The Dark

by Emma Haughton

  He studies my face for a moment. ‘No problem, Kate. Let’s simply park this in the friend zone.’

  ‘You’re okay with that?’ I stand there feeling, despite his words, that this hasn’t gone well. But then what did I expect?

  I expected him not to be bothered, I realise. It never occurred to me that this was anything but a momentary diversion from the monotony of life on the base.

  But he seems … crushed. I kick myself for my carelessness. My silly assumptions. Just because Drew’s good-looking, it doesn’t mean he hasn’t got feelings, I remind myself again. It was stupid, letting our friendship slide into casual sex; the last thing I wanted to do was make things difficult between us.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, meaning it.

  Drew gives me a rueful smile. ‘Me too. But it’s fine. We won’t let it spoil things, okay?’

  ‘Okay.’ I give him a quick hug before I leave. It’s only as I’m creeping back through the corridors, hoping I don’t bump into anybody, that it occurs to me to wonder if Drew has done this before.

  Am I the latest in a line of conquests? There were plenty more women here, after all, over the summer.

  It hardly matters, I decide, as I let myself into my cabin, down a couple of sleeping pills and fall into bed, the first throb of a headache beginning to pulse in my temple.

  Either way, it’s a mistake I’d be foolish to repeat.

  9

  2 May

  I sense the weight of it first, sitting on my chest. Two brown eyes staring into mine, dark slits at their centre.

  That narrow vulpine face.

  I open my mouth to scream, but nothing emerges.

  The fox vanishes. I’m awake, heart pounding. I sit bolt upright, still in the panic of the dream. Feel, initially, the pain in my head. The creeping dread that heralds a really bad hangover.

  Then I remember last night.

  I groan out loud. Why the hell did I do that? Rule number one of surviving in a small group in the middle of icy nowhere – don’t screw anyone, Kate. Don’t risk a friendship turning sour, don’t become the source of unnecessary gossip. Anybody passing in the corridor might have heard us, after all.

  How could I have been so colossally, monumentally, spectacularly stupid?

  For a minute or two I contemplate staying in bed. Heaven knows, I feel dreadful and deserve a day off. But that would be cowardly – and simply postponing the inevitable. Plus I need to check on Alex, and talk to Caro.

  Nothing for it but to pray no one picked up on what happened.

  I swallow a couple of hydrocodone, then open the blackout blind and stare out into the darkness. No sunrise to look forward to, only a twilight glow for a few hours around midday. From now on I’m stuck with the harsh white glare of the LED bulbs that light the station.

  To my surprise – and relief – I find only Arne in the canteen, watching something on his iPad while eating a bowl of muesli.

  ‘Don’t let me interrupt,’ I say, as he glances up.

  ‘No worries.’ He turns it off. ‘I’ve watched it three times already.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘A film called Solaris.’

  ‘Andrei Tarkovsky,’ I smile. ‘One of his best.’

  A look of delight passes across Arne’s face. ‘You like his films?’

  ‘Very much.’ I picked up my love of Tarkovsky from Ben, who took me to see a retrospective of his work at an indie cinema in Bristol, not long after we got engaged. I quickly fell under the spell of those haunting images, the long lingering camera shots, the persistent sense of the ineffable.

  I remember Solaris well. The melancholy tale of a psychologist sent up to a remote space station occupied by three scientists who’ve all fallen into deep emotional crises. He quickly discovers the base is inhabited by monsters, elements of their subconscious given bodily form by the sentient planet they’re orbiting.

  The parallels with this place don’t bear thinking about.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Arne scrutinises me carefully. But there isn’t anything in it beyond concern, I decide. He’s simply one of those guys who likes to observe people.

  ‘A bit hungover,’ I admit. ‘Hit the wine too hard yesterday.’

  ‘Well, it was a difficult occasion.’ He presses his lips together, his expression thoughtful. ‘Alex is in a bad place. I worry about him.’

  I take a gulp of my coffee. ‘Do you talk to him much?’ Aside from Caro, Arne seems to be the only person I’ve seen Alex hang out with.

  ‘A little. But he’s … well, a typical block.’

  ‘Block?’ I frown, confused.

  ‘You know, a man?’

  ‘Oh,’ I give a little laugh. ‘Bloke. He doesn’t open up much, you mean?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  I blink at him in surprise. To be honest, that’s exactly how I’d describe Arne himself.

  ‘So Alex hasn’t told you what’s bothering him?’

  Arne regards me carefully. ‘I didn’t say that.’

  I’m about to ask what he means when Alice appears with Rob in tow. ‘Morning,’ she says cheerfully, boiling the kettle for tea. Rob gives me a nod, then gets his breakfast.

  No sign that anyone suspects anything, I note with relief. I clear my things and wash them up in the kitchen, planning my schedule. First up, I need to catch up with Alex. Tom too – the way he rushed off last night is another thing on my mind.

  But given it’s Sunday, it isn’t obvious where to find either of them. Sonya likes to knit in the lounge on her days off, basking under one of the UV lamps UNA provides to offset the worst effects of no sunlight. Sandrine will invariably be found on her makeshift putting green in Beta. But Alex? Or Tom? I’m not sure what they like to do in their free time – mooch around in their cabins, I suspect.

  That’s exactly where I find Alex, reclining on his bed. He doesn’t bother to sit up when I knock and stick my head around his door.

  ‘Can I come in?’

  He nods at the desk chair, so I shut the door behind me and sit. ‘You okay?’

  Alex doesn’t answer, just regards me for a moment then shifts his gaze to the window. Unlike me, he doesn’t keep the blind down all the time to ward off the darkness lurking outside.

  I glance into that impenetrable night, then look away, skin crawling. The sensation is similar to being on a boat, peering down into the fathomless depths of the ocean. The horror of the unseen. Anything could be out there, says a primitive part of my brain, though the rational part knows there’s nothing but air and ice.

  ‘How can I help you, Kate?’

  Alex’s voice reclaims my attention. I glance down at his right hand. The skin is mottled with bruising, blood crusted around the split in his knuckles.

  ‘We should clean that up and examine it properly,’ I tell him. ‘Want to come to the surgery?’

  I’m fully expecting him to refuse, but to my surprise he gets up and trails after me. I flick on the clinic lights and sit him in the chair by my desk. Fetching an antiseptic wipe, I crouch opposite and gently clear away the dried blood.

  ‘Can you flex your fingers for me?’

  Alex does as instructed.

  ‘Make a fist.’

  He clenches his hand, wincing. But the swelling is minimal and I’m pretty sure nothing is broken. I fish a dressing from the cupboard, douse the wound in more antiseptic, then dab it dry.

  Applying the tape, I feel his fingers trembling. From pain, I wonder, or something else? ‘Do you need some painkillers?’ I ask.

  Alex shakes his head. ‘I don’t want anything.’

  I glance up at his face. He really does look awful. Not just hungover, but as if he’s been putting on an act ever since I arrived, and now it has completely fallen apart. He looks crushed … defeated.

  What on earth is going on?

  I recall again those stories about people cracking under the strain. Guys who decide to leave the pole in the middle of winter, setting off on skis or snowmobiles.
People bursting into tears over breakfast, or locking themselves in their room, refusing to come out. The blank Antarctic stare known as ‘toast’, the mind lost in a world of its own. Not to mention numerous fights and arguments, bruised fists and broken jaws.

  Not every psyche is robust enough to deal with the extreme isolation, the sense of being imprisoned with a small cohort of people. Minor issues can easily escalate into major feuds. Hostilities break out over a simple misunderstanding.

  ‘You going to tell me what that was all about yesterday?’ I ask gently.

  He doesn’t answer.

  I try again. ‘Alex, please talk to me. Tell me what’s wrong.’

  Finally he looks up. I have the sense he’s assessing me, coming to some kind of conclusion.

  ‘They think it’s my fault,’ he mumbles, ‘what happened to Jean-Luc.’

  I stay silent, waiting for him to continue.

  He rubs his forehead with his uninjured hand, closes his eyes for a moment. ‘Did you know we spent four hours trying to reach him? But he was wedged head down, out of sight. He …’ Alex swallows, inhales. ‘We couldn’t get him out. We tried, but we couldn’t get him out.’

  ‘Alex, I’m so sorry.’ I take his good hand in mine.

  ‘Huh … well, you’re pretty much the only one. You and Caro. Everyone else blames me.’

  ‘Alex,’ I choose my words carefully. ‘I don’t think—’

  ‘It’s my job, you see, to make sure everything is safe and secure before any trip out on the ice. And I did, Kate. I always go over all the equipment meticulously. There was absolutely no sign of anything wrong. But a failure like that …’

  He falls silent again.

  ‘A failure like what?’ I prompt.

  ‘Those karabiners are designed to take huge weights. Much heavier than Jean-Luc. No way one of them would spontaneously shear off. It would have to be visibly defective for that to happen, and I’d have noticed.’

  ‘Did you examine it? Afterwards, I mean.’

  ‘There was nothing to examine. Everything fell into the crevasse with him.’

  I frown. ‘So what are you saying?’

  Alex shakes his head. I sense he’s holding back, that he doesn’t trust me enough to go further.

  ‘Listen,’ I urge. ‘I’m a doctor, so I am duty bound to keep anything said in this room confidential, okay?’

  Alex grunts in response.

  I sigh. ‘Alex, please don’t take this the wrong way. But I’m wondering if you … well, if you …’ I pause. ‘I’m aware some people on the station smoke marijuana. I wondered if that applies to you.’

  Alex’s eyes widen. ‘What are you implying, Kate? That I’m fucking paranoid? Or that I got high and didn’t check the equipment properly?’ His voice is rising and he looks furious.

  I hold my hands up in an attempt to pacify him. ‘No, I only meant perhaps it wasn’t helping—’

  ‘Fuck you!’ He glares at me, cheeks reddening as if I’ve reached out and slapped him. ‘You’re as bad as the rest of them.’

  ‘Alex, wait—’

  But my words are cut short by the sound of the clinic door slamming behind him.

  10

  2 May

  Locking the clinic door, I hurry back to my room and stand by the window, lifting the blind and forcing myself to gaze outside. But a thick blanket of cloud obscures the myriad stars that are the single upside of constant darkness and zero pollution, leaving nothing to see beyond my own reflection in the glass.

  I picture Jean-Luc again in that cold, cold ice. There’s no room for error in this unforgiving place, I think – a single mistake can have fatal consequences.

  And I’ve just made a grave one with Alex. Why on earth did I mention the marijuana? I should have waited for a better time.

  Stupid move, Kate.

  In the corridor, voices echo, coming closer then fading. Somewhere, more distant, the faint hum of the diesel generator keeping us alive in this ice-bound oasis. I listen for a while before retrieving the vitamin bottle from the back of my wardrobe. My hangover is rapidly blooming into a killer headache, and the pills I took earlier are barely touching it.

  As I open the lid and peer inside, a wave of nausea rushes up and threatens to engulf me.

  It’s empty.

  Every single one of my remaining pills has gone.

  With a rising feeling of panic, I rummage around in the wardrobe, assuming the bottle had somehow spilled its contents. But there’s no sign of any of my medication. Not even one tablet.

  What the hell?

  I search my rucksack, find a couple of hydrocodone wrapped in a tissue in one of the side pockets. I crunch them between my teeth then swallow them down, desperate to take the edge off the pain in my head so I can think more clearly.

  Is it possible I put my pills elsewhere and somehow forgot? Could I have had some kind of lapse, a side effect of the medication?

  I’m not one of those people who thrives on denial. I’m well aware I’ve been taking too many prescription drugs, and for too long. Though my dependence started legitimately enough – the accident left me with chronic pain from whiplash and a broken knee – I can’t deny it’s morphed into something else entirely. Thanks in no small part to my sister, who six weeks after the crash confronted me with a pile of empty pill packets retrieved from my recycling bin.

  ‘Seriously, Kate?’

  Clare hadn’t had to say any more. It was as pointless trying to bullshit my sister as myself.

  All the same, I’ve managed to function well enough until now. No obvious gaps or lapses in attention. I wind back to this morning, trying to remember exactly what I did. I can visualise it clearly, taking the hydrocodone out of the bottle then replacing it at the back of my wardrobe, underneath my outdoor clothes.

  No way I imagined that. I may have a problem, but I’m not crazy.

  Though the alternative is worse. If I didn’t lose or misplace them, then this is … down to someone else.

  Somebody has been in my room and taken my pills.

  But why? I sit on the bed and try to think through the fog of my hangover. I’m happy to prescribe whatever anyone needs. UNA recognises that getting through an Antarctic winter can be physically and mentally gruelling, and has no qualms about giving people any pharmacological support they need.

  So if not for their own use, why else might someone steal my pills? To report me to Sandrine?

  The thought sends a chill right through my limbs. While I haven’t broken any rules – UNA doesn’t forbid people bringing their own medication onto the ice – I suspect the station leader might take a dim view of my stash.

  It doesn’t make sense though. Surely, if their purpose was to expose me, they’d have taken the vitamin bottle too? After all, it’s pretty much proof I’m trying to conceal my habit.

  A surge of anxiety makes my head throb even more. I lie back and close my eyes for a minute or two, trying to calm down. When I open them again I notice something strange – the notebook I keep on the left side of my desk has shifted to the right. I get up and check, certain I didn’t move it – I use it to hide a large mug stain left by a previous resident.

  Slowly, carefully, I go through the rest of my room, starting with the drawer where I keep my toiletries. Everything looks normal, but slightly off, as if someone searched through my belongings, covering their tracks in a hurry. It’s the same story with my bedside table, and all the stuff stashed on the top bunk. Nothing I can put my finger on, just a creeping sense that things have shifted since I left them this morning.

  Returning to the wardrobe, I inspect my clothes. Notice my long-sleeved T-shirts have been folded differently, their arms no longer tucked inside. My underwear, too, has been rearranged, all my socks now at the back of the shelf instead of the front.

  The conclusion is inescapable. Someone has been in my room and gone through all my possessions.

  But the question is why?

  And what am I going to do
about it?

  Nothing, I realise, with a sinking feeling. There’s absolutely nothing I can do. I can’t report the missing pills, for obvious reasons. And I don’t think anything else has been taken.

  Is there another way I could find out who did it? From the tracking data on our activity bands perhaps?

  But I’d need help – I’ve glanced at the data before and couldn’t make head nor tail of it. Anyway, whoever came in here probably had the sense to remove their activity band beforehand.

  Oh God. I lie back down, fighting another swell of panic that makes my pulse race. Someone knows. Someone knows my dirty little secret.

  I grit my teeth, trying to steady myself. I can’t think about that now, I decide – all I can do is keep my head down and carry on as normal, hope whoever did this keeps it to themselves. And if they choose to expose me, well, I’ll just have to fess up and throw myself on Sandrine’s mercy.

  Christ, it’s not as if she can sack me, is it? I’m the only doctor they’ve got until that plane arrives next spring.

  Perhaps my intruder has done me a favour, I think, as my headache finally eases enough to go and see Caro. After all, knowing you have a problem isn’t the same as dealing with it – that’s a battle I’ve always been happy to fight tomorrow.

  Maybe, ironically, this is exactly the push I need.

  I find Caro alone in the library, writing a letter. Odd, given there’s no way to get it to its recipient for another six months.

  ‘I write to my parents every few weeks,’ she says, catching my puzzled expression. ‘An account of what I’m doing, updates on the station and so on. They love receiving them, even if they arrive in one big pile.’

  They’re cattle ranchers, I remember, farming in the hills near Dunedin. After a life as an only child – and by her own admission always something of a tomboy – Caro trained as a plumber.

  In truth, she still has plenty of the tomboy about her, eschewing make-up, invariably dressed in that old sweatshirt and baggy dungarees. But I’m pretty certain she’s straight; Alice, on the other hand, who’s as ethereally feminine as you can get, is very much not.