The Ice

by Laline Paull

  ‘I need the news. I have to hear the news, Radio Four—’

  The cabbie muttered something but changed the channel. Sean listened. Voices arguing, but nothing about any ship. He sat back, paralysed by the fear of what he was about to do.

  At 8 a.m. the driver turned the news up without being asked.

  ‘Just in case I’m an accessory, mate,’ he called back. He held up the watch. ‘Still got a deal, though.’ In the back, Sean listened equally attentively. He was rewarded, or punished, with the last item, an as yet unconfirmed report of a capsized cargo ship off the coast of Svalbard, travelling late in the season on the still-contentious TransPolar Route. Reports just coming in suggested fuel oil was already leaking into the water, threatening the pristine Arctic archipelago of Svalbard. The presenter hesitated, then with great excitement told of the latest report, that there had been a firefight between rival rescue teams. They would of course bring more details when they had them. They moved on to the environmental threat, the risks of shipping, and three, two, one, segued to the stagnant situation in Suez, before the sports news.

  Sean stared out unseeing. A firefight between rival rescue teams. One would surely be Midgard. The other – probably Russian. Kingsmith left the Russians alone, even he knew his limitations. But if he was trafficking arms through Russian-contested territory – and the TransPolar Route ran right across the Lomonosov Ridge – then he might well prefer to lose the cargo than face that music. No wonder he wanted to get the ship to Icelandic waters. Or – Sean felt sick at the possibility – let it go down, rather than be exposed.

  He wanted to weep at his own stupidity. But it wasn’t just his: he was the trusting go-between, but Philip Stowe and Mrs Larssen imagined they’d bought themselves a guard-dog at Midgard – they were duped too. At least the Midgard clients were simply greedy and vain, delighted to feel they were worth a standing security detail of presidential calibre.

  All he’d seen was the money multiplying from everything he did with Kingsmith, more than he could keep track of – and so he didn’t. If Kingsmith told him something was good, it invariably was – financially. He’d had the freedom to do whatever he wanted with it, and what had he chosen?

  Any and everything to claim his place at the top table, to feel secure. It was not enough to be married to a woman he had loved and whose background gave him status, not enough to be able to dishonourably indulge himself with the stream of beautiful women passing through his clubs. Not enough to be rich, to break bread with and profit massively from the appetites of the 1 per cent he catered to. Because nothing was ever enough.

  You always were a greedy little bastard—

  Kingsmith was right. And so was Tom, who had never really trusted Kingsmith, even that first night at the Randolph Hotel. His own frozen friend, ever ready to take on injustice and cruelty whenever he found it. But Sean had valued money and position more highly.

  He caught the cabbie’s eye in the mirror. They were now in the slow approach to Canterbury, where a state school gate was crowded with parents depositing their children, and the traffic crawled. Men and women were kissing their children goodbye. His vision was less blurry now, and he saw the pictures on the cabbie’s dashboard – a young couple with two small children. Son and grandkids, he guessed. They were on the ring road outside the old city walls. Almost there. He braced himself for what was coming.

  Emergency kit

  During the 1940s and 1950s … the Canadian government, in order to establish sovereignty in the Arctic, essentially forced the Inuit into settlements, in some cases moving entire populations hundreds of kilometres from their homes. There was one old man who refused to go. Fearful for his life, his family took away all of his tools and weapons, thinking this would oblige him to leave the land. Instead, in the midst of a winter storm, he stepped out of their igloo, defecated, and honed the feces into a frozen blade, which he sharpened with a spray of saliva. With this knife, forged by the cold from human waste, he killed a dog. Using its rib cage as a sled and its hide to harness another dog, he disappeared into the darkness.

  As told by Olayak Narqitarvik to anthropologist Wade Davis in Arctic Bay, Canada

  The Wayfinders: Why Ancient Wisdom Matters in the Modern World (2009)

  Wade Davis

  36

  The cabbie switched on the intercom.

  ‘Say where.’

  Sean looked out as they passed the street the court was on, and saw the white outside broadcast vans and a small crowd. ‘Two more blocks.’

  The cabbie went on, then pulled over. He had the watch on his wrist now.

  ‘Can’t change your mind.’

  ‘I haven’t.’ Sean looked at the photograph on the dashboard. ‘Is that your son? The one who loves watches?’

  ‘Yeah.’ A world of pride in that one syllable.

  ‘Tell him enjoy it. And get a better dream.’

  Sean got out and the cab pulled away almost as he slammed the door. He stood on the street, stunned by the sudden pain. The interior of the cab was limbo, it was unreal, but now he was here, the court was two blocks away. He didn’t have to go, he could go to hospital instead. He felt the bruising and rawness and pulsing of what he was sure was his broken nose. He doubled over and was sick, traffic hooting at the debauched sight, at this decent family hour.

  He didn’t have to go through with it, he could call Martine – now he thought of her, in her green dress – the benefit – but he had never memorised her mobile number. He could go into any police station, any hospital – he found himself walking down the street to the grim-looking pub, the Feathers, where he and Sawbridge had gone a thousand years ago. He could stop here, for a moment.

  The front door was shut but there was a side gate for deliveries, and before he could lose his nerve he stepped through into the brick courtyard. A radio was playing inside the building. He went closer. He could see into the kitchen, were John Burnham was at the stove frying bacon, and Flip-flops, his daughter Beth, was sitting at the yellow table eating cereal and checking her phone.

  ‘What the—’ John Burnham spun round, fists ready as Sean came in. Then he recognised him. ‘Who did this?’ Before Sean could answer, he went outside and looked around. Then he locked the gate to the street and came back.

  ‘There’s a ship sinking off the coast of Svalbard,’ Beth said. ‘It’s on the news. Is that to do with you?’

  ‘You wait a minute, miss,’ said her father. He turned to Sean. ‘What the fuck’s going on? Why are you here?’

  ‘I – came here because – you were a friend of Tom’s. And I’m testifying again. I don’t want to make trouble for you …’

  John Burnham stared at him. He sighed as he sat down. ‘A friend of Tom’s is a friend of mine.’

  Sean felt his lip and saw the blood on his fingers. ‘Do you need to warn anyone I’m here? I’m not too pretty.’

  ‘Don’t worry.’ His daughter put a mug in front of Sean. ‘It’s a pub. We’ve seen worse. Milk?’ She added it anyway.

  Sean wanted to smile, but it would split his lip again. ‘You’re lucky,’ he said to Burnham, who looked at his daughter. She pulled a face at him.

  ‘When she’s not gurning, or kicking off.’ But there was love in his eyes. ‘What’s yours again? Rosie?’

  ‘Yes. Did I tell you?’

  ‘In the crypt, mate. Smells and bells.’

  Now Sean remembered. The hands on his shoulders, the people around him. Talking to John about their daughters. That feeling that tore out of his chest, in great gasps.

  ‘If you want to get there, I’ll go with you.’

  ‘And can I take your photograph? Can I write about it? Dad you know this is far more important than school, so don’t even try.’ Beth looked at Sean. ‘It’s the summing up now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Conclusion,’ he said. ‘Be accurate.’

  ‘Conclusion. Thank you.’ She took his picture with her phone. ‘Seize your chances, that’s what you said in your intervi
ew. Do you want to clean up? Or is it better all bloodstained? Bloodstained. Can I interview you?’

  ‘Afterwards.’ Sean closed his eyes.

  At first the journalists and waiting crowd just saw the stocky figure of John Burnham striding down the street in his white trainers and jeans, beefy arms loose, Spurs supporter shirt tight over his barrel chest and belly. His slip of a daughter hurried alongside. It was only when they passed the first of the outside broadcast vans that anyone noticed the state of the man behind them, and who it was. First they stared, then they shouted.

  ‘Mr Cawson! Sean! Sean, what happened? Sean, do you know anything about this ship? Sean, over here – can we have a word?’

  John Burnham shoved their cameras and microphones back at them and Beth blocked their lenses with her schoolbag. A small crowd of young people clustered together in the street. Some had placards saying Save the Arctic. When they saw Sean, they ran towards him, their faces distorted with anger.

  ‘Arctic poisoner!’ shouted a girl, and someone else screamed ‘Save the Arctic!’ but John Burnham was well practised in crowd control. He opened his big arms wide and took up position on the steps, holding them back so that Sean could get into the court, but one girl darted through and grabbed Sean’s arm.

  ‘Dad, what have you done?’ cried Rosie – and then she saw the state of him.

  Sean threw his arm round her and John Burnham understood. He blocked the rest and Sean pulled his daughter into the lobby. They stared at each other.

  ‘Dad.’ Rosie’s eyes were full of tears. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘I’m going to make it right.’

  ‘You can’t!’ she cried. ‘There’s no way—’

  ‘Yes. There is.’

  ‘Of course there is,’ Sawbridge came forward, ‘and I must say we’re all very glad to see you. My god, London’s getting so rough, I hope you reported it. Quite the panic, everyone looking for you.’ He flashed a quick smile. ‘You must be Rosie.’

  ‘I want to speak to my father.’ She was trembling.

  ‘Of course, but we have a rather urgent matter in hand – Sean, a private word?’

  ‘A ship is going down in the Arctic!’ cried Rosie. ‘What’s more urgent than that!’ Then she saw Martine running forward and her face hardened. Dressed for work and with evidence of crying, Martine ignored Rosie and grabbed Sean.

  ‘I’ve been going crazy wondering where you are! Joe said you ran away – no one knew where you were – why didn’t you call me?’

  ‘No phone,’ Sean said. ‘That hurts where you’re holding me.’

  ‘Joe’s been trying to find you – even Rupert’s been calling the whole time.’

  ‘Parch? Did he know about the ship?’ Sean drew back. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Me? Of course not! I heard on the news, but it’s got nothing to do with us. Has it?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing.’ Sawbridge stepped between Sean and Martine, and included Rosie in his caring authoritative look. He lowered his voice. ‘Were they migrants, do you think?’

  ‘Migrants? What are you talking about?’

  ‘Chaps who attacked you. Or was it only one? Very brave to tackle you, but of course drugs do that. I’ve heard they hang around the best hotels, picking off the wealthy and well-refreshed. We really must give the police greater power—’

  ‘Dad! Talk to me!’

  ‘Your father’s got a crisis to deal with.’ Martine tried to be kind. ‘You can see him later, I promise.’

  ‘Don’t tell me when I can see my father!’

  ‘Ah, splendid, it’s free.’ Sawbridge threw open the door to the small meeting room they had used before, but before he could guide Sean in, Mr Thornton appeared.

  The coroner stopped at the sight of him. ‘Good grief, Mr Cawson. What on earth happened?’

  ‘I have to testify again.’ Sean felt the blood seep from his lip.

  ‘He can’t, Your Honour,’ put in Sawbridge, ‘you can see he’s not fit to—’

  ‘He needs to go to hospital at once,’ Martine agreed.

  ‘Shut up!’ Rosie looked as if she were about to punch her. ‘If that’s what my dad wants—’

  Sawbridge blocked Sean’s way. ‘It’s PTSD, this poor man—’

  ‘Mr Cawson will testify,’ the coroner told his clerk. ‘Any more? No? Good.’ They went on.

  ‘Please, dear chap,’ Sawbridge implored Sean. ‘It’s been beyond abominable for you, but I beg you, don’t waste it all now. We are so close. It’s so nearly all over. Think of Tom’s family, and what’s kindest for them.’

  ‘I am.’ But Sean stepped inside. Martine followed, her phone in her hand.

  ‘It’s Rupert, he won’t stop ringing me until I let him speak to you to prove you’re alive.’ She gave him her phone.

  Sean took it. ‘What.’

  ‘Man alive, am I glad to hear you!’ Parch sounded like he was outside somewhere windy. ‘What the fuck happened? Martine says you were mugged outside the Carrington? London’s like Mogadishu these days. Are you OK?’ His voice seemed to move inside. ‘Course you’re not. Matey, you’re beyond heroic, getting yourself back there, but it just proves you’re off the scale. No one expects you to say another word, you need the best TLC money can buy. A car’s on its way—’

  ‘No.’ Sean turned away from Sawbridge and Martine’s intent gaze. He felt Rosie take his hand, and he squeezed it gently.

  ‘Yes, matey,’ said Parch. ‘Because you’ve got PTSD, which rhymes with, get out of jail free. Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  Sean glanced at Sawbridge, his debonair expression forgotten. He felt his daughter’s hand in his. Warm and alive.

  ‘Tell me, so I do.’

  ‘OK, listen: all the goodwill you have so brilliantly earned, truly you have, and all the rewards for which you are so truly deserving, are still yours if you’ll only—’

  ‘I won’t. Goodbye.’ Sean pressed the red button and returned Martine her phone. She stared at him in horror.

  ‘Dear me.’ Sawbridge shook his head. ‘Sean, even if you senselessly throw yourself on Tom’s publicity pyre, nothing will bring him back. It’s not heroic, it’s pure self-indulgence. You’re deeply unwell, you’re injured – you need help.’

  ‘What’s happened with that ship?’ Sean slammed his hand down on the table so hard Sawbridge jumped. Martine’s eyes filled with angry tears.

  ‘No one knows! I don’t know, Nicholas doesn’t know, it’s only just been on the news! The Zheng He has nothing to do with us, and if it does then I’ve got fifteen per cent equity in a disaster and what are my investors going to say?’

  ‘The Zheng He. You knew its name.’ He almost laughed. ‘Was it sabotage? Look how upset Joe got with me, when I suggested going public.’

  ‘They said the name on the bloody radio! Sean, you’re crazy. Surely you’re not saying Joe did this to you? OK, you’re done – I’m calling an ambulance—’

  ‘Leave him alone!’ Rosie stepped in front of her father.

  ‘Security!’ called Martine. ‘We need help in here!’

  ‘Rosie, stop it,’ Sean said to her, as two stewards arrived.

  ‘She needs to leave,’ Martine told them.

  ‘Don’t touch my child.’ Sean turned to Rosie. ‘Now you can sit in court or—’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ she cried. ‘You’ve made this fucking mess.’

  The stewards stood back to let her pass.

  Just under two thousand miles away to the north, the stricken Zheng He lay on her side in the Barents Sea, off the coast of Svalbard. Helicopters from Longyearbyen, Barentsburg, Midgard Lodge threshed the freezing air above and harnessed news cameramen zoomed in as close as possible on the black seep spreading out across the water.

  The closest vessel was the Sysselmann’s new coastguard boat, and others bearing the Norwegian flag blocked the Russian tug and the two RIBs from Midgard Lodge, one of which was now disabled and roped to the other. A high wind stopped the so
und of the conflicting tannoy shouts being intelligible to the news crews in the air, but it was clear that it was not a united rescue effort. The Zheng He reared up as if she would right herself – and then, very slowly, tipped up on her stern and began pointing her bow to the sky.

  Outside, in the street directly below the windows of Court No. 1, a roar went up – and it was clear that the crowd of demonstrators had swelled. ‘She’s sinking! She’s sinking!’ And the boos started.

  ‘There’s nothing I can do about the noise,’ Mr Thornton told his courtroom. ‘And may I remind you all, that in this room we are strictly concerned with the events concerning the tragic death of Mr Thomas Walter Harding in Svalbard three years ago – and not this morning’s news. As of 9 a.m. I was ready to deliver my conclusion, but between then and now, we have had an extraordinary request which I must grant. Mr Cawson has asked to make additional testimony, so thank you for your patience.’

  ‘Dear chap,’ murmured Sawbridge, ‘I implore you. Let me handle it, it will all be all right. You’re about to cross the finish line, it’s all over—’

  Sean stood. ‘I’m ready.’

  In the time it took for Sean Cawson to walk up the aisle and take the secular oath, the Sysselmann’s vessels moved back, the Midgard boats and the Russian tug pushed even further away, guarded by every boat the coastguard had. Helicopters hung overhead, pulverising the air. Slowly, the bow of the Zheng He began to rise, so that at first it appeared that her 400-metre length was rising up out of the sea like a metal iceberg, the water cascading like skirts from her sides. She balanced upright on her stern for one long moment, and then as gracefully as she had risen, with news cameras her witnesses, she sank into the frigid deep of the Barents Sea.

  And now from the far-away western horizon a fiery serpent writhed itself up over the sky, shining brighter and brighter as it came. It split into three, all brilliantly glittering. Then the colours changed. The serpent to the south turned almost ruby-red, with spots of yellow; the one in the middle, yellow; and the one to the north, greenish-white. Sheafs of rays swept along the sides of the serpents, driven through the ether-like waves before a storm-wind. They sway backwards and forward, now strong, now fainter again. The serpents reached and passed the zenith. Though I was thinly dressed and shivering with cold, I could not tear myself away till the spectacle was over, and only a faintly-glowing fiery serpent near the western horizon showed where it had begun.