The Dark

by Emma Haughton

  ‘Shut it behind you, please.’

  I steel myself. So this is going to be a proper dressing down. Station protocol is that people rarely shut their doors when outside their cabins. A signal, I suppose, that they’re open to interruptions, that nothing is being concealed.

  Sandrine indicates the chair opposite her desk, but doesn’t speak for several minutes. I can’t tell if this is because she’s trying to work out what to say or if it’s a deliberate move to unnerve me. I don’t attempt to fill the silence. Whatever her game, I’ll let it play out without reacting.

  ‘Kate, we both know it was a mistake you coming out here.’

  I gape at her, open-mouthed. Did she really just say that? Despite my resolve to stay calm, my chest tightens with shock and anger. I steady my breathing, keep my voice cool and measured. ‘I’m not sure how to respond to that, Sandrine. Would you care to elaborate?’

  A flicker of surprise crosses the station leader’s face. Evidently this isn’t what she expected. ‘You’re not sure how to respond … well, perhaps you should start by telling me what on earth you were doing last night.’

  ‘Wasn’t it obvious? I was talking to Alex. I’m worried about him.’

  But that’s not entirely true, is it? I am forced to admit, at least to myself. I didn’t go to him purely with his welfare in mind; I sought him out because I wanted answers to questions of my own.

  In that sense, I failed him.

  ‘You appeared to have made him extremely upset,’ Sandrine confirms. ‘And not for the first time, by all accounts.’

  ‘That wasn’t my intention,’ I say, carefully.

  ‘What exactly were you talking to him about?’

  I consider my response. Should I come clean? Tell her I watched Jean-Luc’s video and explain what he said? Though obviously she knows something about it, I sense the station leader will take a dim view of my breaking protocol and prying into Jean-Luc’s private life.

  A very dim view indeed.

  ‘I … he,’ I pause, decide to bite a different bullet. ‘I’ve been concerned about what Alex said that time in the laundry room – he seems convinced the previous doctor’s death wasn’t an accident.’ I keep my eyes trained on Sandrine’s face, alert for a reaction. But she doesn’t so much as flinch, simply waits for me to continue. ‘Do you agree?’

  Her eyes narrow. ‘Do I agree with what, Kate? That Jean-Luc’s equipment was sabotaged? Do you really want me to dignify that with an answer?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Another flash of surprise. I watch the station leader reappraising me. Clearly I’m not quite the pushover she anticipated.

  ‘Let me put it this way, Sandrine. Do you blame Alex for what happened? And if so, why is he still here?’

  She contemplates my questions. The woman rarely blinks, I notice, seems able to maintain the naked stare of a cat. ‘No, I do not blame Alex,’ she says eventually. ‘It was an accident. Nothing more, nothing less.’

  Almost exactly what Arne said, I recall, wondering why on earth I’m pursuing this. Has Alex actually managed to persuade me otherwise?

  Ask her about those DNA samples, urges an inner voice. Ask her about what Jean-Luc said in his video log. And while you’re at it, ask her what she did with his letter.

  But I hold back. It won’t help to add more fuel to this fire.

  ‘It seems to me you made a very questionable decision.’ Sandrine’s tone is icy and deliberate. ‘I’ll be honest with you, Kate, we’ve already lost an excellent doctor, and been forced to accept a dubious replacement. We now have a pregnancy, and possibly a labour, to deal with, along with somebody who is clearly deteriorating mentally, and you are not helping by stirring things up like this.’

  I recoil at her words, stunned once again into silence. A dubious replacement? But there’s also truth in what she’s saying, I remind myself. I have been stirring things up.

  Heat rises to my cheeks, betraying my confusion. ‘I’m a good doctor,’ I say fiercely, insisting as much to myself as Sandrine.

  ‘So you say.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘But my enquiries suggest otherwise.’

  ‘What enquiries, Sandrine?’ I snap, anger getting the better of me. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

  The station leader regards me calmly, knowing she has me wrong-footed at last. ‘I believe you were accused of malpractice, were you not? Against an elderly woman.’

  My jaw drops. How on earth does she know about that?

  ‘For your information,’ I clench my hands to stop them trembling, ‘I was completely cleared in that complaint. I didn’t do anything wrong. On the contrary, I followed protocol to the letter.’

  It’s your fault!

  The daughter’s words rise up with all the force they had back then, as she stood in the middle of A&E, accusing me of killing her mother. Perforated appendix leading to peritonitis in a seventy-year-old woman; when she’d arrived in the hospital complaining of stomach pain and vomiting, I misdiagnosed it as gastroenteritis and sent her home.

  But I’d done everything I reasonably could – at the time I examined her, her blood pressure and heart rate were normal, and she had only a slight fever. There’d been no red flags for appendicitis.

  All the same, the whole experience, coming so soon after my return to work, left me shaken and humiliated. It was one thing to be exonerated by my superiors, quite another to forgive myself. Always at the back of my mind the question of whether my little self-medication habit had tainted my judgement. I didn’t think so – but then, who was I to say?

  Angry tears prick my eyes. I lean across Sandrine’s desk, voice shaking. ‘UNA chose me, and has full access to my records. I don’t know who you’ve spoken to, but I want to make one thing absolutely clear – we are stuck with each other for the next eight months, and we both have a job to do. So I’m warning you, stay out of my affairs, and I will stay out of yours.’

  The station leader’s eyes widen, and her expression hardens. ‘What exactly do you mean by—?’

  ‘Oh, go to hell, Sandrine.’ I slam out of her office and head for my clinic, passing Alice in the corridor. ‘Kate, are you—?’

  I wave her away, too choked up to speak. Let myself into my clinic and lock the door behind me, trembling with emotion.

  What the hell just happened?

  I cross to the medicine cabinet. Without thinking, without leaving any space to talk myself out of it, I remove another packet of Valium, clip off two capsules and swallow the pills with a glass of water. I lean against my desk, filled with shame and indignation and fury.

  How dare she?

  How dare Sandrine accuse me like that?

  I wait for the drug to kick in, for the onset of chemical detachment. The last time, I tell myself, almost believing it. This is the last time.

  Extraordinary circumstances.

  I turn my mind to Jean-Luc, that vibrant, intelligent human being. Seeing him alive, hearing his voice in those videos, has made that mental image of him out there, suspended in the ice, all the more dreadful.

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

  Firing up my laptop, I log into the system, formulating a plan. I’ll write down every word of what Jean-Luc said and confront Sandrine with it. To hell with her reaction. Because I know, with a sudden and inexplicable sense of certainty, that something is wrong here.

  I navigate to the video logs, click on Jean-Luc’s name. Then stare at the screen, heart racing despite the Valium.

  His video diaries. All twenty-six of them.

  They’ve vanished.

  I click back frantically, and try again. No sign of them. I check other people’s files, see all the entries listed as usual.

  I sit there, head reeling, but my brain feels sluggish and lazy. Think, Kate, I urge myself. Is it possible you accidentally deleted them?

  I force my mind back. Exactly what did I do? Closed the last video, clicked out of the file, logged out of the system. I’m positive.


  An accident, then? Somehow they’ve been wiped?

  Only one way to find out. I log off, then go and find Rob in the comms room. He’s alone, thankfully – no sign of Tom.

  Rob gives me a wary look, clearly apprehensive – God only knows what he’s heard about last night.

  ‘Can I ask you something?’ I point to his screen to indicate it’s work-related, noting his expression of relief. ‘Some of the video logs appear to be missing, and I’m trying to find out what might have happened to them. Could you check?’

  ‘In the medical system, right?’

  I nod. ‘Jean-Luc’s. I can’t see them any more.’

  Rob types on his keyboard and calls up a screen. ‘Yup. Deleted.’

  ‘Deleted? I stare at him aghast. ‘How …? When?’ Surely Sandrine didn’t have time to do it after I stormed out of her office?

  He taps a few more keys. ‘Operation performed at 2.18 a.m. this morning.’

  ‘Who deleted them?’

  He peers at his screen. ‘You did.’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘That’s not possible. I was asleep.’

  Rob shrugs. ‘It was done from your terminal, Kate.’

  I gaze at him, trying to think, but the Valium isn’t helping. ‘Are you absolutely sure? It can’t be an error?’

  ‘No one else has the permissions. Except Sandrine.’

  ‘And presumably you?’

  I see something harden in Rob’s expression. ‘Yes, and me. But I didn’t delete these files, Kate, and I doubt Sandrine did either.’

  Then I remember the open door to my clinic. So I hadn’t forgotten to lock it after all, I realise with dismay. Someone broke into my office and used my terminal to erase Jean-Luc’s video files.

  But why?

  I can’t begin to answer that question, especially not here, in front of Rob. So I pose one instead. ‘Are there any backups, do you know? Are they uploaded to UNA in Geneva?’

  Rob shakes his head. ‘Files are too large. They take up too much bandwidth.’

  ‘So they’re gone?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’ He sighs, averting his gaze from mine. Clearly he believes I did this – presumably by accident – and am now trying to cover my tracks.

  ‘Rob, listen,’ I lower my voice. ‘Please will you do me a favour? Can you not mention this to Sandrine?’

  He considers my request. ‘Okay.’

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’ I turn to go.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten about Monday, have you?’ he calls after me. ‘The decorations, remember, for the party?’

  No doubt it’s obvious from my blank expression that, yes, I have indeed completely forgotten that this weekend marks the start of the midwinter festivities, and that Rob, Alice and I are supposed to be decorating the common areas – no mean task given the limited supplies to hand.

  Hawaiian theme, of all things – the joke being that this place is about as far from a tropical paradise as you can possibly get. My job is to make all the garlands, using paper and string from the recycling bins in Beta.

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m on it.’

  ‘Right.’ Rob regards me with an inscrutable expression. ‘Just thought I’d check.’

  18

  20 June

  ‘Kate?’

  I spin around, eyes widening with surprise as I clock Tom hovering in the doorway.

  ‘Sorry,’ I stammer, trying to swallow the pills I’ve just removed from the medicine cabinet. Oh hell, did he see me take them?

  ‘Is this a bad time?’ Tom’s eyes flick to mine, then shift to the mess of paper and string on my desk.

  I can’t reply. The pills are stuck in my throat. I grab a glass of water from the sink and wash them down, hands trembling from the shock of being caught red-handed. ‘Been doing some prep for midwinter,’ I croak. ‘Have a seat.’

  ‘What are you making?’ Tom asks in his flat, slightly formal German accent, as he sits down by my desk.

  ‘Garlands. For the lounge.’ I summon up my clinician smile and take the chair opposite. ‘So, how can I help?’

  Tom sits, dragging his gaze from my inept attempt at crafting to a point somewhere between the floor and my knees, his left leg jiggling nervously.

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ he says, so quietly I struggle to hear him. ‘And I have headaches.’

  ‘Headaches? How often?’

  Tom shrugs. ‘Most days.’

  ‘Are you taking anything for them? Did you bring any painkillers out here with you?’

  ‘Only paracetamol. They don’t help much.’

  ‘Any other symptoms?’ I inquire. ‘Visual aura, feelings of nausea, confusion, anything like that?’

  ‘Just the pain. Usually around here.’ Tom points to a spot near his temple.

  I reach out to touch his head, but he veers away. ‘Hey, it’s all right,’ I say reassuringly. ‘I just need to take a look.’

  He hesitates, then takes off his glasses and lets me examine his head.

  ‘You’ve not hit yourself there, had any kind of fall or injury?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘How long have these headaches been going on?’

  His eyes rise to the ceiling as he works it out. ‘Three weeks or so.’

  ‘And how bad would you describe the pain, on a scale of one to ten?’

  Tom presses his lips together as he thinks. ‘Five. Maybe four. It’s not terrible, more … distracting.’

  I make a note on my pad before turning back to him. ‘Would you mind if we do a quick physical exam? If you lie on the bed, I can check you over.’

  ‘Is there something wrong with me?’ he asks, looking worried.

  ‘It’s unlikely to be anything serious.’ I log into the computer and glance through his notes, checking his recent blood tests – the last one nearly a week ago. ‘Everything looks normal, but I’d like to give you a physical exam.’

  He climbs onto the bed with a stiff caution. I feel around his neck and torso for any abnormalities. Nothing. I check his blood pressure and pulse rate – both fine. I go through all the motions, more for reassurance than diagnosis – without proper imaging and screening equipment it’s impossible to tell if there’s some underlying pathology.

  Not that I’m particularly worried; like all of us, Tom had extensive medical tests before coming out to the ice – the likelihood of anything serious having developed in the intervening months is low.

  ‘Probably migraines,’ I say, once we’re seated again. ‘Perhaps related to the diet or the altitude. I doubt it’s anything to be concerned about. I can give you some stronger painkillers, but be careful not to take more than the prescribed dose.’

  Seriously, Kate?

  ‘So you don’t think it’s a brain tumour then?’ Tom’s voice is tremulous.

  I offer him a reassuring smile. ‘Honestly, I seriously doubt it. The chances of that are extremely low indeed. Plus, if that were the cause of your pain, most likely there’d be other signs.’

  ‘Such as?’ His tone is wary.

  ‘Sickness, vomiting. Possibly seizures, muscle weakness, other sensory symptoms.’

  ‘Like hearing or seeing things that aren’t there?’

  I narrow my eyes. ‘Is that happening to you?’

  Tom’s gaze darts briefly to mine as he wipes sweat from his hands on his trousers. ‘Sometimes …’ He falters.

  ‘Sometimes what?’

  ‘Sometimes when I’m outside, on the ice, or when I’m in my room at night, I hear things. See things. Impossible things.’

  My attention deepens. With it, a twinge of foreboding. ‘Such as?’

  Tom swallows again, fixing his gaze now on the scissors on my desk, as if they might leap up and stab him. ‘People talking, just out of earshot. Occasionally a dog howling, like it’s in pain.’

  ‘You said you see things too?’

  He closes his eyes and presses his lips together tightly. For a moment he seems about to cry. ‘When I was a child, I had an Alsatian calle
d Lena. Sometimes I see her at the edge of my vision. Or sense her nearby, in the darkness.’

  Like my fox, I think, with a small contraction in my heart.

  ‘What happened?’ I ask softly, sensing this is not a story with a happy ending.

  Tom swipes away a single tear from under his glasses. ‘She was run over. My father was speeding down the lane that leads to our house, and …’ His voice chokes and he looks away. I feel a wave of sympathy. I’ve heard about his father, a Lutheran mayor in a small town in the Ruhr; apparently he disowned Tom when he came out as gay.

  I reach for a tissue and hand it to him. For the first time Tom looks me full in the face, his expression fearful. ‘Seeing things, hearing things … I thought perhaps it was down to a brain tumour.’

  ‘It must be very distressing,’ I say, buying myself a little thinking time. ‘And frightening.’

  Tom nods, and I consider how withdrawn he’s become these last few months. His evident low mood. I’d assumed it was a side effect of winter, the lack of light, the sleep disturbance, but now an altogether more disturbing possibility occurs to me.

  Almost as bad as a brain tumour, given my limited ability to treat it here.

  ‘Do you mind me asking if you’ve been smoking, Tom? Marijuana, I mean?’

  He shakes his head emphatically. ‘Never.’

  I pause, choosing my words carefully. ‘Is there any history of mental illness in your family?’

  Tom’s features stiffen. ‘What are you saying? That I’m insane?’

  ‘Not at all. I simply wondered if there was any family history of, say, depression.’

  He turns and stares at the black-out blind on the window, as if he can see right through it to the darkness lurking beyond. ‘My sister,’ Tom says eventually. ‘My twin sister was ill.’

  ‘Do you know her diagnosis?’

  He inhales, releases his breath slowly. ‘Schizophrenia.’

  I take this in.

  ‘You think I have it too?’

  ‘I can’t say, Tom, but it’s a possibility. It would fit the symptoms you’ve described, and if there’s a strong family history, it’s something to bear in mind.’

  He closes his eyes again, as if to block out both me and the rest of the world.