Dark Matter (20 page)

I’ve strapped my journal to my chest with a length of canvas webbing left over from the dogs’ harnesses, and I’m wearing one of Gus’ shirts on top. If by some miracle I get out of this alive, I’ll tell him I mistook it for one of mine. If I die, I want something of his with me.

I’m sitting in my bunk in a mound of sleeping bags and reindeer hides. Five lamps are burning in the main room, and the stove is red hot (Isaak knows not to go near it). In here I’ve got the paraffin stove on the packing cases I pulled out from the wall, and a lamp on a chair beside me, and two torches against my thigh. It’s warmer in the main room, but I prefer it in here. My padded cell. I need solid walls around me. Even though there’s no reason why they should make me feel any safer.

I’m not going outside again. I’ve got plenty of firewood, and when I run out, I’ll chop up the chairs.

The bunkroom smells of urine. I’ve got a bucket and I’ve used it a couple of times, and Isaak has lifted his leg
against the doorway, although not against my bunk. I don’t mind the smell. I like it. It’s emphatic and alive.

I’m rereading Gus’ book on the natural history of Spitsbergen. I find its stodginess reassuring. Sometimes I break off to talk to Isaak, or read him a bit, and he sweeps the floor with his tail. Sometimes I talk inside my head, and then it’s you I’m talking to, Gus.

Strange, that. Even though there’s only Isaak to hear, I still can’t talk to you out loud, but only in my head. I tell you what’s been happening. I rehearse what I’ll say if I see you again. That’s what keeps me going. The hope that maybe I will see you again.

I can feel my journal strapped to my chest, like a breastplate. Once, I wrote that I felt as if you were my brother, or my best friend. But now I think maybe it’s deeper than that. I don’t understand, I’ve never felt like this. And I’m glad I haven’t written about it in my journal. I couldn’t bear it if you read it and turned away.

And maybe if I do see you again, I’ll never find the courage to say anything to your face. So I’m going to be brave and say it now, fearlessly, out loud.

Gus. I love you.

I wake to darkness and dead cold.

In the instant of waking I know that I’m perceiving what cannot be – and yet it is. I am awake and I see it, it is real. Through the doorway I see it. It is standing in the main room looking out of the north window. It’s inside.

Now it’s turning towards me. I feel its rage. Its malevolence crushes me to my bunk.

I fumble for my torch. Can’t find it. Can’t get untangled from the sleeping bag. I knock over the chair beside me. Glass shatters. A stink of paraffin.

I find the torch. The beam veers crazily off scattered shards, a slick of paraffin. Isaak is huddled against my bunk. His eyes bulge as they follow something that moves out of sight behind the doorway.

Panting, I fight my way out of the sleeping bag. The torch slips from my fingers and hits the floor and blinks out. Whimpering, I fall to my knees and grope for it. I can’t find it. Can’t see my hand in front of my face. I feel
for Isaak. He’s gone. I try to call him but my throat has closed. Pain shoots through my palms, my knees. I’m crawling on broken glass. My fingers strike wood. Wall or bunk? Where am I?

Footfalls. Heavy. Wet. Uneven. Behind or in front? Which way? Which way?

I feel its rage beating at me. Sucking the air from my lungs.

Isaak is whimpering. I rise to my feet and blunder towards the sound. I crash against something hard, I burn my hands on hot metal and fall. Still that heavy wet irregular tread.

Wheezing, I crawl across the floor. I sense space opening up around me. I see a faint red glimmer. The stove. Christ, I’ve gone the wrong way. I’m not in the bunkroom, I’m in the main room, there’s no way out.

Cornered, I spin round. The stove door is open. I see the glow within. It casts no light, only deepens the blackness. I can’t see, but I feel the rage. Close. Coming for me.

Staggering to my feet, I blunder past the stove and into the bunkroom. Darker in here. Hand over hand, I feel my way past the bunks. In my stockinged feet I slip, lurching against the packing cases. The portable stove goes down with a crash. I can’t find my way past the packing cases. Can’t find the hall. I stumble against something clammy and cold, something that gives
beneath my fingers like mouldy sheepskin. Dread clamps my chest. I can’t move. My mind is going black. I can’t bear it. The rage, the malevolence, I can’t . . .

Isaak is scrabbling frantically at the door. I cannon towards the sound. I skin my knuckles on wood. The door. The door. Isaak shoots past me. I’m in the hall. Colder. Darkness presses on my eyeballs. I’m sharply aware of the hatch overhead and the roof space beyond. I feel my way. Guns. Hooks. Waterproofs. Cold stiff sleeves brush my face. My feet tangle in harnesses. Isaak has found the door. I claw at it. I can’t find the handle. I’m in the porch, battling a thicket of ski sticks and shovels. I wrench open the door and burst out into the night.

The cold is a wall. I run into it, my feet crunching in snow. Cold rasps my throat, it bites my flesh. No moon. No stars. Only faint grey snowglow to tell up from down. Isaak streaks past me towards the shore. I run after him.

Glancing over my shoulder, I see the cabin windows flickering yellow. They look wrong. That’s not the steady glow of lamplight, it’s the leap of flames. The cabin is on fire.

I lurch against a boulder. I push myself off and run. I trip over Isaak. He stands tense and still, his ears pricked. Listening.

Clutching his scruff, I hear nothing but the hiss of wind.

Again I glance over my shoulder. The fire in the
windows has deepened to orange. Dark against the glare, I glimpse a wet round head. I can’t tell if it’s inside the cabin or out. It’s watching. It knows where I am.

Isaak squirms out of my grip and shoots off. I can’t feel my feet, but I stumble after him. My only thought is to get away.

On the shore, the wind numbs my face. The whale ribs glimmer redly. I hear the suck of water, the clink of ice. I’ve reached the sea. I’ve nowhere left to go.

I’ve got no coat, no hat, no boots. I won’t last long. I’m past caring. Though I hate the thought of leaving Isaak on his own.

He stands alert, swivelling his ears to catch whatever it is he’s hearing. His tail is high. It takes me a moment to understand. He’s not afraid any more.

At last I hear what he hears. A distant splash of oars. I blink in disbelief. Now I see it: a point of light rocking on the water. A rowing boat.

A splintering crash behind us as a window blows out. Falling to my knees, I cling to Isaak. The fuel dump by the porch will be next to go.

I crouch at the edge of the black water and wait for the boat to pick us up.

Eriksson is at the oars, with Algie and two burly sealers, but it’s Gus I see.

Moaning, I splash into the shallows. I fall into his arms.

‘Steady, old man, steady. Jack – your feet! Where are your boots? Oh, Jack!’ His voice is gentle and he’s stroking my back and talking all the time, as if I were a dog.

There’s a
whump
and a rush of wind, then a deafening boom. We watch blazing debris soar skywards, then crash to earth. The cabin has become a deep red throbbing heart.

Men are lifting me into the boat. I’m moaning for Isaak. Someone throws him on top of me. Now the sealers are pushing off and Gus is wrapping my feet in Algie’s muffler and flinging a blanket round my shoulders. Dimly, I make out Algie’s white, shocked face. I try to speak but I can’t. I can’t even shiver.

There’s plenty of room in the boat for six men and one dog, but I huddle in the stern, with Gus on one side, Isaak on the other. Isaak is pressed against me. His forelegs are splayed, his claws digging in. He’s scared of the sea. Numbly, I see the lights of the
Isbjørn
further out in the bay, blinking her message of sanctuary through the dark. I’m with people. I’m with Gus. I can’t take it in.

The boat rocks on the swell as we head for the ship. I lean against Gus and watch Gruhuken burn: a crimson so intense that it hurts to look. I can’t drag my gaze away. I stare at the flames shooting into the sky. The fire sends flickering fingers of light towards us over the water. But we’re too far out. It can’t reach us now.

I begin to shudder. Gus says that’s a good sign. He’s still talking to me, softly, continuously.

Beside me, Isaak stiffens. I feel his hackles against my cheek. My heart stops. There are seven men in the boat. Next to Gus – a wet round head.

Isaak goes wild. I’m shouting, clutching him, trying to drag Gus away from that thing. Men are yelling, standing up, the boat’s rocking wildly. Isaak is desperate to get away, I can’t hold him. He’s overboard. Gus isn’t there any more. I’m screaming his name, reaching for him. I can’t get to him, he’s too far out.

I jump in after him. The cold is a hammer to my chest. The sea is dragging me down. In the darkness, my hand touches his. I grab it. My chest is bursting. I’m trying to haul him upwards, but my fingers are numb, he slips out of my grip. Flailing, I strike a body. It isn’t Gus. My hand clutches something soft as mouldy leather.

I struggle, I kick myself free. Up to the surface, choking, spitting out seawater. I catch a choppy glimpse of the burning camp.

Against the glare, a black figure stands watching on the shore.

I didn’t die.

The boat didn’t capsize, and those on board pulled the survivors from the sea and rushed us back to the ship. For two days I lay in my old bunk, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Algie told me why they’d arrived at Gruhuken when they did. They’d been so concerned after our last wireless exchange that they’d persuaded Eriksson to set off at once. That’s what saved me: the fact that I couldn’t convince them that nothing was wrong.

It killed Gus. He was the only one who died. One of the sealers fell in too, but was pulled alive from the water, and Mr Eriksson lost the tips of three fingers to frostbite. Algie survived unscathed. Or so he maintains.

Gus’ body was never found. Perhaps the current bore him out to sea. Perhaps he never escaped Gruhuken.

I swore I would never write another journal, but yesterday I bought this exercise book. Why? Maybe it’s because tomorrow is the tenth anniversary of Gus’ death, and I feel the need to give an account of myself. Although I’m not sure to whom.

On the journey to Longyearbyen, we didn’t speak of what had happened, but one afternoon, Mr Eriksson visited me in the sickhouse. I wanted to thank him for risking his ship to rescue me; and he wanted (he later wrote) to tell me how sorry he was that he hadn’t warned us that Gruhuken is haunted. But who would have believed him? In the end, neither of us could find the words, so we smoked in silence. Then I told him what had happened in the cabin, and what I’d seen in the boat. He kept his eyes on the floor, and when I’d finished, he said, ja, the thing in the boat, I saw it also. That’s the last time I ever spoke of it.

What I didn’t tell him is that Gus saw it too. I glimpsed his face as he went overboard. I can’t bear to think of it.

It’s my fault that he died. It was for him that I stayed at Gruhuken: because I wanted to impress him. I pitted myself against it, but it was Gus who died. I think of that ten times a day, every day.

A year after we returned to England, I had a letter from Mr Eriksson. He told me he’d gone back to Gruhuken to search for Gus’ remains, but hadn’t
found them. He said he was sorry he hadn’t been able to raise a cairn over the bones of our friend. And he said that he’d done what he could to warn others to stay away, by stringing coils of barbed wire along the shore, and ‘other things’ which he didn’t describe.

He had no need to explain why he’d done all this. We both know that what we saw that night is still there.

I find it hard to believe that Eriksson had the courage to return to that terrible place. I can’t imagine such bravery. I certainly don’t have it. But I do seem to possess a rudimentary sense of honour, because I confessed to Gus’ parents. I went to see them and told them that when he fell ill, it was my decision to stay at Gruhuken alone. I told them it was because of me that he came back. Because of me that he died.

I thought they’d hate me. But they were
grateful
. Algie had told them how I’d jumped overboard to save their son, and they could see that I was shattered because I’d failed. They thought me the very pattern of what an Englishman should be. They’ve been wonderful to me, and I can never repay them. They helped us settle things about the insurance and the equipment we’d had on loan, and Gus’ father had a ‘quiet word’ which kept the press off the story. They found a specialist for my frostbite, and another to help me adjust after the surgeon amputated my foot. Algie
told them about my nightmares and my terror of the dark, and they found a sanatorium – in Oxford, as far from the sea as one can get.

They found this position for me, too. I’ve been in Jamaica for nine years. I work at the research station of the Botanical Gardens in Castleton. My duties are administrative and botanical. I can no longer tolerate physics. It appals me. And plants bring me closer to Gus.

The work is predictable, and I need that more than anything. I perform each task at a set time, according to the weekly plan I’ve written in my book. My book also prescribes times for meals, walks, reading, sleeping, gardening and seeing people. Algie says I’ve become as bad as a German – and he ought to know, after three years as a POW – but I think he understands. I cling to my routine because I lost it once. It reassures me. Even though I know that security is an illusion.

I like Jamaica. The tropical nights are almost the same length all year round, with no lingering twilight to fray the nerves. I like the vivid colours in my garden: the scarlet ginger lilies and yellow cassia trees, the poisonous pink oleanders. I like the incessant, noisy life: the insects and the whistling frogs, the chattering birds.

My house is in the hills, in a jungle of palms and
tree ferns, by a towering silk-cotton tree. The locals call it a ‘duppy tree’, ‘duppy’ being the Jamaican word for ghost. That doesn’t trouble me. The local idea of ghosts strikes me as touchingly naı¨ve.

My verandah has a view of green mountains. Hummingbirds sip the flowers which hang in curtains from the eaves. There’s a stephanotis – my cook says the waxy white blossoms are flowers for the dead – and a climbing vetch she calls ‘the overlook’, as it wards off the evil eye. The road to Castleton is a murmurous tunnel of giant bamboo, and that’s good, as it means I can’t see the sea. It’s only a few miles away, but I never go near it, except once a year.

I still have the journal I wrote at Gruhuken. It was found on me after they hauled me from the sea. As I sit at my desk, I can see it lying on top of my bookcase. It’s warped and salt-stained, and I picture my words inside, bleeding together. I’ve never opened it. I never will.

Gus’ shirt was taken off me and destroyed before I regained consciousness, so I have nothing of his. Hugo offered to send me the photograph that was taken of us in Tromsø, dressed up in our new winter gear. I said no. I couldn’t bear to see us so hopeful and unaware.

It occurs to me that I haven’t mentioned Bjørvik. On our way back to Longyearbyen, Mr Eriksson put in at Wijdefjord and asked the trapper if he wanted to
leave with us, but he said no, he would overwinter as planned. He said to tell me he was sorry about my friend, and relieved that I’d survived. Three days before Christmas, two of the dogs, Anadark and Upik, turned up at his camp. They were starving and terrified, but he nursed them back to health, and in the spring he sent word to Algie, asking what should be done. After conferring with me, Algie sent money to compensate for their upkeep, and told Bjørvik to consider them his, with our thanks. He sold them to the mine manager in Longyearbyen for an excellent price. I’m glad. He’s a poor man, and the money would have meant a lot to him. And I’ve no doubt that Upik and Anadark have adapted to life with their new pack.

Of the other dogs – Pakomi, Kiawak, Svarten, Eli and Jens – no trace was ever found.

Isaak is with me. The sealers hauled him out of the sea, and during those first days on the
Isbjørn
he never left my side.

Dogs are a religion to Gus’ parents, so they understood that we couldn’t be parted. After Isaak had spent months in quarantine, we were reunited, and we’ve scarcely been separated since.

It’s because of Isaak that I took this house, as it catches the sea breeze in the morning and the land breeze in the evening. He’s adapted surprisingly well to the heat – by which I mean he’s become lazy. I’ve
built him a shady pergola in the garden, with a wading pool, which he loves. We take our walks in the cool of the dawn, and although there are no rabbits, he’s the terror of the mongoose community. Twice a day, we have the ceremony of de-ticking. He adores that, as it means he has all my attention. He more than holds his own with the local mastiffs, and some of the puppies born to the neighbourhood bitches have a distinctly husky-ish appearance.

I don’t know what I would have done without him. He’s my best friend, the only living creature I can really talk to, and a precious link with Gus.

In his undemonstrative way, Algie has also become a good friend, although in the beginning I blamed him; he should never have allowed Gus to come on the rescue mission. Then I realised that Algie blames himself quite enough already, without me making it worse.

I value his friendship, but we never talk of Gruhuken. He’s never spoken of his experiences there, nor asked about mine. So that is always between us.

Occasionally, I correspond with Hugo, but I’ve only seen him once. It wasn’t a success. We both knew that he is on one side of the divide, and I on the other. Because he never saw Gruhuken.

My life here is a good one, I think. It’s only in October and November that I have a bad time. When I
wake to darkness and I’m back in the polar night, hearing a heavy wet irregular tread.

Every year on the anniversary of Gus’ death, I make my pilgrimage to an isolated beach on the north coast, where I can be sure of being alone. I go at midday, when the sun is at its fiercest, but I still have to nerve myself to do it. I don’t sleep well for a week before. But I haven’t funked it yet.

The sea here is nothing like Gruhuken. Tiny fishes dart in the turquoise water, and pelicans glide overhead. But it’s the same sea. And though I stand on this white sand before the warm little waves, I know that at Gruhuken, it’s the deep of the polar night.

When I’ve mustered my courage, I can just bring myself to crouch at the water’s edge and dip in my hand, and hold it there while I talk to Gus. It’s a kind of communion. But it’s a dangerous one, for I know that I’m also communing with Gruhuken, and with what walks there in the dark.

When I sat down to write this, I didn’t know who it was for, but I do now. This is for you, Gus. This is how things have been since I lost you.

And maybe tomorrow when I go down to the sea, I’ll burn these pages and scatter the ashes on the waves, and they’ll reach you, wherever you are.

Recently, I’ve begun to wonder if perhaps your parents were right not to blame me for your death.
Perhaps you didn’t come back to Gruhuken to save me, but only to salvage the expedition. Maybe you didn’t feel for me what I felt – what I still feel – for you. I’ll never know.

But I can take that. It’s not the worst of it. The worst is not knowing if you’re still there. Are you, Gus? Are you there in the black water? Do you walk on the shore, in the dead grey stillness among the bones? Or were you snuffed out like a spark, all trace extinguished? Oh, I hope so. I can’t bear to think of you still there.

Because I know that I can never go back. Not even for you, Gus. Not even when I remember how it was in the beginning: the guillemots on the cliffs and the seals slipping through the green water, and the ice talking to itself in the bay.

THE END