The Ice

by Laline Paull

  ‘You know I’ll have to live through the whole thing again.’ He was about to tell her about his fingers, the frostbite, how they were tingling again, when she looked at her watch.

  ‘I’m afraid our time’s up. Would you like to make another appointment?’

  Yes, he thought, absolutely right. Fake kind, fake concerned.

  ‘No I bloody wouldn’t. And I’ll see myself out.’

  I had a visit from a man named Uvdloriasugsuk, who had come a day’s journey to the north-west. He was a big, broad-shouldered fellow with a long black beard; a steady and reliable man, greatly esteemed by all who knew him. Nevertheless, he had shot his own brother the winter before. And it was in connection with this killing that he wished to see me. The brother, it appeared, was a man of unruly temper, who went berserk at times, and had killed one man and wounded others in his fits. His fellow villagers therefore decided that he must be killed, and Uvdloriasugsuk, as head of his village, was deputed to act as executioner. Much against his will, for he was fond of his brother, Uvdloriasugsuk nevertheless consented, regarding it as his duty. He therefore went in to his brother and having explained the position, asked him to choose his own manner of death; by steel, thong or bullet. Without protest or sign of fear, he chose the last, and Uvdloriasugsuk shot him on the spot. He seemed anxious now to hear what I thought about it. I could only assure him that where the safety of all was threatened and all had agreed upon the safety measures to be taken in defence, he could hardly have acted otherwise.

  Across Arctic America: Narrative of the Fifth Thule Expedition (1927)

  Knud Rasmussen

  17

  October

  Sean decided to stay in Canterbury for the duration of the inquest. Early on the Monday of its commencement, he met Sawbridge in the breakfast room of the White Bear Inn, where they had both taken rooms. It was the highest-rated place to stay in the old city, and rather than ominous, Sean felt the name propitious.

  His room – the largest – was at the top of some crooked black wood stairs, and from the sloping window he had a view of medieval rooftops and also the car park. A church bell, very loud and close, startled him – he had forgotten what proximity to the cathedral meant – but it was too late to change anything today. He wished Martine had come with him for the whole thing, instead of just arriving on Wednesday for her testimony. But the benefit was on Thursday and she didn’t trust anyone but herself to oversee it. It was too important. The Tom Harding Bequest was £100,000, and although there was still an official shortlist, it was going to Imperial College for their newly patented biodegradable Fruit-Fly drones, nano-tiny and with unprecedented manoeuvrability.

  In the sitting room of the White Bear, Sawbridge greeted Sean as if they were guests meeting for a wedding, rather than lawyer and client attending an inquest. He reassured him: everyone but Radiance Young had confirmed their attendance – even Joe Kingsmith. Sean’s spirits rose at this last item; for his mentor to commit his time was uncharacteristically generous. It was indeed stressful, but it was also a formality that would soon be over, and then all suspicion would be blown away. Sawbridge made it sound as if they were off to see a top-reviewed West End play, and he had managed to get great seats.

  Sean followed his lawyer’s snugly pinstriped back through a shortcut into the cathedral precincts then out via a private gate in the city wall. As a King’s School old boy, Sawbridge knew his way around, and cheerily hailed the flower of wealthy youth as they passed by in their uniform. Sean thought of his own alma mater. One drunken night he had revealed it to Tom, then felt ashamed and denied it as a bad joke. Tom had chivalrously agreed to believe him, and never again referred to it.

  The coroner’s court was a red-brick building beyond the old city wall, on the far side of six lanes of traffic. The main entrance was on a quiet side-street, with shallow brick steps leading up to the glass box of the reception area. The clerk handed over two copies of the running order for Court No. 1, and directed them to the private meeting room Sawbridge had booked for recesses.

  He slapped the pages down on the table.

  ‘I’d say we should be done by Wednesday. Coroner retires to consider for an hour or two if he needs, possibly overnight if he’s truly dull – and then first thing Thursday morning delivers his Conclusion, and off we all can go.’

  Sean looked through the list of names and time slots. Last night Parch, obviously with Philip Stowe’s approval, had left a message of support ‘from everyone’, but this unexpected solicitude triggered more anxiety than reassurance.

  To Sean’s relief, Court No. 1 was half-empty. The capacity was maybe a hundred people, and the front three rows of chairs were clearly from some grander environment, high-backed oxblood leather with brass studs. The rest were a mix of serviceable office chairs, with here and there a brightly padded gilt chair commandeered from the Registrar’s office down the hall.

  It always surprised Sean how little people bothered about their environment, and how simple it was to improve it. As a way of distracting himself from the tension, he considered ways to do this. Clean the filthy sky lantern, for a start; get rid of the vile fluorescent strip lighting, rip out the carpet and put down sound-insulated wood for a sense of quality – find new chairs, all the same – emphasise the formality and get rid of the patched-together air of the room. An older couple in matching jackets sat to one side, and he wondered who they were. They were both tanned with silvery blond hair and the woman had an expensive handbag – and then Sean’s attention went to the double doors opening, and his heart started pounding.

  Tom’s mother Angela Harding came in, his grandmother Ruby leaning on her arm. It struck at his heart to see they were dressed as if going to church, in neat floral dresses with jackets. Granny Ruby had a matching handbag, and they sat down in the second row on the left-hand side. A long trestle table had been set up down that same wall, at right angles to the rows of seats, where sat a very young journalist, tapping away at top speed on her laptop, pausing only to gulp from a paper cup. He stared at her sloppy clothes and flip-flops. He got up and went to her, and she looked up with a smile. Even younger than Rosie.

  ‘Mr Cawson! I looked you up so I’d recognise you – my dad was at—’

  ‘You cannot be here dressed like this.’ Sean was appalled. Once he was worthy of a special feature in the Sunday Times, but now the only member of the press was this child.

  ‘Do I have to wear something special? I didn’t—’

  ‘A man has died. Show some respect.’ He saw the alarm in her eyes. He took a deep breath. ‘He was my friend.’

  ‘I know, I’m really sorry. I’ll change.’

  Sean shook his head. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to shout.’ Then he steeled himself to talk to Angela and Granny Ruby.

  ‘Sean.’ Angela didn’t move to embrace him, as she had at the funeral. ‘You didn’t come to the wake – I suppose you were busy.’

  ‘I don’t suppose Ruth invited him.’ Granny Ruby’s eyes held ancient light as she extended her papery old hand. Automatically, he took it. She tightened her grip and looked into his eyes. ‘Tom admired you so much.’ She gripped him harder. ‘I’m sure you would have saved him if you could have. Wouldn’t you?’

  Sean closed his other hand over hers, as much to stop her as comfort her. ‘Yes, I would. And I’m glad to be here if I can offer your family support.’ He went back to his seat, feeling like the old lady had knifed him. Sawbridge shifted as he sat.

  ‘Best keep this side, for a bit.’ He turned as the doors opened behind them. ‘Aha. Mob-handed.’ An older woman entered, followed by two young men. Each pulled a black document case. Sawbridge rose and bowed politely.

  ‘Mrs Ursula Osman: tremendous to see you.’

  The woman paused and blinked at Sawbridge. Everything about her looked slightly battered, from her face to her case to her dusty black suit.

  ‘Nicholas. Good morning.’ Even her voice had a rasp.

  ‘Don’t tell me y
ou’ve given up criminal?’

  ‘I give up nothing.’

  ‘So true! Implacable honour your sword and shield. We salute you, madam, and are relieved this inquest is a mere Jamieson.’ Sawbridge was as expansive as if he were hosting the entire proceedings.

  ‘No inquest is ever mere,’ she said drily.

  ‘Touché!’ Sawbridge straightened his creases as he sat. ‘Fine KC,’ he murmured after she had passed, ‘but always looks in need of a good scrub. And my god she’s aged. She looks appalling.’

  Sean studied the woman who had provoked Sawbridge into such aggressive bonhomie.

  She looked in her mid-fifties and was small-framed with the legacy of childhood scoliosis in the hunch of her shoulders. Her sparse hair was dyed an adamant brunette and as she heaved her case over a wrinkle in the carpet, she seemed to Sean to embody the cruelty of the ageing process as well as the vulnerability of the body. Just then a heavy file under her arm slipped and cracked open on the ground. She exclaimed in frustration and Sean went to her aid.

  ‘Leave them.’ She crouched on the ground before he could get there, protecting the papers with a crabbed hand. Then she recalled her manners and looked at him. ‘But thank you, Mr Cawson.’ Her eyes were deep set and black, with an intelligent, knowing expression. With a shock he thought of the bear on the glacier.

  Dizzy, he went back to his seat, the tiny buzzing sensation starting up in his right fingertips. The loud distinctive croaks of crows were in the room – their black feet like runes on the dirty glass of the sky lantern. For a moment he saw another window, a cold white lozenge as he lay immobilised in a bed, his arms held in place by straps, an unbearable burning in his fingers. He touched the side of his mouth, then his nose. His fingertips were soft and whole, his skin was warm. He would have to talk about all that, very soon. Sawbridge was saying something to him, nudging him, and Sean realised the courtroom had filled.

  ‘Please be upstanding for His Majesty’s Coroner.’

  A youthful middle-aged man in a grey suit strode down the aisle, followed by one in his twenties. The coroner took his seat behind the desk on the low platform, and his clerk cleared his throat. ‘Please be seated.’

  With a scrape of chairs, the inquest into the death of Thomas Walter Harding began.

  One of the very remarkable characteristics of the West Greenland ‘Husky’ is the very varied appearance of different dogs. In the same district one sees animals which look like the old English sheep dog and others which resemble short-legged Alsatians, and neither can be said to be untrue to type. However the majority look more like the Chow than any other European breed. This great difference in appearance suggests that they are a collection of mongrels, like the bastard breed of natives who own them. In point of fact they are probably the purest-bred dogs in the world, being so securely segregated from the rest of the canine world.

  Sledge: The British Trans-Greenland Expedition 1934 (1935)

  Martin Lindsay

  18

  ‘My name is Allan Thornton and I am the King’s Coroner for Canterbury and East Kent. I am charged to discover and record, through this inquest, as many facts about Tom Harding’s death as is in the public interest.’ He surveyed his court with a deliberate gaze and Sean felt a jolt of adrenaline.

  ‘You are all free to come and go at will,’ said the coroner, ‘but I hope you will respect the process and find the appropriate moment.’ Then he indicated the opposite side of his platform, where witnesses would stand to make their statements, and the chair they could use if they needed. There was a television monitor on each side.

  ‘And now, at the request of Tom’s family, and for clarity of understanding, I am going to screen footage of the actual moment of discovery of his body, taken in Svalbard in March of this year. I must warn you that at the very end, you will see the body itself. If you do not wish to see this, please leave now.’

  When no one moved, officials either side of the room pulled the vertical blinds and put out the lights. The black monitors popped to bright grey readiness. Sawbridge leaned in to whisper to Sean.

  ‘I knew nothing about this – obviously, I would have told you. Terribly bad form – are you sure you want to see?’

  Sean nodded, his eyes fixed on the nearer of the two screens. He desperately feared and needed to see Tom’s body. The words appeared:

  Svalbard Cruise – Property of Mr and Mrs John Burke

  The older couple with the silvery blond hair. They held hands, faces rapt.

  The footage was slightly jerky and the time code flickered at the bottom. Then the POV lunged to the ship’s rail to focus on the face of the left-hand fork of Midgardbreen where the blue ice met the water. The buffeting sound of the wind muffled the excited babble of voices in different languages, then the camera tilted and refocused higher up the glacier. The POV studied the white puffs rising into the air, before rushing down to the front wall of ice at the waterfront as it lifted and bulged before exploding out in the calving. The courtroom heard the deep rumbling sound audible beneath the shouts and exclamations of the passengers.

  The camera stared at the great blue floe gliding by, then back to the waterline at the ice-foot. Sean recognised the new cave. It had grown bigger since this footage was taken.

  The POV went in closer, tightening on the red shape that had appeared just below the surface of the water. Courtroom No. 1 could clearly hear a woman’s voice above the wind and the rustle of clothing.

  ‘John, is that a body?’

  The image on the screen was paused. The silhouette of the coroner spoke.

  ‘We are now about to see the recovery of Tom’s body.’

  No one stirred and the film resumed. The POV on the deck was slightly different, with a new hubbub of voices. The camera focused unsteadily on the blue face of the glacier, then down to the water and a black inflatable boat with four people in orange survival suits. Small pieces of ice fell around them as the boat pilot held its position, whilst the other three pulled the red shape from the water.

  It came up long and heavy like a shot seal, but unmistakeably a human body. North Face. Sean remembered Tom’s red jacket. The trousers were black. The camera pushed forward over the rail, desperate to see.

  The boat then turned around and headed back to the ship and the POV cut out, resuming at a different position on deck. The person filming was leaning over the rail to keep the boat in focus as it returned, the familiar sound of the Zodiac engine cutting through the voices and the wind. The crew on the landing deck below were standing ready, and the camera managed to catch a glimpse of the red shape – and the purplish frozen face Sean can still recognise.

  The blinds were opened and also the windows at the top. Pressure popped in Sean’s ears and the sound burst loud again. His hands and feet were freezing cold as if all the blood had rushed to his heart. Mr Thornton the coroner consulted a paper before him.

  ‘Tom’s family have asked me to explain that they wanted the entire sequence shown to emphasise his concern about the dangerous pace of climate change. That was the biggest ever recorded calving in Svalbard. They feel it’s a very powerful way to bring attention to the issue he devoted the last years of his life to bringing to public awareness.’

  Angela Harding clapped, others joining in. The sound mixed into something else behind it, a faint plasticky pattering like rain. Sean turned. A couple more journalists – adults at least – had joined the girl in flip-flops. He felt Ursula Osman watching him.

  ‘OK?’ Sawbridge leaned in. Sean nodded. Because that twisted horror was not Tom. That was not how he looked.

  Tom was handsome in the sleepy-eyed way girls found irresistible and that Sean envied – despite attracting plenty of female attention himself. They had first met thirty years ago, when he was literally waiting on Tom at the Trinity Term dinner held by the elite Lost Explorers’ Society. It was the summer term of his first year at Oxford, and the dinner was held in the private upstairs room of the Crown and Sceptre, a
fusty conservative pub where he would never have chosen to drink.

  He’d specifically asked to work that evening because he’d heard mention of the Lost Explorers’ Society, in his obsessive polar reading. The society was several generations old and exclusive, and their focus was on the glory days of polar exploration. It was upper class, extravagant and mounted a serious annual expedition, with sponsorship and risk. He knew he would despise everyone there, but he still wanted to be in the room with them – those fortunate young men of means, whose loud entitled voices he’d heard and hated on the high street, who snapped their fingers at waiters their own age.

  It was fascinating. Twelve members were in attendance, they wore black tie – something Sean simultaneously admired and mocked. He was the only waiter and ran up and down the narrow stairs with chilled champagne, then platters of pâté on tiny pieces of toast and yellow wine that smelled like honey, that he discovered were foie gras and Sauternes. When he’d cleared that, he brought up dusty bottles of vintage Pomerol – he had been told to leave them that way – and twelve heavy aromatic plates of Beef Wellington, far too rich for the hot summer evening, but delicious, as he licked his finger of gravy before coming into the room. They wolfed it fast, grenades of laughter exploding around him as he came in to clear their plates. They no longer saw him, but he saw them, how drunk they were, how they shouted over each other, struggling for dominance, and then he heard a magic word: Greenland.

  They were talking about their forthcoming expedition in two months’ time, in the long vac. This summer! Sean scowled at himself for even thinking of it – he ran back down with their order for another four bottles, and when he came back the leader of the group, whose name, Sean had gathered, was Redmond, stood and grabbed one from him.

  He was a thickset young man with a ruddy face and wavy brown hair, and to a roar of general approval, he displayed his father’s favourite 1976 Tokay, with the old bastard’s compliments – and then Sean was off up and down the stairs again, bringing and clearing plates of apple crumble and cream, port and Stilton, and finally, Armagnac, coffee and truffles.