The Dark

by Emma Haughton

  ‘There was no way to recover his body,’ Alice explains. ‘You have to understand, Kate, the ice out here can be up to six kilometres deep. Those crevasses go down very, very far.’

  ‘Jesus.’ I try to digest the horror of this. ‘So how do you know … that he …’ I can’t bring myself to say it.

  ‘That he died in the fall?’

  I glance up in surprise as Alex cuts into our exchange. Oh hell, he’s heard what I was saying. Heat rushes to my cheeks as I see he’s staring at me. No, that isn’t the right word. He’s glaring at me.

  The conversation around the table dies away as everyone turns their attention to us. ‘The answer, Doctor North, is that we’ve no idea,’ Alex says. ‘For all we know Jean-Luc could have been hanging there, injured, for hours before he died. Fucking hours,’ he repeats, his voice rising with emotion.

  That strikes me as unlikely, given the temperature, but I’m not about to argue. He looks pissed off. Like someone on the edge.

  ‘Alex,’ Sandrine shoots him a warning look, ‘this is neither the time nor the place.’

  He swings to face her. ‘It never fucking is, is it, Sandrine?’

  She narrows her eyes at him, lips tight with emotion. Whether from anger or some other feeling, I can’t tell.

  Out of the corner of my eye, I see Tom’s pale features freeze in a rictus of tension. He closes his eyes for a couple of seconds, as if keeping something under control.

  The sound of a chair scraping against the floor snaps my focus back to Alex. He gets to his feet abruptly and leaves the dining room, everyone gazing after him.

  At the far end of the table, I glimpse Sandrine swallow down some emotion, refusing to make eye contact with any of us.

  My fingers tremble as I pick up my glass and take a large gulp of wine, overcome with a paroxysm of guilt and embarrassment. I should have kept my mouth shut. Should have been more discreet.

  But one thing is clear.

  The death of Jean-Luc hangs over this ice station like a curse.

  5

  16 February

  4.02 a.m.

  I’ve been awake for what feels like for ever, lying in this uncomfortable bunk in this claustrophobic little room, fighting the lure of the super-strong sleeping pills in my surgery. Anything to stop my mind churning over last night. Alex’s outburst, Sandrine’s tight-lipped rebuke. My own sense of having blundered into a minefield.

  Beneath it all, the image of Jean-Luc, my predecessor, out there somewhere suspended in that icy tomb.

  Frozen, perhaps, for all eternity.

  I close my eyes against the light streaming underneath the crack in the blind, recalling a documentary on ice climbing I watched with Ben, a few months before the accident. Both of us transfixed as the climber dropped backwards into a crevasse, legs swinging precariously over the abyss. Fear in his breathing, ragged and staccato, as he lowered himself into that fathomless blue void.

  What did he feel, Jean-Luc, in that moment when the tension of the climbing rope dissolved and he plunged down into those icy depths?

  What terror? What disbelief?

  I pray his agony was momentary, that some blow to his head knocked him unconscious. That he didn’t lie there for long minutes, the cold seeping into his bones, knowing there was absolutely zero chance of rescue.

  Pushing the image from my mind I heave myself out of bed, limbs laggy and tired, to rummage in my wardrobe for some pills. Already the bottle feels lighter. I peer morosely inside, remembering my resolution to kick the habit once I arrived on the ice.

  Where better than Antarctica? I’d thought. Away from my usual routine, the lure of the prescription pad.

  But right now it doesn’t feel so easy. After a moment of hesitation and self-loathing, I chew a couple of hydrocodone to get them into my bloodstream as fast as possible, then pull on some clothes and make my way to the canteen.

  Only Tom is there, sitting in the corner, staring out of the window. He nods hello, then turns away. I hesitate, studying the back of his head, his short neat haircut and immaculately pressed shirt and black trousers, wondering if I should make the effort to get to know him a bit better.

  But something about his hunched shoulders, his studiously averted attention, tells me he’d rather be left undisturbed. I brew some coffee, make a slice of toast, then escape to my clinic instead. Work, I’ve learned, is the antidote for pretty much everything.

  After all, it’s helped me survive since losing Ben.

  Fortunately, there’s plenty of it. I spend several hours reviewing the various medical experiments I’ve inherited as station doctor. Jean-Luc and Raff have already collected prodigious amounts of information from each of the winterers: regular blood pressure, temperature, oxygen saturation, and respiratory rate readings, plus weekly blood tests to check cholesterol and haemoglobin levels. Not to mention frequent urine and stool samples to keep tabs on how our immune systems are reacting to the closed environment, given no viruses, bacteria or fungi can survive outside our little cocoon.

  On top of all that, there’s a raft of behavioural data from the wristbands we’re all required to wear, designed to monitor activity levels, heart rate and sleep, as well as our location on the base, and even who we’re with. Supplemented with questionnaires and video diaries, it’s all designed to study how darkness and isolation affect mood and social interaction. Our real mood, that is – not the social façade we try to maintain.

  All a bit Big Brother, without a doubt. But that’s what we signed up for.

  I scan the results, hoping they might shed light on the tensions I’ve already witnessed in the station. But it proves impossible to discern a pattern and I lack the energy to dig deeper, so I click into a different screen to check the testing schedule.

  Oh hell. Bloods were due two days ago – I’m already falling behind. I get up and open the supplies cupboard, looking for fresh needles and syringes. I’m just pulling out a box of antiseptic wipes when I spot an envelope wedged underneath. I pick it up and peer at the writing on the front, the distinctive cursive longhand the French learn at school.

  Nicole Bernas, it says, with an address in Lille. Jean-Luc’s wife, I assume, or perhaps his mother or sister.

  But it’s the words in the corner, printed carefully in capitals in English, that stop the breath in my throat: IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH.

  What the …? I stare at it in disbelief, then check the reverse: no writing, but the envelope is firmly sealed.

  What is this doing in the supplies cupboard? Did Jean-Luc hide it deliberately?

  I stare at the envelope, wondering when he wrote this and wrestling with the temptation to look inside. All the while trying to get my head around the more obvious question – why on earth did the doctor feel compelled to leave a posthumous letter?

  He couldn’t possibly have anticipated what would happen out there on the ice, could he?

  Before I can speculate any further, an unfamiliar buzz catches my awareness. I rush to the window and peer outside. There, on the horizon, a small speck in the otherwise cloudless blue sky.

  The final flight. It’s here.

  I feel an unexpected swoop of anxiety as I watch the little aircraft grow ever larger, carrying with it the last chance to change my mind. It’s now or never, I realise. Once that plane takes off again, I’m here to stay. No way to leave the base for another eight months.

  I glance at the letter in my hand, seized by a sudden and unsettling sense of foreboding. I’ve been here less than a week, but there’s no denying the air of palpable tension on the station, of barely concealed unease.

  What, exactly, have I got myself into?

  Another headache begins to pulse behind my temple, as I watch the aircraft bank around to line up with the makeshift runway. I think back on the monotony of my existence in Bristol – long hours at the hospital, solitary evenings at home, ready meals shoved in the microwave, watching Netflix curled up on the sofa.

  My life since the accident
.

  My life alone.

  Do I really want to return to that?

  The wheels of the plane make contact with the ground, bouncing a few times and sending up a spray of ice crystals that sparkle in the light, sun glinting on the cockpit windows as the Basler drops its speed and turns towards Beta.

  I’ve no choice, I realise. To go home now would mean leaving the base without a doctor all winter – it would be next to impossible for UNA to recruit and train up another at this late stage. Plus the risks of getting someone out here escalate exponentially as winter closes in and flying becomes too dangerous. Hell, they might even be forced to evacuate the whole base.

  What would that do to my professional reputation? Let alone my conscience.

  A knock on the door behind me. I quickly stuff the envelope into my jeans pocket as Caro appears, dressed in outdoor gear. ‘Hey, Kate, you coming to wave them off?’

  ‘Aren’t the pilots staying for a while?’

  She shakes her head. ‘Too cold today. They’ve got to keep the engines running or they’ll freeze up.’

  I lock the clinic door and grab some warm clothes from my cabin, down two more pills, then hurry to the boot room, where I find the last of the summer team saying their goodbyes. Sadness and relief on their faces as they hug everyone, me included. I pull on my outdoor gear, then descend the steps, gasping as the cold air hits my lungs, making my eyes water and chest contract with shock.

  Impossible ever to get used to it.

  Around me a hive of activity, everyone hurrying towards the refuelling rig. As I trudge across the ice, I pass Luuk and Drew already returning on the skidoos, towing sleds loaded with crates of apples and potatoes, avocados and kiwi fruit, hurrying to bring our last precious supply of fresh food inside before it freezes.

  Up ahead, a small figure makes her way towards the plane.

  ‘Sandrine!’

  The station leader turns at the sound of her name, pausing to let me catch up. I remove my glove and shove my hand into my jeans pocket, pulling out the envelope, already a little crumpled.

  Her eyes widen as I hand it to her and she reads the name. ‘Where did you get this?’ She frowns at me, her expression faintly accusing.

  ‘I found it in the supplies cupboard. I assume Jean-Luc left it there.’

  Sandrine stares down at the writing on the front. Her hand is shaking, I notice; whether from cold or this unwelcome reminder of the death of my predecessor, it’s impossible to tell.

  ‘You haven’t read it?’ she asks.

  ‘Of course not!’ I say indignantly. ‘That’s exactly how I found it.’

  With a brief glance around her, Sandrine shoves the letter in her pocket and nods towards the plane. ‘They’re waiting.’

  We join the small group huddled around the Basler, jumping around and flapping their arms to stay warm while the summer team boards the plane and settles into their seats.

  ‘You okay?’ Arne asks, as I pant from the effort of hurrying across the ice. Most of his face is exposed, seemingly unfazed by the bitter cold. He’s studying me with that quiet air of concern I saw on Alice; as if I’m fragile, or that I, too, might suddenly disappear on them.

  ‘Of course,’ I reply, but my voice sounds brittle. I’m still smarting from my interaction with Sandrine. How come every encounter with her leaves me feeling wrong-footed?

  I feel another surge of panic at the thought of being left here. Despite the thick necker and goggles, I have an uneasy feeling people can read my mood, that they’re aware some part of me wants to grab my things and follow the summer scientists onto that plane.

  I glance around, but everyone’s attention is fixed on the departing crew. Only Tom, standing slightly apart from the rest, catches my eye, quickly looking away again.

  I’m suddenly certain he knows exactly what I’m thinking.

  ‘Hey, don’t forget these!’ Caro passes over a small bundle of envelopes to one of the pilots. I realise it’s our last chance to deliver any post to friends and family for the next eight months. Damn. I should have included birthday cards for my sister, for my nephews.

  Too late now.

  I glance at Sandrine, waiting for her to produce the letter from Jean-Luc. But the station leader just stands there, unmoving, as the air crew closes up the doors then clambers back into the cockpit.

  What the hell? Surely she should send that letter on to UNA, so they can pass it on to his wife?

  I stare at her, but Sandrine ignores me, keeping her eyes fixed on the plane as the pilots give us a thumbs-up. Seconds later they’re taxiing away, all the summer crew waving goodbye through the little porthole windows.

  ‘Have a good flight!’ Alice yells, swinging her arms wildly and jumping up and down on the spot. ‘See you on the other side.’

  Drew and Luuk arrive on the skidoos as the plane lines itself up on the runway. With an ear-splitting roar, the engines rev and it hurtles forward across the ice, then slowly, inexorably, lifts into the air.

  We stand there, watching, as the Basler grows smaller and smaller, shrinking to a little black dot before finally disappearing into the fierce blue sky. For a minute or so we all remain silent, absorbing the fact of its departure. Red jackets on white snow. The only life for hundreds of miles around.

  Thirteen of us. All alone.

  ‘Well, that’s it,’ Ark declares solemnly, swiping the snow crystals from his beard. ‘You stuck with me now.’

  Sonya sighs. ‘That definitely calls for a drink.’

  Slowly she leads the trek back to Alpha, and I follow in her wake, fighting down the feeling that I’ve just made one of the worst mistakes of my life.

  6

  30 March

  Six weeks later

  ‘You sleep all right?’ Drew pulls up an empty chair at breakfast.

  ‘Not really. I keep hearing people in the corridor.’ I start on my muesli, longing for some fresh fruit and thick Greek yoghurt to go with it.

  Arne yawns. ‘That’ll be Tom, or Rob. They’re becoming … how do you say … diurnal?’

  ‘Nocturnal?’ Alice suggests. ‘You mean awake all night and sleeping during the day?’

  ‘Yes, that.’ Arne nods.

  Quite a crowd for breakfast this morning, I notice. Drew, Arne, Alice and Luuk sitting at one end of the dining table, Alex at the other, head buried in a magazine. As the hours of darkness have increased steadily, attendance at mealtimes has become more erratic, as if the dwindling daylight triggers some primitive urge to go into hibernation.

  ‘Anyway,’ Drew turns to me. ‘How about that trip up the tower? You really should see the view before it’s too dark and cold to risk it. Forecast is for a nice day, and I promised Sonya I’d check on some of the weather equipment.’

  I hesitate. Do I really want to go? I’m not scared of heights exactly, but that is one tall tower and the climb looks precarious.

  Plus I lack the energy. The disorienting effect of the rapid shift in seasons on my already disordered sleep patterns has rendered me permanently groggy. Tiredness drags at me constantly, making my eyes ache and my mind sluggish, and the thought of dragging myself up that tower is less than appealing.

  ‘It’s now or never, kiddo,’ Drew urges. ‘This is pretty much your last chance till spring.’

  He’s studying me in that searching way that made me feel stupidly self-conscious when I first arrived. But after six weeks I’ve given up trying to mask my scar, fending off the occasional question with the simplest of answers: car crash.

  ‘Okay,’ I agree, reluctantly. ‘Before lunch? I have to do the bloods later.’

  Out of the corner of my eye, I sense Arne regarding us thoughtfully. ‘I’ll come too,’ he says. ‘I could do with the fresh air.’

  Drew lifts an eyebrow. ‘Thought you were busy with that dodgy skidoo?’

  ‘It will wait.’ Arne glances across the table at Alex. He’s still studying his magazine, but something in his demeanour suggests he’s been listening to
every word. ‘You coming too?’

  Alex glances up. ‘I’ll pass, thanks. I’m sure you three can take care of yourselves.’

  ‘You’ll need the climbing equipment,’ Luuk chips in, chewing a slice of toast. ‘Best give it a once-over first though.’ Though his comment is clearly addressed to Drew, I notice his eyes are fixed firmly on Alex.

  Arne flashes Luuk a warning look and I frown, puzzled. It seemed a pretty innocuous thing to say. Sure enough, Alex’s features stiffen. He leans back in his seat and regards us steadily. ‘You know where it is, Drew. All checked over, ready to go.’

  Drew nods, but Luuk’s mouth twitches into a smirk. There’s a palpable tension in the air and I have the distinct feeling something is being left unsaid. But Alex ignores him, returning his attention to the magazine.

  ‘Take care of Kate,’ says Alice, a little too brightly, like someone trying to defuse a tricky situation. ‘That thing is damn slippery in the cold.’

  Arne glances at his watch. ‘See you in the boot room at midday?’

  Drew nods again, and stands. ‘Wrap up warm,’ he tells me, then disappears.

  Mindful of the climb, I put on several more layers than usual; I’m sweating profusely by the time I arrive in the boot room, and I haven’t even got my snow gear on yet.

  ‘Your face is almost as red as your jacket.’ Drew grins.

  I grimace. ‘I feel like the Michelin man.’ Probably look about as attractive too, I think grimly.

  ‘The what?’ Arne’s expression is confused.

  ‘It means well padded.’ As I put out a hand to steady myself on the racking while I pull on my boots, static arcs to my fingers. ‘Ouch!’ I yelp, making both Drew and Arne laugh.

  Wrestling into my jacket, I search for my glove liners in the pocket; as I pull them out, something drops to the floor.

  My pills.

  I bend to snatch them up, but Drew beats me to it. ‘Strong stuff,’ he says, glancing at the label on the foil sachet as he hands them to me.

  ‘They’re not mine.’ I quickly shove them back into my pocket. ‘They’re for someone else.’