The Split Read online

  ‘Flight from London to Santiago, then on to Stanley,’ he says. ‘Coming here independently was beyond my means.’

  The doctor hands over a slip of paper. ‘Give this to the pharmacy. They open in half an hour.’

  Freddie takes the prescription.

  ‘How long did you serve?’ the doctor asks.

  ‘A long time,’ Freddie tells him. As he turns back to smile at the doctor, the other man takes a small start. ‘I deserved it,’ he says.

  4

  Felicity

  A low mist hangs over the ring of mountains as the Rigid Inflatable Boat, the RIB, turns around Larsen Point. In Cumberland East Bay three private yachts swing at anchor close to the shore and a large cruise ship is parked up a little further out. With trembling hands, Felicity lifts her binoculars and sees the Southern Star on its port bow. Relief seems to suck the air clean out of her body. This ship has been in harbour for three days and is due to leave today. Its replacement, the last of the season, hasn’t arrived. She has time.

  The RIB that has brought the team back from the glacier nudges the jetty and she jumps to her feet.

  ‘Whoa, steady on there, missy,’ Ralph, the head boatman, grumbles.

  ‘I’m fine, really. I’ve got it.’ Already out of the RIB, Felicity wraps the rope around the cleat to secure it. She runs along the jetty, across the stretch of land between the administrative buildings and the sea, and into the harbour master’s office. The wind takes the door from her hands and slams it open. Papers flurry, blinds rattle, and cigarette ash puffs into the air.

  Nigel, one of three government officers who lives and works on the island on a rotational basis, isn’t alone. There are eight other people in the room, none of whom she recognises.

  She does not need this right now.

  ‘I’m not sure how else I can explain it to you,’ Nigel is saying. ‘The nearest police are on the Falkland Islands, nine hundred miles away, and the only way they can get here is via a three-day boat journey. Four days if the weather’s bad. It’s a matter for your ship’s captain.’

  Acknowledging Nigel’s nod of greeting, Felicity slips inside and glances around the desktops. There is a pile of paper on Nigel’s desk but she is too far away to see it properly.

  ‘And I’m telling you, the woman who took a knife to my husband is not from the ship.’ Someone at the front of the group steps forward. ‘She was from here.’

  ‘Impossible,’ Nigel replies, as his desk phone begins to ring. Taking advantage of his distraction, Felicity moves closer to his desk but she’ll have to push him out of the way to reach it. She glances at the nearest screen but can see nothing on the radar.

  ‘Why is it impossible?’ The speaker is in her mid-forties, a tall, well-built woman with a long face and short hair.

  The horizon is clear. It takes about an hour, once ships can be seen with the naked eye, for them to dock. An hour isn’t enough.

  ‘It’s impossible because the only people who live on the island, other than Sandra and Ted at the museum, and myself, are employees of the British Antarctic Survey.’ The ringing of Nigel’s unanswered phone seems to get louder. ‘They are highly trained scientists and technical personnel—’

  ‘And we don’t go around knifing visitors,’ another voice chips in. As Nigel answers the phone, Felicity sees Jack in the doorway.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Jack asks.

  ‘Bit of argy-bargy last night,’ a man in his sixties tells Jack. ‘The captain gave some people permission to have a party on shore. Things got a bit out of hand.’

  Felicity reaches Nigel’s desk. It’s a mess, as usual. She spots something, but it’s half hidden under a book of tide charts and she can hardly help herself.

  ‘I want to see the man in charge,’ the agitated woman demands.

  Nigel puts the phone down with a heavy sigh. ‘That would be me.’

  ‘Of these scientists, I mean.’

  The horizon is still clear. Still nothing on the radar, but Felicity has never learned to use it properly.

  From the back of the group, another woman speaks. ‘We need an identity parade. Get all the women lined up and your Andrew can pick her out.’

  ‘Is someone actually injured?’ Jack asks. ‘We have a doctor at the base if your ship’s medical officer needs help.’

  This lot will be here forever. And Jack is hardly helping.

  ‘It’s just a cut,’ someone mutters. ‘We’re not even sure there was a knife.’

  ‘I heard he fell over,’ someone else says.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Nigel raises his voice. ‘I don’t wish to be alarmist, but your ship will sail in an hour and the first mate wants you back. That was him on the phone. We don’t have the supplies to feed extra mouths and anyone choosing to stay will be relying on reindeer meat and krill to survive the winter.’

  They’ll leave now, thank God. They won’t risk being left behind.

  ‘What did she look like?’ Jack asks and Felicity wants to kick him.

  ‘Young? Middle-aged? Blonde? Dark?’ he prompts. ‘There are five women in the team and none of them carry knives to my knowledge.’

  They all carry knives, and Jack knows it. Working in this environment, knives are essential.

  ‘Did anyone actually see her?’ Jack asks.

  Around the room, eyes drop to the floor.

  ‘Anyone?’ he repeats.

  ‘It was dark,’ someone offers. ‘Couldn’t see more than five feet in any direction.’

  ‘She was called Bambi,’ someone adds. ‘At least that’s what I heard.’

  A shudder runs through Felicity’s body. Will they never leave?

  Jack turns to the man who’s spoken. ‘Bambi? You sure?’

  ‘Bamber, I thought,’ someone else says.

  ‘Know anyone called Bamber, Nige?’ Jack asks.

  Nigel shakes his head. ‘Last call down at the harbour,’ he says.

  Grumbling, frustrated at finding themselves in a place where the usual support systems simply do not exist, the group finally leaves Nigel’s office. Looking troubled, Jack follows them.

  ‘When’s the ship due?’ Felicity demands as soon as she and Nigel are alone.

  ‘And a very good morning to you too, Felicity.’ Nigel pulls out his chair and collapses into it. ‘I hear it went well up at the lake.’

  ‘Sorry. I can see you’re having a bad day. It’s important, though. Do you have an ETA?’

  Nigel sighs. ‘Tomorrow morning, reasonably early. Bit later if the wind gets up even more. There’s some heavy seas out there.’

  ‘Not today? Jack said it was today.’

  ‘It could have been, but they hit some bad weather and had to slow down.’

  Not today. She will kill Jack. She sinks into the nearest chair and feels sweat break out between her shoulder blades.

  ‘You’ll be wanting this.’ Nigel hands over the document she’s already spotted on his desk. The ship’s passenger manifest. The ship is called the Snow Queen.

  ‘Thanks.’ She spins the chair around so that Nigel won’t see her hands shaking and runs a finger down the first page. Mostly European sounding names, some South American. Nothing. Second page, nothing, nothing. Two more to go. Her fingers run ahead too fast and she has to start the third page again. It’s clear. Hope is building as she reaches the fourth and last page. She’s halfway down. He isn’t on the ship. It’s going to be OK after all. Then—

  ‘There’s a page missing,’ she says.

  Nigel is typing, a slow, two-fingered operation. ‘I hear you’re off to Bird Island in the morning,’ he says.

  ‘I said I’d give Jan and Frank a hand with the fledging. Nigel, why is there a page missing?’

  She holds the last page out to him. ‘Page four of five.’ She shows him the numbering system in the bottom right hand corner. ‘There should be a page five.’

  Infuriatingly slowly, Nigel takes the sheets and checks each one. ‘I suppose so. I think this is all th
at came through. I can request it again, but it may take a while.’

  This is too cruel. ‘Can you? Please?’

  Nigel is frowning at her. ‘What’s up, love?’

  She can’t stay here. She gets up and turns for the door. ‘Thanks Nigel,’ she says. ‘Wow, is that the time. I have to pack.’

  Back in her room, Felicity locks the door. From the top shelf of her wardrobe she takes the kit bag she’s had ready for days and starts to lay things out on her bed. Water flagon, two torches, one hand-held, one headtorch. The bag slides off the bed, spilling its contents noisily over the floor and she has to fight back the urge to burst into tears.

  Deep breath. Start again.

  Cooking pot, tin opener, sleeping bag, change of clothes. Everything is here. She’s ready. Groundsheet and sleeping mat, first aid kit, matches, toilet paper and insect repellent. She’s ready. She needs to go today, not hours from now when Nigel finally gets the missing page.

  She closes her eyes, takes a moment, and carries on. In a waterproof bag she has charts and a compass. A separate bag holds the food she’s either bought or stolen – she thinks she’ll need nine meals, twelve at the most – and water purification tablets. Finally, in the inner pocket of her kitbag are the knives that Jack has just denied she carries.

  A knock sounds on her door. She starts, and then freezes.

  ‘Only me,’ a voice calls. Jack.

  Felicity looks in panic around the room, at her all-too-obvious preparations for flight.

  ‘Hang on a sec.’ She pushes the knives out of sight and hides the charts before unlocking and opening the door. He stands in the corridor, smiling and expectant. ‘I’ve come for my briefing.’

  She asked him to come. How could she have forgotten?

  Jack’s head lifts, his eyes focusing over her shoulder. He’s seen her kit on the bed. ‘So, what am I in for?’ he asks.

  She has no choice but to let him in. Ignoring the pile of stuff on the bed, praying he won’t ask her about it, because she will have no idea what to say, she steps over to the cage on her desk. Its two occupants start up again when they see her.

  ‘You weigh them every morning,’ she tells Jack. ‘They have ten per cent of their body weight, five times a day.’

  Nervously, Jack lowers his finger into the cage. Elsa reaches up and wraps her beak around it. ‘Half their body weight every day?’ he queries. ‘Bloody hell, this one’s got a nip on it.’

  ‘King penguins grow quickly.’ Felicity opens her wardrobe to show him the feed timetable on the inside of the door.

  ‘I’ve made up enough formula to last till I’m back. Kitchen fridge, labelled Elsa and Anna.’ She is talking too fast. She needs to slow down. Jack is already suspicious. ‘You need to heat it to thirty-five degrees,’ she continues. ‘And you feed them with this.’ She lifts the syringe that she keeps next to the cage.

  ‘Formula?’ he asks.

  ‘Mixture of cod, krill, saline and vitamins. They wolf it down. It’s really not hard. And I’ve left the recipe in case I’m delayed.’ She takes a step towards the door. ‘Thanks, Jack, I really appreciate it.’

  Bolder now, Jack runs his hand over the soft brown feathers of Anna’s head. He doesn’t see her glance at the wall clock.

  ‘You are nuts,’ he says.

  He means her, not the penguin baby. His eyes move, once again, to the stuff on the bed.

  ‘How long will you be up at Bird?’ he asks.

  ‘Couple of days,’ she tells him. ‘Maybe three.’

  Three days and the ship will sail away again, taking with it all its passengers. Three days and this will be over. She might not have to go at all. If the passenger list shows up in the next few hours, if the name she’s looking for isn’t on it, that’s it. She can get drunk tonight and wake up tomorrow with a raging hangover, knowing she’s safe.

  Jack asks, ‘What if the lake drains?’

  ‘I’ll keep an eye on the levels. I doubt it will be in the next week.’

  As she reaches for the door handle to speed his departure, she can see that Jack is about to argue with her, tell her there is every chance the lake will drain in the next few days. He’s right. The event she’s waited for the whole of her seven months here could happen in the next day or so and she might miss it.

  She might miss more than the lake draining.

  ‘Once they can fend for themselves, these two need to go back to their colony at Right Whale Bay.’ She steps away from the door and back towards him as she speaks. ‘Will you do it? If I can’t be here, will you make sure they’re OK?’

  Jack is silent for several seconds. ‘What’s going on?’ he asks at last.

  Felicity tries to turn away but he catches hold of her arm.

  ‘You’ve been jumpy for weeks,’ he says. ‘Especially when a cruise ship is due. This stuff’ – he gestures at the bed – ‘there’s no way you’ll need that on Bird Island. And now you’re talking as though you won’t come back. Seriously, Flick, what the fuck?’

  And now she must lie to her best friend.

  ‘Of course, I’ll come back,’ she says. ‘But you know what the weather’s like. If I get delayed, I need to know someone will be watching out for these guys.’

  Jack doesn’t reply immediately and she walks to the door again. Still, he doesn’t follow.

  ‘What did you make of that lot from the Southern Star today?’ he asks. ‘That story about the knife-wielding madwoman?’

  For a moment, she can’t think what he’s talking about. Then she remembers, the group of tourists in Nigel’s office.

  ‘I figured they’d all had a lot to drink.’ She is thinking out loud, the visitors’ complaint had barely registered in her over-anxious brain. ‘The husband had been enjoying a bit of extra-maritals and when he was almost discovered, he invented a story about being attacked to deflect his wife’s wrath.’

  Jack’s smile fades. ‘The trouble is, someone has been seen wandering around the whaling station at night. Before the Southern Star came into dock.’

  Felicity hasn’t heard this before. ‘Who’d do that?’ she says. ‘It’s not safe.’

  ‘Even so, three people I know have seen movement down there.’

  ‘It’ll be a seal. A large bird.’

  ‘Seals tend not to light fires.’

  In spite of everything, Felicity is intrigued. ‘You’re talking about someone living here alone, finding shelter, keeping themselves warm, catching enough food to survive. It simply isn’t possible.’

  ‘You wouldn’t think so, would you?’

  5

  Bamber

  During the day, Grytviken is a ghost town; at night, the ghosts rise up and walk its streets again. At its commercial height, over a thousand men lived and worked here and each one left something of himself behind. Now, their footsteps echo along the dirt tracks and they call to each other across the water. They bang flensing tools against the rusting towers of the oil tanks and swear at the wind as it hurries them along the abandoned streets.

  They are still here, the whalers, and Bamber is getting to know each of them.

  They are black from the smoke of coal fires, these men of the sea, their clothes gore-stained, hands greasy with animal fat. They are tough, cruel, unforgiving in life, and death has not improved them. They avoid the church and the cemetery; both are reminders of the fate they’ve not escaped. They linger instead where life and death mingled on a daily basis. They’ve shed blood, these men. They ripped apart flesh, turned a deaf ear to the pain and cries of the innocent. They killed and killed until their souls bled from them, drifting away in the crimson, congealing mass of fat that the ocean became. They’ll never be able to leave.

  Bamber loves the ghosts. She walks with them, eavesdropping, watches with a breathless excitement their card games and their gambling. Sometimes she lies down beside them in their rotting bunks and rises with them in the misty dawn. The ghosts are her constant friends, the only ones she needs.

  On
the night after the Southern Star sailed south, she approaches the settlement along the coast road. From the adjacent beach comes the sound of a dozen angry skirmishes as the seal colony fights to maintain its pecking order. Yards away, the heavy mass of a bull seal thunders over the rocks whilst the cows and the young wail in fright. The noise from the seal colonies is constant. Those who can’t get used to it leave or buy ear plugs.

  The moon is nearing full by this time and the night is clear. As she turns the last bend before the settlement she sees the body in the middle of the road. Human in size, but not human. The corpse of a fur seal is being fought over by a gaggle of huge birds. Like vultures they swoop down on to what is already a ragged and bloody mess. Bamber presses close to the rocks at the side of the road. The birds are giant petrels. With their six-foot wingspan, strong legs and huge hooked bills, they are some of the most aggressive and successful scavengers on the island. The whalers called them stinkers, or gluttons, because of their voracious appetites. Bamber rather likes them. But not enough to become a meal herself.

  As she passes, slowly and a little nervously – she isn’t a fool – she sees their heads and beaks are stained dark silver. Knowing that blood turns silver in the moonlight, Bamber smiles. She finds the sight of blood calming.

  Once past the feeding frenzy, it is a few strides to the settlement. She avoids the big white house with its red roof. The former manager’s villa is the museum and general store now and still the province of the living. For the same reason, she never goes to the church. Keeping close to the sea, she walks past the remains of the blubber factory, hears the keening of the wind in the steam pipes. Corrugated-iron flaps beat out a rhythm and a glass bottle comes scurrying up the street towards her. She kicks it away, and it rattles along the stones until the wind, or perhaps a ghostly boot kick, catches it and sends it back.

  The cold bites into her exposed flesh but she likes the pain and never dresses for the climate here. As she nears the flensing platform she can see the old accommodation block behind it. The remaining glass in the windows gleams pale in the moonlight, casting back a light of its own and, for a second, the passing clouds give the illusion of smoke rising from its chimneys. The building where the men once lived is one of her favourite places. There are still remnants of the life they had here, empty cans of the food they ate, a discarded packet of cigarettes, a photograph of a loved one. The place she likes best, though, is the flensing platform.