The Ice

by Laline Paull

  Suddenly he didn’t know what was his own experience, and what were things he’d unconsciously gathered from other sources, and wanted to believe. Like the stories he’d told about his supposed father, the lost polar explorer. Inside him he had felt that it was true. He was taking deep breaths of air, and he felt the deliberate pressure of Sawbridge’s arm against his.

  ‘Steady now,’ murmured his lawyer. ‘Steady.’

  ‘It is important, I think, to say that Svalbard is an unrestricted environment,’ Brovang addressed the courtroom. ‘We are there on Nature’s own terms, and at our own risk. Sean and Tom knew this, they were experienced travellers. Also, I believe the cave was checked by Danny Long and Terry Bjornsen two days prior to this visit, and they found no unusual risk factors – beyond of course that going into a glacier has an inherent risk.’

  Brovang paused, and looked directly at Angela Harding. ‘In my opinion, this is a tragic example of a true accident. The weight of the collapsed ice and the lack of oxygen would be similar to being caught in an avalanche, which is what I said in my report. When I interviewed Mr Cawson in hospital, he told me about Tom’s fall to the deeper level, and it was only at that time I gave instructions to stop the search. We could not go down any further, and the time had passed to expect to find him alive.

  ‘And now, three years later, we have more than one hundred pieces of evidence of how his body was found, from all the passengers on the Vanir, who were in the fjord because of a bear sighting. Otherwise no one would have known, because his body would have sunk within minutes.’ Brovang looked back to Sean. ‘This time Mr Cawson’s men were on hand, to offer assistance, but the Coastguard was already there so we did not need them.’

  The coroner sat forward with a frown. ‘Mr Cawson’s men? I don’t understand. And how did they know?’

  The courtroom became quiet.

  ‘Mr Cawson’s business, Midgard Lodge, is further down inside the fjord, almost at the boundary of the National Park. They would have picked it up on the radio, when the Vanir called us with the emergency.’

  ‘Why would they do that?’ asked the coroner.

  ‘In remote places like Svalbard, your life might depend on a good neighbour. If you are a little nosy, well, OK. An emergency on the doorstep would be important to know about. I am guessing that is why they were there so soon.’

  The coroner made a note on his pad.

  ‘I’ll be coming to Mr Cawson’s business later, so I’ll save further questions about that for him.’

  Sean felt the room shift in awareness. People moved to take a better look at him. So he had a business there did he, he was nosy, was he? He heard the tiny plastic rattling of keyboards, but he did not look. He could feel Sawbridge tapping his foot.

  ‘There is one more thing,’ said Brovang. ‘At the time of the accident, I asked for photographs of both Tom and Sean, to show my team. I also took samples from their clothing, for DNA, which has been held at the Folkehelseinstituttet in Oslo. So when Tom’s body was found, I could still recognise him, and his family kindly provided a DNA match also.’

  Sean kept his eyes forward. All these things going on, and he hadn’t even known Tom had been found.

  ‘A question,’ said the coroner. ‘When you identified him, I believe you first notified Dr Ruth Mott, the tourist lecturer. Why her?’

  ‘Ah.’ Brovang took off his glasses. ‘Because her name and number were in the back of Tom’s passport. I had the details from before.’

  The coroner looked out. ‘Mrs Osman, Mr Sawbridge, any questions?’

  They both nodded, but Sawbridge waved her forward.

  ‘Ladies first.’

  Mrs Osman stood crookedly, and spoke in her rasping voice.

  ‘On behalf of Tom’s family I would like to thank you, Inspector Brovang, for your diligence in all matters concerning the search for Tom, your care in assistance with his repatriation home, and your time in attending this inquest. First, I’d like to ask you a bit more about your choice to call Dr Ruth Mott, rather than Mr Cawson, whose details you also held. And who, after all, had been in the accident with him.’

  ‘Yes.’ Brovang spoke quietly. ‘But he had not written Sean’s details in the back of his passport.’

  ‘Is that the only reason?’

  Sawbridge half rose. ‘Terribly sorry,’ he called out, ‘but the relevance of the question is … what, exactly?’

  Mrs Osman addressed the coroner, not Sawbridge.

  ‘I believe Tom Harding’s relationship with Ruth Mott will prove to be significant in illuminating the circumstances of his death. My other question concerns the exact nature of these “search and rescue” staff at Midgard Lodge?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Brovang said it simply. ‘But they are good neighbours.’

  ‘Where is this going, please?’ Sawbridge leaned forward.

  ‘Agreed,’ said the coroner. ‘We have a lot to get through. Mr Sawbridge?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Sawbridge pushed his spectacles up his nose and smiled respectfully at Inspector Brovang. ‘You said people visit Svalbard “on Nature’s terms”. Could you explain that a little more?’

  ‘The simplest way to put it is to say, be humble. Every single time you step outside, respect her power.’

  ‘No matter how experienced you think you are?’

  ‘Especially then.’

  ‘Thank you, Inspector Brovang, no further questions.’

  Sean stood on the side-street with Sawbridge, his mouth and eyes burning dry. People from the courtroom ducked their eyes as they passed. Sawbridge aimed his match hard and accurate into a drain, then puffed on his cigar for a while.

  ‘Exploitative and unfair, showing that footage. What’s Osman playing at, going in so hard right at the start? That’s the worst, though: seeing it. How’re you doing?’

  Sean felt the warm brick wall against his back. The gritty air near the ring road was refreshing after the stillness of the courtroom.

  ‘I needed to see it.’ His voice did not sound his own.

  ‘Sean?’ Brovang had followed them. He nodded to Sawbridge then shook hands with Sean, his grip warm and vigorous. ‘I heard you were fully recovered,’ he said. ‘But it is still good to see with my own eyes. And also to say thank you for the generous donations,’ he went on. ‘Midgard Lodge helps Longyearbyen stay Norway’s Most Generous Town every year. But you know it was our duty to help. You don’t need to keep paying for it.’

  ‘You’re sure,’ Sean said, ‘that it was a polar bear den? Perhaps if they’d known that, people wouldn’t have thought so badly of me. A polar bear sells anything.’

  Brovang smiled.

  ‘Oh yes, we are quite sure. Higher up the glacier, and we think long unused. I did tell you, afterwards when we spoke in the Sickehaus. You were very pleased – you said you were lucky, because it might have been occupied!’

  ‘I don’t remember that at all. But it would be a pleasure to see you at Midgard Lodge, I’ll be there much more often now. I just couldn’t face it for a while.’ He felt like he was apologising to Brovang.

  Brovang nodded. ‘That is very easy to understand. I think many people will be glad to know you are in charge.’

  ‘I’ve always been in charge. What do you mean?’

  ‘Ah.’ Brovang looked at his watch. ‘I must make sure I catch that train. Good luck, Sean.’ He hurried away and Sean watched him go, thinking.

  When a human being dies, the soul leaves the earth and goes to one or the other of two distinct regions. Some souls go up into heaven and become Uvdlormuit, the People of Day. Their country lies over toward the dawn. Others again go down under the sea, where there is a narrow belt of land with water on either side. These are called Qimiujarmuit, the People of the Narrow Land. But in either place they are happy and at ease, and there is always plenty to eat.

  Those who pass to the Land of Day are people who have been drowned, or murdered. It is said that the Land of Day is the land of glad and happy souls. It i
s a great country, with many caribou, and the people there live only for pleasure. They play ball most of the time, playing at football with the skull of a walrus, and laughing and singing as they play. It is this game of souls playing at ball that we can see in the sky as the northern lights.

  The greater among the angakoqs, or wizards, often go up on a visit to the People of Day, just for pleasure. Such are called Pavungnartut, which means, those who rise up to heaven. The wizard preparing to set out on such a journey is placed at the back of the bench in his hut, with a curtain of skin to hide him from view. His hands must be tied behind his back and his head lashed fast to his knees; he wears breeches, but nothing more, the upper part of his body being bare. When he is thus tied up, the men who have tied him take fire from the lamp on the point of a knife and pass it over his head, drawing rings in the air, and saying at the same time; ‘Niorruarniartoq aifale’ (Let him who is going on a visit now be carried away).

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

  Knud Rasmussen

  20

  Flip-flops, as he had mentally named her, rushed up to Sean before he sat down with Sawbridge for the second session. At first he didn’t recognise her – she had changed into ‘the most boring clothes I could find’, she told him breathlessly. ‘I am so sorry to dress disrespectfully, I didn’t know.’ She looked down at her black shoes and skin-coloured tights. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘You weren’t to know.’ Sean thought of the strange outfits Rosie wore. This girl was about the same age. He looked over to the long trestle, where a couple more journalists, a man and a woman, had taken up positions a couple of seats apart. ‘Who are you with?’

  ‘With?’ The girl followed his eyes. ‘Oh. I’m freelance.’ She gave him a card, her name handwritten in block capitals. BETH BURNHAM, ENVIRONMENTAL CORRESPONDENT. He tried not to smile.

  ‘That’s right.’ She looked at him earnestly. ‘You have to imagine yourself where you want to be, then it can happen. You said that in your Sunday Times interview.’

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in school?’

  ‘This is more important.’

  ‘Than your education? No, it’s not.’

  ‘It is! The Arctic is melt—’

  ‘The Arctic, the Arctic: do you have any idea what you’re talking about? It’s not a theme park with indigenous dolls, you know, or some kind of fantasy game with polar bears against the oil demons. You can’t save it. You can only manage it. Understand that, first of all.’ Sean saw the alarm in her eyes, but she didn’t back down.

  ‘I know it’s complicated and I know I don’t understand it all. That’s why I’m here, because you are, you’re really involved so I thought—’

  ‘Here’s what I think’ – Sawbridge peered at the handwritten business card – ‘Miss Burnham. You’re doing media studies and thought this was a good project.’

  ‘How’d you know that?’ Her indignation made Sean fond of her.

  Sawbridge smiled. ‘I’m also guessing you’re local, you heard about the inquest and you saw the words “interested party” and thought to yourself, ooh yes, I’m interested, why don’t I go along, and observe other people’s grief, and other people’s business, and I’ll put it down to environmental awareness. Or did you not consider that part?’

  The girl frowned. ‘It’s a public hearing. I’m allowed to be here.’

  ‘Mm. Thing is, you’re not.’ Sawbridge dropped his voice so only they could hear him. ‘Unless you have a demonstrable vested interest, or are with a recognised official press organisation, you need to leave.’

  ‘Official press organisations,’ she retorted, ‘are stale, male and pale.’ She stood up straight. ‘I’ve changed my shoes, which was a fair comment from Mr Cawson, but in case you didn’t know, things have changed. I am a global citizen journalist and what happens in the Arctic affects us all. So I would call that a very strong vested interest, thank you.’ She was breathing hard at her own defiance. ‘And if people like me don’t take a stand—’

  ‘Or a seat by the socket,’ said Mrs Osman, a gleam of amusement in her hooded eyes. ‘Oh dear, too late.’ They all turned to see a new male journalist, large and slobby and vaguely familiar to Sean, sweeping her things down the table and taking her place. He ignored Beth Burnham’s glower as they were all upstanding again for the second part of the morning. Sean recognised him, he was the coiner of the ‘Dirty Davos’ nickname, and was constantly trying to join one of Sean’s clubs, under false names. Sean knew he bore him nothing but ill will, but he still felt for him. The man craved status.

  The American cruise tourists, John and Trudie Burke were next on, Mrs Burke speaking for both of them. Sean listened as she described how the passengers yearned for a bear and how passenger power had got that drone up, and found that bear, that led them, like some kind of animal guide, wasn’t it? to where they needed to be. Even if the captain hadn’t wanted to go there and there was some sort of to-do about it. But it was the right thing, because then they found that poor man’s body. She was ready to give forth their views on the warming Arctic, but the coroner glanced at the clock and thanked her.

  ‘A moment?’

  The coroner nodded to Mrs Osman.

  ‘Do you mean, there was a disagreement about following the bear?’

  ‘Something about going up that fjord,’ Mrs Burke said. ‘One fjord, another fjord – we wanted to see the thing they’d sold us on: a polar bear! Nine days of glaucous gulls and fulmars – then some walrus we weren’t allowed close enough to see properly in case we upset them. Let me tell you, there were people on board who have died natural deaths, God bless them, since that voyage, and seeing a polar bear was on their bucket list! So first they announced over the PA system they’d seen it and we all rushed out and some people even got a glimpse, then all of a sudden they changed their mind and we couldn’t sail down that fjord where it was headed. Kingdom of the Ice Bear or Lord of the High North or whatever, and there he was but we couldn’t take a look?’

  She smiled. ‘You can trust a bunch of oldsters to make trouble. The attorneys got up a memo for the tour operator who took it to the captain, and that’s how come we went down that fjord, and then – well. The calving and all.’ Her bright tone fell away as she looked at Tom’s mother for a second, and bobbed her head in deference or condolence. ‘I just hope it was a good thing, in the end, that we followed that bear. We’re going to light a candle in the cathedral for him.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Burke.’ Mrs Osman sat down.

  Sean felt his heart beating harder and composed his face to show nothing but calmness. Osman must know something of the activities of Midgard Lodge, she must be curious or she wouldn’t have asked about the passage of the ship into the fjord – but this process was simply about the circumstances of Tom’s tragic death. Not the favour Sean was doing, for both the governments of Norway and Great Britain.

  Parch was coming to the benefit on Thursday night; he would collar him then and tell him they could stick their knighthood. He wasn’t going to dance on a chain for anyone any more – he was a very successful British businessman willing to put his entrepreneurial talent in harness to the greater good of the nation and they could show a bit of respect, or fuck off. But even as he thought these things, Sean knew he still wanted Philip Stowe to keep his word. He wanted to believe.

  Sean declined Sawbridge’s offer of the guilty pleasure of a cheap bacon sandwich, in favour of clearing his head with a walk. He bought some peanuts then ducked through the concealed gateway to the cathedral precincts, lifting his hand casually to the porter as his lawyer had done. With some time to spare, he decided to take a quick look in the cathedral.

  He stepped out of the wind and into the vaulting stone space, where jewelled light fell down between the pillars onto the paving of ancient tombs. Traders in the temple, in the form of two gift stands, were overhung by the tattered regimental banners once held by living boys and men.

  Sean moved dee
per, drawn by the sound of a choir somewhere in the cool stone depths. The nose-less alabaster effigies and curlicued marble scrolls recording noble young death after death, reminded him of the legless soldier, on his new career path of medical re-enactment. He hoped his Equity card had arrived.

  He went up scooped stone steps, shaped by centuries of footfall, heading towards the music. Two black-robed clerics talked intently at the top – comparing budget flights to Rome these days. The choir kept pausing and returning to one musical phrase, like a many-throated bird – and then Sean saw them, their young faces angelic in the light falling from hundreds of feet above. Their music master set them off again, and to stay and listen for longer, Sean wandered across to a small chapel within their chapel, where a large book was set on a low stand. A pen dangled from a string.

  It was a prayer book, and visitors to the cathedral were invited to write their requests. Many people had already done so, and Sean looked closer as the music washed over him.

  For my mother’s operation, said one.

  For my lost family, said another.

  And then further down, in writing so hard the page was almost torn, someone had dug the words into the paper: SHOW YOURSELF GOD.

  He looked around. The force of the words and the writing itself was like a challenge to anyone reading it. Whoever had written it might even be in the cathedral now, might be watching him read it. All he saw was the choir, distant tourists, a few clerics walking quietly. He picked up the pen and – a respectful distance under the great spiritual demand, added two words: forgive me.

  He stared at what he had written. Then he put a ten-pound note into the donation box and went to light a candle, not because he was religious but because he liked the act of doing so. To his horror, John and Trudie Burke, the cruise passengers, were heading towards him. He looked back across at the book – if they read it and had seen him write it, they would get completely the wrong idea.