The Ice

by Laline Paull

  He exchanged small talk without hearing a word, his shirt sticking to his back. Soon they would all have to go in to dinner. If he disappeared now, Martine would definitely come looking for him. He was making the speech and presenting the award. Perhaps it was a grim joke Kingsmith was playing on him, telling him he was involved, simply to frighten him off raising the alarm. Or … perhaps by the time he’d investigated which ship it was, the problem would be fixed, and he’d only make trouble. Jeopardise everything he’d worked for.

  It was certainly true he was exhausted by the inquest. Maybe he should just focus on the dinner, and look into it afterwards. He’d trusted Kingsmith for years, what was one more night? And hadn’t he just been to see Jenny Flanders this afternoon – it felt like years ago – to tell her he’d been hallucinating? Before he’d run out without knowing why. He looked up at Tom’s handsome face, smiling back down at him.

  ‘Is that him in Nepal? He climbed Everest and Annapurna, didn’t he? Wow!’

  Sean turned to see a pretty young waitress beside him, a glass of juice on a tray. She cleared her throat. ‘Sorry to ramble! I was told to look after you.’

  Across the room Sean saw Martine, the centre of attention of a grinning group, each member soon to be several thousand pounds lighter. Grateful for her thoughtfulness, he drank it. He watched her shine brighter with every man’s attention. He turned to flirt with the waitress, but she’d already gone.

  The juice was refreshing and primed him for a vodka tonic, which he drank in three pulls, to steady his nerves. The world works in the now. And here he was, in the thick of a buzzing social event, the Chinese Room full to capacity with smiling faces and laughing voices. Martine’s green flame burned in another part of the room. Jenny Flanders was right: he did not trust himself. The week had shot his judgement – no wonder he’d had a run-in with Kingsmith. If the ship was really in danger, the crew would raise the alarm. But still, he had to know.

  Sean slipped out into the great lobby and tried all the numbers again: Danny Long, Terry Bjornsen, Lodge reception. All went to voicemail. He tried getting onto the AIS system online from his phone but he needed a laptop. A false alarm would make trouble, but if there really was a terrible situation and he did nothing … He pulled up the Sysselmann’s emergency number on his phone, but did not press the call button. Suddenly his vision was blurry as a snow dome. He shook his head to clear it.

  He wouldn’t raise the alarm until he had spoken to Radiance. They had their own relationship independent of Kingsmith. They clicked – he got her, he liked her – he would just come out with it all, and she would laugh and put him straight – Kingsmith was a bad joker, right! That’s what he needed to hear her say. Sean blinked away the black flashes in front of his eyes, trying to focus on the scroll of names. Then the phone was taken out of his hand and Kingsmith sat down heavily beside him. ‘Don’t even worry.’ He laid his arm over Sean’s shoulder as he pocketed the phone. ‘I was looking for you to tell you it’s all sorted.’ He clapped Sean on the shoulder in his old familiar way. ‘Relax already.’

  Sean wanted to push him off, but his body wouldn’t do it.

  ‘You’re lying.’ His voice was thick in his ears.

  ‘A lie down? Good idea. You’re probably feeling a bit strange. But first, look at all the people who want to meet you!’

  Sean saw the lime green flash of Martine’s dress and tried to get up.

  ‘Easy now.’ Kingsmith kept him down and she approached, trailing a group of young men in old-fashioned black tie, with short side-parted combed-back hair. A few wore tweed Alpine plus-four trousers and roll-neck sweaters. They were in their early and mid-twenties. They all smiled at Sean.

  ‘The Lost Explorers’ Society bought a table and they can’t wait to meet you.’

  Sean stared as one by one the young men came forward and introduced themselves to him, effusive in support of the event, of Tom, of finding Arctic careers now it was all opening up. They surrounded him, eager and loud. Their features blurred and a tumble of noises came out of their mouths. His brain felt like some heavy cold weight was sliding around inside.

  ‘Sir? Are you all right?’ one of them asked.

  ‘Boys,’ Martine stepped in, ‘it’s been a tough week. Go have a drink. We’ll see you later.’

  All Sean could feel was the burning in his fingers. Kingsmith leaned down.

  ‘PTSD,’ he said in Sean’s ear. ‘Hallucinations, delusions. The stress of an inquest could definitely trigger it.’ He dropped his voice even more. ‘So can guilt. That’s what Jenny Flanders says.’

  At that name Sean twisted round and slipped. Kingsmith hoisted him up. ‘Martine,’ he said, ‘our boy’s had one too many – and I don’t blame him. You better do the Tom eulogy. It’s too much for him.’

  Martine crouched down in front of him. Sean saw the concern – and irritation – in her eyes. She slid a golden arm around him. ‘Oh, darling.’

  Sean’s mind clung to consciousness. Joe had his phone. Martine must not go. He reached for her hand and grabbed her dress instead. She pulled back and he felt it rip.

  ‘You’re right,’ she said to Kingsmith. ‘Take him. I’m really sorry.’

  ‘Don’t you worry about a thing,’ he said. ‘It’s been tough on you too, princess, and it won’t be the first time he’s crashed with me. I’ll take care of him.’

  The green shimmer disappeared, then Sean felt himself hoisted up.

  ‘When you’re so tired,’ Kingsmith said in Sean’s ear as he hauled him towards the lifts, ‘sometimes even a juice can put you over the edge. Lucky I’m here.’

  The impeccable staff took care not to notice the over-refreshed guest, being assisted by his older and very solicitous pal. Sean felt the rising motion and shut his eyes against the gold and mirrors. The doors opened with a long hiss and he staggered along the deep mossy carpet, one wrist tight in Kingsmith’s grip, the older man’s sinewy arm around his torso. Whatever he had been given was coming on even stronger now.

  ‘You just sleep it off, Sean boy,’ Kingsmith gritted in his ear, ‘where I can keep an eye on you and make sure you don’t do anything stupid and dangerous – like touch the fucking phone when I told you not to.’

  He held him against the wall while he used his key card. ‘And I thought Tom was the problem.’ He opened the door, quickly checked up and down the empty corridor, then flung Sean in with great force. The door clicked shut behind them.

  The carpet slammed into Sean’s face and body but did not hurt. He saw Kingsmith’s black patent dress shoes very close to his face, then one of them lifted up.

  He felt the blow in his stomach and heard the gasp – but still there was no pain. He heard the order to get up, he was struggling to do that anyway—

  From his knees to the floor again, then the blows – he kept his brain awake counting them – one two three—

  Instinct rolled Sean into a ball, coughing. His shirt was tearing – he was being hauled to his feet, he still couldn’t feel his legs but somehow he was flying backwards, landing on something soft—

  Kingsmith was in his face, he bent over Sean as he half sat, half sprawled on the sofa. He punched him twice in the face, and the picture of the icebergs filled Sean’s mind. Great big icebergs, the glassy green foot—

  He felt his body jerking under the blows, he kept his imagination on the icebergs, the pink light on the strange shapes—

  ‘Tired – and emotional.’ Kingsmith stopped and stood back, breathing hard.

  Sean returned to consciousness with the shock of water flung in his face. He coughed. He felt himself grabbed up, his hands flailed for something to hold on to. He smelled the Scotch, heard the familiar voice.

  ‘You know what happened, Sean boy?’ Kingsmith held him by his lapels so that he could punch him again. ‘You needed some air. You got in a fight outside, some poor fucking taxi driver I had to pay off not to make a scandal. You – were very – stupid! Lucky for you I was there.’

/>   A ping came from the laptop, and Kingsmith paused his assault and went to check. He sipped his Scotch, then brought the rest of the glass back and forced it into Sean’s mouth. ‘What a fucking waste, but you just couldn’t stop, could you?’ He slapped Sean around the face. ‘You’re a lazy – greedy – little – fucker, and that’s why I’m having to do this, you hear me? Everything I’ve done for you, but you’ve got – no – fucking – loyalty.’

  Sean felt his body jerk with different impacts, but the drug muffled the pain.

  They were all as children, yet they had served us well. They had, at times, tried our tempers and taxed our patience; but after all they had been faithful and efficient. Moreover, it must not be forgotten that I had known every member of the tribe for nearly a quarter of a century, until I had come to regard them with a kindly and personal interest, which any man must feel with regard to the members of any inferior race who had been accustomed to respect and depend upon him during the greater part of his adult life. We left them all supplied with the simple necessities of Arctic life better than they had ever been before, while those who had participated in the sledge journey and the winter and spring work on the northern shore of Grant Land were really so enriched by our gifts that they assumed the importance and standing of Arctic millionaires.

  The North Pole (1910)

  Robert E. Peary

  35

  Half an hour before the sun rose over London, long after the Grand Ballroom of the Carrington had been restored to cleanliness and order and Tom Harding’s photograph taken home by an ardent waitress, Sean woke breathless with pain. He rolled over to touch Martine – who was not there – and he gasped as his face pressed against some cold hard thing. He could hear a strange ragged rumbling sound, and he realised he was lying on the floor. Very slowly he opened his swollen eyes.

  He was on the carpet in the gap between a sofa and a coffee table. So many parts of his body hurt as he slowly turned his head, but instinct told him not to make a sound. A furlong of carpet led to the dark cave of a room, the source of the rumbling sound. A man’s snore. He deciphered heavy gold drapes. Rugs. Huge vases of flowers. The silver oblong of a laptop on the table. This was Kingsmith’s suite, and something bad had happened.

  His tongue explored slippery clots on the inside of his sore cheeks – he let one fall out onto the carpet. Dark bloody jelly, from where his own teeth had cut into his mouth. He couldn’t think why he was lying here and the pounding in his brain made him lay his head back down. Nausea swirled in his guts. Through the glass of the coffee table he could see the crystal hobnails of a tumbler of water. As he moved slowly to try to reach it, he saw something else. Attached to the underside of the table frame was a round silver button. A circle of matt metal with a shiny central depression. Swallowing the gasp of pain, Sean twisted his head to check that Kingsmith was not stirring. Then he reached up and pulled the button off the frame.

  Held on by ineffective double-sided tape, it dropped to the carpet. Sean lunged to retrieve it and lie still, just as he felt the shift in the floor as, from the bedroom beyond, a heavy form got out of bed and padded into another room. He heard Kingsmith urinating, but not flushing. He clicked the silver button repeatedly then closed his hand over it and lay perfectly still as he felt the footsteps come closer. The red of his eyelids turned black and he knew Kingsmith was standing over him. Then he felt the sofa being pulled back, exposing him. The door buzzer rang, and Kingsmith muttered. Sean felt his footsteps move away, then Kingsmith called out he didn’t need anything.

  Sean clicked the silver button again and again before he felt Kingsmith’s tread returning. He still didn’t know what had happened but he kept his eyes shut.

  ‘Sean, I know you’re awake. So stupid: you did this to yourself.’

  The door buzzer rang again, and this time Kingsmith swore. As Sean felt him move away he staggered to his feet, ignoring the pain.

  ‘Help me!’ he shouted hoarsely as the door opened. ‘Don’t go!’

  Kingsmith spun around, but the butler had seen him. Sean caught his shocked expression in the moment before Kingsmith tried to close the door.

  ‘We’re fine.’

  ‘Are you sure, sir?’ The butler was young and slight, but he put his foot in the door against Kingsmith’s pressure, long enough for Sean to crash the older man aside and break out.

  Sean lunged into the corridor, where mirrors reflected a bloodied man in black tie. Other butlers hurried down the corridor towards the room, panic in their averted eyes. Behind him he could hear Kingsmith calling to him to come back – Sean boy! – but he stumbled on, his vision still blurry and his head splitting. He hit his fist at every door buzzer, he knew he needed witnesses – but no one came out and no one stopped him. A frightened-looking maid jumped back as she came out of the staff staircase and Sean barged through and grabbed hold of the brass rail, the only thing he could focus on, and started running down the black and white stairs until there were no more and he found himself in a lobby that smelled of disinfectant and food, where more faces stared at him.

  He was on the service floor, doors in all directions. Through one pair he could hear noise and bustle, he went in and it was the kitchen, bustling with the breakfast orders. Nobody stopped him; instead, they opened doors for him, passing him through their space as fast as they could, until Sean found himself out in the cold air by the huge waste bins. Someone was gripping his arm then a gate was opening and hands were pushing him through it – and Sean found himself on his knees on the grey and grimy Mayfair pavement, at dawn.

  Automatically he reached for his phone that was not there. He got to his feet and managed to walk to the kerb, to the corner. His head felt like an axe was jammed through his skull, every pulse of his blood hurt the back of his eyes – he went to the corner and stared out.

  Kingsmith sitting down beside him. Taking his phone.

  He heard the surge of Park Lane. A cab went by with its yellow light on, but when he stuck out his hand it accelerated past him. The next cab switched its light off, and the next. He put his hand up to his face, and his fingers came away with blood on them. The corner of his mouth was bleeding again. He looked down and saw the blood on his shirt front. Why had Kingsmith taken his phone? Why was he frightened of him?

  The corridor, the stream of butlers – Sean started walking towards Park Lane, just because he knew the route. The way home. He had to go home, he knew that, and if he got into the park he could walk.

  Horns blared as he stepped into the traffic, he held up his arm and crossed over to the central grass reservation of Park Lane, and then stared up towards Marble Arch, where the red buses loomed. He waited until two of them went past, then stumbled across the southbound lane, with more screeching horns. The green of the park was ahead, he could feel the cool of it. He stared at the trees. He walked unsteadily along the black metal railings until he found a gate. He was just about to go into the park when he saw them, in the distance. The cavalry horses, being exercised.

  Even now, bleeding and blurry, the horses held him. He hung on to the railing, focusing on the animals gathering on the curve. He was in time, they were starting to trot – he felt pain in his face as he smiled, they were going to canter and he was right there—

  He felt them in his feet, he heard one of the riders shouting at him to stay back, and then they were upon him, he felt the rhythm of their feet in his body, he saw the light on their necks and the darker sweat patches, the flowing black manes and tails – their sweet warm animal smell cut through whatever was in his head—

  Sean, are you at home? I’ve got bad news—

  The horses passed by and then there was just the vast expanse of Hyde Park before him, and the roar of morning traffic behind him. Sean kept hold of the railings.

  Sean boy, they’ve found Tom—

  Tom’s inquest. Tom’s inquest, the last day in Canterbury, starting this morning. And there, across Park Lane, the Carrington hotel, and Joe Kingsmith – and t
he ship, the ship he remembered it now—

  He spat in his hands and pushed back his hair, pulled his lapels up to hide the worst of the blood stains, and drew himself up straight. Then he ran back to Park Lane and in the most autocratic way he could, raised his arm at the next taxi with its light on, and jumped in before the driver could object.

  ‘Canterbury,’ he said into the intercom.

  ‘Canterbury? You need a hospital, mate.’ The driver frowned at him in the mirror. ‘I’ll take you.’

  ‘No. I have to get to Canterbury for the summing up.’ Sean fumbled at his wrist and took off his watch. He wiped some blood off it and passed it through the window. ‘I have to get there. You can have this if you take me.’ Horns blared as the driver pulled across into the slip road at the top of the park, and stopped to examine it. He looked back at Sean in the mirror.

  ‘This feels real.’

  Sean winced as his smile split his lip again. ‘I know.’

  ‘It’s a Cosmograph. My son’s dream.’ The cabbie held it up so the light caught on the ice-blue face. ‘Sure now? Can’t change your mind halfway.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  Sean sat back and closed his eyes. He thought his nose might be broken, but he didn’t want to check in case he started bleeding. He worked backwards, to take his mind off the lurching and bumping of the ride. The white twisting stairs with the shiny handrails, the staring staff, the open door out to big wheelie bins – the Carrington hotel. Kingsmith’s carpet. The laptop on the table. The ship. He clicked the intercom.