Freddie waits while the doctor examines the tattoo. A spider’s web, encircling his elbow and reaching several inches along both upper and lower arms. An elaborate design, because time hadn’t been an issue, drawn entirely in black, because colours weren’t available.
‘It symbolises boredom,’ Freddie says. ‘Sitting around for days on end with nothing to do. Spiders make webs on limbs that don’t move.’
‘I know,’ the doctor replies. ‘I’ve seen them before. You were stabbed, weren’t you?’
‘In the prison library. Most of the blood spatter went over the crime-fiction shelf, but they threw thirty books out all the same. Shame really. We never had enough to read.’
The doctor thrusts a thermometer towards his mouth, as though to shut him up.
‘Can you help?’ Freddie says, when his temperature has been taken. Slightly raised, nothing to get excited about. ‘With the abscess, I mean. I realise the tattoo is permanent.’
‘Lie on the couch, please,’ The doctor says. ‘Face down.’
Freddie does what he is told. It’s a habit he’ll probably never shake off now.
‘I can drain, clean and dress the abscess and give you a course of antibiotics,’ the doctor says, to the accompaniment of rattling instruments. ‘When you’re home, you might want to consider some exploratory surgery, see if you can fix the problem once and for all. It should be easier now that—’
‘Now that I’m out,’ Freddie finishes for him.
The doctor works in silence. Freddie closes his eyes, feeling nothing once the anaesthetic has kicked in.
‘I’ll be OK to go ashore tomorrow?’ he asks, when he’s been told he can get dressed.
‘As long as you’re feeling well enough.’ Sitting at his desk, the doctor starts typing. ‘What brings you to South Georgia?’
‘There was a book in the library,’ Freddie tells him. ‘Written by a couple who’d sailed there in the 1990s in an engineless sailing ship.’
‘Fair play.’ The doctor makes an impressed face.
‘Exactly. I thought they were mental. And brave. So, when I had the chance to do a trip, I thought I’d come here. Honour their journey, if you like.’
‘It’s certainly a beautiful and unique place. Did you come via South America?’
The doctor will know this already. All the passengers on board are on a three-week package tour that will take them, ultimately, to the Antarctic. He has been helpful, though, and the last thing Freddie needs now is to become the target of official attention.
‘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.