The lumpers packed it in shortly before 19.00 and then I had the ship to myself. I sat on the bridge smoking a pipe and watching the lights come on as dusk descended over the city and the high land behind it. A stillness had settled on the Basin, the quay deserted except for the occasional figure moving along the shadowed wall of the sheds. A siren blared briefly and a trawler up near the entrance started backing out. I watched her as she backed for the open sea, thinking of the mate preparing his gear and the ice ahead and the skipper wondering where the hell he'd get a catch that would satisfy his gaffers.
After that the port seemed dead, nothing stirring. Night had closed down on Aberdeen. I tapped out my pipe and went to the galley to collect a plateful of shepherd's pie and veg the cook had left for me. The galley stove was still warm and I put a kettle on for coffee. With the coffee I had a glass of brandy from the officers' ex-bond locker. A cat had come aboard and as I drank I watched it stalk its prey in the shadows cast by the deck lights.
To be suddenly alone on a ship gives one an odd feeling of isolation. All during the voyage the Fisher Maid had been alive with men, an organized unit of activity, her hull vibrating to the pulse of her engines, resounding to the noise of the sea. Now it was deserted, a hollow shell, inactive, still and strangely quiet. I had time to think now, but somehow I seemed unable to concentrate. I was tired, of course, but I think it was' the stillness and the quiet that prevented my mind from focusing clearly. I finished my drink, went down to my cabin and packed my gear, shifting it to the skipper's cabin in the bridge housing. Then I turned in.
I was in my pyjamas, having a last smoke, when I heard footsteps crossing the gangway, the murmur of voices. I went through into the bridge and out on to the wing. Two figures stood talking on the deck below. 'Looking for somebody?'
They turned at the sound of my voice, their faces pale in shadow, something slightly menacing as they stared up at me. Then one of them moved, coming out of the shadows to the foot of the ladder. 'Heard you were still aboard. We'd like a word with you.' He started up the ladder, a short, burly figure, his round, pugnacious face framed in dark sideburns, eyes deep-set and a full-lipped mouth. 'Remember me?'
I nodded, the sight of him taking me back to that angry meeting in Hull. He was a Newark man and nothing to do with the shipyards. His name was Bob Scunton and he had confronted me when I was still trying to address the meeting, prodding me in the stomach and telling me to belt up and stop talking a load of statistical rubbish the lads didn't want to know. The other man I had never seen before. 'All right,' I said. 'You can come up.' And I led them into the bridge. There was only one seat, so we stood facing each other, and I didn't like it. I had the feeling of being cornered. 'Well, what is it?'
'Last month, the night of the shipyard workers' meeting.' Scunton's voice was slow and deliberate, his eyes watching me. 'You got a little girl out of a burning house and handed her over to the neighbours. Didn't give your name. Just handed her over and slipped away. Right?'
I didn't say anything, standing there, waiting, conscious of the other man with a slight cast in the left eye that made his gaze oddly disconcerting.
'Thought no doubt you wouldn't be recognized.'
My mouth felt dry, all my fears now suddenly realized. I knew Scunton, knew his reputation. These were men who operated in the shadows, manoeuvring and motivating others, controlling events. They weren't union men. They weren't members of any political party. But they were always there, in the background, whenever there was trouble. 'Come to the point,' I said.
'All right, I will.' He licked his lips, his eyes darting round the bridge. 'What about a drink while we're discussing it?'
'It's been a hard trip,' I told him. 'I'm tired.'
'So are we,' he growled. 'Soon as we heard you weren't putting into Hull we came north.' He thrust his head forward. 'You haven't talked to the police yet, have you?'
'No.'
He nodded. 'Okay, but when you do, what are you going to tell them? That's what we want to know.'
'It's no business of yours.' But I knew it was. I could see it in the way the two of them glanced at each other, and suddenly all the turmoil and the doubts exploded in anger. 'You bastards put them up to it, is that it? Is that what you're scared of — that I'll identify them and they'll involve you?'
Scunton moved towards me. 'You shop them and we'll-'
But the other man interrupted him. 'I'll handle this, Bob.' His voice was quiet, a hard, flat voice. 'You were recognized. One of the neighbours, a man. The police will expect a statement.' He paused, the disconcerting gaze sliding past me. Then suddenly he asked, 'What were you doing standing there in the rain outside No. 5 Washbrook Road?'
I hesitated, unwilling to explain myself to men I knew would never understand. 'You weren't at the meeting that night.'
'No.'
'There was a mood of violence,' I said. 'A lot of threats were made, mainly directed at Pierson &c Watt and the yard foreman-'
'We believe in solidarity,' Scunton growled in that thick voice of his. 'Pierson & Watt were the one yard-'
'You believe in violence,' I told him.
'All right. Maybe we do, when it's necessary.'
I turned back to face the other man. 'If I hadn't been there, Bucknall and that fellow Claxby might well be facing a murder charge.'
'So you know who it was," Scunton cut in.
'Yes.' I said. 'I know who they were.' And suddenly I didn't care. 'If you want to throw petrol bombs, why the hell don't you have the guts to do it yourselves? And to risk innocent lives — a little girl…"
'You threw it.' His voice was so quiet it stopped me like a bucket of ice-cold water. 'That's what we came to tell you.'
Staring at him, seeing the hard, bitter line of his mouth, the cold grey eyes glinting in the gleam of deck lights, I felt suddenly scared of him. 'Who are you?' I asked him.
He gave a little shrug, a shut look on his face. 'We have a witness.' He pulled a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and offered me one, and when I pushed it away, he said, 'You were alone, nobody to corroborate your evidence.' He took out a cigarette and lit it, the movement of his hands deliberate. He was giving me time to take it in. 'So it will be your word against his, and the man who will say you threw the petrol bomb is a local man. He'll make a good witness.'
'Get out!' My hands were clenched, the words coming through my teeth.
He didn't move, drawing in a lungful of smoke and staring at me. 'Bucknall doesn't matter. But Claxby is too useful a man to be thrown away.'
'Get out of here!'
'You could be useful, too.' He said it reflectively, as though considering the matter. Then he shrugged. 'But at the moment we're concerned with the East Coast yards. We've failed with the trawlermen. The fisheries officer of their union won't play. But if we can hold the strike long enough, then there'll be very little fish coming in anyway. That will give the unions the leverage they need in their negotiations. A trial, with two militants in dock, wouldn't suit us at all.' He paused, and then added, 'We were able to have a word with your radio operator before coming here. In a pub. You're out of a job again, it seems.' And when I didn't say anything, he smiled. 'He told us he thought you ought to be commanding a supply ship. That's where the future lies, isn't it?'
He was looking at me again and the expression of his eyes had a speculative quality. 'Get into oil,' he said quietly. 'And forget about what you saw in Washbrook Road.' He stubbed out his cigarette, then turned abruptly towards the door, jerking his head at Scunton.