Bristol. The little church was packed and it was raining.
The service was very moving, I think because of all the people and the strength of feeling that reached out to me. And afterwards, when one of the reporters started questioning me about her motives, I was in such an emotional state that I just let my feelings rip, telling him I’d get the bastard who put the Petros Jupiter on the rocks, killing Karen, killing the birds, ruining our bit of Cornwall. ‘If the government won’t stop it, I will.’ There was a camera running,everybody staring, and when somebody asked me if I meant to take on the oil companies I answered him, ‘No, the ship owners – the tanker owners – the bastards that switch names, companies, ownership – the whole stinking, sodding mess of corrupt tanker dealing …’ Somebody pulled me away then, Andy I think. I was in tears, coming out of the church, straight from that service. And that night they had a brief flash of that interview on Nationwide. I watched it in the lounge of a Penzance hotel over a farewell drink with the Kerrisons, shocked as much by the haggard look of my face, and the tears streaming down it, as by the violence of my words. Then they drove me to the station and I caught the night train to London.
It was five days since it had happened, five miserable days alone at the cottage. On the Saturday, when I had seen the estate agents in Penzance, I had told them they could deal with the contents when they liked, but to leave the cottage until the spring, when the evenings would be drawing out and the daffodils in bloom in the sheltered patch behind the elephant rock. It would sell better then. But though it wouldn’t be on the market immediately, the mere fact of having arranged to sell it had had the effect of making me feel an interloper, the place we had striven for and loved so much suddenly no longer part of my life. It added to the bitterness of my departure as the wheels rattled me eastwards through the night.
I hadn’t bothered about a sleeper. I sat up all the way, dozing fitfully, thinking about the Petros Jupiter and what I’d do to that dirty little Greek when I caught up with him. It was either that or start thinking about Karen, and I couldn’t face that, not any more. Not after that service. I felt drained, too nervously exhausted to plan ahead. I didn’t even think about the letter from the publishers. That meant thinking constructively, about my writing, about the future. I didn’t want to think about the future. I didn’t want to face up to a future alone. And so I sat there, my mind drifting on the edge of consciousness, nerves taut and the wheels hammering the name Speridion into my tired brain. Aristides Speridion. Aristides Speridion .
Dawn broke, cold and grey, the wind blowing out of the north, a curtain of sleet beginning to whiten the roofs of the buildings backed on to the railway. It was much too early to ring the solicitors when we pulled into Paddington, so I took the Circle Line to Liverpool Street, checked my two cases into a lock-up and just had time to buy some papers before catching the next train for Colchester.
Except for a brief paragraph in the Telegraph headed OIL SLICK DEMO AT CORNISH CHURCH , the Petros Jupiter seemed to have dropped right out of the news. The lead story in all the papers was the arrest of four more terrorists at the GB Shahpur Petro-Chemical Company’s offices in the City. They were charged with being implicated in the Piccadilly Underground explosion that had killed eleven people just before Christmas.
Feeling drowsy as the train ran into the flat Essex countryside, I went into the buffet for some coffee. There was a queue and, while I was waiting, the guard came through checking tickets. The buffet car was full, every seat occupied, and when I finally got my coffee I took it through into the next coach and sat down in an almost empty first class compartment. There was one occupant only, a neat elderly
The service was very moving, I think because of all the people and the strength of feeling that reached out to me. And afterwards, when one of the reporters started questioning me about her motives, I was in such an emotional state that I just let my feelings rip, telling him I’d get the bastard who put the Petros Jupiter on the rocks, killing Karen, killing the birds, ruining our bit of Cornwall. ‘If the government won’t stop it, I will.’ There was a camera running,everybody staring, and when somebody asked me if I meant to take on the oil companies I answered him, ‘No, the ship owners – the tanker owners – the bastards that switch names, companies, ownership – the whole stinking, sodding mess of corrupt tanker dealing …’ Somebody pulled me away then, Andy I think. I was in tears, coming out of the church, straight from that service. And that night they had a brief flash of that interview on Nationwide. I watched it in the lounge of a Penzance hotel over a farewell drink with the Kerrisons, shocked as much by the haggard look of my face, and the tears streaming down it, as by the violence of my words. Then they drove me to the station and I caught the night train to London.
It was five days since it had happened, five miserable days alone at the cottage. On the Saturday, when I had seen the estate agents in Penzance, I had told them they could deal with the contents when they liked, but to leave the cottage until the spring, when the evenings would be drawing out and the daffodils in bloom in the sheltered patch behind the elephant rock. It would sell better then. But though it wouldn’t be on the market immediately, the mere fact of having arranged to sell it had had the effect of making me feel an interloper, the place we had striven for and loved so much suddenly no longer part of my life. It added to the bitterness of my departure as the wheels rattled me eastwards through the night.
I hadn’t bothered about a sleeper. I sat up all the way, dozing fitfully, thinking about the Petros Jupiter and what I’d do to that dirty little Greek when I caught up with him. It was either that or start thinking about Karen, and I couldn’t face that, not any more. Not after that service. I felt drained, too nervously exhausted to plan ahead. I didn’t even think about the letter from the publishers. That meant thinking constructively, about my writing, about the future. I didn’t want to think about the future. I didn’t want to face up to a future alone. And so I sat there, my mind drifting on the edge of consciousness, nerves taut and the wheels hammering the name Speridion into my tired brain. Aristides Speridion. Aristides Speridion .
Dawn broke, cold and grey, the wind blowing out of the north, a curtain of sleet beginning to whiten the roofs of the buildings backed on to the railway. It was much too early to ring the solicitors when we pulled into Paddington, so I took the Circle Line to Liverpool Street, checked my two cases into a lock-up and just had time to buy some papers before catching the next train for Colchester.
Except for a brief paragraph in the Telegraph headed OIL SLICK DEMO AT CORNISH CHURCH , the Petros Jupiter seemed to have dropped right out of the news. The lead story in all the papers was the arrest of four more terrorists at the GB Shahpur Petro-Chemical Company’s offices in the City. They were charged with being implicated in the Piccadilly Underground explosion that had killed eleven people just before Christmas.
Feeling drowsy as the train ran into the flat Essex countryside, I went into the buffet for some coffee. There was a queue and, while I was waiting, the guard came through checking tickets. The buffet car was full, every seat occupied, and when I finally got my coffee I took it through into the next coach and sat down in an almost empty first class compartment. There was one occupant only, a neat elderly
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