The Split

by Sharon Bolton

  The steps leading up to it are rotting but she is careful, and she isn’t heavy. Twenty yards long by ten wide, made of wood and concrete, the platform is where the whales were brought to die. Exhausted, fatally wounded, they were hoisted by cranes from the sides of the boat and laid out on the platform before the flensers, skilled men armed with long sharp knives, cut the blubber away using a spiralling technique. Once separated from the meat, the blubber was rendered down into the prized and commercially valuable whale oil.

  In the old days, the stink of boiling flesh and rotting meat fought with that of coal fires and the ocean. Now, a hundred or more different scents come from the land and the sea, but for Bamber, there is something missing.

  She needs the blood.

  She has to be more careful. Last night was a close one. She shouldn’t have cut the man from the ship, even though she barely scratched him. If it happens again, they’ll look for her and this isn’t the easiest of places to hide. For now, though, she has a more pressing problem to deal with.

  From the inside pocket of her jacket she takes the stolen photograph. Taken a little under a year ago it shows Felicity leaving a house in an English city. It is early evening, and Felicity has no idea that she is being watched or photographed. She is glancing at her phone, striding off along the busy street to where she left her car. The image is entirely unremarkable, but the handwriting on the reverse is quite the opposite. It reads:

  I will kill you.

  Tucking the photograph away, Bamber shuts her eyes and thinks of the old days. The men gathered round a huge catch on the flensing platform. The animal’s big black eyes already starting to dull. The fires in the factory stoking high, ready to begin the rendering process. Huge blades being sharpened against stone. One last cry of pain from the whale and the knives begin cutting deep into its sides.

  Blood pours from the fresh wounds, over the platform’s edge, into the ocean. Bamber opens her eyes and sighs happily. That’s better.

  6

  Freddie

  South Georgia is more beautiful than he could have imagined. Ribbon-thin streams pour over mountains that shine gold in the early sun. The water of Cumberland Bay is aquamarine, still as glass. Even the derelict whaling station is picturesque at a distance, a scattering of rust-red buildings along the curve of the coast. Across the bay from the station lies King Edward Point, home of the British Antarctic Survey.

  The mountains are astonishing, circling the bay, towering above the tiny buildings, sweeping almost down to the sea edge. A single dirt track links the two settlements of Grytviken and King Edward Point, but elsewhere roads don’t exist. Human life can barely survive here.

  And yet this is where he’s found her.

  ‘Morning, sir. Nice to have you join us.’

  A hand brushes Freddie’s shoulder as the man in an officer’s uniform squeezes his way past. Several of the other passengers, most wearing the ship-issue orange anorak, follow him along the deck.

  ‘South Georgia is truly a wildlife paradise,’ the steward tells the group. ‘All the seals, birds and penguins that inhabit the seas around Antarctica need to come ashore to breed and South Georgia is one of the few places in this part of the world that isn’t permanently covered in ice and snow. Most of them come here.’

  ‘The grass is so green.’ One of the women is looking at the shore through binoculars. ‘Is that because of all the rain?’

  ‘Grass as you know it doesn’t exist here,’ the steward tells her. ‘What you can see above the coastline is actually emerald moss. You should also be able to make out the spire of the Norwegian church. Built in 1913, it’s been the venue of sixteen weddings.’ He grins at a couple in their thirties who are holding hands. ‘Until tomorrow,’ he adds.

  Freddie fixes his binoculars on the buildings of King Edward Point. Felicity will be in one of them, maybe still in bed, maybe eating breakfast. Porridge. With blueberries. That was her favourite.

  ‘Over two million fur seals, some ninety-five per cent of the world’s population, live here in summer,’ the steward continues. ‘As well as over half the world’s population of elephant seals and four types of albatross.’

  She probably can’t get blueberries. It doesn’t look as though anything can grow here.

  ‘I thought there’d be more snow,’ one of the passengers says.

  Frozen blueberries, maybe.

  ‘Snow usually starts to fall in April,’ the steward says. ‘You will see snow and ice while you’re here, though, as roughly half the island is covered in it permanently. And there are some one hundred and fifty glaciers.’

  At the word glacier, Freddie turns back to the group. Glaciers are Felicity’s thing.

  ‘We’ll be anchoring in the bay directly ahead,’ the steward explains. ‘King Edward—’

  ‘How soon can we go ashore?’ Freddie interrupts.

  The steward’s eyebrows flick a fraction closer together. ‘First trip is at 10.30.’ He turns his attention back to the group. ‘That gives you two hours to enjoy breakfast and get wrapped up. As I was saying, King Edward Point has an interesting history. For some time after the Falklands War, it was the military base here on the island…’

  Freddie leaves the deck.

  * * *

  Two hours. He should eat. He has no idea when he’ll have the chance again and he really isn’t sure when he last ate. The communal dining room on board is intolerable with the mindless chattering of the other passengers, and since boarding the ship he’s taken every meal he can in his cabin. Managing to stay calm for most of the trip, he’s found his hands trembling uncontrollably as they near South Georgia. Nicotine isn’t helping any more, nor is the whisky he’s been pouring in his cabin each night. His head is dull and his mouth tastes tight and sour. Drinking will have to stop now that he’s arrived. He’ll need all his wits about him.

  On the plus side, the antibiotics are kicking in and he’s feeling much better.

  Time to pack. He pulls his rucksack down from the top shelf and then, one by one, the other things he’ll need. The single shell, one-man tent won’t be much of a match for a South Georgian gale but it folds up small. So does the sleeping bag, the thermal blanket and the groundsheet. The largest, bulkiest item is one he spent months researching – an inflatable, one-man kayak with foot pump.

  He checks that his torches, his Swiss Army knife, his compass and his matches are where they should be. He counts the protein bars that will keep him alive the next few days. Everything else he’ll need, including his life jacket, he will wear.

  He checks that his recently purchased satellite phone and back-up battery are fully charged.

  The orange anorak can stay in the cupboard. He pulls his own dark-khaki jacket off its hanger and checks that his gloves are in the pockets. Finally, he unfolds the best chart of South Georgia that he’s been able to get hold of.

  The main island is a little over a hundred miles long and twenty wide. Much of its internal landmass is covered with glaciers or mountain ranges that will be challenging, if not impossible, to cross. There are no roads, other than a few dirt tracks around the main settlements. The tiny population lives at either King Edward Point or Grytviken. Other places where people stay temporarily are few in number and are mainly ad hoc bases of the British Antarctic Survey. There is a small station on Bird Island and a former manager’s villa at the abandoned whaling station of Husvik. Nothing else that he’s been able to find. There are no airstrips, no regular ferry crossings. The only way to arrive is by sea voyage and once here, no other way off.

  Freddie turns on his swivel stool to the newspaper cutting tacked to the headboard of his narrow bunk. A photograph and accompanying story, the only online trace he’s found in months of searching.

  * * *

  Glaciologist Seeks Antarctic Challenge

  World expert glaciologist Felicity Lloyd, 28, is about to set sail on the trip of a lifetime to the remote island of South Georgia in the Antarctic Circle where she will sp
end two years studying the formation and movement of some of the planet’s lesser-known glaciers. Dr Lloyd, who has worked for the British Antarctic Survey (BAS) for five years, described the opportunity as ‘unique’ and says she isn’t remotely concerned about the harsh conditions so far south, or about the lack of human contact.

  Fewer than fifteen people live on South Georgia in the winter months when temperatures rarely rise above freezing and snow covers most of the land. ‘I’m hoping to improve my skiing,’ Dr Lloyd adds.

  South Georgia is a British Overseas Territory that was once one of the world’s most commercially successful whaling stations. During the Falklands Conflict of 1982, it was temporarily occupied by Argentina and was later retaken by British forces in a daredevil helicopter mission. Today, its income derives largely from the sale of fisheries licences and tourism.

  * * *

  The accompanying photograph is amateurish, the subject sitting straight on to the camera, poor lighting creating shadows behind her head. Her long blonde hair has been tied back and her large, deep-set eyes wear no makeup. She isn’t smiling. She hadn’t wanted her photograph taken, had probably been bullied into it by her employers.

  It doesn’t do her justice, gives no hint of her height, the slender grace of her limbs, the way her hair shines silver in some lights. Not that Freddie needs a photograph. In his head, he knows every inch of her. There hasn’t been a day that he can remember when he hasn’t longed to run his hands over the silken skin, feel her hair tickling the underside of his chin, press his face against her to find that unique smell.

  And now, at last, he’s found her.

  7

  Felicity

  ‘Morning, love,’ Ralph says, as Felicity joins him at the jetty. He is in the RIB she’s requisitioned for the next few days. ‘Nice day for it.’

  The first forecast of the day is good. Cold and clear for most of the morning, clouding over towards mid-afternoon, snow on the upper peaks. Light winds.

  ‘You’re fuelled up, spare tank in the locker. Comms working fine. Keep her below thirty knots unless the sea’s like a millpond, which it won’t be, and the kill-cord doesn’t leave your wrist.’

  Felicity nods to the horizon, where the black speck isn’t yet distinguishable to the naked eye as a ship. ‘What time do you think it will dock?’

  Ralph licks a finger and holds it up into the wind. ‘Another hour. Maybe more. You wanting to get away before it arrives?’

  Joining him on the RIB, Felicity tucks her food bag into the far corner of the stern locker. ‘No, I’ll wait till its anchored,’ she says. ‘No rush.’

  ‘Sure, you don’t want me to come with you?’ Ralph says. ‘I’ll be there for three days, maybe more. You’re needed here.’

  Ralph nods but looks troubled. Every member of the BAS South Georgia team has boat-handling skills, but the boatmen are supposed to do the long and difficult journeys. Bird Island is at the very north-west tip, over seventy miles distant. It is a long way, even in the powerful RIB.

  Of course, she isn’t planning to go anywhere near Bird Island. Bird Island isn’t nearly safe enough. On Bird Island she can be found.

  He says, ‘Well, you let me know when you get there safe.’

  ‘No problem.’

  It could be a problem. She can hardly announce her arrival at Bird on an open radio frequency when Jen and Frank who are actually there will almost certainly hear it and contradict her. Maybe a brief transmission will work, round about the time she would be expected to arrive. She can say she’s pulling into the bay and that everything is fine. Jen and Frank aren’t actually expecting her today, just sometime in the next week or so.

  The speck on the horizon is bigger.

  ‘How long before it gets here?’ she asks.

  ‘Still an hour. Less the five minutes since you last asked me.’

  Ralph takes her through safety procedures one last time and then she runs up to the admin office. Nigel looks up as she enters.

  ‘Manifest?’ he asks.

  ‘It’s arrived?’

  He hands over the list. All five pages this time and she turns straight to the last. The name leaps out at her and she feels every ounce of strength draining away.

  ‘Not spotted the one you’re waiting for?’ Nigel asks.

  She can’t lose it now. ‘You got me,’ she says. ‘My boyfriend said he was hoping to make it out here. I guess he didn’t.’

  Nigel’s eyebrows lift. She has never mentioned a boyfriend before. ‘There are no phones where he lives?’ he asks.

  ‘He wanted to surprise me. What time will they anchor?’

  ‘An hour or so. You still planning that trip today?’

  ‘Yes. I’m off anytime.’ She makes for the door, on legs that feel unsteady. ‘Now I know there’s no one on the boat I need to see.’

  ‘Because the latest weather report isn’t so good. Winds getting up later. If you have to go, why don’t you take Jack with you?’

  ‘Actually, that’s not a bad idea. I’ll ask him if he’s free. Thanks, Nigel.’

  ‘Mind yourself.’

  She curses as she leaves Nigel’s office. Now, on top of everything else, she has to avoid Jack for the next hour.

  8

  Bamber

  Bamber has a special place. A place she goes to when the rage builds to the point where she thinks it might tear her head apart. The Petrel, the beached whaling ship in Grytviken harbour is never visited by tourists. It simply isn’t safe.

  The entire structure of the Petrel is unstable. Constantly buffeted by gale-force winds and storm seas, it seems to hold together on nothing more than the memories of the power it once had. Even in moderate seas, waves come crashing over its decks. At any moment the masts, the cranes, even the harpoon gun at the bow could plummet, crushing anything beneath. Guano covers the structure, turning the decks into a slippery, foul-smelling sponge. Much of the iron has corroded, rendering its decks treacherous. One unlucky footstep could send her plummeting into the black prison filled with icy water that the ship’s hold has become. If she falls in there, there will be no way out.

  Bamber never makes the dangerous journey along the rotten jetty without knowing it could be her last trip. She doesn’t care because the Petrel hosts a thriving colony of sea birds and the racket they make is constant. When she is on board the Petrel, no one can hear her scream.

  No one sees her slip aboard. The colony of sea birds that use the wrecked ship as a daytime perch watch her curiously, but they aren’t afraid of people.

  No one but the gulls hear her pick up the long flensing knife and hurl it against the wall of the main cabin. It strikes with a deep resonant boom and then clangs to the rivetted floor as the air becomes alive with the beating of a hundred or more strong wings. From above the ship they yell down their annoyance and she yells back at them. She kicks a wooden casket and sees it shatter with satisfaction.

  The Petrel’s crew ate and slept in this cabin and some remnants of their furniture remain. Bamber finds an iron club hammer and batters it down on to a chair. When the chair retains no memory of the shape it once held, she turns her attention to the bunks. Only when she’s exhausted herself does she put down the hammer. Her hands are sore and she is gasping for breath.

  Pulling herself onto the bridge she risks looking out at the cruise ship. He will be making preparations to come ashore.

  She is running out of time.

  Bamber never takes her rages out on the bridge. She needs to keep this space intact and weatherproof. It is where she keeps her secret things. She opens the locker at the rear of the cabin and at the very bottom of a waterproof bag she finds what she’s come for, double wrapped in waterproof cloth. A Sig Sauer P238 handgun.

  Bought in South America, recommended by the shop owner as the best self-defence handgun for use at short range by women, she hoped she’d never have to use it.

  She’s always known that she would.

  9

  Freddie
>
  The ship has been anchored for nearly an hour. The harbour master from King Edward Point has been on board to check the paperwork and explain the rules.

  Footwear has to be spotlessly clean and disinfected to avoid contaminating the local soil. No food of any description is to be taken ashore due to the same biosecurity protocols. Fishing and hunting on the island are prohibited. There is no accommodation for tourists and overnight camping requires an expensive permit, so all visitors are expected to report back to the ship by nightfall. Visitors have to stay with their guided group at all times.

  Freddie has signed his agreement to rules he has no intention of keeping, and for nearly twenty minutes he’s been waiting in the hull of the ship to be on the first boat going ashore. So far he’s been alone – the rest of the three hundred or so passengers have been taking their time, but now he hears the metal stairs clanging and two pairs of footsteps.

  ‘Steady on. Hold the handrail.’ A young man’s voice.

  ‘Thank Christ we’ve arrived.’ The second voice belongs to a woman. ‘I had no idea waves could get that big. Did you know waves could get that big?’

  A stout pair of legs in hiking trousers appears. The man says, ‘I’m not sure anyone else is here yet.’

  ‘I don’t care. I just need to get off this godforsaken ship.’