Doggerland (Sam Applewhite Book 2)

by Heide Goody

  For the rest of the journey, Sam drifted into a sleepless reverie, watching the impossibly still sea. When Rich tapped her arm, she looked ahead and saw the Valhalla gas platform. It was a box or a series of boxes, a Lego construction, balanced on girder legs that didn’t seem big enough to support its bulk. Crane arms, scaffolding and pipework for the old gas mining operation wrapped around the outside of the superstructure. The helipad was huge in comparison to the working spaces, a parasol covering almost the entirety of the upper levels.

  “Is the helipad really big or is the rig really small?” she asked. No one answered.

  “We’ve got forty mile an hour winds down there,” came the pilot’s voice in her headphones. “Stay low, stay away from the edge, and once you’ve got your bags, head straight for the stairs.”

  The helicopter swung around onto the helipad with apparent ease. The rotors slowed but did not stop.

  As they climbed out, Sam felt the full force of the wind – brutal and cleansing – and it took her breath away. Travel bag in hand, checking her dad was okay, she followed Rich to the shelter of a metal staircase. Ten steps down and they were through a metal door. As it clanged shut behind them, the sudden silence was like being plunged underwater.

  “That was bracing,” she said.

  “Skegness is bracing. That was downright offensive,” commented Marvin, but he was smiling as he said it.

  Sam heard the now muffled sound of the helicopter taking off. “The pilot’s leaving?”

  “Yeah, he’ll come back on Boxing Day to take us home,” said Rich. “Let’s go and make ourselves comfortable.” With clanging footsteps, he led the way down metal corridors.

  “I thought there would be a welcoming committee,” said Sam.

  “Peninsula should have already flown in from Humberside Airport.”

  “I meant the other staff,” said Sam.

  “Staff?”

  They entered what had to be the main section of the platform building. Sam’s mental images of luxury casinos and swanky hotels were not being met so far. There were hard-wearing floors and fibreglass panelled walls. It looked very much like a budget hotel or student accommodation.

  “Is there no one else here?” Sam said.

  “We’re operating on a skeleton crew,” said Rich. “And Peninsula is worth ten people.”

  “So a skeleton crew of one butler.”

  “Here’s the living quarters.” Rich held open a door. “It doesn’t look as though Peninsula’s made up any of the beds yet. Hey, that means you get to choose whichever room you like. Cool, huh?”

  As Sam walked along the corridor, peering into all of the possible bedrooms, she felt very far away from the civilised world. Skegness was unreachable without the helicopter, which had gone. There was no mobile signal here, either. Her father edged close, and she wondered if he felt it too. She thought she heard a sound coming through the structure. She touched the wall.

  “What’s that?” she asked Rich.

  “There’s always some background noise,” he said. “This platform is built to withstand waves of over twenty metres, but still, when a storm hits, it’s going to be quite dramatic.”

  Sam tried to picture a twenty metre wave. Surely Skegness would never see that? It would demolish the pier. How far out to sea were waves of that size found?

  “Suddenly, a frozen cottage pie for Christmas dinner doesn’t seem so bad,” she murmured.

  “This is fun,” said Marvin. “Bit of an adventure.”

  “So, if no one else is here, is the casino open over Christmas?” she asked.

  Rich gave her an odd look. “The casino isn’t open at all yet.”

  “The brochure you gave me.”

  He grinned. “Architect’s vision.”

  Sam processed this. No casino yet. Bedrooms that were functional but hardly plush. “Oh, so we have a vision of the casino, not the real thing.”

  “We’ll just have to imagine really hard,” said Marvin. “I might even imagine I’ve won the jackpot.”

  “It’s just the three of us for Christmas,” said Rich. “Plus Peninsula, of course.”

  “Not much of a Christmas for him if he’s running after us, doing the work of ten people.”

  Rich pushed out his bottom lip as though he hadn’t thought of that. “He’s not a Christmassy person anyway. His people are into ancestor worship. I think.”

  “So how much work has been done to turn this into a luxury playground for wealthy tourists?” she asked.

  “None of the development’s actually started yet,” said Rich.

  “None?”

  “None. The lab’s out here of course, that was the priority. The rest of it will be done in the coming weeks.”

  Sam wanted to ask a follow-up question, something that went along the lines of “Why did you invite us out here when we could have just had a nice meal at home?”, but she didn’t. Apart from being rude and more than a little ungrateful, she knew the answer. This was Rich’s latest toy, and he was very excited about it. He would not understand why anyone else might not be equally excited. Expectations of a high-class Christmas in the lap of luxury evaporated.

  “Well, I don’t know about either of you two, but I feel like celebrating not having to swim out of a crashed helicopter,” said Marvin. “Where will we find a tipple, Rich?”

  “That’s the spirit! Let’s do the tour, then see where Peninsula’s got to with all the provisions, shall we?”

  They walked down a maze of corridors. Rich indicated the office spaces, gym area, smoking room and radio room, all of which would be transformed into something far more luxurious, eventually.

  “This here is the lab complex,” he said, indicating a door. Sam peered through the glass and saw a large clinical-looking space, fitted with workbenches and racks of equipment.

  “Lab complex?” said Marvin.

  “For cooking up beasts to populate Rich’s Ice Age theme park,” said Sam.

  “I remember you telling me,” said Marvin. “I just assumed it was a joke. Or a dream. Or I was having a mini-stroke.”

  “You and me both, dad.”

  “The science is sound,” said Rich, unoffended. “With all resources now securely kept here, we can operate without fear of our glorious specimens being stolen.”

  Sam wasn’t sure anyone wanted to steal frozen animal bits, but decided to keep such thoughts to herself.

  Rich led them on.

  “And last but not least, here’s the kitchen and stores, where Peninsula’s going to work his magic.” Rich looked around. “Peninsula! Are you here?” There was no response. The large kitchen space was decidedly void of people, activity and, specifically, butlers.

  “Busy elsewhere,” Rich shrugged. “I’m sure he’s about. Right. Let’s find that drink.”

  67

  Yule had arrived in the Odinson compound. Hilde could literally hear it approaching, as Hermod and Gunnolf tooted the horn on their truck to announce their return with the midwinter sacrifice.

  That it was already three days past the actual midwinter was a point Hilde was not going to raise with her farfar. He would only say something like “Ah, that’s the Saxon midwinter. Tha’ should pay no attention to that.” Hilde could have also pointed out that a number of features from the Saxon Christmas had crept in, but Astrid’s knitted nativity scene was cute (with a baby Thor in the manger and a visit from the three wise warriors), and it would have been churlish to point out that gift giving, especially with Christmas wrapping paper, was not really the Viking way. Hilde had given her dad a string of crystal beads to weave into his beard and her farfar an old brass telescope, both from Delia’s shop as part payment for the work she’d done there.

  As the traditional Odinson Yule drinks of spicy mead (and Ribena for the kids) were passed one way, and the traditional Odinson Yule snacks of Doritos, cocktail sausages and Jaffa cakes were passed the other, Hilde looked at the splashes of colour that Astrid’s cushions made on the benches. T
here was no doubt her cushions lent a festive touch to the place, even if the Viking subject matter was a little grim – a depiction of a blood eagle sacrifice was unpleasant to behold, even if it was executed in pastel coloured cross-stitch and everyone (even the cartoon victim) was smiling cheerily.

  The work on the longship had progressed at a very pleasing pace, and they were about to commence Yule celebrations in a space that was very clearly identifiable as the hull of a Viking longboat. Gunnolf had mounted the planks containing his saga around the edges for the occasion. It was a florid account of modern-day seafaring that really didn’t boil down to much more than launching a boat, sailing around on the sea, and snarling at the passengers on the Hull to Zeebrugge ferry. But the tone of it was impressive.

  As Hermod and Gunnolf led the bleating sacrifice into the hall, Hilde heard voices raised in anger outside. Hilde went out to investigate. She found Astrid facing off with Ragnar.

  “Tha’ can’t tek away the traditions as have been there fer generations!” Ragnar shouted. “Since time immemorial, us Odinsons have made a sacrifice to Odin fer midwinter!”

  “Nobody’s saying we can’t honour Odin,” said Astrid, in a measured, reasonable tone, “but there’s to be no killing. It upsets the young uns.”

  “What?” blustered Ragnar. “Never heard such nonsense! When I were a lad there’d be no talking back about tradition. It’s just something young uns need to get used to.”

  “There were no traditions back in your day. Your mum and dad lived in Peterborough. Your dad was a gas fitter and you went to Sunday school at St Peter and All Souls.”

  “Blasphemy, woman!”

  “Times change, Ragnar,” said Astrid. “Freyella’s a vegan now and she’s—”

  “A vegan? I should cast her out.”

  Hilde watched Ragnar’s frown. It was likely he was trying to remember exactly who Freyella was, out of the countless rabble of grandchildren scattered around the Odinson complex.

  “You do that and I’ll be following her straight out the gate,” said Astrid. “And I’ll be telling everyone that your name ain’t Ragnar Odinson but—”

  “Woah there, woman,” said Ragnar shaking open hands to ward off her words. “Let’s not get hasty, eh? Vegans, is it? Well put her on the side with her lentils or what have you, and t’ rest of us will get on with the traditions.”

  “Ragnar, it’s not that simple and you know it. She’s very popular with the other young uns. You’ll have a big problem on your hands if you don’t pay attention to this. I have some suggestions, if you ‘d like to hear them. Or maybe I should go and mention that mead’s not vegan?”

  “Fine!” roared Ragnar. “Let nobody say that an Odinson’s not adaptable.”

  He looked round to see the whole clan was watching him in the afternoon gloom. The Odinsons liked a Christmas show like everyone else.

  68

  Sam, Rich and Marvin looked everywhere for Peninsula, even beyond the point at which it was clear the butler was nowhere on board the gas platform, unless he was deliberately hiding somewhere. Sam felt mounting concern as the search lengthened. Rich seemed to be treating it as some sort of grand game of hide-and-seek.

  “Perhaps he fell overboard,” said Marvin warily.

  “Ah,” said Rich, quite inspired by the thought. “That would explain a lot.”

  “And it would be a bad thing,” Sam pointed out.

  Rich nodded, reluctantly conceding the point. “So we ought to go look for him down there?”

  “And hope to see a little pair of butler gloves floating on the sea?” said Marvin, dubiously.

  Rich glanced at his phone. “Oh, I missed some calls. From Peninsula indeed.”

  The concern growing in Sam took on a different flavour.

  “He’s left me a voice message,” said Rich. He put the phone to his ear and his expressive, child-like face went blank.

  He’s not coming, thought Sam.

  “He’s not coming,” said Rich.

  “What?” said Marvin.

  Rich replayed the message on loudspeaker, so that Sam and Marvin could hear.

  “I had hoped to speak to you before you took off, sir,” said Peninsula’s voice. “There is a storm approaching. Storm Wendy is the official designation. It appears that Wendy is much worse than they initially expected. All aircraft from Humberside Airport have been grounded for the day, possibly longer. I’ve called around, sir, and it is the same story everywhere else. I will not be able to get out to join you at this stage.”

  “That’s not good,” said Marvin.

  “Please tell me he wasn’t bringing all the food,” said Sam.

  An hour later, after a thorough inspection of the rooms, Sam was beginning to understand the scale of the problems facing all three of them. Not only were they stranded without the skills of Peninsula, who was supposed to be providing them with the finest food and drink, they were also stranded without the ingredients he was bringing. The storm meant there was no prospect of Peninsula joining them until after Christmas Day. It also meant that there was no prospect of them getting off the platform until after Christmas Day.

  While Rich made endless calls on his satellite phone trying to solve the unsolvable, Sam went exploring, to see what little they had to work with. Marvin accompanied her.

  They quickly discovered that the inner sanctum of the rig was where all of the human comforts were located. The outside edges were dominated by machinery and lots of signs insisting a hard hat should be worn.

  “At times like these, it would be so useful if you could do real magic,” said Sam.

  “All magic is real!” said Marvin. “Lives have been transformed by the power of stagecraft. Jeanette Krankie used to tell me that she saw a conjuror as a child. It instilled in her a life-long love of the stage, after he pulled a live rabbit from a top hat.”

  “I know, dad,” said Sam. “But pulling Christmas dinner out of a hat might be slightly more difficult.”

  Sam found a walk-in store cupboard next to the kitchens. It was a sizeable cupboard, the sort that would see a working crew through an extended period of isolation if it was fully stocked. Right now it was empty. Why would a decommissioned gas platform keep a food store, just on the off-chance that its slightly hopeless millionaire buyer would find himself stuck out here without fresh supplies? Sam scoured the shelves and opened all of the containers to check whether anything remained. After fifteen minutes she had completed an exhaustive search, and gathered all of the useable things onto a table. There was a tin of mushroom soup (dented), four packets of ramen noodles, half a jar of chilli powder, a packet of pudding rice, and a multipack of chewing gum.

  “Well that’s a start,” she said. She tried to inject a cheery note into her voice. “I expect there are some other supplies somewhere else. This place is massive.”

  She checked the taps. There was running water. It tasted a little stale but the platform at least had some fresh water. They weren’t going to die of dehydration.

  She went out to the corridor and into a large communal room. There was a big TV screen on the wall, a couple of battered sofas and comfy chairs, a bookcase full of DVDs and boardgames, and table football. Out of interest she scanned the faded posters and flyers on a wall-mounted noticeboard. Many of them promoted safe ways of working. Sam resolved not to stand under any suspended loads. There were timetables for something that might have been a sporting fixture, or might have been a quiz league. She couldn’t be certain. With team names like Norfolk n Luck and Twilley’s Twonks it could have gone either way. There was also a slimming club, which made Sam pause. It was perfectly reasonable there should be a slimming club for workers out here on a gas platform, but it was something she hadn’t expected to see. They all looked faded, but none of them contained a date.

  “There’s a storage room here,” said Marvin, peering round a doorway. “Coming?”

  Sam hurried over. It was encouraging. There was a row of deep chests in one half of the room
, and the other half was given over to lockers.

  “What do we think, general storage and personal storage?” she said.

  “I would say so,” said Marvin with a nod.

  They went over and opened the chests.

  The first contained nothing but life vests. After reading all of the safety notices, she was primed to take personal responsibility for the safety of herself and others. Knowing where the life vests were was definitely a notch in the bedpost of personal safety, but right now she would have been happier with a giant stash of tinned food. She started to picture the things she’d ideally like to find. She’d always had a soft spot for tinned peaches. Tinned potatoes were an intriguing thing to eat: nice in their own way but not very much like actual potatoes. Then she remembered that it was Christmas.

  “Didn’t they used to sell whole Christmas dinners in a tin?” she said.

  “Wasn’t that just for dogs?” said Marvin.

  “Was it?”

  “I hope we don’t have to resort to eating dog food.”

  “Dad, why would there be a dog on a gas platform?”

  “Cat maybe. To catch the rats.”

  She didn’t know whether to scoff at the thought of there being rats on a gas platform, or shudder because it might conceivably be true.

  “Best food you can get in a tin, dad?” she said, poking between life vests in the forlorn hope that something was hiding. “What are you hoping for?”

  “Artichoke hearts,” he said after a pause.

  “Really?”

  “Really. Nice in a salad.”

  “Well if we find some of those you can keep them all,” Sam said with feeling. She dropped the lid on the life vest storage chest, looking across at the one Marvin held open.

  “Shall we look in the lockers?” asked Marvin.

  “How can we do that?” Sam asked. “The open ones are empty and the locked ones are, um, locked.”