‘I’m not surprised.’ She plonks herself down on the sofa opposite my chair. ‘I passed out for fifteen hours when I arrived, and I only came from Christchurch.’
No chance of that, I think. I can’t remember the last time I got a solid eight hours. Partly from the rigours of working in A&E; partly because I haven’t slept well since the accident.
‘Are you from that part of New Zealand?’ I ask, examining her short punky hair and the piercings in her ears and nose; not as stunning as Alice, but pretty in her own, more casual way. In contrast to Alice’s floral top and pale blue leggings, she’s wearing a pair of large baggy dungarees and a faded orange T-shirt.
Caro shakes her head. ‘Near Dunedin. Parents had a cattle ranch there. But I’ve been living in Wellington for five years.’
Luuk flops next to her, spreading his long legs so wide Caro is forced to the edge of the sofa. ‘Where are you from?’ he asks between mouthfuls of cake, making no effort now to hide his scrutiny of my face.
‘Bristol, in the south-west of England. But I grew up in Surrey.’
He nods, though I’m guessing this means nothing to him. ‘Amsterdam,’ he says before I can ask. ‘But my mother’s English.’
I smile, unable to think of a response that isn’t utterly banal. My brain feels sluggish and I have the beginnings of a serious headache. I’m desperate to dose myself up, crawl into bed, and fall unconscious – or at least try. Instead I sip tea from the mug Drew hands me and nibble at Caro’s cake, though I’m too tired for hunger.
Make an effort, I urge myself. First impressions and all that.
Thankfully I’m saved from further small talk by the arrival of a dark-haired man, along with a smartly dressed woman in her fifties, an air of authority in her demeanour. This must be Sandrine, the station leader.
I stand to offer my hand. ‘Hi, I’m Kate.’
‘I know,’ she says with a clipped French accent that somehow makes her more intimidating. ‘Welcome to UNA.’ She stares unabashed at the scar on my cheek for a few seconds, then introduces the man behind her. ‘This is Raffaelo de Marco – the doctor you’re replacing.’
Raffaelo gives me a wide smile. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he says in perfect English, ‘however briefly. My apologies for rushing off like this.’
‘What do you mean?’ I’m confused. He isn’t due to leave until the last plane next week.
The doctor looks visibly embarrassed. He glances at Sandrine, but she doesn’t comment. ‘Did no one tell you?’ he asks. ‘I’m departing today.’
I gaze at him blankly, unable to take this in. He’s leaving? Raffaelo was supposed to spend the next week handing over, helping me find my feet. ‘No, no one told me.’
‘Raff’s son is ill.’ Sandrine’s tone is matter-of-fact. She studies my reaction dispassionately. Almost critically – or so it feels.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I stammer, trying to cover my consternation.
‘It’s not serious.’ Raffaelo offers another apologetic smile. ‘But he has to have an operation and my wife needs me at home.’
‘Okay.’ I know I sound insincere, but I’m too shocked to appear more sympathetic. How on earth will I manage without him to show me the ropes?
Suddenly Jim arrives, gulping down his tea. ‘Sorry, mate.’ He slaps the doctor on the back. ‘We need to set off right away. Just had a report of bad weather coming in.’
Raffaelo quickly says his goodbyes in a flurry of hugs and handshakes. Then picks up his rucksack and turns to me. ‘I’ve left a file on your desk, along with instructions on where to find everything. You’ll be fine – Jean-Luc made meticulous notes.’
Jean-Luc Bernas. The French doctor who died out on the ice two months ago. The reason I’m here.
‘Thanks,’ I say, automatically. ‘I hope everything goes well with your son.’
Raffaelo nods, then disappears. Sandrine turns and walks off without another word.
I stand there, mood spiralling. I’d been relying on having someone here to show me how to manage all the medical experiments and generally bring me up to speed. I feel stupidly let down. Abandoned. Though of course it’s no one’s fault.
For a crazy second or two I fight the impulse to run after the pair of them and tell them I’ve changed my mind, that I want to go back home. I stare into the distance, trying to pull myself together, then notice Drew watching me carefully.
My cheeks flush. I sense he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
‘C’mon, Kate,’ he says gently, collecting my bags from the corner of the room. ‘Let’s get you settled in.’
2
12 February
‘This is you.’
Drew opens the door to a cabin at the far end of the corridor and gestures me inside the diminutive bedroom. Two bunks, both neatly made up, are crammed into the corner, a wardrobe of thick, dark plywood, with a plain desk and chair tucked behind. The walls painted in the same bland grey-blue as everywhere outside.
‘You’re in luck.’ Drew dumps my bags on the desk. ‘Your room-mate left last week, so you’ve got the place to yourself.’
I stare at the tiny space, as small and sparse as a prison cell, and imagine sharing it with another human being. How on earth would you have any privacy?
‘I’ll leave you to unpack,’ Drew says, retreating. ‘Then maybe show you around the base before supper?’
I nod. ‘Thanks.’
‘Shall I come back in, say, an hour?’
I glance at my watch. Three fifteen local time – getting on for midnight at home. ‘That’d be great.’
As I raise my head, his eyes flick away from my face. I can’t blame him; everyone does it, their attention inexorably drawn to the jagged silver line running down the left side of my cheek. I wish I could say I’m used to it, but like a scar, the sting of self-consciousness never entirely fades.
‘You’ve been rather thrown in the deep end, haven’t you?’ Drew says. ‘Raff leaving so suddenly.’
Tears prick my eyes, followed by a twinge of irritation. I hate sympathy, hate people feeling sorry for me.
I don’t deserve it.
‘I’ll manage,’ I reply, a little too brusquely, bending to heave my over-stuffed rucksack onto the bottom bunk.
‘Bathroom’s two doors down on the left if you want a shower. Remember, no conditioner – it screws up the water recycling.’
With that, he’s gone. I stand there, too exhausted to think or move, fighting the urge to collapse on the bottom bunk. Suddenly my mind is full of Ben and I’m missing him like it was yesterday. The way he twitched the tip of his nose when he was amused – or annoyed. The long, smooth curve of his spine. The feel of him inside me, pressing down, keeping me warm and safe and protected from everything bad in the world.
Shit. This isn’t helping.
Fresh start, remember?
I unpack the contents of my rucksack and dry swallow a couple of pills. Stash the rest, concealed in a large innocuous-looking vitamin bottle, at the back of my wardrobe, then pause to examine the view outside. The cabin is at the rear of the station, so there are no outbuildings to interrupt the vista of … well, nothing. Mile upon flat mile of ice, the horizon a clean incision line against the bright blue sky, the surface of the snow carved by the wind into long horizontal waves – in shadow, the effect is uncannily like an ocean.
Enjoy it while you can, I remind myself; in a few short months, the sun will disappear entirely. When it sets for the final time, there’ll be nothing but darkness for weeks on end. I shiver at the thought. I never mentioned to UNA my long-standing fear of the dark.
Among other things.
Back when I’d accepted the job, my anxieties had seemed remote, manageable. But now, standing here, the prospect of that endless night ignites another flare of misgiving.
Have I made the right decision in coming here?
Part of it was altruism, wanting to do my bit. UNA, barely three years old, was established to bring together scientists a
cross the world to further research on climate change and the crucial role of Antarctica in global weather systems. And it needs staff of every stripe, not just scientists: plumbers, electricians, engineers, mechanics, chefs and, of course, doctors.
Underneath, though, my reasons were more selfish. I desperately needed to escape the daily reminders of Ben’s absence, the ever-watchful gaze of those around me – my sister and mother, colleagues, nurses, even the ancillary staff. The constant air of concern and sympathy only made things worse. This vast continent, with its promise of splendid isolation, seemed the ideal place to hide.
But was I mistaken? Is this place simply a mirror, reflecting back my broken, frozen heart?
Enough, I tell myself, lowering the blind to cut out the worst of the glare. You’re exhausted – everything will feel different tomorrow. Unzipping my carry-all, I unload clothes and possessions into the wardrobe. It seems an absurd amount of stuff, much of it issued by UNA: two jumpsuits, down jackets and leggings, all bright tomato-red for maximum visibility against the snow. Several sets of thermal underwear, six pairs of gloves and mitts in different thicknesses, three fleeces and a wool sweater, seven pairs of socks, three pairs of cotton trousers. Not to mention polar boots, inner liners, extra soles, goggles, hat, and sunglasses.
I cram as much as I can into the wardrobe, but it’s way too small. So I arrange the rest neatly on the top bunk, wondering again how on earth two people could coexist in this cabin – there’d barely be room to breathe. Then I strip off, wrapping up in the thick fleece dressing gown that seemed a good idea back in my chilly Victorian flat, but now, ironically, feels far too warm – it might be minus thirty outside, but the station itself is sweltering.
I shower quickly, towelling my hair dry before returning to my cabin. Moments later, there’s a knock on the door.
‘You decent?’ calls Drew.
Jesus. Has an hour passed already? ‘One sec.’ I pull on the first fresh clothes I lay my hands on. ‘Come in.’
His head appears around the door. ‘Want that tour now?’
I nod, trying to appear enthusiastic. A few more hours, I tell myself, then I can go to bed.
Though I’ve seen plans of the layout, the base is bigger than I imagined, and far more disorienting. Drew walks me around a maze of corridors, some so narrow two people can barely pass, others with low ceilings that make them feel more like tunnels. Everything has been packed in to maximise space, Drew explains, as well as insulation – the outside walls have to be thick enough to cope with a 100-degree difference between the inside and ‘out there’.
We explore Alpha first, the living quarters that form the main building. Drew shows me all of it: twenty bedrooms and four bathrooms; the kitchen and dining area; the sizeable lounge and next-door games room, with pool table and table football; the library that doubles as a mini cinema; the small but well-equipped gym; a launderette with an array of washers and tumble dryers; and finally my clinic and adjacent surgery.
Next up is Beta, the neighbouring tech building, reached via an enclosed corridor. Accompanied by the constant hum of machinery, we tour the radio and comms labs, the Skype room, and various scientific laboratories. Underneath, on the ground floor, Drew guides me around the garages, workshops, and food storage areas, the generators, and water recycling system.
In contrast to the relative orderliness of Alpha, Beta is all very industrial: steel floor beneath a chaos of pipes and trunking, and large twisted cables, some strung along the walls, others suspended from the ceiling. The corridors are littered with a mess of message boards and maps, hooks hung with outdoor gear, myriad racks of shelving crammed with folders and manuals, and boxes full of various bits of hardware and equipment.
I follow Drew around what feels like a labyrinth; God knows how people manage not to get lost. ‘These are the hydraulic rams,’ he explains as we pick our way across one of the workshops to the edge of the building. ‘They keep the whole structure from being buried under the ice. Without them, we’d be underground in a decade or two.’
I recall a picture of an old metal hut somewhere in the South Pole, a wooden support all that was preventing its collapse from the accumulated snow. How on earth did those early explorers endure such hostile conditions with so few resources? With every passing minute in the station, I’m ever more aware how dependent we are on the technology around us to stay alive. How vulnerable we would be if any of it failed.
‘Not enough time today, but tomorrow we can take a look outside, if you like,’ Drew says, after filling me in on the water recycling. ‘There’s some pretty interesting stuff out there. Plus we store emergency medical supplies over in the summer camp in case this place burns down – you should know where they all are.’
‘That’d be great.’ I’m praying this is the end of the tour and I can have a few minutes of rest in my cabin before supper. But on returning to Alpha, Drew pauses outside a closed door just down the corridor from my clinic. Station Leader, according to the sign.
Drew knocks, sticks his head inside. ‘You want a word with Kate?’
I hear Sandrine answer in the affirmative, so follow Drew inside. She’s sitting at her desk, writing in a large notebook. Everything around her as neat and orderly as her perfectly applied make-up and immaculate clothes. More Paris, somehow, than Antarctica.
‘You settling in okay?’ she asks, her tone curiously flat.
‘Yes. Thanks.’
‘Good.’
There’s a moment’s silence I’m unsure how to fill. ‘Do I need keys?’ I prompt, aware that Drew is witnessing every word of this exchange. Very few rooms on the base have doors that lock, I’ve noticed, including the sleeping cabins – the exceptions being my clinic, the comms room, and Sandrine’s own office.
‘Oh, yes.’ Sandrine gets up and opens a sturdy wooden cupboard mounted behind her desk. Hands me a set of keys. ‘Let me know if there’s anything else you need.’
I withdraw, feeling deflated again. I hadn’t expected a fanfare, sure, but I suppose I’d counted on something warmer than this.
‘Don’t worry.’ Drew catches my expression as we head down the hallway. ‘She grows on you.’
I muster a half-smile, hoping he’s right.
‘And hang on to those keys. Sandrine lost hers a few months ago and they were hell to replace.’
‘I will,’ I say, desperately hoping that’s it. I’m so tired I can hardly stand. The pills are beginning to wear off and I can feel an edginess creeping into my mood.
‘Anyhow,’ Drew continues, ‘I’ve saved the best till last.’
Oh God. I force myself to look keen and follow him along another rabbit warren of corridors. We arrive at a room at the far end of the station, a small narrow space overhung with a dense array of bright LED lights.
‘Ta-dah!’ Drew grins, gesturing towards a few sparse plants hunkered beneath the glare. ‘My babies.’
I survey the forlorn-looking salad leaves: several types of lettuce, rocket, kale. All bizarrely out of place in this stark white room in the middle of this stark white continent.
‘The only green stuff you’ll set eyes on all winter,’ he says proudly, flashing me a perfectly aligned smile. With his short hair and two-day stubble, Drew really does resemble a male model, the kind that might advertise sports gear or outdoor clothing. ‘Sowed them a month ago. Should have the first crop in a few weeks.’
Barely enough for a meal, I imagine, but try to look appreciative.
‘So that’s pretty much it,’ he concludes, checking his watch. ‘Thirty minutes to supper. I’ll see you in the dining room.’
I reach out and touch his arm as he turns to go. ‘Thanks, Drew. It was nice of you to take the time.’
‘No trouble at all.’ His gaze is friendly, warmly professional. ‘It’s really good to have you here.’
By the time I arrive in the canteen, half a dozen people are already spread along the four neat rows of tables. No sign of Drew yet, but Caro waves as she get
s up to greet me, her spiky hair giving her a cute, elfin look.
‘Enjoy your tour?’ she asks, guiding me to the serving hatch.
I nod. ‘It’s a lot to take in.’
‘No kidding. I got lost about a dozen times when I arrived. But you’ll get the hang of it.’
I survey all the food on the counter. ‘Do I serve myself?’
‘Help yourself to whatever you like. You’re in luck. It’s Friday, so it’s fish and chips.’
‘Really? Even on an international station?’
‘We all take turns helping Rajiv prepare the evening meal,’ Caro explains. ‘Fridays are for Britain, Ireland, New Zealand and Australia, and we generally stick to fish. France and Belgium have Sunday; Italy and Spain are Saturday – usually pizza or paella. US and Canada are on Tuesday – that’s often burgers, though Sonya makes a mean spicy fried chicken. Russia and the Baltic states on Wednesday, and Thursday used to be South America, but now most of the summer staff have gone, that slot’s up for grabs. Oh, and India and Asia on Mondays,’ she adds, nodding towards Rajiv, busy behind the hatch. ‘His curry’s the best meal on the base.’
I collect some food and follow Caro to her table, saying hello to Arkady and a guy I don’t recognise. Ark, as he insists I call him, seems pleased to see me, his wide smile revealing a couple of Soviet-era gold teeth that give him the air of a Bond villain. The other man, however, offers only the briefest of nods; it’s Alex, I realise – the guy with Drew who met me off the plane.
I can see his face now at least: clean-shaven, unlike Ark and many of the summer staff, whose Antarctica beards make them look like Portland hipsters. Alex is boyishly handsome with his floppy dark hair and fresh-faced skin, lightly tanned from time spent outdoors. Mid-twenties, I’m guessing – I make a mental note to check his medical file tomorrow. I smile at him, but he barely returns the favour before he turns away, something cold in his expression that reminds me of Sandrine.
‘Ark made a borscht last week,’ Caro says as we sit opposite. ‘It was pretty good.’
He gives her a thumbs-up. ‘Better than trifle you make,’ he quips in his thick Russian accent. ‘What kind of shit was that?’
The Dark Page 2