The Dark

by Emma Haughton

  Stick to the facts, I tell myself. Record what you see.

  Even so, I find myself avoiding the startled expression frozen on Alex’s face. There’s something so horrible about it, the confusion and fear in those rigid, frost-burnt features. My eyes flick towards them, then I have to look away.

  What went through his mind in those last few moments of his life, as the cold bit deep through his skin and shut down all his internal organs? I give an involuntary shudder, imagining him out there, dying alone in the dark.

  Enough, Kate. Just do your job.

  I check over his body again, noting the temperature of his skin, the continuing rigor mortis. I study the patches of frost erythema on his knees and elbows, reddish purple to violet in tone, similar to bruises.

  The ice that had encrusted Alex’s socks has now thawed, leaving two small puddles of water on the exam bed. I peel one off, dreading the sight of his foot. Sure enough, its covered in the livid purple and violet discolouration of frostbite.

  Despite the soothing effect of the Valium, I wince again. How on earth did he endure the pain of walking almost to the tower in just a pair of socks? What level of desperation would induce someone to do that?

  There are easier ways to kill yourself, after all.

  Was it possible this was an accident? That Alex left wearing all his snow gear, then somehow got lost, unable to find his way back to the safety of the base? I’d heard of cases of ‘paradoxical undressing’ where people dying of exposure strip naked, possibly as the result of vasodilation inducing a feeling of overwhelming heat.

  Was that what happened here? But surely Alice or Drew or Arne would have found his outdoor clothes somewhere nearby?

  I peel off the other sock and inspect his foot, but it looks much like the first.

  I close my eyes briefly, trying to ride out a wave of strain and exhaustion. When I open them again, I notice something strange. I bend to examine Alex’s left ankle more closely.

  What the hell?

  At that moment the door opens, and Sandrine walks in. ‘What are you doing?’ she asks, her tone faintly accusatory.

  ‘Come and take a look at this.’ I indicate Alex’s leg.

  Sandrine peers at it. ‘What is it?’

  I lift his leg as high as I can, checking underneath. ‘See, here.’ I point to what appears to be a line of bruising circumnavigating his ankle. Setting his leg down carefully, I check the other. There, more faintly, a similar marking that I missed before, distracted by the patches of frostbite.

  ‘He’s been tied up,’ I conclude, my voice almost inaudible with shock.

  Sandrine stares at me for a few seconds, open-mouthed, then shakes her head. ‘It must be from his boots.’

  I consider her suggestion. Would snow boots leave that kind of bruising? It’s feasible, I suppose; maybe he had a pair that rubbed. I make a mental note to check in the boot room as soon as I’m done, see if I can find any footwear that might have caused these odd markings. Unless, of course, his boots are still out there somewhere, and Drew and Luuk somehow missed them.

  I glance at Sandrine. ‘What are you going to tell everyone here?’ I ask as she heads towards the door.

  She turns to face me again. ‘Exactly what I told UNA. That Alex was found dead on the ice. Suspected suicide.’ Sandrine’s tone is curt to the point of rudeness, and she narrows her eyes at me. ‘We must not fuel any more gossip and speculation, Kate. We have to get through the next four months. That is of the utmost importance.’

  I don’t reply. I’m not sure how to respond.

  ‘You understand that, don’t you?’ she repeats.

  I nod, not prepared to argue this out until I’ve had more time to think. ‘We need to get him into a body bag and then cold storage,’ I say. ‘They’ll have to do a post-mortem in the spring.’

  ‘I’ll send Arne and Drew to get him, and ask everybody else to wait in the lounge – no need for the others to see this.’ With that, she leaves, closing the door behind her.

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

  Jean-Luc’s words pop into my head. Is it possible Sandrine is wrong? That Alex’s death wasn’t suicide? Or an accident.

  I study the marks on his ankles again, trying to work it through. If they weren’t caused by his footwear, or some other innocuous explanation … then what would that mean?

  Even assuming he was restrained, how on earth could anybody get him outside? Alex was nearly six foot, and weighed over 180 pounds – too heavy for even someone as strong as Ark to lift unaided. But the idea that two people might have conspired to do this together was too absurd to contemplate.

  How might a single assailant disable Alex enough to get him outside? Knock him out? No, there would have been signs of contusion. I’ve checked his head thoroughly and found no evidence of a blow.

  Then I flash back to when I last saw him yesterday evening.

  I feel shit. Alex standing there, swaying, as if drunk.

  But did he drink that much? A few glasses of champagne, a couple of beers. I’d noticed he’d cut down recently – understandable, given Alex had learned he was to become a father.

  Then I remember my unlocked clinic four days before. I’d checked the medication stocks, but it had been a cursory glance.

  Is it possible …

  Grabbing my keys, I unlock the nearest cupboard, the one with the benzodiazepines, and count the boxes. I turn on my computer and compare the figures against the recorded stock – minus what I’ve taken myself these last few weeks.

  I do the same with the antihistamines, and anything else I can think of that might cause drowsiness. Nothing appears to be missing.

  So much for that theory.

  I slump onto my office chair. Despite my earlier dose of medication, I feel a dark cloud descend. This is my fault. If Alex killed himself, then I should have stopped him, should have realised how far his state of mind had deteriorated. Insisted on antidepressants, or at least persuaded him to talk to one of the psychiatrists at UNA.

  And if he didn’t kill himself … then I should have listened. Should have done something sooner.

  Either way I failed him.

  22

  2 July

  ‘Whose idea was it to hold the ceremony here?’

  Arne stamps his feet as we stand, shivering, in the cold storage room in Beta that’s been cleared for the funeral. Against the far wall, resting on a canteen table, is the makeshift coffin Ark and Drew put together from spare pallets in the storeroom, a posy of Sonya’s beautiful crochet flowers arranged on top. The sole decoration in this dispiriting location.

  ‘Sandrine’s worried about, um, deterioration if we bring him inside,’ I whisper glancing round at the assembled crew, all dressed in whatever formal clothes they had to hand. ‘He has to stay below freezing until we can ship him out.’

  Arne purses his lips but doesn’t reply. A moment later, our station leader clears her throat then starts intoning a eulogy from a printed sheet. It’s thorough, if uninspired, praising Alex’s hard work and dedication, his commitment to the station, to UNA, to the project.

  ‘His family told me he always had an interest in Antarctica, even as a child,’ she says. ‘He grew up reading about Scott and Amundsen, Shackleton, all the great explorers. It was his lifelong ambition to come out here, to experience it all for himself.’

  Jesus, I think, remembering Alex these last few months. That dream turned a bit sour on him.

  ‘According to the writer Thomas Pynchon,’ Sandrine continues, ‘everyone has an Antarctica. On one level or another, we all come here for answers. Not just for science, for the climate, but to discover what lies inside ourselves – and others.’

  Arne cocks an eyebrow in my direction, and I suppress an insane urge to giggle at Sandrine’s unexpected swerve into philosophy. Or perhaps it’s simply tiredness – most of us have slept even less in the ten days since Alex’s body was discovered on the ice.

  ‘He was a good man.’ Sa
ndrine gives Caro a meaningful glance. ‘And would have made a great father. I hope those who love him can take comfort in this, that part of Alex will always live on here, and that he died in the place that meant so much to him.’

  The station leader lowers the printed sheet and takes a deep breath. ‘Do you want to say anything?’ she asks Caro.

  Caro shakes her head, swiping at her tears with a tissue.

  Thank God, I think, relieved. None of us – particularly Caro – should be standing out here any longer. Already the cold is penetrating my boots and jacket, creeping into my limbs. An unwelcome reminder of how Alex actually died.

  After an awkward two minutes of silence around the coffin, we trudge back to the canteen and the buffet lunch Rajiv has laid out for the wake. No alcohol, I notice. Just as well. Why add intoxication to the heady mix of gossip and speculation that has permeated the base since Alex’s death?

  Indeed, I spot Drew, Rob, and Luuk huddled together in the corner, Tom hovering nearby, appearing slightly lost – I make a mental note to check in on him soon. Drew looks particularly tired, I notice. All this turmoil has clearly taken its toll: bringing in the body, making up the coffin, helping clear out the storeroom for the funeral – he’s worked harder than anyone.

  Only Luuk seems his normal self, casual, almost unconcerned by the seriousness of the occasion. Though he’s toned down the supercilious smirk a notch or too. And brushed his hair.

  ‘Here.’ Arne appears beside me, proffering a plate of food. ‘Eat, before you collapse.’

  I take it obediently. Start on a samosa.

  ‘So, how are you?’ he asks. ‘I’ve been wanting to catch up, but you’re always busy. Or I am.’

  ‘Just been dealing with stuff.’ What with having to provide extensive reports for the UNA medical team, taking care of Caro, not to mention coping with my own shock and grief and abiding sense that I let Alex down, I’ve barely spoken to anyone since it happened. ‘I haven’t been feeling that sociable. Sorry.’

  ‘No need to apologise,’ Arne mutters, with a quick glance around to make sure we’re not being overheard. ‘Two deaths. The rest of the midwinter celebrations cancelled. People are starting to believe the station is cursed.’

  ‘Cursed? I thought we were all scientific rationalists here.’

  ‘Not everybody,’ he grimaces. ‘Besides, since when does that rule out superstition?’

  I consider this. Ark has been particularly sombre, muttering to himself in Russian. Rajiv and Alice also seem pretty shaken by recent events, both quieter than usual. Only Sonya retains her steadfast composure, refusing to participate in gossip or conjecture.

  ‘Do you have any theories?’ Arne studies me in a way that makes me feel curiously exposed. ‘About Alex?’

  ‘Not really,’ I reply, dodging the question. Much as I want to open up, to talk to someone and try to make sense of this, I can’t risk inflaming the situation any further.

  And certainly not here.

  Arne raises an eyebrow again. Clearly I’m not very convincing.

  I relent, lowering my voice and turning away so no one can read my lips. ‘I don’t know, Arne. I have no idea what to believe. Sandrine’s interviewed everyone. Nobody saw or heard from him after he left the lounge that night. God only knows what happened.’

  I’ve gone over and over it in my mind. Was Caro right when she said Alex would never have committed suicide? Who knows. And those marks on his ankles might have an innocent cause, though an examination of all his footwear hasn’t cast any light one way or the other.

  Arne sighs. I sense he wants to say something further, but I’ve had enough. Right now I’m desperate for a couple of pills and a few hours’ respite from all this tension.

  ‘I should go check on Caro,’ I say, seizing on the excuse – though Alice and Sonya have barely left her side since Alex’s death.

  ‘Is she in her room?’

  I nod. ‘She needed to rest. And warm up. Doctor’s orders.’

  Abandoning the rest of my meal, I call in at the clinic, swallow a couple of tramadol and throw down a few diazepam as a chaser, then go to knock on the door to Caro’s cabin.

  ‘Come in,’ says a weak voice.

  She’s lying on her bunk, still in the black skirt and top she wore for the funeral.

  I sit beside her. ‘How are you doing?’

  Her eyes immediately well with tears. ‘Don’t ask. Okay?’

  She has her hands inside her top, palms pressed flat against her belly. ‘Is the baby kicking?’

  ‘Loads this morning. Feels like an internal football match.’ She smiles briefly, then her voice chokes. ‘I can’t believe he never got to feel it too.’

  I touch her cheek. There’s nothing I can say to that.

  Caro rolls onto her side, closing her eyes. ‘I don’t think I can do this on my own,’ she sobs.

  ‘You don’t have to. You’ve got me, and Alice and Sonya. Then when you’re home, you’ll have all your friends and family.’

  She grunts an acknowledgement.

  ‘Have you told them?’ I ask. ‘Your family?’

  ‘I spoke to them a few days ago.’

  ‘About the baby? Or Alex?’

  ‘Both.’

  ‘What did they say?’

  Caro shrugs. ‘They’re frantic, they want me home. I had to explain again why that wasn’t possible.’ She sits, pulling down her T-shirt. ‘Mum started crying, and then we got cut off. I should try again tonight but I’m not sure I can face it – you know how sometimes it’s easier coping with things alone?’ Caro glances at me for confirmation. ‘You can just about handle your own stuff, but somehow dealing with other people’s reactions makes it all worse.’

  I nod, absorbing the truth of this. Remembering my own craving for isolation after the accident, how difficult I found it being around my sister, my colleagues, my friends, enduring the constant burden of their sympathy and concern. They meant well, I knew that. They simply cared.

  But there were times when it made me want to scream.

  ‘I should give you a check-over,’ I say. ‘Make sure everything’s fine with both of you.’

  ‘It’s not though, is it, Kate?’ Fresh tears start rolling down Caro’s cheeks. ‘What are we going to do about Alex?’

  I consider pretending I don’t understand, but that wouldn’t be fair. ‘I don’t know,’ I admit.

  ‘I tried talking to Sandrine. I told her Alex would never kill himself. I told her someone must have done this to him.’

  ‘And what did she say?’

  ‘Nothing, basically. Just that there’d be a full investigation as soon as UNA could get a team out here.’ Caro shakes her head again in disgust. ‘But what are we supposed to do in the meantime? Whoever killed him is still here. How can we be sure any of us is safe?’

  ‘But Caro …’ I sigh, voicing the question that’s plagued me all week. ‘Why would anyone kill Alex?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious?’ She stares at me as if I’m slow on the uptake. ‘He knew things, Kate. He was digging into Jean-Luc’s death. Hell, half the station heard him shouting at you that night in the lounge – everybody was talking about what he said.’

  Oh Jesus. Why on earth did I tackle Alex out in the open like that? If Caro is right, if I hadn’t gone to him, hadn’t asked those questions about Jean-Luc, he might still be alive today. Tears of shame and guilt prick my own eyes, and I turn away, mortified.

  ‘And meanwhile no one’s doing anything,’ Caro continues, oblivious to my distress. ‘Has anyone actually checked the area where they found his body? Did they look for marks in the snow? For clues?’

  ‘Drew and Luuk went back there.’ I clear my throat, trying to pull myself together. ‘I’ll ask them.’ Should I mention the bruising on Alex’s ankles? I wonder. That rip in his shirt? No. The last thing I want to do is work Caro up any more.

  ‘And what about his activity band?’ she asks. ‘What was on that?’

  ‘He wasn’t we
aring it. We don’t know where it is.’

  ‘But you can check the data anyway, can’t you?’

  ‘I’m trying,’ I say. Indeed, I accessed the file yesterday, but couldn’t make head nor tail of it. I’ll have to get Tom or Rob to help me. But I’ll need to be careful; if Sandrine gets wind of me digging around behind her back, I can well imagine her reaction.

  Caro leans over and grabs my hand, gripping it tightly in hers. ‘I’ve got to do this, Kate. I have to do it for Alex, but I can’t do it on my own. I need your help. Promise you’ll help me find out what happened to him?’

  I gaze at her, hesitating. Then push down my misgivings. ‘I’ll chase up the data tomorrow, and talk to Drew or Luuk. But you have to promise me something in return, okay? That you won’t go around trying to deal with this yourself. That you’ll put your health first.’

  She nods, but I squeeze her hand to emphasise my point. ‘I’m serious. You’ve been under a lot of stress, Caro, and it’s no good for you or the baby. You must keep that at the forefront of your mind, because the last thing Alex would want is something bad to happen to either of you. Do you understand?’

  Caro hesitates, seems about to object. Then a slump in her shoulders shows me she’s relented. ‘All right. But tell me the minute you find anything, won’t you?’

  I nod, at the same time wondering if that’s a promise I’m prepared to keep. I daren’t risk upsetting Caro further.

  Cross that bridge when you come to it, I decide, as I give her a hug and leave.

  23

  3 July

  I spend the rest of the day in bed, lights dimmed, floored by another killer headache that barely recedes even after a double dose of tramadol. Worse than the pain, however, is the accompanying slump in mood. It feels as if I’ve been living in this claustrophobic little bubble for ever, my previous life dropping away like a dream, leaving a creeping conviction that I may never get out of this place alive.

  Irrational, sure. But hard to shake off.