Thirst

by L. A. Larkin

  ‘Thank … God,’ exhaled Maddie, unable to move.

  They were less than a hundred metres from shelter. He’d leave the bag there; the first job was to get Maddie inside.

  ‘The terrain’s pretty flat. I’m going to carry you over my shoulder.’

  Luke raised Maddie up in a fireman’s lift. She whimpered as her wounded leg hit his thigh. Their combined weight drove his boots deep into the loose ice. Every step was like wading through sand and his whole body shuddered with the exertion.

  Just when Luke thought he couldn’t go any further, he almost tripped over a pile of bricks partly hidden in the snow. He could hardly believe it. Bettington Station was raised above the bedrock on piles of reddish-brown bricks. Two rusty pipes ran up the side of one wall. Most of the windows were roughly boarded up. Discarded canisters, wire, planks and what looked like solidified paraffin oil lay strewn around. Three wooden steps led up to the door, which had no handle, just a hole for a key, long since lost. It had withstood seventy years of battering by the elements.

  ‘Incredible,’ Luke breathed.

  He sat Maddie on the steps and pushed the door, which didn’t budge. It was either locked, which he doubted, or the wood had warped, jamming the door. He thumped hard and it opened inward, the wood scraping on the floor.

  Luke took Maddie up in his arms again. His legs shook so much that he stumbled and had to lean against the doorframe. Beyond a narrow, damp corridor was a room full of rusted hand-tools. Luke felt lightheaded, his strength almost gone. To his left was the dormitory, consisting of four bunk beds, with mattresses still on them. Although they were damp and stained, they looked heavenly.

  The nearest bed had a pillow, and Luke placed the comatose Maddie on it. Draped over a chair was a grey army-style blanket. It felt damp but not wet, so Luke covered Maddie with it. The room was spinning. He had to lie down.

  A heavy, ankle-length woollen coat hung from a hook on the opposite bunk. Barely able to stand, Luke took the coat, collapsed onto a bed and pulled the rough material over him. Forgetting Maddie’s wound and the backpack still on the icy slopes, he lapsed into unconsciousness.

  T MINUS 3 DAYS, 4 HOURS, 59 MINUTES

  8 March, 1:01 am (AEDT)

  Despite the air-conditioning, Wendy’s hotel room was hot and stuffy. She kicked off the sheet clinging to her body. The clock-radio’s digital face told her in hard-to-ignore red that it was 1:01 am. She swivelled it round so she couldn’t see the time anymore and closed her eyes. Having only had a few hours’ sleep, she was wrecked. She could hear cars on the road outside her window, and then the vroom of an accelerating motorbike – an Aprilia superbike. A beautiful sound. Then her thoughts returned to her father.

  Earlier that evening, she’d been to his house in Parramatta, intending to stay the night. But her old home was too full of memories. She’d wandered about the place feeling like an intruder, gingerly touching the framed photos, the leather of his favourite reclining chair, the neatly pressed sheets on his perfectly made bed.

  She had run her fingers along the shoulders of his suits, all bespoke, all beautifully crafted. Every coathanger’s hook faced the same direction in the fitted cupboards, and every suit hung equidistant from the next. There were plenty of photos of Wendy proudly displayed around the house, but there was only one taken of her before they fled China. It was by his bedside table, in a tarnished metal frame that looked as old as the photo. Her dad had managed to hide it among their meagre belongings as they’d clambered into the decrepit boat that carried them to Australia.

  Wendy had brought the photo with her to the hotel. It was propped up in the middle of a circular glass table. She got out of bed and looked at the back of the frame. On it was scrawled ‘Woo Ling, Woo Huo’. Huo was Wendy’s given name until she arrived in Australia, when both she and her father had adopted Western names.

  Turning the frame back around, Wendy stared at herself and her mother at a family gathering. She was twelve years old. An uncle, a wealthy factory owner, had given them a copy of the precious photograph. Her mother’s long black hair swayed as she danced, holding the giggling Wendy by her hands.

  That was shortly before Woo Ling had been arrested as a Falun Gong practitioner. Wendy hadn’t learned until much later of the horrific torture she had endured because she refused to recant. Afterwards, Ling had been moved to Heizuizi Women’s Forced Labour Camp in Jilin Province.

  Wendy sat on her bed and hugged the picture. ‘Oh, Mum. Dad’s dead. I need you more than ever,’ she said aloud. ‘Please forgive me.’

  A sob caught in her throat. ‘I had to move on. It was killing us.’

  She remembered opening the fridge in her dad’s kitchen the night before. She had found his dinner already prepared and covered in cling-wrap. It was his favourite, Szechuan chicken. He loved the pepper and chilli. The memory had brought her to tears knowing that he would never eat the dish he’d so carefully prepared.

  Wendy shuffled to the bathroom and blew her nose. The same question tormented her: why would her cautious dad, who’d always longed to own his home outright, mortgage it to the hilt to buy shares in a resources company? Especially a company based in a country he had grown to despise. It made no sense whatsoever.

  She drank some iced water from the bar fridge and stood by the window. The curtains were open and she stared out over ugly houses and concrete office blocks. Most of the office blocks had their lights on, as if their employees were never allowed to go home. What a waste of energy, Wendy thought.

  She flopped into the only chair in the room and began to gnaw at her already bitten fingernails. Something was wrong – it was driving her crazy. She catapulted herself from the chair and pulled on her jeans, boots and leather jacket. Picking up her helmet, she grabbed her father’s keys and left the hotel.

  Twenty minutes later, Wendy extracted a drop-file from the beige filing cabinet and sat on one of the seamstresses’ chairs. Only the tiny office at the back of the shop was lit up by a harsh light bulb with no lampshade. Each file was carefully labelled with a client’s name, address and phone number. Her father also recorded any personal information he’d picked up during conversations with the client, such as birthday, children’s names, holiday destination and so on.

  Wendy smiled. Her dad’s clients had always been amazed at his memory for such personal details; they were flattered by his interest. Inside each file was a list of every order the client had made, and a hand-drawn sketch of the suit design. She ran her fingers over the sketch and sighed. When she was small, her dad would draw pictures for her. He had been an incredible artist but never had the time to enjoy his talent. Unbeknown to him, Wendy had kept a number of his sketches, which she had framed on the walls of her Melbourne apartment.

  As she flicked through one file after another, she was struck by the highbrow nature of the clientele – a judge, barristers, a couple of government ministers, investment bankers galore, CEOs, CFOs. Wendy yawned. She was down to her father’s last client file. She’d also checked every drawer and been through all his computer documents for a second time. The file belonged to Xu Biao, China’s Consul General in Sydney. Xu had bought four suits over recent months, and another was ready and waiting to be picked up. The suit was single-breasted, dark-grey herringbone super 180 wool. Gorgeous, but not exactly practical.

  According to her dad’s notes, Xu had been in Sydney a year, and he had a wife and one child. There seemed nothing unusual about his file except her dad had written a series of numbers next to the man’s name. She leaned back, intrigued. What could the numbers mean? With a Masters of Science in applied mathematics, she should be able to work it out.

  She studied the three rows of numbers:

  372466

  74 52 100 30

  74374373

  First she considered the obvious options. Were the numbers a birth date, credit card or telephone number? With these ruled out, she suspected they formed some kind of code. She raised her linear eyebrows, fascinat
ed that her dear old dad could be so devious. She instantly felt a twinge of guilt; she was being disrespectful. ‘Sorry, Dad,’ she said to the cream office walls.

  She tried replacing the numbers with letters, using an A for a 1 and so on. That didn’t work. She then looked at her iPhone keypad and tried replacing the numbers with the letters that sat below each number on the keypad. As soon as she’d worked out the first two letters were D and R, she knew instantly what the first row spelt.

  She caught her breath. ‘Dragon.’

  So had Xu advised her father to buy the shares? She shook her head. Consuls and diplomats were basically spies. They manipulated the truth according to the dictates of the powers back home. Xu Biao would never have betrayed his country to help out a tailor, however much he may have liked him.

  Exhilarated by her success, she attempted to discover the meaning of the second row of numbers, but it didn’t work. She stared at them, tilting her head from one side to the other. The second line’s sequencing looked familiar. Where had she seen it before? Why were there gaps between the numbers in the second row but not in the first or last?

  Stumped, she turned her attention to the third row. She tried using her phone keypad system again. It took half an hour, but eventually she worked out that the word was probably ‘shepherd’.

  So, she had the name of the company, some indecipherable numbers and a third word that made no sense. She double-checked that the third row couldn’t possibly spell something else. She shook her head. It had to be ‘shepherd’.

  As her dad always used to say, ‘Leave it in the toaster and the answer will pop up.’

  It was still dark outside. Exhausted, Wendy curled up on the chaise longue in the changing room and fell sound asleep.

  T MINUS 3 DAYS, 3 HOURS, 15 MINUTES

  7 March, 8:45 am (UTC-07)

  Bettington Station, 74° 27' S, 101° 24' W

  At first light, Luke opened his eyes to see green and white checked curtains framing a four-paned window. He imagined he was a child again, at his father’s country cottage. But through the blurry panes of glass, which were dripping with condensation, the world outside was white, not the lush green of rural France. Then he remembered. He was lying underneath a heavy coat with scratchy wool and thick lining. In the 1950s, warmth in clothing meant weight. He sat up and banged his head on the wooden slats of the upper bunk. Rubbing his scalp, he contemplated his new surroundings.

  The walls had once been painted cream, but they were now striated with rust stains where the damp had crept in through the roof. The ceiling was awash with black mildew. Wooden storage cupboards were built into the walls. Their doors hung wide open, revealing books, a stained pillow, a ribbed khaki jumper with patches on the elbows and shoulders, and a pair of old-fashioned long johns, once white but now stained a pinkish orange from the drips of rusty water. A small iron – also rusted – and a single leather lace-up boot sat on the floor next to a brown leather binocular case.

  Luke smiled. Only the British would bother to iron their clothes in Antarctica. But he understood why they’d done it – it was all about morale, maintaining standards despite the hardship.

  A paraffin lamp, speckled with powdery rust, sat on another shelf next to a pile of books and the box of a jigsaw puzzle. Luke could imagine the men living here, trying to create a little bit of England and entertain themselves with a jigsaw of a classic village scene complete with thatched cottages and lavender bushes. They had even painted the window frames and the bookshelves an apple green to match the curtains. Luke admired that. They had created a cosy home in spite of the extreme conditions.

  He had no idea how long he’d been asleep. He checked his watch: 8:45 am. Then he remembered Maddie. He had to do something about her wound. As he stood, he groaned, and for a moment or two was unable to straighten his cramped leg muscles. He hobbled over to the opposite bunk.

  ‘Maddie? It’s Luke,’ he said quietly, not wanting to frighten her, but his tone grew more urgent when she failed to respond. ‘Maddie?’

  Luke took her wrist and felt her pulse; it was strong. He lifted the blanket to check on her leg. There was no bleeding. Relieved, he began to laugh inanely. She woke with a start, squeezed her eyes shut a few times and then stared at the rough grey blanket lying over her. ‘We made it?’ she asked, her voice croaky, her lips paper-dry.

  ‘We did. This is Bettingtons.’

  She moved very slightly and flinched. ‘God, it hurts.’

  ‘Can you move your foot?’ he asked.

  The toe of her boot lifted a fraction.

  ‘And can you feel your toes?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ she replied. ‘I think so.’

  ‘I’m going to collect the pack, then we’ll get that shrapnel out.’

  She nodded as she scanned the room. ‘My God, it’s like a time capsule.’

  Luke stood. ‘Yeah, but it’ll keep us alive. We’re going to be fine here. Just fine.’

  ***

  When Luke returned with the bag, Maddie had fallen back to sleep. He headed down the corridor hoping to find the rest of the hut in as good condition as the dormitory. With a crack, a rotten floorboard snapped and Luke’s leg disappeared up to the knee. His knee locked and his ankle twisted slightly, but his boot prevented any injury. Once he’d extracted himself, he resolved to walk around their new home with more care.

  Two shallow cupboards ran the length of the corridor wall. Inside were food tins, and many, although tarnished, appeared to be sealed. Luke picked up a large can of Scotch porridge oats and smiled. It was over sixty years old but there was a chance it was still edible. He spotted a tin of Cross & Blackwell herrings, and then one of Heinz baked beans, as well as jars of Marmite, honey and HP Sauce. Some of the tins were corroded or bulging, but others looked fine. Things were looking up.

  The next room on the left was the kitchen. He paused in the doorway. Apart from the ubiquitous rust and mildew, the room looked as if the occupants had stepped out and would soon return. At one end of the room was a black cast-iron stove. Above the stove hung a washing line, and dangling from it was a pair of long johns, presumably left there to dry. Shelves on either side offered more books and games, as well as soggy matches, pots, pans and a tin of brown boot polish. The lid had been left off, and a stained boot brush lay beside it, as if the owner had left partway through cleaning his boots.

  In the middle of the room was a large wooden table strewn with old magazines. He peered at the first one, World Sports, dated August 1952. Underneath it was a copy of Reveille, dated October 1952. Luke indulged himself with the idea of spending leisurely days reading them.

  He kneeled and forced open the creaking stove door, wondering if there was any chance he could get it going again. He could keep using his little camping stove, but that would do nothing to warm the hut and fuel was scarce. Of course, smoke from the stove could draw their enemy to them, but he hoped they’d be too far away to see it.

  ‘Bugger it,’ he said, under his breath and went outside to find something to burn. He was hopeful that the killers wouldn’t guess their location and that the mountains would hide the smoke.

  The hut looked out to a bay covered in large pieces of fast sea ice, attached to the shore. Crabeater seals dotted the ice at regular intervals, as if they had staked a claim to their own tiny territories. From half a kilometre away, they looked like giant slugs. They lay perfectly still, probably asleep. Among them Luke noticed the darker grey of a much bigger leopard seal, long with powerful shoulders. Its floating island was stained with a trail of red, no doubt its last meal, probably a penguin.

  Luke circled the hut so he could inspect the mountain slopes they had descended yesterday. Satisfied they were still alone, he focused on finding timber and soon discovered several discarded storage crates. The wood was brittle and broke easily. He then kneeled down to inspect the white goo that spewed over the rocks from some rusted tins. He sniffed it. Good, paraffin oil. Luke lifted a half-full ruptured tin and
carried it inside.

  He placed the wood and some of the paraffin in the stove. The wood was damp and would be hard to ignite; guiltily, he ripped some pages from a book and stuffed them in the stove. At first the paper burned weakly and died out. He tried again. This time the paraffin oil caught. He shut the stove door and hoped it would continue to burn.

  Luke waited a few minutes, his arms crossed, and then opened the stove to find a homely fire burning. The warmth on his face emphasised how damp and chilled the rest of his body was. He went outside and filled two saucepans with snow, then placed them on the hob to heat. Next he stripped off his outer layers and peeled away his damp thermals. He quickly put his fleece layer and freezer suit back on, and then hung his thermals on the line above the stove, in place of the 1950s long johns, which he respectfully folded.

  After clearing the table top, Luke returned to the bedroom, dragged a mattress to the kitchen and placed it on the table, which he then pushed closer to the fire. Back in the bedroom, he lifted Maddie, blanket and all, and carried her to the kitchen, where he laid her on the mattress. She stared, bewildered, around the room.

  ‘Time to operate,’ he said. His voice was upbeat but inside he was terrified. One false move and he might kill her. ‘I’m no expert,’ he continued, ‘but at least it’s not wedged in your thigh, which means it’s nowhere near your femoral artery. If we do nothing, it’s bound to get infected.’ He knew he was jabbering. ‘Maddie, are you okay with this?’

  She pulled off her gloves and ran her fingers over her face. As she did so, she smudged some of the ash from her cheek across her mouth. ‘You know what I’m looking forward to? Warm water on my face. I might feel human again.’

  She was avoiding the decision. Luke took her hand and squeezed it. Her eyes wide with surprise, she looked down at his hand on hers, then squeezed it in return.

  ‘I can give you morphine,’ Luke said. ‘It’ll dull the pain.’