The Chilling, page 14
‘So you’re a man now?’ asked Nick.
‘I’m the man,’ said Kit with a smirk.
The next question finally appeared: What is a derailleur?
He turned quizzical eyes on her, but she ignored him and typed her answer: gear-changing mechanism on bike, controls chain and sprockets.
‘Oh, heck,’ he breathed in dismay, watching her rapid-fire response. ‘I’m gonna be no good as a man.’
They compared responses. He’d written, Some French thing, don’t believe her, I’m the man.
‘Yours smacks of desperation,’ she pointed out.
‘Well, yours smacks of too much … time on bikes.’
Then a comment, presumably from Prudence, popped up: The following questions are mathematical, based on the sexist assumption that men are better at maths than women. Try to answer as quickly as possible.
Nick cracked his knuckles and shook himself awake. The bowl of Cheezels was empty, the wine bottle half drunk. It was the business end of the evening, and Kit suddenly felt weary—she wasn’t sure she was up to a maths competition. But then an idea occurred to her, and her fingers hovered over the keyboard in readiness and anticipation. This is the perfect test, she thought.
The first question was subtraction: 6.11 minus 4.372 equals what?
‘Easy-peasy,’ murmured Nick.
The next questions came almost too rapidly for Kit to keep up.
200 divided by 5?
5.76 plus 0.726?
801,825 divided by 15?
Kit and Nick compared their independent answers; each time, they’d both come up with the correct result, even for the tricky long division question.
A message told them that the competition was over and that soon the winner would be announced.
They relaxed into their chairs, and Nick grinned at her. ‘You’re very good,’ he said warmly. ‘Your math is really good.’
She smiled back with an ambivalent heart. She had to admit she liked him—too much for her own good—but she couldn’t let things pass. Her mind flashed to the razed deck of the Petrel and to its abandoned mess area. In only a few days, all the search-and-rescue icebreakers would have to leave Prydz Bay, to avoid being trapped.
‘You know, Nick, everyone here thinks you’re a really nice guy …’
‘Oh? Who’s been spreading this malicious rumour?’
‘I know you’re a fraud,’ she said bluntly.
For a second he looked crestfallen, but he soon recovered his smile. ‘Well, even the most self-aware man doesn’t know if he deserves to be well liked, does he? I just try to be friendly to everyone, to give everyone their due, till they convince me they don’t deserve the effort.’
‘That’s not my point.’
He didn’t seem to realise what he’d demonstrated. The inconsistency between his maths-quiz success and the failed memory test with Dustin was glaring. To complete the long division task alone, Nick would’ve needed to kept at least five numbers in his head. This was the evidence she needed.
‘There’s nothing wrong with your memory, Nick. You’ve just proved it to me in the clearest possible terms. Why do you keep pretending? This is ridiculous. Why don’t you just tell us what happened on the Petrel?’
A dangerous silence descended over the suite. Her heart thumped heavily.
When Nick spoke, his voice was low and serious. ‘You might find this hard to believe, but I have nothing to hide, because there’s nothing in there to hide.’ He tapped the side of his head. ‘I remember nothing about what happened before you found me. Jesus, Kit, I don’t even remember you finding me. So what if I remember my math? I can’t tell you who my parents are, or where I grew up, or who my best friend was in high school. I don’t know why that is—it just is …’ He gave her an imploring look.
Before Kit could respond, Alessandra came in to announce the winner. ‘The best woman and the best man … is Kit! Congratulations, Dr Bitterfeld!’
Leaning back in his chair, Nick clapped loud and long, then exclaimed graciously, ‘Well done!’
For Kit, however, the victory felt hollow. All night, they’d been laughing and stuffing their faces. She’d enjoyed the competitive spirit and the friendly banter. But she wondered what kind of night the Petrel crew might be having out on the ice.
If Nick was hiding something that could help them, it would be obscene for him to be flirting with Kit, caressing her arm and trying to make her laugh—and it would be obscene for her to be enjoying it so much.
‘Yes,’ she murmured unhappily, ‘well done me.’
19
The fine weather helped to raise Marion’s spirits; the sun had dried some of her things and made life more bearable. She’d found it difficult to cope when her underwear, sleeping bag and jacket had been soaked through. Most mornings, she could barely force herself to put her arms through the sleeves of her sodden jacket—there was no misery quite like it. She was so cold, so unbelievably, bone-chillingly cold. But worst of all, she was unbelievably, painfully hungry. In place of her stomach, there was an aching pit. She’d barely eaten anything for fourteen days, and she could feel her body starting to cannibalise itself. She didn’t know if it was willpower or mindless desperation that kept her going, but she couldn’t stop thinking about food. When were they going to find food?
The Petrel crew had been out on the ice for three weeks, and their supplies were almost gone. It helped that they kept moving and had something to do each day: melt the snow, pack the bivvies, check the compass, walk for a few hours, look for a place to camp. The routine provided a diversion from the possibility of death by starvation. They’d made some progress along the coast but hadn’t yet encountered penguins or seals. To compensate for the lack of food, they tried not to exert themselves; they also found that exercise produced layers of sweat that soon turned to ice. So, all in all, they were taking things slowly and trying to stretch their meagre supplies.
For some of them, this wasn’t enough. Beatrice was in her bivvy and refusing to come out. The younger woman was shaking and sobbing, curled up in a ball in her sleeping bag.
Marion had been speaking to Beatrice most days. The only women among the crew, they stuck together out of sisterly solidarity. But lately they’d been running out of things to say, and neither of them had the energy for chitchat. Marion reproached herself for failing to notice how badly Beatrice was coping.
With trepidation, Marion approached the bivvy. She crouched low with a flask of hot tea in one hand, the other pressed to the ground. ‘Bea,’ she called gently.
Deep inside the sleeping bag, Beatrice stopped crying. ‘Marion?’ came a muffled voice.
‘I’ve brought you some tea.’ Marion inched forward, leaning on one knee.
‘I don’t want it,’ wailed Beatrice, hiccupping.
‘Come on, it’ll make you feel better.’
‘No, it won’t.’
Marion sighed. ‘You’re right, it probably won’t.’ She leaned back on her haunches and stuck her free hand into her coat pocket, rustling about. ‘But here’s something that might.’ She pulled out a crinkled packet.
After a moment, Beatrice’s beanie-covered head peered out of the bag. Red-rimmed eyes shone watery-blue in the strange yellow light of the bivvy. ‘What is it?’
Holding out a gloved hand, Marion opened it to reveal a small chocolate bar.
Beatrice frowned and stammered, ‘Is that—is that a Caramello Koala?’
‘It is,’ said Marion with a smile. ‘I’ll give it to you if you come out.’
The younger woman’s frown deepened. ‘But I can’t accept that,’ she said, sitting up, her tears forgotten. ‘That’s your only meal today. I can’t take that from you.’ She sniffled, then wiped some snot across her face.
‘It’s okay, I had something earlier,’ lied Marion.
There was a brief silence.
When Beatrice reached for the chocolate, she looked pained. ‘I can’t,’ she said, pulling back.
‘No, no, go on, take it.’ Marion pushed the bar into her hand. ‘I’ll see you soon.’
Marion left before Beatrice could change her mind.
Her mother’s favourite parenting technique was the time-honoured art of distraction. At home recently, she’d had the pleasure of seeing her mother practise this art on the next generation of Lovalls, the children of Marion’s brother. But sometimes the distraction technique just didn’t work, especially when the three kids were overwrought. When distraction failed, her mother deployed the arts of cajoling and bribery. Marion’s brother and his wife opposed the bribery because they didn’t like their children having sweets. But when Mum was in charge, she just did whatever worked. That was another classic trick in her bag: the art of whatever worked.
With Beatrice, Marion realised, she’d just exercised all the arts in one go. Her mother would be proud.
Marion could have done with her mother’s peacemaking presence. The crew kept squabbling; they were irritable and impatient, unforgiving of foibles. Someone was creating too much condensation in the bivvy, another person was failing to carry his weight, and someone else was snoring too loudly. After twenty-one days on the ice, despair was killing any affection they once had for each other. The outer layers of benevolence were being stripped away by fear and self-interest. Some days, it seemed as though only a thin layer of civility prevented an act of violence.
Marion dealt with the inevitable disintegration the only way she knew how: by distracting, cajoling and bribing. But soon that wouldn’t be enough.
Even Curly was becoming difficult—she didn’t know what to do about him. While the two of them remained on friendly terms, he took every opportunity to question Thorn’s decisions. When Marion spoke to Curly about it, he claimed he was just weighing up their options. But his tone and manner implied that he had some grievance with Thorn. Whenever the voyage leader suggested something, Curly saw a problem with it. The conflict wasn’t helped by Thorn fighting back like a gamecock in a pit, but it was always Curly who started the fight.
Marion found it difficult to intervene, because neither man was prepared to listen to her. Her opinion didn’t carry any weight or authority with any of the men, actually. For days she’d suggested the rotation of bivvy companions because it might help with morale; some people were feeding off each other’s negativity, forming cliques and resentments. But only when Thorn suggested moving people around did the rotation finally began. Everyone was told to find a new bivvy partner pronto. She was relieved that Thorn had made it a command. She needed a break from Curly, but she didn’t want to initiate it.
She’d worked with him for a long time. When they’d first met, on a voyage to Macquarie Island, they’d clicked straight away. They shared a mordant, sarcastic sense of humour and a love of amateur sea-life photography. In the whole time they’d known each other, though, the relationship had remained platonic. A couple of times early on, she caught him looking at her and wondered if he fancied her, but she never saw him as a potential partner. As much as she hated to be shallow, that was probably because he was shorter than her. While he had a lithe athletic build and beautiful sea-green eyes, he only came up to her chin. The spark of attraction just wasn’t there.
Soon afterwards, she’d started going out with Jason. Curly’s friend and colleague Nick had set up their blind date. The three men had worked together on a geoscience project during a summer expedition to Macpherson.
That Friday night, she stood inside a crowded pub in Hobart’s Salamanca Place, waiting to meet Jason. She’d been given only a vague idea of what he looked like, but he’d texted to say he’d be wearing a turquoise hoodie. She kept smiling at strangers just in case he’d taken the hoodie off; it was summer, and the pub was stuffy and overcrowded. But then Jason texted to apologise for running late.
One of the men she’d smiled at came over and asked, ‘Can I buy you a drink?’ He seemed nice enough, but he had badly ironed clothes, and his face held a tincture of desperation.
‘Ah no, I’m waiting for someone,’ she said.
‘Why don’t I just buy you one while you’re waiting?’
‘Ah, no thanks, I’d rather wait.’
‘No, no, we can’t have that. I’ll get you a drink.’ To her quiet consternation, the man signalled to the bartender. ‘Two pots, please.’
Oh God, she thought, how am I going to get rid of him?
Then Jason walked in. He was wearing the turquoise hoodie pulled down over his head; when he pulled it back, he revealed a mane of golden curls and a blond beard.
Marion could hardly believe her luck. Without thinking, she got on tiptoe and raised her right arm to attract his attention. He looked relieved to see she was still there. Heading towards the bar, he smiled apologetically. As he came closer, she exclaimed, ‘Jason!’ and opened her arms to embrace him as if it were the most natural thing in the world. He leaned in, appearing a little stunned, his whiskers against her cheek. She murmured close to his ear, ‘Just go along with it, okay?’
‘Okay,’ he said.
Then she kissed him, just briefly but warm and full on the lips. When she pulled away, she berated him in a gentle tone. ‘Where have you been?’
He looked stumped and embarrassed. ‘Where have you been all my life?’ he replied with a laugh as his gaze shifted to the badly ironed guy. The bartender set down two overflowing beers, and the guy shuffled away.
Funny and clever, with a broad Queensland accent, Jason won her over. They’d been going out for two and a half years before the Petrel voyage.
The day before the fire, Jason hadn’t seemed like his usual relaxed self. She’d gone outside for some midday sun on the helideck, an open area flanked by shipping containers. She came around a corner and was dumbstruck to see him confronting Nick near the railing. Her boyfriend was on his toes to reach Nick’s full height, leaning into his face. At a safe distance, she held her breath while the men exchanged words. She could only catch snippets of the argument, their voices brought to her on gusts of air.
‘I can’t live like this anymore,’ said Nick. ‘It’s ruined my marriage, my health, my entire life … I’ve got to tell someone.’
Jason looked incredulous, his face reddening. He held out his hands in disbelief and spoke so loudly that he could be heard over the wind. ‘There’s nothing to tell, Nick. It’s old news, it’s forgotten now, and you should forget about it too … Fucking get on with your life—stop blaming others for your problems.’
Marion was shocked and puzzled that Jason was so angry at Nick. Jason had always looked on him as a brother, or so he’d said. Friendships forged in Antarctica weren’t ordinary; there was a lot of time to get to know people in proximity, to become familiar with their true natures, and to see beyond the façades. If you remained friends through the winter, it was said, you would be friends for life.
Perhaps this was how true friends sometimes worked out their problems …? This was just Jason speaking his mind, telling Nick what he really thought—like a brother would tell a brother. She imagined that later they would joke around and clap each other on the back, with no hard feelings.
‘How can you be so detached?’ Nick yelled at Jason, stepping back and shaking his head. ‘How can you not think about it?’
‘Easy, mate.’ Jason turned away. ‘Just get on with your life. I have.’ He started to walk off.
Nick stood still, the wind whipping his hair about his head. He called out to Jason, ‘I’m going to tell the press!’ He seemed to be steeling himself for his friend’s response.
‘What was that?’ asked Jason, turning to scowl at Nick.
The words became hesitant. ‘Gonna make an anonymous report … to the press,’ he said, some of his bravado gone.
Jason moved as though catapulted by the wind. He grabbed Nick by the bib of his coveralls and pulled his face towards him so their beards were almost touching. Nick turned his head to the side. Jason spat at him, ‘You fucking do that, mate, and as far as I’m concerned, you’ll be fucking dead. You hear me?’
Marion saw Tom Priestley coming out of the hangar, his face alarmed. The Petrel captain had clearly heard the men fighting and wished to intervene.
Keeping his face turned away from Jason, Nick laughed harshly. ‘I’m a dead man anyway. We’re all dead men, Jase.’ He grabbed Jason around the back and shoulders, embracing him in a bear hug. ‘We’re all dead men,’ he repeated. He tightened his hug and kissed Jason on the cheek, before pulling out of his grip.
Jason turned on his heels and marched off before Tom could say anything. The captain gazed open-mouthed at his back, before he turned to Nick and asked if he was all right. Disturbed by what she’d seen, Marion remained behind the shipping container until the men had gone.
In her cabin that night, she asked Jason about the fight. He told her he thought there was something seriously wrong with Nick. ‘He’s got an idea in his head about the research team, some paranoid nonsense. He doesn’t speak to me nowadays except to start a fight or to complain—if he talks to me at all, that is. Most of the time he’s just giving me the silent treatment.’
‘What’s the matter with him?’
‘I don’t know.’ Jason shrugged. ‘He’s become obsessed, paranoid. Suspicious of everyone.’
‘But why?’
He hesitated. ‘Something happened, something out in the field …’
‘What?’
‘We found something … It doesn’t matter. It’s confidential information. But Nick, he thinks we should tell the public. He’s like a terrier with a bone.’
‘Why not tell the public?’
‘Because,’ Jason said, his eyes flashing annoyance, ‘it’s an intellectual property matter. Okay?’ Now he sounded angry at her too.
She was taken aback. There was a long silence. ‘So, you’ve had a falling-out?’ she clarified, hoping to veer the conversation in a safer direction.
‘Yes and no.’ Jason ran his hands through his hair. ‘I don’t have a problem with him. He takes everything I say in a bad light. He mistrusts my motives, thinks I’m out to get him—he thinks Curly and I are both out to get him. We can’t make a right move as far as he’s concerned. He’s suspicious of every decision we make, thinks we’re leaving him out of important meetings. He takes everything to be a slight or even a threat.’
