Killer

He walked back over the ice towards Simon and the wreck of the camp. The canoe lay on its side, the yellow lifejackets lolling out of it, beside the hole where the old supply tent had stood. The latrine tent was in ruins.

And that was all there was.

Colin shook his head. “It’ll never get free of that. I think we’ve won,” he said.

But Simon was looking at the small floe following the whale across the grey sea. Colin’s face abruptly echoed the panic in Simon’s, and he swung round, his right hand coming up over his eyes. The labouring whale was by no means distant, and the small floe was still quite close. Colin’s eyes swept over the flat surface on the piece which the whale was still pulling.

And even as he looked at the tilting, rocking floe, he saw Kate slowly kneel up on its unsteady surface, and begin to wave wildly at him, her hair blowing in the slight wind.

iii

Abruptly Colin was in motion, running over that part of the floe remaining to them.

“Hurry, Simon. The boat. Help me with the boat. We have to go now or we’ll never catch up.” Simon stood up and looked at him unbelievingly. “Help me, damn you, Simon! We can’t just leave her there. We can’t just let her die. We have to go after her.”

That was as far as Ross’s mind had got. But Simon was thinking more clearly. “We’ll have to kill the whale,” he said. “It’s no use just getting her into the boat: the whale’ll simply eat that too. We have to kill that thing. That’s what we have to do.”

Ross paused. Then he stopped and picked up the deadly silver-steel spears and straightened. He nodded. “Yes,” he said. “We’re going to have to kill the whale. Coming?”

Simon gave a massive shrug, and his bruise-puffed face twisted. “Well,” he said, “you can’t bloody do it on your own, can you?”

While Ross checked the seals and fastenings on all the sections of the small craft, Simon slipped on his bright yellow cork-lined lifejacket and laced it tight. Then he stowed the two harpoons with their bright orange ropes still tied to their ends.

They each took a side by the bows, gripped firmly, lifted the sharp-pointed hull a little off the ice at the front and ran it forward to the edge of the floe. As they arrived at the sea they swung the first third of the seven-foot canoe into the water. Colin jumped in and went down on his knees in the bows. He was already holding a paddle steadying the frail craft as Simon gave it a push forward, climbed in and knelt down himself.

“Go,” he said, grasping the other paddle in his right hand and plunging it into the water as Colin dipped his. On alternate sides they drove the paddles, Simon swinging his body with practised ease, Colin moving with an ungainly but dogged power. The canoe sped over the quiet water at surprising speed until the first waves generated by the churning whale slapped against the pointed bows and water began to wash into the light shell.

“Take me near the floe,” yelled Ross.

Simon nodded, and put in two strokes on the same side. “Stop paddling,” he snapped. “You’re more of a hindrance than a help. You just get ready for your battle. I’ll get you there!”

With some relief Colin stowed his oar and got out the harpoons, hefting them in his hand, measuring the change in balance brought about by the attachment of the ropes, testing the fine-honed sharpness of their points.

When he looked up, they were very near to the other floe. Kate, unable to stand on the madly rocking surface, crawled over on to the very edge, water from the uneven bow-waves slopping over her knees. “Colin,” she cried.

“Closer,” he shouted to Simon. Simon glanced at the edge of the ice, the water folding itself into waves and eddies beneath it, narrowed his eyes, and edged the canoe another foot towards the side of the floe. Then he hunched forward a little more and settled down to the deep rhythmic thrusting of the paddle which would keep them up with the whale for hour after hour if necessary.

“I’m going to kill it, then come back for you,” Colin yelled to Kate.

“Be careful.”

“Too right I will.”

There was nothing more to say. Colin brought his hand down on Simon’s smoothly working shoulder. “Right,” he said. “Let’s get the bastard.”

“Aye, aye, Captain Ahab,” said Simon and pulled on away from the floe. Ross picked up the harpoons again and balanced them, lost in concentration, his shoulders tense, hulking like some great figurehead over the front of the tiny boat.

They were closing in.

Simon felt good. He felt like singing he was so excited. He suddenly realised that he was not in the slightest afraid, and he laughed to himself. He had taken charge of the boat in the emergency, and before that he had fought with the great Ross and got him at his mercy. All his life, it seemed, he had been working towards this moment.