The Dark

by Emma Haughton

  My cursor hovers over the most recent. Surely it wouldn’t do any harm? After all, nobody need ever know.

  No.

  I return to the main screen, studying the names on the list. Only Arne, Sandrine, Rajiv, Alice, and Sonya are up-to-date with their entries. I need to do some more chasing up. Explain – yet again – why it matters. What we owe to the people who laboriously set up the experiment, how much we could learn, the ways in which it might be used to help others.

  But it’s a slog, as I know myself. Every week, I struggle to talk to the camera. Impossible, somehow, to be honest about how I feel, what I’ve been witnessing on the station over the last month or so, the deterioration in everyone’s mood as the lack of light takes its toll. So I stick to facts, avoid mentioning anybody by name, simply describe what I’ve done, what I’m planning to do. Updates on the experiments, that sort of thing.

  Of course, there’s one person who won’t be making any more videos, I think, gazing at Jean-Luc’s name, wondering why nobody thought to remove him from the system. I click into his file and examine all the entries. Twenty-six in total, the oldest at the top, recorded back in October in what would have been late spring here in Antarctica. On impulse, I open it up.

  Confidentiality doesn’t apply to dead people, surely?

  I’m harming no one by watching this, I tell myself, though my motives for wanting to at all are less clear.

  Why am I so curious?

  Morbid fascination? Or am I simply in need of distraction?

  A moment later I’m staring at that handsome face. Silver stubble, grey around his temples. A deep tan that suggests he spent a lot of time in the sun.

  The second he starts speaking, I realise it’s in French. Of course. In the privacy of a conversation to camera, people will naturally use their native language. I feel a flicker of disappointment; though I studied French to A level, I’m far from fluent.

  Still, I let the video run, mesmerised by the sight of this man in the flesh, the sound of his voice. Everything about him, his demeanour, his mannerisms, the way he smiles at the camera, speaks of someone relaxed and happy in his own skin. He exudes an air of friendliness and authority – no wonder people warmed to him.

  Most of them, at least.

  I find I can understand more than I anticipated. His French is clear, with no strong accent or slang, and he talks with thoughtful slowness, describing his arrival on the ice, how happy he is to be here. How much he is looking forward to his year in Antarctica, and how much he misses his family.

  ‘This place, this empire of white,’ he says in French. ‘It is the most beautiful in the world. So vast and still. So magnificent. It is untamed and wild and it lives on in my heart and my head, even when I’m not here. It teaches you that we are small and we are fragile, but somehow that need not diminish us in a place like this. Being here at all is a miracle.’

  I swallow, experiencing a mix of emotions. I’m well aware I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t stop. I click through some of the later entries, playing excerpts. A lot of the time Jean-Luc talks about the experiments. I notice how careful he is never to refer to anyone on the base by name – a consummate professional, I think, feeling increasingly guilty about prying.

  Why, exactly, am I doing this?

  I return to the main list. With a frisson of unease, I note the date of the final entry: four days before his death. He must have recorded it right before leaving on that fateful expedition. I open up the link and blink at the screen in shock. This Jean-Luc is a different man to the one in the earlier videos. He looks depressed and tired, his tone dejected. His entire demeanour has changed, as if in the intervening months he’s gained a whole world of problems.

  What the hell happened? This was late summer, and though too much light can certainly mess with your sleeping schedule and other biorhythms, it’s rarely as disruptive as the perpetual darkness of winter. But the doctor looks terrible – as if he hasn’t slept properly in days.

  ‘Je ne sais pas quoi faire,’ he says, after a long silence in which he fiddles with something off-screen. Where before he made constant eye contact with the camera, now he seems unable to hold its gaze for more than a few seconds. ‘Peut-être rien en ce moment.’

  I don’t know what to do. Perhaps nothing at this moment.

  His eyes flick away again as he mutters something I can’t quite catch. I wind back, replay it. ‘Cette pauvre fille. Je dois être certain que nous ne sommes pas vraiment en danger, que celui-ci c’est la même personne. Je dois convaincre Sandy de parler à UNA sans délai. Il faut vérifier les échantillons d’ADN.’

  Then, suddenly, the doctor leans forward and switches off the camera.

  I translate his words in my head, and play the clip again, to make certain I understood. That poor girl. I have to be certain that we’re not truly in danger, that this is the same person. I must convince Sandy to talk to UNA urgently. We have to check those … what? I look up the word échantillon on the internet.

  ‘Sample,’ says the online dictionary. As in DNA sample, I guess.

  I frown, studying the now blank screen. What did Jean-Luc mean? Why did he need to insist Sandrine talk to UNA? What DNA samples?

  Truly in danger …

  My head buzzes with a feeling of foreboding. I sit there, trying to make sense of what I just heard. Jean-Luc was clearly troubled by something, that much is clear – he appeared as anxious as I’ve ever seen anybody, the contrast with his earlier self deeply unsettling.

  But what on earth was going on?

  There’s only one person I can think to ask.

  16

  18 June

  There’s no answer when I knock on the door of Alex’s cabin, so I tour the station, first checking all the workshops in Beta. I end up finding him where I least expect, tucked in the corner of the empty dining room, hunched over his laptop, a half-eaten sandwich on a plate next to him.

  ‘Hi,’ I say, as brightly as I can manage given I’ve had an exhausting day and it’s nearly one in the morning.

  Alex acknowledges me with a brief nod.

  ‘How’s it going?’ I sit in the chair opposite, making it clear I’m here for the long haul.

  ‘Okay.’ He switches off his laptop and closes the lid.

  I study his face. Alex looks tired and gaunt – par for the course here these days. Refreshing sleep is now as rare a commodity as fresh veg. But there’s more, a haunted resignation, as if this place is something he’s being forced to endure.

  ‘You sure you’re all right?’ I ask, but get a blank stare for an answer. ‘You don’t look it,’ I persist.

  He sits back with a sigh, pushing back his hair. It’s longer, I notice. Ever since the onset of the recurrent shower issues, most of the guys have got into the habit of shaving off their beards and getting their hair regularly chopped, courtesy of Ark and his electric clippers. Either Alex doesn’t care for a buzz cut or he’s reluctant to ask.

  ‘What do you want, Kate?’

  I sit there for a moment or two, deciding how to broach what Jean-Luc said in that video log. I’m wary of admitting to Alex that I watched it; even if I’m within my rights, I don’t need him wondering if I’ve done the same with his.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’

  He gives a barely perceptible nod.

  ‘You were friends with Jean-Luc, right?’

  Alex stiffens slightly at the name, but nods again.

  ‘Did he ever say anything to you …’ I stop. Regroup. ‘Did he mention having any reason to believe somebody here might be a threat to our safety?’

  I sense Alex’s attention sharpen. ‘Why would you ask me that?’

  ‘Just a note left in his file,’ I lie. ‘It said he needed to find out more, but that he thought we might be in danger. No indication what it was about.’

  ‘In his medical file?’

  I nod. It’s sort of true, after all.

  ‘No name?’

  ‘Name?’

/>   ‘He didn’t say who it was?’

  ‘Who what was exactly? I’m not sure what you mean.’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ Alex sounds irritated. ‘I mean whoever killed him. The person Jean-Luc was investigating, the person who stole his laptop and notebook.’

  I gaze back at him. ‘Do you really believe Jean-Luc was murdered?’

  ‘Yes,’ he hisses, with a glance around to make sure we’re still alone. ‘Jean-Luc told me a couple of weeks before he died that he suspected someone on this station of having committed a serious crime. He—’

  I hold my hand up to stop him. ‘Wait. What kind of crime?’

  ‘He didn’t say. Just that it was very serious. That he’d discovered something suspicious and he needed proof.’

  ‘So he didn’t suggest who … or what?’

  ‘No.’

  I look away, trying to gather my thoughts. Tread carefully, Kate. You’re supposed to be helping Alex, not feeding his paranoia. ‘Did Jean-Luc say how he intended to prove it?’

  ‘Not exactly. Just that he wanted UNA to run some checks. That the results would confirm whether or not he was right.’

  The DNA samples Jean-Luc mentioned, the ones he discussed with Sandrine.

  ‘And did they do it?’

  Alex shrugs. ‘I’ve no idea. That’s why I went to get his journal and laptop. I knew what happened to him wasn’t an accident, so I wanted to know what he’d discovered.’

  ‘But you couldn’t find them.’

  ‘No. I went straight to his room after a debrief with Sandrine so she could send a report to UNA, but by that time they’d gone.’

  I inhale, taking all this in. ‘So … this person … you’ve absolutely no idea who it is, or why Jean-Luc was so concerned?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean I intend to find out.’

  ‘How?’

  Alex shakes his head fiercely. ‘I don’t know, but I’m piecing it together. Jean-Luc said other stuff, odd things here and there, when we were alone. He was really cut up about an incident last time he was in Antarctica – some girl who died out on the ice.’

  ‘Who?’

  Alex shrugs again. ‘He wouldn’t say.’

  ‘And you believe Jean-Luc’s death was connected to that?’ I look at him incredulously. Somehow, somewhere, this conversation has gone right off the rails, and I no longer know what to think. Except that it’s not doing Alex any good at all.

  Silly move, Kate.

  ‘I reckon so.’

  ‘Alex, listen to me. I’m not sure that … everything you’re saying makes sense. I know you’re upset and possibly a bit depressed. I’d really like you to come and see me tomorrow, so we can discuss this when we’re both less tired. Maybe talk over your options for medication.’

  The second the words are out of my mouth, I see by Alex’s expression that I’ve said exactly the wrong thing. Again, I realise, remembering his indignation when I asked him about the marijuana. Why do I keep screwing this up?

  ‘Alex, please, I’m only trying to—’

  ‘What the fuck, Kate?’ He leaps to his feet, glaring at me. ‘You come in here, you start this whole conversation, and now you don’t believe me?’ His face is red with fury, his voice loud enough to wake half the base.

  ‘No,’ I stammer, glancing anxiously towards the door. ‘Alex, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that. I meant this is clearly getting you down and—’

  ‘Of course it’s getting me down!’ he yells, so angry I’m almost afraid. ‘One of the best men I’ve ever known has been murdered – yes, murdered – and I’m getting the fucking blame, and instead of helping me find out who the hell did this, you want to stick me on antidepressants!’

  ‘No, that’s not what—’

  ‘I DON’T NEED FUCKING ANTIDEPRESSANTS! I need to put a stop to this. I’m going to find the bastard who did this to Jean—’

  ‘Alex, enough!’

  Her voice is loud and commanding. We both turn to see Sandrine standing in the doorway. Behind her hovers Caro, in pyjamas and a loose dressing gown, along with Drew, Arne, and Luuk.

  Hell. We really have woken up half the station.

  ‘What bastard?’ Luuk glares at Alex. ‘What the fuck are you on about?’

  But Alex doesn’t respond. Instead he makes a sudden rush for the door, forcing everyone to jump aside to let him through.

  Sandrine’s gaze follows him down the corridor, then swings back to me. ‘What was that all about?’

  I shake my head, heat rushing to my cheeks. ‘I … I’m not sure. I was simply trying to talk to him.’

  ‘Like you did before?’ The station leader fixes me with a piercing stare. ‘I’d say you’ve done enough damage for one night, haven’t you? I suggest you go to bed, but I would like to see you in my office tomorrow.’

  With that, she turns and leaves the room.

  I stand there, blinking, trying not to cry. Caro comes over and puts an arm around my shoulder while the others regard me awkwardly. ‘Ignore her, Kate. She’s under a lot of strain.’

  I swallow. Nod. But Sandrine’s right – I really have made this worse.

  17

  18 June

  3 a.m.

  Ben’s voice in my head. ‘I’m tired, Kate, tired of trying to get everything right. Always working so hard to please everyone, to be fucking perfect. When do we get to stop?’

  Only by ‘we’, he meant me, of course.

  After all, he chose a different life. He chose someone else, someone more exciting, more spontaneous.

  What would Ben think now? I wonder, as I replay last night’s disastrous conversation with Alex, Sandrine’s stinging rebuke. Me out here in the middle of nowhere, at the ends of the earth, screwing everything up.

  Not so fucking perfect after all.

  I heave myself out of bed, feeling almost delirious with exhaustion. I picture the high-strength sleeping pills locked away in the clinic, those little white domes nestling in their pristine foil packet. A couple, perhaps, to snatch a few more hours sleep. To get a better grip on things.

  Sandrine was right – my judgement is impaired and the insomnia isn’t helping.

  Pulling on my dressing gown, I pad along the empty corridors to the clinic, praying I won’t bump into anyone. I slip my key into the lock, but when I turn it, nothing happens. I frown, peering at the door in the dim lights that illuminate the corridor at night, then pull on the handle.

  To my surprise, the door swings open.

  I stand there, puzzled. I’m certain I locked it last night – I always do. There are too many valuable and even dangerous medications, too many pieces of sensitive equipment inside this room to ever risk leaving it open.

  Shit, I think, remembering the pills stolen from my room. I go in, shutting the door behind me. To my relief, the medicine cabinets are still secured. I take a look inside. Everything seems in order. I double-check the items somebody might be tempted by, but they’re all there, neat packets of barbiturates and opiate painkillers, nothing obviously missing.

  I sink onto my chair. What’s going on? I could swear I locked the clinic before setting off to find Alex. I can actually picture myself doing it, tucking the keys into the pocket of my jeans as I headed towards his cabin.

  Then I remember my torch, lost on the ice. My conviction that someone had taken it. Arne told me the next morning that Drew had already found it, right where we’d all been standing. Somehow, even searching with the light of my phone, I’d managed to miss it.

  Am I going crazy? I ask myself seriously. Is it possible that I’m imagining things? Even my missing pills? Could I have used them all up and somehow blanked it from my mind?

  Perhaps denial has me in its grip after all.

  It’s simply exhaustion, counters another voice. You probably forgot to lock the clinic door. I recall all the times I’ve worked back-to-back shifts in A&E, driving home with no memory of the journey, as if half my bra
in had been asleep behind the wheel.

  I rest my head on the desk and shut my eyes, trying to think. Without warning, the fox appears, frozen in the headlights, staring in through the windscreen. Our gaze meets, a split second before I yank on the steering wheel and the world becomes a tumbling confusion of trees and rocks and starry sky.

  Velocity and kinetic motion. The physics of collision.

  Of oblivion.

  I open my eyes, shaken by the force of the hallucination. Jesus, I really have to get more sleep. Rising to my feet, I reopen the cabinet containing the strongest sleeping pills. Take two from the nearest packet and go back to bed.

  By the time I get to breakfast, the canteen is almost empty. Just Rob and Luuk, hunched head-to-head, talking. They fall quiet as they see me come in.

  I pretend not to notice. It’s easy to guess what they’re discussing – the fiasco with Alex last night.

  I take a coffee and a couple of pieces of toast back to my cabin, focusing on the day ahead. I should go to Sandrine first, attempt to build bridges. Perhaps we could come up with a plan for how to help Alex, maybe even tackle him together. See if we can make sense of this whole situation.

  I have to be certain we’re not in danger.

  Why would Jean-Luc say that? Is it possible he meant something else entirely? That I misunderstood, or his meaning got lost in translation? I’ll check the video again, I decide – in the cold light of day, it seems likely I made a mistake.

  I sit on my bed with my tiny mirror to apply a little make-up. I want to put my best foot forward this morning, and frankly I need all the help I can get – my skin looks pale and ghoulish, and my hair badly needs a cut.

  The trick, I’ve found, is to use a mirror so small you can only see a portion of your face at one time. I rub in some tinted moisturiser, the tips of my fingers tracing the line in my cheek, drawn to it like a tongue to a broken tooth. It fascinates as much as it appalls.

  My mark.

  Another reminder that, contrary to Ben’s accusation, I’m very far from perfect.

  ‘Is now a good time?’

  I poke my head around Sandrine’s door, mustering my friendliest demeanour. Receive a curt nod for my efforts.