Caro laughs and flips him the finger. ‘So shit you had seconds, huh?’
‘What can I say? I am fat old pig.’ Ark rubs his ample belly and guffaws.
‘Obviously the whole meal rota works better in the summer when there’s more people,’ Caro tells me as I pick at my battered fish. ‘But we try to ring the changes – we don’t want anyone getting homesick.’
‘So what do you do here?’ I ask Alex, busy piling into his food with the concentration of a man who’s either borderline starving or hoping to avoid conversation.
His expressive brown eyes flick up to mine. ‘Field assistant.’
I finally identify his accent. ‘You’re from Ireland?’
‘Yeah. Donegal.’
‘Nice. I went camping there once.’
Alex’s expression registers brief surprise. ‘Get wet, did ya?’
‘A bit.’
He allows himself a half-smile, then his gaze skirts to Drew, who’s approaching with his plate piled high. He sits next to me, nodding at my own sorry effort. ‘You not hungry?’
‘Not much of an appetite,’ I admit.
Caro gives me a quick once-over. ‘You could do with one.’ She grins to show she means no offence.
‘Probably just tired,’ I say, managing a couple of chips before I give up. In truth, any pleasure I once took in food seems to have vanished since the accident.
Though I suspect the pills aren’t helping.
‘Give to me.’ Ark takes my plate and scrapes the food onto his own. ‘Would be shame to waste.’
Beside me, Alex gets to his feet, dumps his empty plate and glass by the hatch, then leaves without comment. Caro stares after him, but Drew simply raises an eyebrow, unperturbed, then turns to me.
‘So, what do you think of it so far?’
I take a sip of water. ‘Great. I mean, it’s all rather overwhelming, but I’ll get there.’
‘Well, we’re very pleased to have you.’ Caro gives my arm a friendly squeeze. It’s a small gesture, but the kindness moves me. I like her and Drew, I realise, feeling relieved; I’ll have two friends here at least.
Would this be the moment to ask more about my predecessor? I wonder. I know almost nothing about Jean-Luc, the French doctor whose death led to me sitting here right now. Only that he died out on the ice, in some kind of abseiling accident.
Somehow, I sense nobody is keen to talk about it. After all, Antarctica is dangerous – that much was clear from UNA’s crash course in remote medicine. Any number of things could happen out here, and we’re a very long way from help. Easier to get someone back from the International Space Station, one UNA doctor in Geneva pointed out, than from this place in the depths of winter.
Does anyone here feel the same anxiety about that as I do?
I glance around, but the atmosphere amongst the twenty or so people in the dining room seems relaxed and unconcerned – if they’re bothered about how isolated we are, they’re concealing it well.
Undoubtedly that’s the best way to cope, I decide. Simply put it right out of your mind.
3
13 February
Where on earth am I?
I wake, disoriented, in the twilight created by my half-closed blind. For a few seconds I’m back there, in the hospital, coming round after the accident. The same sense of confusion, of time suspended. The gradual intrusion of memory.
Those fox eyes in the headlights, the onward rush of trees.
Never, thankfully, the moment of impact.
Nor the aftermath.
But I’m not there. I’m in Antarctica. I arrived on the plane yesterday. I’m going to spend the next twelve months here on the ice, eight of them with only a dozen other souls for company.
The thought prompts a stomach flip of apprehension, followed by a sudden rush of nausea. I scramble out of bed and run down the corridor, make it to the cramped little bathroom just in time to vomit into the toilet.
Oh God. I lean against the white tiled wall, breathing heavily. I feel dizzy too, with a burgeoning headache. For a second or so the room spins, and I worry I’ll faint, but the sensation passes with a few more deep breaths.
Altitude sickness. Everyone gets it after arrival, but I’ll need to keep a close eye to make sure it doesn’t progress into anything worse. The last thing I need is pneumonia – a rare but dangerous complication of high-altitude exposure.
Getting to my feet, I cup water from the tap and sip it, then splash some on my face, avoiding my reflection. It’s a habit I got into during my recovery. I don’t want to look at my scar, my ruined features, any more than I have to – bad enough enduring the reactions of other people.
Back in my cabin, I take a couple of hydrocodone from my stash then check the time. Five forty-six a.m. I’ve slept for seven hours – the longest stretch in many months.
Getting dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a light T-shirt sets off a flurry of sparks and crackling. Another feature of the station I hadn’t anticipated – thanks to the dry atmosphere, static shocks are frequent. Yesterday Drew pointed out the strips of aluminium tape on all the desks, leading to radiators or other earthed parts of the building, so you can ‘discharge’ yourself before touching computers or sensitive equipment. On the way to the canteen I drag an elbow along the wall, just as he showed me, to dissipate the build-up of static – less painful than having it arc from a fingertip.
When I arrive, I’m surprised to find I’m not the first for breakfast. Alex is sitting alone, hunched over a book. I pour myself a coffee, praying I can keep it down. I should stick to water, but I need caffeine to perk me up and wash the awful taste from my mouth.
‘Is it good?’ I sit opposite Alex and nod at his book.
‘Yeah. It’s pretty creepy.’ He shows me the cover – Dark Matter by Michelle Paver – then closes the novel and sits back, not quite meeting my eyes. There’s something about him I can’t put my finger on. A tension in his stance. A sort of wariness. I notice his right leg jittering up and down as he swallows his last piece of toast.
‘So how’re you feeling?’ he asks eventually, pushing his hair from his forehead in an impatient gesture. It’s a polite enough question, but his tone suggests he’s just going through the motions.
I grimace. ‘Like the walking dead.’
A shadow passes across the field assistant’s face. He blinks at me, then looks away.
‘A touch of altitude sickness,’ I add quickly. ‘It should be okay.’
‘Well, you’re in good hands, aren’t you? You being the doc.’ He smiles tightly then gets to his feet, as if he can’t wait to get away. ‘Gotta go. Trouble with the showers. I should help Caro fix them before she gets it in the neck.’
I sip my coffee, deflated, as Alex loads his plate and cutlery into the industrial washer – mornings we deal with our own dishes, Drew explained to me yesterday; other meals we take it in turns to clear up. As he retreats from the canteen, I’m unable to shake off the sense that he resents me being here.
But why? Surely I haven’t done anything to offend him?
‘You must be Kate.’
I turn to a tall, well-built man. In contrast to Alex, he looks genuinely pleased to see me, a welcoming smile spread across his face. ‘I’m Arne. Sorry I didn’t get to meet you yesterday. Problem with the cat – it took most of the afternoon and evening to fix it.’
‘The cat?’ I frown, rising to shake his hand, hoping he can’t detect the exhausted tremor in mine. ‘I thought animals were banned in Antarctica.’
He laughs. ‘It’s short for Caterpillar, the tractor we use to collect snow to melt for drinking water.’ His English is softly accented with a Scandinavian lilt.
‘Ah. Kind of essential then.’
‘More essential than an actual cat, that’s for sure.’
I study him as he gets his breakfast. Late thirties, I reckon. Short dark hair, graying at the sides, but with a tuft of white at the front. It’s the most distinctive thing about him; otherwise he
’s what my mother, with a hint of disparagement, might describe as ‘pleasant’.
‘So you work with the vehicles?’ I ask as he returns with muesli and a glass of long-life orange juice.
‘Station vehicle mechanic. Plus I help out with other stuff. Anything involving an engine basically.’ He nods at my lone mug of coffee. ‘That all you’re having?’
‘Touch of nausea from altitude sickness. I’ll be fine.’
‘It’s the worst,’ he says, tucking into his breakfast. ‘Guy I came out with had to be flown off the ice after a week, he got so sick with it. Cerebral …’
‘Cerebral oedema?’
‘Yeah, that’s it. He was pretty bad. Thankfully he recovered, once they got him back to Christchurch.’
‘Where are you from?’ I try to recall the list of fellow winterers I was given in Geneva. ‘Sorry, I should know, but I’m still reeling a bit from arriving.’
‘Iceland.’
‘Nice,’ I reply, mentally kicking myself for my blandness. ‘How long have you been here?’
‘A few months.’ He takes a slug of his juice. ‘But I’ve been on the ice before. McMurdo.’
‘Party central, so I hear.’ The US ice station, the largest on the continent, is renowned for its drinking culture. With over a thousand staff in summer, it’s more a small town, equipped with ATMs and a bowling alley. Even, apparently, a decommissioned nuclear reactor.
Arne smiles, but doesn’t comment. I have the feeling he’s humouring me, the new girl – not a role I relish.
‘So you really know the ropes,’ I venture, after half a minute of uncomfortable silence.
‘Yes.’ He sighs. ‘Literally.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Have you been outside yet?’ His eyes flick towards the bright light streaming in through the windows.
‘Only the walk from the plane to the station.’
‘Did you notice the ropes around the building?’
I shake my head. I’d been too busy trying to keep up with Drew and not freeze to death.
‘Well, they’re there to stop you getting lost in bad weather or if you drop your torch when it’s dark – you can use them to guide yourself back to the base. That way you won’t wander off in the wrong direction.’
‘I guess that wouldn’t be good.’
‘You’re the doctor. You tell me how long you’d last in minus sixty Celsius.’
‘Not long,’ I admit, wondering exactly how much time you would have. Ten minutes? Twenty? It doesn’t bear thinking about.
‘Anyway, that’s not going to happen.’ Arne stands up, and I notice again how tall he is. Easily six foot, maybe a little more. But unlike Luuk he wears his height lightly, like someone completely confident in his own skin. ‘Just take the normal precautions and you’ll be fine.’
‘Like Jean-Luc Bernas?’ I blurt. ‘What exactly happened to him?’
Arne pauses. I wait for him to sit down again and fill me in, but a tension creeps across his face, the look of someone who wants to end the conversation. ‘It was simply an unfortunate accident.’
A second later he’s gone.
I make my way back to my cabin, pausing to examine some of the photographs lining the walls of the main corridor. There’s a framed photo of Shackleton’s wooden hut, with its old stove, and shelves lined with ancient tins of supplies. Further along, group shots of people out on the ice, dressed in UNA regulation red.
I linger, studying those taken in the summer, when it’s possible to go outside with your face exposed. Spot Drew and Caro. Ark giving a thumbs-up to the camera, ice crystals glistening in his shaggy beard.
Next to this is a picture of two men, both grinning at the photographer, their red jackets casting a healthy glow on their bare faces. One of them is Alex. He looks different. Excited, carefree, and even younger, somehow, as if the intervening months have worn him down. That’s what struck me about him this morning, I realise – an indefinable air of … unhappiness.
Next to him, arm around his shoulder, is a handsome older man in his forties. Short silvered hair. Tanned face and a broad smile, his eyes crinkling as if in the wake of something amusing.
Underneath, a scribble of letters in blue biro. I peer at them.
RIP.
Rest in peace. This must be Jean-Luc Bernas. My predecessor.
A twinge of some emotion I can’t name. Sorrow? Pity? I return to the cabin reflecting on how much his death would have impacted the rest of the base. Everyone must have been devastated. And scared – several weeks without a doctor while UNA scrambled to find a temporary replacement would have been an anxious time for all.
No wonder they seem reluctant to talk about it.
I picture the friendly face of the doctor. Alex’s happier demeanour. Jean-Luc was clearly well-liked, probably deeply mourned. Hardly surprising Alex is finding my arrival difficult.
I sit on my bunk for a while, trying to pull myself together, but I can’t shake a feeling of insecurity, of somehow being an imposter. Rationally, I know that’s ridiculous – I won the contract after a gruelling three-day interview and assessment in Geneva, not to mention an intensive medical and psychological examination. I’m as qualified to be here as anyone.
All the same, I feel a poor substitute for the man they’d known – and possibly even loved.
True to his word, Raff has left things in good order. There’s a file on my clinic desk filled with detailed notes on where to find everything, how to access and navigate the medical area of the IT system, plus an update on all the experiments. He’s even drawn a flat plan of my surgery and its supplies.
How did Raff manage when he arrived? No one then to show him the ropes. I’m touched by how much he’s gone out of his way to avoid leaving me in the same boat.
‘Please don’t hesitate to contact me if I can be of further help,’ reads his handwritten note. Underneath, an email address at a hospital in Naples – I resolve to thank him as soon as I get online.
Fighting off another wave of dizziness and nausea, I explore my little domain. Two rooms, linked by a double door. One a surgery with an exam bed and most of the medical gear, the other my office and clinic, housing all the drug supplies. There’s a decent range of equipment, including a ventilator, anaesthetic machine, cylinders of oxygen, and various surgical and dentistry tools, as well as facilities for taking X-rays, and simple blood or urine analysis. It’s reassuring to find it fully functional, as far as I can tell.
I pick up a pair of dental forceps, praying I’ll never have to use them. Despite the crash course in Switzerland, I’ve limited experience with some of this stuff.
You’ll be fine, I reassure myself. After all, there’s a 24-hour direct link to the UNA team at the Geneva University Hospital; anything I don’t know or am unsure about, they can talk me through. Even teeth.
Using my keys, I unlock each of the cupboards and go through the impressive stockpile of medication, including, I can’t help noticing, plenty of benzos and some pretty strong opiate-based painkillers.
I pick up one of the packets and break the seal, studying the sachet of pristine little pills. Pushing down a surge of longing, I put it back inside and lock the cupboard door, remembering my promise to myself: once my own stash runs out, that’s it – no dipping into station supplies.
I distract myself by going through all the medical notes – UNA has provided hard copies, as well as those stored on the computer system. I pick out each file one by one, quickly flicking through. Notice a number of the staff – Alex, Alice, Tom – have been prescribed sleeping pills since Jean-Luc died.
Is that because of the constant daylight, which can play hell with the circadian rhythms? Or is it more to do with the doctor’s death, hinting at darker feelings running beneath the social front they present to the world?
I guess I’ll find out in good time.
With my little orienteering session out of the way, I run a few checks. Attaching the pulse oximeter to my finger, I
note my blood oxygen saturation has fallen to 89 per cent, as my haemoglobin levels react to the low pressure from the altitude. Way off the normal 97–98 per cent. And at 109 beats per minute, my pulse rate is too high. I’ll need to keep tabs on myself for the next few days.
‘How you doing?’
I give a yelp of surprise and spin to see Drew in the doorway. ‘Sorry.’ He looks embarrassed. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you.’
I smile. ‘My fault. I was miles away.’
‘Everything as it should be? What’s that phrase? Shipshape and …’ he pauses.
‘Bristol fashion?’
‘Yeah, that’s it. Though I don’t have a clue what it means.’
‘Me neither,’ I admit. ‘And I live there.’
‘We’ll have to google it later,’ he says, ‘if we can access the damn internet.’
I grimace, remembering my conversation with Tom after dinner last night. He’d patiently explained how to get online, warning that it was slow, with usage restricted to essential email and communications.
‘Consider it a chance to detox from social media,’ he’d said in his clipped German accent, so deadpan that I couldn’t tell if he was joking. He still had a hard time looking me in the eye, I noticed. Perhaps he really is just painfully shy.
‘See Raff left you plenty of homework.’ Drew nods at the open folder on my desk. ‘Better leave you to it. I was wondering if you fancy a trip outside after lunch? The weather’s good.’
‘Thank you.’ I smile again. ‘I’d love that.’
A few hours later I find myself back in the boot room, hauling on cold weather gear. Given the heat indoors, it feels stifling, but the moment we’re outside it’ll be barely adequate.
I check and double-check my clothing, making sure I have my hat and goggles, nervous about leaving the warm cocoon of the station, then follow Drew out into the blinding sunlight. Freezing air rushes into my lungs and stings the exposed skin on my face. Almost instantly the tiny hairs in my nostrils stiffen and freeze.
You’re fine, I tell myself fiercely, trying to inhale and exhale slowly. Nothing bad is going to happen.
The Dark Page 3
