Out of the Ice Page 6

  I picked up my skis and walked past more colourful houses towards the chattering of the bay. But before I arrived, a huge building loomed large on my right; its giant red doors hung open, askew, their hinges broken – and inside, I could hear and smell penguins. I walked carefully into the gloom. Snow and ice lay around in a shed full of rusted machinery: ancient tractor-tyred vehicles, all dilapidated. Around them, hundreds of Adélies had carried stones to make their nests. I photographed the birds in the glowering green light that was seeping through grimy windows high up in the timber walls.

  The penguins looked at me, growing increasingly disturbed. As I walked further in they started to waddle away. There was no doubt – they were frightened. I backed off, sharing their alarm.

  Out in the street I could still hear the raucous squawks of terror from the penguins. An invader had been.

  It was so completely out of character for the Adélies. What had Travis and his friends done down here? Or was it the engineers who had come last summer?

  Shaken, I continued on towards the bay past other corrugated- iron sheds, their doors closed, and one brick building. I thought of going into the latter, curious that it was of a different construction, but I was distracted by the unmistakable oily, fishy smell of seals. I looked around and saw an open door into a large pink wooden building. I walked across and peered inside. It was very dark and there were no windows, so I flicked on my torch as I entered. Among drifts of snow that had turned to solid ice, the room was full of comfortable lounge chairs arranged in rows, and in between the chairs, and sometimes on the chairs, was a colony of Weddell seals. I was in a cinema. The cinema that Captain Halvorsen’s wife Ingerline had built in the 1920s. Most of the seals were facing the screen at the far end, like they were watching a movie. At the back of the room was an old projector, with a reel of film still threaded into it. The huge seals lay around, their sleek grey bodies dappled with white and black splotches, whiskered faces now raised to inspect me. An enormous seal started to bark, and others joined in. They came at me aggressively and I backed away at lightning speed, my body tingling in shock. Weddell seals were usually placid, calm and untroubled by humans.

  One young seal cut me off.

  ‘It’s okay, I’m not going to hurt you.’ But now the biggest seal in the room, a bull stretching almost four metres long, weighing about 500 kilos, was lunging at me. I ran. He followed me into the street and I kept running. Looking back, I saw he’d stopped outside the cinema and was propped on his front flippers, tipping his head to the sun and roaring. I didn’t slow my pace until I reached the harbour. Doubling over with stitch, I looked back. The bull seal was nowhere in sight, but I still felt like I was being watched.

  Placid Bay stretched in front of me, sparkling in the sunlight. I turned again to look at the settlement. This was the view I remembered, but now it was in colour. The buildings were pink and green and orange, red and blue and yellow. A rainbow village. Fredelighavn didn’t feel like it had stood empty for decades – it didn’t seem like a ghost town. There was a strange sense of occupancy. Perhaps because of the wildlife? I turned back to the sea. To my right was a vast Adélie penguin rookery, streaked red from krill the penguins ate, stretching up a steep slope to Alliance Point. To my left, a distance away along the bay, gentoo penguins were nesting. Gigantic southern elephant seals sunned themselves on the beach.

  I’d walked into a version of Paradise: a loud, noisy, hooting and honking world of happiness. Except in this scene, wrecks of old whaling catcher ships hulked in and out of the water near four wooden jetties stretching along the shore; the catcher ships, like everything else, had just been left. And strewn along the beach were huge whale bones, skeletons of the beautiful, gentle creatures that had been slaughtered, their bleached ribs rising up to the sky, casting shadows. Bile rose in a tart gush, washing my mouth with acid.

  The ships were at strange angles to each other but most were fully intact. It was probably cheaper to scuttle them here than sail them back to Norway. There was no longer a use for them, because the prey had been killed to the edge of extinction. As I took photographs, a bull elephant seal, five metres long and slug-like, weighing around 3000 kilos, rose and roared through its long nose. I backed away, wary, but two seals, cows, lifted their heads and roared back. A mating ritual. The other seals remained sleeping, supremely relaxed. I left the love triangle to its courting, and walked towards the Adélies up at Alliance Point. They were just like the ones I knew from Australian Antarctic Territory, and I hoped that here, where they would have naturally nested for hundreds, even thousands of years, they wouldn’t be frightened of a human like the ones I’d just seen in the machinery shed.

  The rookery was a thriving, thronging mass of black and white. The noise was deafening. I put down my skis and walked up and among the Adélies, imitating Charlie Chaplin, swinging from side to side like them.

  Without warning the penguins came at me in a group, squawking and pecking. I put my hands down to fend them off and brought them back up bloodied – sharp beaks had gone right through my gloves. I couldn’t believe it. I tried to stay calm and continued to walk through the rookery, wanting to show them I was no threat, but the birds came at me again, swarming and thrusting their beaks.

  I had no time to photograph their strange behaviour, no choice but to grab my skis and flee. I ran along the shore, stopping when I reached the huge expanse of the wooden-slatted flensing platform, turned silver with age. Catching my breath, I pulled out my first-aid kit. My arms were bleeding as well as my hands. There were a couple of deeper punctures on both legs where the beaks had gone through my trousers, deep into my flesh. Trembling, I dabbed on liquid disinfectant, then antibiotic cream. I was stunned. It was so unusual to be attacked aggressively by wildlife in Antarctica. When putting radio antennae on penguins you could get a few scratches and bites, but nothing like this – nothing with this force and anger. I took out my tablet and made myself focus enough to make notes, recording the time and details of what had just happened.

  I ate an energy bar, but I didn’t have any appetite. In front of me was the slipway into the sea, where the whales would have been brought after having been harpooned from the catcher boats and hauled to the harbour.

  From the slipway, the whales were winched up to the flensing platform to meet the flensers, men with long knives who peeled the blubber away in strips. Then more men with knives, lemmers, cut the meat from the bones. I saw winches that would have been used to turn the whales as they were sliced up; a winch that would have hoisted the bones up to the bone cookery loft afterwards; and other winches that would have taken the blubber and meat to their processing plants, one on each side of the flensing platform.

  I felt deep shame at what had been done to the whales. Reluctantly, I went to inspect the nearest shed, a long, red, corrugated-iron building with tall towers to let out the steam. I turned on my torch and slashed light through the gaping doors into the darkness. Giant metal vats, about ten times my height – pressure cookers – were lined up in two rows of eight, stretching about thirty metres into the deep gloom. Ladders were propped at several points, leading to a timber platform above. I walked through the cookers, coming out into an area that made my pulse quicken. Long saws lay along a vast table like something out of a nightmare, their jagged teeth rusty but deadly. Other circular saws stood in front of conveyor belts that rose to the upper platform. It was here the men would have cut the whale meat into smaller pieces, before sending it up to boil in the cookers. Nauseous, I walked out a door at the end, back onto the flensing platform. I breathed deeply and stared out to sea, where icebergs crowded further out, covered with Adélie penguins. One bird peered over the edge, decided it was safe and plunged down into the water. The rest of the Adélies followed in a single movement.

  After making a few quick notes, I walked to the opposite side of the flensing platform to another long tin shed. The door screeched as I opened it. I flashed my torch around and saw more tall cook
ers, again in parallel lines. I counted two rows of five. Conveyor belts ran from the floor through three storeys of platforms above. This was the blubber cookery, simpler than the meat cookery. The blubber would have been taken up on the belts and dropped into the top of the vats to burn off and distil the oil.

  Far away at the end of the shed, long knives and massive jagged-toothed saws orange with rust hung along the wall, with coils of thick rope, like a murderer’s lair.

  Goosebumps pricked my arms and I shone the torch behind me and to both sides, again feeling like I was being watched.

  I couldn’t see anyone or anything. Perhaps there were ghosts here, given the atrocities that had taken place. But I believed in ghosts of memory, not the supernatural. My baby Hamish floated before me, a trace of pale face, a blur of dark hair. A stab of sadness rushed through me like a physical blow. I waited, allowing a moment to think of him – and then I braced myself and continued through the shed.

  At the back, beside the knives, was a room with a dirty glass wall looking out into the building – some sort of manager’s office. As I headed for it I heard a rustling behind me. I swung around, and caught out of the corner of my eye a figure moving in the gloom. Large, thickset; the size of a man. I flicked off my torch and stood stock-still, holding my breath, heart pounding. I had no weapon to defend myself, and became acutely aware of the knives and saws nearby. Had he just helped himself to one? Was he coming for me?

  Who was he? Absolutely no one but me should be down here; he must be one of the men from Alliance. The hair on the back of my neck stood on end as I headed in the darkness towards the rusty weapons, trying to make no sound, keeping my skis out in front so I could swing them into his ribs if he attacked.

  The back of my throat burned in the icy air. Slowly, quietly, I inched towards the knives. The distance seemed to have increased, or perhaps I was walking in the wrong direction. But instinctively I felt I was in the right spot.

  Suddenly a cold, rusty saw was under my fingers. I’d reached the wall. Steadily I moved to my left. I felt along quietly and the wooden handle of a knife slipped under my hand. I reached around it and pulled. Its blade was stuck tight on the wall, rusted on – it wouldn’t come. But it made a noise, a muffled one that seemed horribly loud. I listened. Had I given away where I was? From outside, I could hear penguins calling to each other. At any moment I expected a hand to grab me, or worse.

  I waited and waited for what seemed like an eternity. I couldn’t hear any other movement. Perhaps it was just my mind playing tricks after all. I inched along the wall until my fingers found the next knife – a smaller one. I lifted it gently, and after a moment’s resistance it came away with a shriek. I grabbed it tightly and moved away as fast as I could. Whoever was here would surely have heard that. I needed to get out, back to the snowmobile. Or did he know where that was too? Would he beat me there if he didn’t trap me first?

  I was gripping the knife and the torch, and my skis were under my arm. With my backpack and bag, it was too much to carry. Slowly I bent and put the skis quietly on the ground. I stayed crouched, listening intently. All I could hear was my own thumping pulse.

  Then a movement caught my eye, darker black in the black. It was definitely a man, and close, only three metres from me. I desperately tried to think what to do. I felt safer hunched on the ground; standing, there was more of me to see. My calves and thighs were strong. I could spring up like a coil. I stayed where I was. Still; like a hunter.

  Minutes ticked by slowly. My limbs began to ice up. Soon I’d have to move or I’d be so frozen I couldn’t react properly. And then I heard a rusty screech and saw a figure silhouetted in the open doorway, up the other end past the cookers. He was medium height and muscular.

  And he was running outside.

  I let out my breath in a long exhale, then tried to breathe normally but it was impossible, I was too tense. I stood and stretched, shaking my arms to warm up as I decided whether to pick up my skis or head off without them. The man was out there somewhere, and that made me cramp with nerves. At least he was running. I’d disturbed him. Was he as scared of me as I was of him?

  I decided to leave my skis. Preparing to go, I had a sudden impulse to check that I was alone in the shed. I flicked on my torch and shone it around. As it cut through the darkness I reassured myself there was no one else. But then I caught sight of a strip of material, red, cotton, poking from beside the nearest cooker. I froze. Was it attached to a person? It looked limp, more like discarded clothing. I played the light straight on it, and nothing moved. I wanted to go over and pick it up but I was too scared. What if I walked straight into a trap? I turned and ran instead, out of the building, up a street away from the harbour, a different street to the one I’d been in before, my arms pumping and legs moving with a will of their own, my head swivelling to see I wasn’t being followed.

  I had no idea where I was. I ran up one street with sheds, then another with houses. Finally, like a miracle, the snowmobile came into view. I grabbed the helmet from the handlebars, and flung it on. As I took off I slid the rusty knife under a strap on the seat in front of me, within easy reach.

  As soon as I was a distance from Fredelighavn, I plucked out my phone from my bag. No black dots on the screen – out of range. After several more minutes I checked again – the signal was there, but weak. I tried to call Georgia but it wouldn’t connect. I phoned Travis instead and was thankful when he picked up instantly.

  ‘There was someone here,’ I blurted. ‘A man.’

  ‘Laura, is that you?’ Travis sounded alarmed.

  ‘Travis, did you hear? There was someone here. At Fredelighavn. Someone who didn’t want to be seen.’

  Travis was silent. I could hear him breathing.

  ‘Just . . . Travis, I want you to know in case something happens to me. And if it does, you must tell my boss what I’ve just told you. Georgia Spiros.’

  ‘Laura, calm down. Start again. Are you okay?’

  ‘I’m fine. But there was someone in the blubber cookery. I thought they were stalking me but now I’m not sure. They shouldn’t have been there and they certainly didn’t want to be seen. So who were they and what were they doing?’

  • • •

  Alliance came into view, like a modernist painting in the ice. Travis was waiting in the doorway of the shed. I slipped the knife into my bag as I approached.

  ‘Laura, you had me worried.’

  I stood up from the snowmobile, my body so cold it felt like it would snap in half.

  ‘What happened down there?’ he asked, frowning.

  Now I was back, I just wanted to call Georgia.

  ‘Let’s talk about it tonight? Right now I need to get warm.’

  ‘Come on,’ Travis said reassuringly. ‘I’ll walk you to your room.’

  5

  I woke struggling, lashing out with my arms. When I opened my eyes I was horrified I wasn’t alone. A man dressed in black jeans, a black V-neck jumper and a Venetian cat mask was standing over me, backing away. And beneath the sheets I was naked.

  ‘Hey, eh, it’s okay,’ he stuttered. I screamed.

  ‘Eh, don’t do that!’

  His gloved hands ripped at the mask and pulled it off. It was Travis.

  ‘What the hell were you doing?’ I demanded.

  ‘It’s okay.’

  ‘Stop saying that.’

  Travis was breathing hard.

  ‘What are you doing in my room?’

  ‘I knocked for ages. When I couldn’t raise you . . . I’m sorry. I just thought after what you’d been through today . . . I panicked. And you never did finish telling me what happened down there. Your door was unlocked, so I came in. I was trying to wake you, I was really worried.’

  I stared at him. It was an absolute unspoken law in Antarctica never to enter anyone’s room uninvited. At base everyone lived close by, so the little privacy there was came in one’s room. It was sacrosanct space, even if the door wasn’t locked.
My mind ticked over. I’d come in, thrown myself in a hot shower and then dropped into bed, about to phone Georgia. I must have fallen asleep. I’d assumed the door locked automatically as it felt so much like a hotel, which I now realised was foolish of me. At my own base I’d never need to lock up, but at Alliance I wouldn’t ever have had the door open knowingly.

  ‘Please go, Travis,’ I said, feeling completely vulnerable.

  He took a few steps towards the door and then stopped. ‘It’s almost eleven o’clock. Are you still coming to the theme night?’

  I checked my watch, alarmed. I’d slept for hours. The last thing I wanted was to go to a party, but I’d promised Travis and I hated breaking my word to anyone. And my instincts told me his concern was genuine – even if my rational thoughts were far more wary. ‘Okay. Why don’t you go back to your room and I’ll come and get you?’

  Travis nodded, relieved. ‘Take as much time as you need.’ He indicated a fancy-dress outfit on a chair – a bright red leotard that looked homemade, and a holster with jewelled guns. ‘It was the best I could find, sorry. It’s a superhero. And I brought you some food before it had all gone.’ There was a bowl covered by a plate, and a spoon and fork, sitting on my desk. Travis closed the door, and I sprang up with the sheet around me and pulled a latch across. There was no other lock, the door being operated by an electronic card. It was so unusual that it didn’t lock automatically when you were inside. A creepy detail designed by Connaught?

  As I lifted the plate, the delicious aroma of spaghetti Bolognese met me. I gulped the pasta down gratefully, and then I threw on my outfit – bulking up the leotard with my own thick black woollen tights and a warm shirt beneath it. I attached the cowboy holster, shuddering at the thought of the rusty knife in my bag and what had happened today. I put on my boots, a cap, scarf and coat.