The Ice

by Laline Paull

  Sean sat alone in the small cell of a room, with the flat-pack furniture and the damp-curled carpet tiles, and the blue upholstered chairs. The soreness and damage to his face and body felt more insistent, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his heart. Outside, the chants were louder – the crowd had grown. He looked at the blank space on his wrist. He hoped the cabbie’s son would be happy. He felt grateful to John Burnham and his fiery daughter.

  And to Rosie – he felt a flush of love at the thought of his daughter who had come back to him, violently angry though she still was. He burst out of the room in search of her, straight into Mr Thornton, Mrs Osman, Ruth Mott and the Harding family, heading back in for the summing up. He halted, waiting for the abuse to fall on him – but instead Ruth Mott put her hand on his arm. Angela Harding looked him in the eye. ‘Thank you, Sean,’ she said quietly, and walked on with her mother-in-law. Sean followed behind, with Ruth.

  ‘It’s not true, you know,’ she said. ‘You did help Tom. When you spoke for him, when he was too drunk, when you stopped Redmond from hurting him more in Greenland. When you told him not to care what people thought, to do what he wanted with his life. He told me those stories so many times. Sean, he loved you.’

  Granny Ruby turned. ‘And you loved him. We saw that.’

  They went in. Mr Thornton entered a silent courtroom full of standing people. The Harding group went to one side, but Sean, now alone, walked to his empty row. No Martine, no Sawbridge. Gail remained at the back, Rosie now by her side.

  Mr Thornton was brief. Despite Mr Cawson’s astonishing and, he agreed, most courageous testimony, he had not changed his opinion.

  If there were evidence that Mr Cawson had wilfully let Mr Harding die, there would be a case for unlawful killing. But it was his belief that, although Mr Cawson made a morally unwise attempt to coerce Mr Harding into a promise under extreme circumstances, he had neither wished his death nor sought it in any way.

  It was also Mr Thornton’s belief that Mr Harding, whilst he might not have become involved in the Midgard Lodge purchase bid had he been in possession of all the facts, was nevertheless experienced in Arctic travel, and knew its risks. He had entered the ice-cave of his own volition.

  He was therefore of the considered opinion that Tom Harding lost his life due to the proven collapse of the Midgardbreen ice-cave system, most probably due to the pervasive action of meltwater on the ice cap above. This was arguably an effect of climate change but even if so, and he believed it was, that was not in itself a direct cause of Mr Harding’s death.

  He also stated for the record that Mr Harding’s body was believed irretrievably lost in the ice-cave on the date of the accident, until it was revealed by further action of the glacier, in the calving witnessed by the passengers of the cruise ship Vanir – at which point it was recovered.

  But – and Mr Thornton looked at Sean as he said this – given Mr Cawson’s new testimony, and the wider events in the world, namely today’s sinking of the cargo ship the Zheng He off the coast of Svalbard, he believed a further investigation into the activities and partners of Midgard Lodge was warranted.

  He waited until the sound of cheering and applause from the street died down and then looked to the press bench.

  ‘Are you transmitting this live?’

  They all nodded. At the back, Beth Burnham also raised her hand to be counted.

  ‘Whilst I therefore return a narrative conclusion to this inquest, that the cause of death of Mr Thomas Walter Harding be recorded as Nature Unknown, I also recommend that the entire body of evidence I have collected in this process be moved on to criminal investigation, as requested by Mrs Ursula Osman, KC.’

  Ruby Harding rose to her feet applauding, joined by a number of people in the court, the sound drowned out by the roar from the crowd in the street below.

  Mr Thornton and his clerk left in a sweep of robes, the courtroom burst with noise and movement, but Sean stood where he was. Someone came up to take his photograph with a phone but Gail pushed the phone aside.

  ‘Leave my husband alone.’

  That phrase brought Sean back. He looked at her.

  ‘Slip of the tongue,’ she said. ‘Need a lift? I’ve got my car at the back.’

  He felt as slow as a dream, the Rohypnol spiking again. ‘Where’s Rosie gone?’

  ‘Outside. She knows some of those people.’

  ‘Gail …’ He saw the lines around her eyes, he wanted to touch them. ‘Would you bring the car round there? I have to do something first.’

  When she’d gone, the clerks and security guards allowed Sean a moment alone in the courtroom to collect himself. He stood in the empty space, the mints spilled on the floor, the disordered chairs, his own toxic sweat. He sat down and put his face in hands that no longer burned. It was over.

  The crowd were chanting for him. The ugly sound swelled as they saw him coming through the lobby but Sean stepped straight out onto the steps.

  An egg broke against his shoulder, then another one. People jeered and booed and he wondered why the police weren’t there – but they were. There were just so many protestors – hundreds more had arrived, some with placards and masks, others whose fresh young faces opened and closed in angry shouts he couldn’t quite hear. For a moment it all swam in brightness and he felt the drug still in his system. Even the young could look ugly, if they were angry enough. He picked out the word Arctic in their chants and screams.

  ‘Arctic,’ he repeated, trying to bring himself back from the dangerous haze on the edge of everything. ‘The Arctic,’ he said. He heard another word. ‘Ecocide.’

  Arc-tic! Eco-cide! A heavy paper cup hit him, and the coffee smelled good.

  He recognised a red jacket and a friendly face in the crowd – of course it was Tom, Sean was pleased to see him. He waved. Young and handsome, Tom waved back, holding something up. Something brown and pointed. Sean recognised it. The shit chisel. He held up his own imaginary one, and thinking he was addressing them, the crowd shouted louder.

  ‘Let him speak!’ Armed with a megaphone, Rosie furiously elbowed her way out of the crowd and joined her father on the steps. ‘Just shut the fuck up for a minute,’ she said through it, his warrior daughter and human shield. Sean gazed at her in wonder as she handed him the megaphone. ‘Quick,’ she said under her breath, ‘if you’re going to.’

  ‘You’re right to be angry,’ Sean called out to them. ‘I’ve been stupid and greedy and blind, I’ve betrayed and lost my best friend, and I’ve destroyed everything I’ve touched. And the Zheng He has sunk—’

  He waited for the noise to die down, ‘But I am going to cooperate in every way I can to make sure this cannot happen again, and I’m going to do it in a criminal court. And I want as many of you there as will fit in, I want you in the room because Tom can’t be there. And I don’t want there to be a conservation bequest in his name. I want there to be no need for one.’

  To his surprise, there was a smattering of applause. He looked at the crowd of young people holding up their phones recording his shame. But standing there with his daughter who had returned to him, and his wife – she still was – coming for him, he felt the opposite. As if some burden he hadn’t known he carried was lifting.

  He saw a mineral white BMW coming up the street, slowly parting the crowd. It took a moment to recognise the woman at the wheel as Gail. He went down the steps, Rosie by his side, flashes going off in his face. He heard the door locks click open, and he climbed in.

  ‘I’m staying.’ Rosie had tears in her eyes as she smiled. ‘You did good, Dad.’ Before she could close the door on him, he grabbed her hand and kissed it. She thumped the car twice on the roof and Gail clicked the locks as photographers tried to block them for more pictures. She drove slowly into them and they jumped back, cursing. Sean looked at her in amazement. She shrugged.

  He moved around in the seat and fiddled with the controls. Something occurred to him. Some tall bastard had sat here with his long le
gs. Gail’s lips twitched, as she understood what he was processing. She had had a lover. A tall one. Maybe she still did. Sean was harpooned by jealousy.

  She pulled out onto the ring road and they drove in busy silence for a while.

  ‘Rosie called me Dad again.’

  ‘I heard.’

  Neither was aware of the black Vauxhall Insignia following two cars behind.

  ‘Where shall I take you?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘I’m not going to bloody London—’

  ‘Nor am I.’

  She looked at him a moment. ‘Sean – you can’t just come back like that.’

  ‘No. I know.’ He waited a moment. ‘Is the tall bastard still around?’

  Gail did laugh now, but she didn’t answer. They drove on in silence for several miles. He recognised the roads. He looked at his watch, or the space where it had been.

  ‘Do you mind if we have the news?’

  She turned it on. The environmental disaster of the Zheng He was now the top story and the Ministry of Defence had issued a denial of the shocking allegations at the inquest of respected environmentalist Tom Harding—

  Sean looked out at the familiar fields, the hedges, the fences, as the news presenter explained about the environmental integrity of Svalbard, the suspension of British businessman Sean Cawson’s troubled Arctic venture …

  There was the Acorn, the beautiful country pub where they hadn’t been in years, he would like to go there again—

  … investigations to be carried out over a suspected breach of the Svalbard Treaty … trade relations … historic allies …

  Sean didn’t care that the Russian ambassador had already made a formal complaint in London, he didn’t care if he never walked into a smart party again, if all the grand doors in grand houses owned by grand people slammed in his face – because what mattered was that his daughter had grown up while he wasn’t looking but that now she had come back to him. What mattered was that he was with Gail again and the band around his chest, that he hadn’t even known was there, was gone and he could breathe again. He recognised the roads, and the trees, and the fields as they sped home in her new car. And that tall bastard would never sit in his place, because he was going to make her happy again, and come back from the ice and finally deserve her love.

  In another, chauffeur-driven car, Martine and Sawbridge sped back to London in silence, listening to the same news, caring very much about the formal complaint by the Russian ambassador, and the mention of Midgard Lodge. In an office overlooking Whitehall, whilst checking three other screens and writing an email on a fourth, so did Rupert Parch, his eyes not remotely merry, and his disposition far from playful.

  Cruising at 36,000 feet, Joe Kingsmith cut into a blue steak, three phones and two laptops open beside his plate. Occasionally he swept them all with a glance. Nothing.

  In Canterbury, the Feathers pub was doing uncharacteristically brisk business for the hour, as activists and journalists crammed in, and John Burnham had put the football flat-screen on to watch the breaking news about the ship. In the hubbub, Ruth Mott and Rosie Cawson sat together, both tearstained, and drinking pints. Ruth had her arm around Rosie, and Rosie had her phone out, listening and nodding while Ruth spoke.

  Sean sat back as Gail drove. In his wing-mirror he saw a black saloon approaching fast, indicating to overtake. Gail glanced up in the rear-view mirror and saw it too. How extraordinary that he felt no pain about Martine. She had abandoned him in court, but he felt nothing, not even anger. Yet to leave Gail had been agony only trumped by lust. Sean saw as the black car overtook that it was a Vauxhall Insignia. Its brake lights glared red, it suddenly skewed to the side and Gail hauled on the wheel – but it skewed again, forcing them the other way – their speed too fast and the road too narrow to miss the long drystone wall. The impact hurled the BMW into the air.

  Ah, sighed Anaralunguaq, and we used to think Nature was the greatest and most wonderful of all! Yet here we are among mountains and great gulfs and precipices, all made by the work of human hands.

  The BMW crashed down on its roof, activating its on-board emergency satellite communication. Two hundred miles above the road accident it reported, that information was beamed back down to earth, and the relevant civic authorities.

  Nature is great; Sila, as we call it at home; nature, the world, the universe, all that is Sila; which our wise men declared they could hold in poise. And I could never believe it, but I see it now. Nature is great, but are not men greater?

  Four hundred metres down the road, where the drystone wall ended and the road curved around, the driver of a Dutch-registered eighteen-wheeler had stopped for a break in a layby. As the oncoming Vauxhall flashed its lights, two men inside opened the rear doors and dropped the hinged ramp. The Vauxhall drove in and braked hard. They pulled up the ramp and closed the doors. The lorry drove away.

  The wheels of the BMW spun slowly to a halt. Nothing moved but the wind.

  One of Kingsmith’s phones flashed. Still chewing, he slid it towards him. A blank text from a UK number. He deleted it then signalled the steward for more wine.

  In the press, on social media, in Chatham House, in bars, in cafés, even in Highgrove House (where the King was hosting an interdisciplinary debate on the role of monarchy and the wilderness) speculation raged over the connection between the sinking of the Zheng He and the death of environmentalist Tom Harding.

  Those tiny beings we can see down there far below, hurrying this way and that. They live among these stone walls; on a great plain of stone made with hands. Stone and stone and stone – there is no game to be seen anywhere, and yet they manage to live and find their daily food.

  On the floor of the Barents Sea, the steel hull of the Zheng He settled into the swirling sediment. Her oil, and other substances lighter than water, continued to leak out into the darkness, towards the troubled gyres of the seven seas.

  Have they then learned of the animals, since they can dig down under the earth like marmots, hang in the air like spiders, fly like birds and dive under water like the fishes; seemingly masters of all that struggled against ourselves?

  Inside the inverted vehicle, a human voice speaks from the onboard computer, assuring the driver that BMW have been informed of the collision and location, and that assistance is on its way. A rap ringtone interrupts, coming through the car’s digital system.

  Gail manages to reach up and press the button on the steering wheel.

  ‘Hi,’ She’s hoarse, and gasping. The remote voice coming from somewhere in the car continues to reassure the passengers.

  ‘Mum?’ says Rosie’s voice. ‘Dad, can you hear me? What’s that noise? I’ve got major anxiety about my dysfunctional parents – but I just want you to know I love you both.’

  Sean reaches out to hold Gail’s shoulder. The blown airbags make it difficult. He clenches back a gasp of pain. ‘We love you too.’

  ‘Rosie,’ Gail calls out. ‘Remember, deep breaths.’

  I see more things than my mind can grasp; and the only way to save oneself from madness is to suppose that we have all died suddenly before we knew, and that this is part of another life.

  The mineral white BMW blocks the road, emergency lights flashing. Motorists have stopped to help, traffic is starting to back up. Inside it, Sean and Gail have found each other’s hand. Sirens wail. They hold on.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Since the fourteenth century, men have sought a northern maritime trade route between Europe and what was once known as Cathay; the Far East. Countless sums and lives have been spent in its pursuit.

  The end of the Arctic summer sea ice means that finally, the long-sought TransPolar trade route directly over the North Pole is now open; through the 1.1 million square miles of the international waters of the Arctic Ocean – covered with permanent ice for all of human history, until now.

  Distance savings compared with traditional trade routes using the Suez or Panama canals, can be as high as
35 per cent. And with possible closures to both these historic routes due to political instability, traffic across the TransPolar Route increases every day.

  A VERY PARTIAL BIBLIOGRAPHY

  Bones, Stian and Petia Mankova (eds.), Norway and Russia in the Arctic: conference proceedings from the international conference ‘Norway and Russia in the Arctic’, Longyearbyen, 25–28 August 2009 (University of Tromsø, 2010)

  Byock, Jesse L. (tr.), The Saga of the Volsungs: The Norse Epic of Sigurd the Dragon Slayer (Penguin, 1990)

  Chapman, F. Spencer, Northern Lights: The Official Account of the British Arctic Air-Route Expedition 1930–1931 (Chatto & Windus, 1932)

  Davis, Wade, The Wayfinders: Why Ancient Wisdom Matters in the Modern World (House of Anansi Press, 2009)

  Gearheard, Shari Fox et al., The Meaning of Ice: People and Sea Ice in Three Arctic Communities (International Polar Institute Press; University Press of New England, 2013)

  Emmerson, Charles, The Future History of the Arctic (PublicAffairs, 2010)

  Freuchen, Peter, Arctic Adventure: My Life in the Frozen North (William Heinemann Ltd, 1936)

  Freuchen, Peter (tr. Johan Hambro), Vagrant Viking: My Life and Adventures (J. Messner, 1953)

  Henson, Matthew, A Negro Explorer at the North Pole: The Autobiography of Matthew Henson (F. Stokes, 1912)

  Horwitz, Joshua, War of the Whales: A True Story (Simon & Schuster, 2014)

  Klein, Naomi, This Changes Everything: Capitalism vs. the Climate (Penguin, 2014)