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.