, about 100,000 tons by the look of her, the side-windows and portholes of her superstructure painted out so that she looked blind and derelict, like a ship that had been stranded there a long time. I think all of us felt a sense of eeriness as we bumped alongside, the hot reek of metal, the stink of oil and effluent that scummed the water round her, the silence disintegrating into a jabber of voices as we gave vocal expression to our feelings at this strange embarkation. But it wasn’t just the circumstances of the vessel. There was something else. At least there was as far as

I was concerned. I was conscious of it as soon as I had climbed aboard, so that I stood there, shocked into immobility till the heat of the deck coming up through the soles of my shoes forced me to move.

I have always been sensitive to atmosphere. I remember, when I was about ten, I went with a camel train to Buraimi and burst into tears at the sight of an abandoned village with the well full of stones. I had no idea at the time why it upset me so, but long afterwards I discovered that Wahabi raiders had thrown all the males of that village down the well before blocking it up. And it didn’t have to be the destruction of a village, or of whole armies, as in the Khyber where that dreadful little triangle of flat land in the depths of the pass shrieks aloud of the thousands trapped and slaughtered. Standing on the deck of that tanker, with the cliffs leaning over me and the stars brightening, I could accept the fact of her extraordinary position, tucked in against the rock face, the mooring lines looped over natural pinnacles. The flag, too. Given that this was some sort of fraud, then the painting of the hull to match the ochre-red of the rock, the blanking out of all the windows, these became sensible, practical precautions, and the flag no more than a justification for the ship’s concealment should the crew of an overflying aircraft be sharp enough to spot her. Everything, in fact, however strange, had a perfectly rational explanation — except the atmosphere.

An Arab was coming towards us along the flat steel promenade of the deck. He had a gaunt, pock-marked face and a nose like the beak of a ship. There

was a suggestion of effeminacy in his voice as he

greeted bin Suleiman, but beneath the old sports jacket

I glimpsed the brass-bound leather of crossed braces

and belt, the gleam of cartridge cases against the white

of his flowing robes. This was a Bedu and equipped

for fighting. ‘Gom,’ he said, in soft, guttural English,

and he took us back along the deck to the steel ladder

that reared up on the port side of the superstructure.

I could hear the faint hum of a generator deep in the

bowels of the ship as we climbed to the level of B

deck, where he opened the door for us, standing back

and motioning us to enter.

One moment I was standing on the grating, dark-Bess closing in from the east, and to the west, behind the first outcrops of the Jebel al Harim, the last of the sunset glow still lingering in the sky, the next I had stepped inside, into the blacked-out accommodation area, everything darkened and the lights glowing dimly. Rod Selkirk’s quarters were, as usual in this type of tanker, on the starboard side, mine the next cabin inboard, so that both mates were immediately below the captain’s quarters on C deck. I had a wash and was stowing my gear when Rod poked his head round the door. ‘Officers’ saloon is just down the alley from me, and they got beer in the cold box — coming?’

‘Pour one for me,’ I said. ‘I’ll be right with you.’

‘Sure. Be seeing you then.’

He closed the door and I stood there for a moment, looking vaguely round for the best place to stow my empty bags, conscious that his sudden need of