Is it odd, he wonders, that she has taken none of this with her?
The noticeboard above the desk holds a computer print-out of a work timetable. She’s outlined that day and the following two in red ink and written: Bird Island, fledgling tagging. Her plans really couldn’t be clearer.
So, she is six hours distant, and the only way to follow her will be by boat. Somehow, though, he doesn’t think stealing a RIB will be quite as straightforward as picking a lock. If she’s gone to Bird Island, she’s successfully put herself beyond his reach and he’s travelled across the entire world for nothing.
He wanted to talk, that’s all. To fucking well talk.
Freddie is overcome by a sudden urge to wreck, to destroy. He turns to the penguin chicks and imagines hurling their cage against the far wall, taking his knife to her clothes, smashing the glass of the photograph into fragments. He steps towards it.
Except … in one of the neatest rooms he’s ever seen, she’s left a chart open on the desk, left behind weather reports she’ll probably need.
Freddie takes a moment, breathing deeply, until the rage subsides. Then he reaches beneath the desk to pull out the wastepaper basket and upends it. Crumpled tissues, a can of diet Coke, and an empty box of – he holds the label up to face the light – water purification tablets.
Why will she need water purification tablets at a BAS base? Why circle Bird Island on a chart that she’ll need again? And according to the woman in the shop, she’s been stocking up on supplies when she’ll surely be able to get everything she needs from the base. A smile breaks Freddie’s face. He’s done here.
The door of Felicity’s room closes softly behind him and he turns for the main entrance.
‘Help you, mate?’
Freddie spins back to face the slim man in jeans and a sweater. He is in his mid- to late thirties and something about his stance, if not necessarily his build or his stubbled beard, suggests the military.
‘I’m looking for Felicity,’ Freddie says. ‘Have you seen her?’
The man’s blue eyes narrow as he glances towards Felicity’s closed door. ‘You were in her room?’ His voice is pitched low, with a trace of a northern English accent.
‘No, I just knocked. No answer.’
‘How did you know which room is hers?’
‘She told me.’ The lie comes easily. ‘Number six. She’s expecting me.’
‘You came on the ship this morning?’
‘How else? So, do you know where she is?’
The man speaks reluctantly, unhappy, but constrained by politeness. ‘She’s planning to head out to one of the other bases. Up on the north-west coast. Hours from here. Did she know you were coming?’
‘Bird Island? Is that the place?’
‘Jack, have you got a sec?’
A woman in her forties, heavily built, with dark curly hair and thick glasses, has appeared at the far end of the corridor.
The bloke, Jack, half turns. ‘Hi, Susan, what’s up?’
‘Nigel wants to talk to us both. You haven’t seen Felicity this morning, have you? Ralph thinks she’s off to Bird Island but I’ve just spoken to Jen and she says the arrangements were all very vague. Only that she’d come up if she could and let them know. They’ve heard nothing today.’
Catching sight of Freddie, the woman’s eyes widen. ‘Good morning,’ she says. ‘I’m Susan Brindle, station chief.’ She takes a step towards them. ‘And you are?’
‘Also looking for Felicity,’ Freddie says. ‘And frankly getting worried about her. Is she actually missing?’
Susan’s eyes dart from one man to the other. ‘Well, that’s what we need to find out. Maybe you should come with us.’
‘I need to let the ship know where I am. I’ll come back. Where do I report to, the harbour master’s office?’
‘Well…’
‘Thanks for your help.’ Freddie turns on his heels and walks back to the side door, knowing the man called Jack wants to follow him, but will probably prioritise finding Felicity. Getting outside unhindered proves him right. Not wasting any time, he sets off, crossing the rough ground to where he’s left his stuff. He is no longer the only one looking for Felicity and the chances of stealing a boat, slim to begin with, have dwindled to zero. Luckily, those idiots don’t know her half as well as he does. They’ll chase her to Bird Island. They won’t find her.
14
Felicity
Felisssitee … Is that his voice? She turns on the spot, peering in doorways, through shattered windows, looking for anything that moves. It might not even be a voice at all. The wind makes all manner of weird and unearthly sounds as it slides in and out of the dereliction here.
Felisssitee …
Impossible. He cannot be here. No one could have got here before she did, especially not the man she saw last on the launch heading towards Grytviken.
To Felicity’s right are the barrack blocks, where the whalers lived in the old days. There are eight, maybe ten of them, all more or less intact. Doors swing on hinges, broken window glass hangs like icicles. He could be watching from any of them. To her left is the long, thin building that housed the station’s boilers. A deep, rhythmic clanging comes from within. Is he in there, tapping a metal rod against the rotting tanks?
No. It is not humanly possible. It’s the wind, playing tricks on her overwrought, nervous imagination.
A sheet of iron falls across the path and panic snaps the spell that held her frozen. Dropping both bags, she runs. Directly ahead are the huge tanks where the whale oil was stored before being shipped back to the northern hemisphere. Taller than most of the buildings, more intact than all of them, they are great circular towers and offer no hiding place. On impulse she darts into the provision store.
Instantly, the wind drops.
The building is large and rectangular. Light streams in through a hole in the roof but the walls are solid. She sees a counter stretched across the width of the room in the manner of a shop front and behind it stand row after row of shelving units. Some have fallen, knocking others, like dominoes. There is even some food left behind. The tinned goods have long since gone, and the sugar has been eaten by rats, but packets of flour and salt have solidified where they sit.
Felicity’s feet crunch on broken glass as she creeps to a window. A petrel is perched on the guano factory opposite. It watches her, head on one side, before throwing back its head and screeching.
Felisssitee …
She spins around. That sounded so close, as though he was directly behind her, and yet she is still alone in the provision store.
Not him then, but voices she is conjuring in her own mind again. A wave of despair sweeps through her. She’d been so sure she’d left the madness behind in Cambridge and yet just the sight of him has brought it all back.
Are those footsteps outside, crunching over gravel? They are heavy, regular and seem to be getting closer, and yet a large bird hopping around could make a similar sound. Outside, the day darkens as storm clouds move in front of the sun. In the provision store, Felicity’s breath is visible in the cold air. She backs away, with no idea whether or not there is another way out of the store, only knowing she has to get away from the footsteps that are tracking her down. Her rucksack slams into the counter and she jumps, spinning herself over it and dodging behind one of the few shelving units that are still upright.