by Peter Tonkin
The peaks of the mountains they had just left were outlined in green and yellow fire. In bands of brightness like the strange flames above, blazing acetate, green, yellow, indigo and cherry-red light rose like a strange halo above the jagged crown of the world. The bands were not regular like the even arches of a rainbow, they were struck through with spears of energy which seemed to lance upwards and downwards, making the colours run into each other. As each shaft of energy moved, so waves of crackling sound washed down from the sky over them. Only at the highest edge of the display was there any paling of the powerful iridescence. The sky above and behind was utterly black and here at least the stars were shrunken to a size more familiar to Ann’s city-dweller’s eyes. She stood and looked at the slow writhing of the stunning colours. The display was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen in her life but all she could think was, Thank God it’s not the dawn; thank God we’re not lost after all. It was as though her death began then; as though it was not dreams that die first but the sense of wonder. Still they stood, side by side, looking north, until the wind began to stir again and Henri grated, ‘En avant!’
The Northern Lights served to guide them south by throwing slowly fading shadows before them at their feet until the dawn itself began to stir. But by that time the wind was much busier and the growing light was increasingly cloaked by flying ice crystals. It was as though the nocturnal respite which had further drained their reserves of energy had refreshed the wind. It doubled and redoubled its ferocity, streaming in from the west, and when they at last found the cliff edge and turned towards the ruined ice bridge, they found themselves walking into the very teeth of it, their remaining energy draining away as quickly as sand in the onslaught of a Saharan khamsin.
They passed the first emergency beacon without Ann noticing they had done so — though by this time she was concentrating on Henri’s back so fiercely she would hardly have noticed a giraffe standing there. She realised they must have passed it when Henri turned aside abruptly and back-tracked along a crevasse which crossed their way, and which she had not seen before. It came plunging in from the cliff edge like the black blade of some incredible stiletto. It was not wide, nor was it particularly long, but it was enough to bring disaster. Henri’s bulk was difficult enough to see in the fierceness of the driving ice even when she knew he was immediately in front of her ski tips, following a predetermined straight line. Once he turned, her concentration became split between his increasingly vague, ice-camouflaged shoulders and the black edge of the crevasse at her feet. Wisely, he went well past its point before turning left again. Who knew how wide the crevasse really was, beneath deceitful overhangs of ice? Ann followed him grimly, calculating what must be going through his mind and keeping an eye on the ground for any reappearance of telltale black lines on the white.
And then he was gone.
It was as simple and as sudden as that. One minute she knew where he was and the next she did not. One moment he was a ghostly loom in the dervish-dancing white murk in front of her. She looked down at the treacherous ground — it was the briefest of glances and no more. Then, when she looked up again, there was nothing but the white-out in front of her. She did the most natural thing. She speeded up, reasoning that he must simply have drawn ahead. There was no sign of him.
Chilled to the bone with horror, she stopped. ‘Henri!’ she called, knowing all too well that her voice would be muffled by the cloth over her lower face, that her cry would be whirled away on the banshee wind, that his ears would be deafened in any case by the drumming of his hood against them. But it was all she could think of to do.
‘HENRI!’ Her throat tore and she began to cough. Her chest hurt and for a moment it was as though she was drowning. Only her skis and sticks kept her from falling over. Time passed. She had no idea how much time. Her coughing eased. Her breathing returned to normal. Nothing else happened. The wind did not falter. The white-out did not ease. Henri did not return.
The full horror of her situation hit her then. She was lost and alone. Utterly so. He would not be able to find her, no one would unless they could track her distress beacon. The only people able to do that were on the ship. But no one from the ship was likely to be near; Henri was near but blind in the storm. She was on her own in every way. Don’t panic! she thought. She actually said the words aloud, strictly, like an adult lecturing a frightened child.
But what was she to do? If she moved, there would be absolutely no chance of Henri finding her when he finally realised they had become separated and he began to retrace his steps. But even that simple manoeuvre would be impossible in these conditions. She had to act on the assumption that Henri was not coming to rescue her.
She had to act. To stand here for any length of time meant certain death. She forced herself to take a step forward. Then she stopped again. It was all very well to set off once more, but which way should she go? There was no sign of the crevasse which had caused them to deviate from their clifftop path, but was it still there, like the cliff edge itself had been, under a thin covering of treacherous ice? She drove down with her left ski pole and it went straight through the ground and wedged. She couldn’t believe it. Never in her life had so much gone so badly wrong so fast. She was not superstitious — she had often mocked Nico for being so — but this looked like a very unlucky day to her. She jerked on the pole with all her strength, but whatever was holding it beneath the innocent-looking surface of the snow refused to release its grip.
Abruptly she found herself screaming at the top of her voice, swearing at the recalcitrant ski pole hysterically as she wrestled it from side to side with uncontrolled fury. Only when it snapped did she manage to bring herself under some kind of control. Even so, she threw the short end of it away and only when it swung back to hit her on the head did she remember that it was looped round her wrist. Calmer now that the first paroxysm was past, she took the loop off, laid the pole down, transferred the right-hand pole to replace it, crooked her right arm over her face to protect it from the driving ice, and set out on her own.
Once again, time ceased to have very much meaning. At first she was careful to follow some kind of plan in her head. She imagined the simple right angles of her path up the crevasse to a point where her ski pole no longer broke easily through the surface, then left at exactly ninety degrees for a couple of hundred yards — just in case —then exactly ninety degrees left again to take her back towards the original cliff edge. How far away from that cliff she was she had no way of knowing. How long she walked before she realised she had gone astray even from that simple plan she would never know either. Eventually, when the cliff did not materialise, she began to make conscious adjustments, thinking that if she went a little more to the left she must reach it.
But then, all too late, she realised that if she kept going left too soon, she would come round in a full circle long before she reached the cliff edge itself or, worse, strike off in a tangent before the circle was complete to go wandering back across that huge plain which had seemed so like the middle of the Lost World when she first saw it nearly twenty-four hours ago.
And by the time she had worked all that out, she was utterly lost indeed and even the simple plan of finding and following the cliff edge was far beyond anything within her power to do.
Sometime soon after this, she stopped thinking altogether, for thought was just another dangerous burden which might prove too much for her frail, increasingly weak body to carry.
Thought was replaced by sensation but soon, thank heaven, sensation began to grow dull and distant. She no longer felt the stabbing pain of the unremitting cold in her hands and feet nor the ache in ankles and knees as they threatened to seize up with every unrelenting step. She no longer heard the wild sound of the wind beyond the drumming of her hood against her ears. She no longer saw anything in the whirling dance of the ice grains before her eyes, except for the gathering darkness which she refused to recognise as death.
The first time that shiverin
g overtook her she tried to keep moving, but after a step or two it proved to be impossible. Her mind was just active enough to learn from the experience and when she felt the second attack coming on she had the sense to stop until it passed. Then she stumbled forward once again into the arms of the waiting darkness.
The darkness achieved a form. Two forms. Two human forms, shapeless and bundled. As soon as she saw them she should have stopped but she was too far gone to do so. She didn’t actually recognise them as being real at all. She continued to walk towards them and was not very surprised when they simply disappeared. She had no idea that they had fallen in beside her, invisible beyond the icedrifts on her goggles. She was too numb to feel the gentle pressure of their guiding hands, nor the strength of their uplifting arms when her legs at last gave out.
*
Some time later the agony of warmth woke her and she opened her eyes. A woman was watching her. A woman with long gold hair and steady green eyes; a woman she had never seen before in her life. ‘Colin, she’s awake,’ called the woman in English. A giant appeared in the shadows behind the blonde. He was huge, shaggy, grey-chinned. He seemed to be stooping so as not to bang his head on the roof. He loomed towards her, eyes locking with her own.
‘What the ...’ Ann began to say. Then she stopped. The gulf between where she was now and where she had been when she was last awake was too much for her to understand.
‘Am I alive?’ she asked. She really needed reassurance on that point, for anything seemed possible.
And the giant laughed, a wild, joyous sound, full of energy and indomitable humanity. ‘Yes,’ he answered. ‘Yes, you’re alive.’
32 - Day Twelve
Sunday, 30 May 23:00
Sir William Heritage waited until the camera was off him and then mopped his brow. The girl in make-up had warned him against doing this, but he was uncomfortably aware that he was streaming with perspiration. It was bad enough that he would look exhausted and old; it would be fatal to look sweatily nervous as well. Face the Press was a new programme with low ratings broadcast unfashionably late on a Sunday evening, but the chairman of Heritage Mariner had no illusions: everyone who mattered in his business world would be watching or taping this. As he patted the high dome of his forehead dry, he was careful to concentrate on what was going on opposite. John Stonor from the Sketch who had given him such a rough ride on Friday, and who had pilloried him and his company on Saturday, was laying out the groundwork of his case. Beside the dapper, slightly smug journalist sat Signor Verdi of CZP, his moustache bristling with carefully presented outrage. Beside them sat another man Sir William had yet to be introduced to.
Beside Sir William sat Maggie DaSilva and she leaned across now to warn him to put his handkerchief away as the interviewer turned back towards him, pulling a long strand of black hair neatly behind her ear, and the red light on camera three lit up again.
‘So, Sir William, with the case going against Captain Mariner so strongly, it seems that Heritage Mariner is on the verge of joining that long line of companies currently going to the wall.’ She had a soft, almost girlish voice which masked a fierce intelligence.
‘That is not the case, Miss Lang. We will be appealing, of course.’
‘But you have been directed to settle CZP’s outstanding claim in the meantime.’
‘That is correct, but the claim is only for the agreed price on a rather elderly vessel, and it will be met out of the insurance Heritage Mariner holds against such contingencies.’
‘This is all bullshit,’ John Stonor barged in loudly, all journalistic zeal. One of the attractions of the late-night slot was the amount of down-to-earth language that could be used. It gave the show an air of gritty spontaneity which was, in fact, carefully tailored. Stonor was a regular contributor and he knew the ropes well. ‘Heritage Mariner is going down. How does it feel to be the captain of the Titanic, Sir William?’
‘There is no truth in that allegation. As I told you on Friday —’
‘Allow me, Sir William,’ interjected Maggie. ‘You know these allegations are baseless, Mr Stonor. This is nothing but dangerous rumour-mongering.’
‘A properly financed company would have nothing to fear.’
‘That is simply not the case.’
‘There’s no smoke without fire!’
‘Of course there is, Mr Stonor. It’s your job to blow smoke around, usually where there’s no fire at all.’
‘So you’re saying that I haven’t uncovered any true facts in this case?’
‘In this aspect —’
‘What about the terrorist connection?’
‘I’ll tell you about the terrorist connection,’ roared Sir William, and the power of his voice silenced all of them. ‘Our ships were searched from stem to stern on the strength of what Mr Stonor told us about the so-called eco-terrorists La Guerre Verte. We found nothing! Why am I not surprised, Mr Stonor? I have no doubt you made them up, just as you make up so many other stories to sell your papers when the truth is not exciting enough! The only real terrorists ever involved in this case were the PLO, and they became involved because Disposoco buried toxic waste in the Lebanese desert without permission, warning or due care and caused countless people to die horribly. Terrorists were the only people with the power to make Disposoco dig up their filth and move it, and they had to threaten the whole company board with execution to make them do it. If it came to a choice between dealing with these terrorists and that company, I know which I’d prefer!’
‘It may be true that my colleagues from Disposoco have been forced to live with the threat of terrorist murder,’ purred Signor Verdi in reply, ‘but I deeply resent your implication.’ Sir William opened his mouth to reply but Verdi plunged on, his voice rising to a shout that matched Sir William’s own. ‘You are the representative of a firm responsible for sinking an unfortunately dangerous cargo in the middle of the busiest international passenger shipping lanes in the world, near to the most fertile fish breeding grounds on earth, and dangerously close to the most heavily populated seaboard in America. All this other talk is persiflage and — what you call it — hot air to cover what you have done! Not CZP, not Disposoco, but you. I tell you this, Sir Heritage, the courts in London have found your son guilty of this act. The courts in America will find him guilty of this act. You will be paying for what has been done to Napoli for the rest of your life and your children will be paying for the rest of theirs. You are finished. They are finished. Heritage Mariner is finished. And that is the truth. That is what is real. Not this talk of terrorists.’
Sir William struggled to rise. He was so enraged, he really feared he might strike the sneering little man, but Maggie held him in check once more. ‘These are more wild allegations, Signor Verdi. Your threats, made in public, are actionable and we will be consulting our —’
‘More threats, Ms DaSilva?’ Harriet Lang’s question stirred things further, as it was calculated to do; this was excellent television, no matter what else it was. The presenter could see her ratings soaring already. This was the kind of slanging match which just had to be plastered all over the front pages of tomorrow’s newspapers. She met John Stonor’s gaze and he gave her the ghost of a wink. The points of her lips stirred in contented complicity.
‘Promises, Ms Lang. Of more weight than groundless speculation about actions in the American courts,’ Maggie DaSilva answered firmly, and walked straight into John Stonor’s trap.
John Stonor cultivated an image which he felt to be appropriate to a successful tabloid newspaper man. He presented himself as a bluff, honest, rough diamond, incapable of being put off a just cause by any force under the sun. A pushy, dedicated, almost valiant, slightly common man of the people. Cocky, cheerful and by no means ever too clever for his own good. In fact he had a double first from Oxford where he had been counted one of the most arrogantly intellectual scholarship men of his day. His personal views of life and humanity were slightly to the right of Adolf Hitler and he was never
happier than when he was manipulating people. He had perfected a party trick at Oxford which had stood him in very good stead ever since. Before sitting down to dinner, he would deliver to his host or hostess a series of half a dozen sealed envelopes with times written on the front. At the designated moments — which might be minutes or hours apart — the envelopes would be opened and on a piece of paper in each one would be a topic of conversation. As if by magic, it would inevitably be the topic of conversation currently under discussion. Without ever seeming to do so, John Stonor was always able to control what people thought and said.
And he had done it again tonight. Harriet Lang glanced down at her watch. Five minutes to go: John had promised to drop his bombshell now. Monday’s front pages would be hers.
‘Now that you mention the American courts, Ms DaSilva,’ he purred, let me introduce you to Vito Gordino of the American law firm which has just filed a suit against your client in New York on behalf of East Coast Fisheries Incorporated, claiming damages in excess of ten million dollars.’
Sir William erupted to his feet, far beyond even Maggie’s control as he saw his life’s work crumble before his eyes, all for a combination of chicanery and television ratings. He was too exhausted to see things in perspective and under more pressure than he had handled since the war in the Atlantic. And he was alone. The whole supportive family network of Heritage Mariner was overstretched and near failure when it needed to be at its strongest. Richard and Robin relied upon him absolutely, all the more so since Richard had been effectively convalescent, but they were always careful to ensure he had support. Until now. Richard and Robin were far away and beyond recall. Even Helen Dufour was on her way back to St Petersburg to negotiate shipping rights in and out of the newly liberalised port. Chance had dictated that he should be carrying the full weight all alone just when he needed most support.