by Laline Paull
They were coming closer, it was definitely them, he could hear her distinctive voice. Sean lowered his head as if deep in prayer and walked in the opposite direction. It turned out to be a one-way aisle with arrowed signs pointing ahead, which led to a small landing above a flight of candlelit stone stairs, and another sign To The Crypt and Way Out. The second part was what he wanted.
Naturally there were frequent storms and intense cold, and in regard to the storms of the Arctic regions of North Greenland and Grant Land, the only word I can use to describe them is ‘Terrible’, in the fullest meaning it conveys. The effect of such storms of wind and snow, or rain, is abject physical terror, due to the realization of perfect helplessness. I have seen rocks a hundred and a hundred and fifty pounds in weight picked up by the storm and blown for distances of ninety or a hundred feet to the edge of a precipice, and there of their own momentum go hurtling through space to fall in crashing fragments at the base. I have been there and I have seen one of my Esquimo companions felled by a blow from a rock of eighty-four pounds in weight, which struck him fairly between the shoulder-blades, literally knocking the life out of him. I have been there, and believe me, I have been afraid.
A Negro Explorer at the North Pole: The Autobiography of Matthew Henson (1912)
Matthew Henson
21
Even after the Svalbard accident, Sean had been fine on the London Underground, but then a few months ago there had been that thing at Knightsbridge station – or more accurately, his experience in the tunnel just before. Heading down towards the crypt made him think of it, but he pushed fear away. Becoming phobic about being underground meant too many places where he would no longer be able to go.
The Piccadilly line train had just stopped for a few minutes between stations, nothing massively unusual in that. But it was the morning rush hour and, without a seat, Sean faced out into the blackness as without warning the engines and lights went off. In the crowded silence he felt the press of flesh and backpack around him, he heard people breathing. The feeling oscillated through them all: they were trapped in the dark earth in a metal tube.
Sean was already physically tensed with his effort to keep maximum headspace, and the collective body heat rose around his face. He shifted against the interconnecting doors to the next carriage and squeezed the two metal latches to drop the heavy glass window, letting in more air. The only light was from the hundreds of oblongs of phones, underlighting people’s faces in a horrifying way.
The same was happening in the next carriage. He listened to the silence of the tunnel, which smelled alien and industrial and ancient all at the same time. He had the idea that they were all dead, that some disaster had taken place but his consciousness lingered in anaesthetised death-lag. Soon he would feel the pain of the explosion or atrocity or whatever had befallen his train. His body might already be indistinguishable from the red shreds of others, they were carbon, atomised back to stardust, the tunnel blocked for months—
—he was in the ice again – he was blinded with terror, he had to plunge and kick and force—
Commuters shouted angrily at him as with a great cry the tall man by the connecting door went crazy, shoving them all back, his eyes wild – and then the lights went on and the train resumed its motion. The driver’s distorted voice apologised through loudspeakers for the delay, and Sean stared at the shocked faces of the people around him. He was on a train.
When the doors opened onto the platform of Knightsbridge station, he burst out and ran through the tunnels, up the sliding metal teeth of the escalator, he slammed his plastic card against the ticket barrier and did not stop until he was out on the roaring street.
The crypt was completely manageable, however, nothing like the closed-in darkness of the tube tunnel. There were only a few steps down to it, and it smelled of stone and incense, not soot and sweat. He walked on to where the passageway opened into a little chamber, a large pillar candle flickering in the middle of flagstones. A guide with a small respectful group told them of the murder of Thomas Becket in this spot on 29 December 1170.
Who will rid me of this turbulent priest? Thomas the troublemaker.
Sean’s Thomas had a gift for it, even in death: appearing in such a dramatic way to the Burkes.
He looked back – they had not followed him, and he had been stupid to be spooked. His private prayer – if that was what it was – was none of their business. He was spooking at everything and it was ludicrous. He ran up the exit steps and out into the bright day. A small group of grey-robed monks were gathered together, and Sean stared at their high-tech hiking boots, and cross-country walking poles. They were youthful and fit, more like young explorers than monks. He longed for another expedition. When this was all over, he would find one to join.
Sawbridge was waiting in the lobby when Sean arrived, and hurried him in. Straight-backed, tall and in good clear voice, Sean took the stand and the oath. Going to the cathedral had worked – those banners, that vaulting spiritual environment, his ability to face the crypt – let them all look at him.
‘You kindly submitted a prepared statement of the events of February fifteenth,’ said the coroner, ‘but I will trouble you, if you can, to tell the court in your own words, what happened.’
‘Of course.’ Sean had worked on this statement precisely to avoid what Sawbridge had predicted could turn into a lengthy testimony.
‘I appreciate that it’s three years ago now,’ said Mr Thornton, ‘so I don’t expect your memory—’
‘Oh no,’ said Sean. ‘It’s pin sharp.’
‘Then if you would take us from your arrival with Mr Harding, in Svalbard, and why you were there.’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Sean could see Ursula Osman poised and still, like a cat in the bushes. He needed Martine here, she was the antidote to whatever charge Osman put out into the atmosphere.
‘The party I took up to Midgard Lodge consisted of the five members of the consortium that bought the property – myself, Tom, my long-term backer Joe Kingsmith, another investor called Radiance Young, and my partner in business and now also in my personal life, Martine Delaroche.’ Sean felt the catch of tension before the keyboards rattled again.
‘I’m the director and CEO of Midgard Lodge, but everyone on that trip had a financial stake. Tom didn’t contribute equity but he received a large signing-on fee, plus he would have been entitled to a salary and dividends for his directorship, and for his ongoing work: helping tailor best environmental policy for the business leaders we hosted on retreat.’
Sean felt the reins now. ‘The Arctic is melting, whether we like it or not. The summer sea ice has gone and while some people are wringing their hands, treaties fall wildly out of date and business capitalises. So choose denial, or choose – like I did, like my partners and I have actively and responsibly done – to be at the vanguard of those changes and make sure they happen in the most positive way. If the opportunity is there, someone will seize it. Better it be us. Tom wanted to speak truth to power, and he knew he needed to be in the room to do that. And you have to have a stake in the Arctic to have a voice there – or you’re just a bleeding heart southern liberal.’
‘Mr Cawson—’ The coroner held up his hand, but Sean went on.
‘I knew that if Tom believed in Midgard Lodge, then what I was trying to do was truly worthwhile. Not just for the money.’ He stopped. The fat journalist stared at him, then started typing fast.
‘I’ve done a bit of research myself,’ said Mr Thornton, ‘and I’m surprised you got permission to develop at Midgardfjorden. Isn’t it a national park?’
‘Just outside the boundary,’ Sean said. ‘We’ve done it very sympathetically. If we weren’t so discreet, the architect would have surely won awards. That was part of the reason for our trip – no one but myself had seen the completed work. Nor had we all been able to meet in person before, so it was a double celebration. Plus the solar eclipse happening, which was best viewed in Svalbard …’ He paused. �
�We said the stars were in alignment.’
When a mature male appears on the scene, all the other bears pay attention. The general rule is, the more mature, heavier, and stronger the bear, the more dominant it is in any interaction. However, there is another rule that says a bear that approaches confidently and without hesitation is accepted as a potential threat by the bear that is being approached. Even a mature male may be frightened by a young bear under certain circumstances. Polar bears are powerful animals; they are also intelligent. They realize they can hurt one another, and they avoid situations in which their power might be put to the test. They also know that the outcome in any particular situation depends on a bear’s personality, current motivation, and individual circumstances. Where possible, they err on the side of caution.
Polar Bears: Living with the White Bear (1996)
Nikita Ovsyanikov
22
Three years earlier
A private Boeing 747 cruised at 36,000 feet over the Greenland Sea heading in a north-easterly direction for Longyearbyen airport, Svalbard. Inside it, Joe Kingsmith napped in the larger of his two bedrooms, while out in the salon his steward attended the needs of the four other passengers, variously relaxing.
Having flown with Kingsmith before, Sean was familiar with the luxurious environment, but it was the first time for Martine, Tom, and for Radiance Young. She was currently engaged in a game of online chess with someone from her cosmonaut training programme – which she was doing privately in Moscow, ‘for fun’. This joined a list of activities that included polar exploration, motor racing and collecting important estate jewellery. She frowned as she considered her next move. Sitting nearby, Tom ignored her bare red-nailed toes wiggling towards him, and her occasional glances.
Behind them, Sean and Martine observed with discreet amusement. He was browsing an online portfolio of interior designers for the new building in Cochin and she had laid her iPad aside and was looking over his shoulder. In the white heat of early lust, Sean had welcomed her involvement in the interior of Midgard Lodge – with spectacular results – but the process had revealed Martine’s dominant personality, and he had declined to involve her in the design of his other businesses.
‘Checkmate!’ Radiance lifted her own iPad in triumph. ‘He is senior and thinks he beats me, but he never does!’ Her accent was an odd mix of English private school and native Mandarin. She turned to Tom. ‘Now you.’
Tom put his book down. ‘I’m hopeless. Ask Martine, she’s a good strategist.’
‘Martin likes to play with men better, like me. Right, Martin?’
‘I’m very happy to play with you, if you’d like.’ Martine forced a smile.
‘No, it’s OK. I see Sean eye-boss you to say yes.’
‘He didn’t.’
‘Oh yes he did!’ Radiance had evidently been to British pantomimes. She returned to her first target. ‘Tom, why are you single? No children, no ex-wife?’
Sean looked up with interest. Tom shrugged.
‘There was someone, once. It didn’t work out.’
‘Why not? It’s OK I’m asking?’
‘Radiance, stop torturing him. He doesn’t know how to fob you off with a lie.’ Sean caught Tom’s grateful look, but she was not so easily dissuaded.
‘What happened?’
‘We fucked it up. And then it was too late. OK?’
‘Huh. Doesn’t sound OK!’ Radiance held up her left hand with its empty ring finger. ‘Look at me: sad face: no kids. Still time though if I hurry, before I’m old and dry. Husband too. Maybe I adopt one, like Martin!’ She laughed for a second. ‘Martin, you want kids too? How old are you, little bit more than me? Thirty-nine? Forty? We should get busy!’
When Martine didn’t answer, Radiance winked at her. ‘We talk more later. You can tell me how you make Sean leave his wife. I need to learn that trick!’
‘Considerably younger and it was no trick.’ Martine pointedly returned to her own iPad, but Tom looked round at Sean.
‘You’ve done it?’
‘It’s in progress,’ Martine said immediately. ‘We need to be honest.’
Radiance pointed at Sean. ‘Oh! Angry smiles are dangerous! Don’t be angry, Sean. Martin’s right.’
‘Martine.’
‘That’s what I said: Martin.’
‘Radiance, lovely special, talented Radiance,’ said Sean. ‘Shut up.’
‘Sure.’ Radiance was impossible to offend.
Down the cabin, Kingsmith emerged from the bedroom, freshly showered and changed. The PA system chimed and the captain announced they were starting the descent to Longyearbyen. He took his seat.
‘Everything OK? It’s gone very quiet.’
‘Joe, you want a baby?’ Radiance leaned forward. ‘Let’s do this thing!’
Kingsmith patted her hand. ‘I’ll take that in a friendly spirit, thank you. But can we discuss it a bit later, over a drink?’
‘Sure!’
Kingsmith shot the others a look of panic. Sean winked.
‘Take one for the team,’ he mouthed to him. Then they began the descent into Adventfjorden and conversation ceased. Sean looked out as they entered the narrow channel of the mountains, the sharp black peaks tipping the snowline. Ahead was the small runway of Longyearbyen which terminated in a headland on the south shore of Isfjord, against which the Barents Sea burst against the rocks. The approach was notorious since 1996, when a Russian Tupolev transit plane, arriving to rotate coal workers in and out of the settlement at Pyramiden, crashed with the cost of every life on board. Sean thought of it compulsively, every time he came in.
The Arctic year is made of four very long days: the midnight sun of the summer months, from late April until mid-August, when it does not set at all, then the brief season of dusk at the change of the year in autumn, when the polar night is coming and the light shrinks faster every day. By late October there are only a few hours of twilight in the middle of the day, and by mid-November total darkness has fallen, with no day at all. For three months, or about two thousand hours, there is no natural light. For some people, this is a relief compared to the high-crime season of the summer months, when the bars manufacture night inside, while on the other side of the door, the sun bleaches all sense of time. There is endless liberty to work, travel, or make any kind of mischief – there are no restrictions, except on peaceful sleep. For some, it becomes a time of madness. For others, that is the polar night. For a few, the madness can strike at any time; it quivers in the Arctic silence that can be spiritual, or demonic as it claws reason off balance. When survival is the ultimate value, many inhibitions are released.
For Sean’s party, touching down on the ice-swirled tarmac of Longyearbyen in the smoky blue February twilight, it was a time of great excitement. They readied themselves to transfer to the helicopter that would be waiting to take them straight up to Midgard Lodge – but as they disembarked, Sean couldn’t see it. The captain hurried up to Kingsmith with the message that it wasn’t there, they had to go in. Sean shouted through the wind for everyone to get inside, and they hurried over to the small terminal building, mini-snow cyclones rushing along the ground and bursting against their ankles.
It was nothing serious, the captain told Sean and Kingsmith, at least not for them. There had been an incident with a bear and a big bunch of tourists up at Dronningsbukta, and all the helicopters on the islands had been scrambled to help. Danny Long, as an experienced Arctic pilot, had been commandeered for search and rescue by the Sysselmann’s office, along with the Midgard helicopter.
The captain apologised for not having more information. He looked at his watch and asked Kingsmith what he wanted him to do.
‘Passports and on your way,’ Kingsmith told him. ‘While you still can.’
Sean could tell by the set of his shoulders and the particular smile, that Kingsmith was displeased. They waited by the motionless luggage carousel, presided over by a medium-sized stuffed polar bear, every tourist’s first pict
ure. The captain returned with the passports.
‘Mr Long has left another message, sir: he’ll pick you up in the morning and he’s very sorry, but you can’t get to the Lodge tonight, all men are required by the Sysselmann.’
‘In the morning?’ Martine and Radiance said it together.
Sean took the message from the captain and read it.
‘Nothing to worry about. We’re aiding search and rescue – remember, Joe?’
Kingsmith frowned. ‘Danny had his instructions.’
‘Tell the Sysselmann that,’ Tom said pleasantly. ‘I’m sure it would make a big difference. What men, by the way?’
‘Lodge staff,’ Sean said, truthfully. They were. ‘Fortunately, we’ve got rooms booked in town too. Always have a contingency plan.’
Kingsmith patted Tom’s shoulder. ‘You’re right to rag me. I’m getting old and inflexible. Of course we should be helping out.’ He turned back to his waiting crew. ‘Happy returns to Benoit. Tell him to have fun.’ The captain confirmed he would pass it on. The crew hurried back to the plane.
‘Who’s Benoit?’ asked Martine.
‘A pal, a mere kid turning fifty. Lending it to him for his celebrations. But they’ve got to stop in Riga to pick up the other guests.’
‘Where’s the party?’ Tom said it in the casual way Sean knew meant trouble. Kingsmith too, by his smile.
‘Central African Republic. Though I’m guessing they’ll probably bar hop.’
‘Where the beautiful pink wood comes from,’ said Radiance. ‘So popular now in Asia.’
‘Pink mahogany? I hope you’re not importing that—’
‘Of course not, silly. But I’ve got eyes in my head, it’s everywhere. Hey, Tom, come visit with me, while you’re still single. I show you all the sights of outrage.’ She grinned at him.
He ignored her. ‘I hope those guests from Riga are of legal age.’