Killer

The pounding echoed in the burst hold, making the wires vibrate, and the fuel lines tremble. One wire, severed by the crash and swinging in the slight movement of the sound, sent a blue spark arcing through the petrol-laden air. The boxes, precariously balanced, shifted a little. The plane settled slightly. The wire stopped swinging.

The ice opened at Ross’s feet, and he was precipitated across black water. Stretching from the tail, through twenty yards to the sea, was a crack in the ice, its narrow width shining with fuel. Ross caught at the boxes on the far side of the crack and held on with his right hand, his left slipping uselessly until the black glove was in the water. His feet desperately sought for purchase on the treacherous ice. “Job,” he called.

Treacherous. The word ran through his head. In five years away, he had forgotten the one fundamental fact engraved on the mind of every ice-man: the pack is as treacherous as a rabid dog. And as deadly. You usually only got one mistake, and he had just made it. The ice opened wider beneath him, the grin turning to a yawn. If Job didn’t hurry, the yawn would widen, the throat swallow, the ice-lips close. In the water in these clothes, he would be lucky to last two minutes. His shoulder cramped viciously, as he knew it would. His belly ached with the strain of holding on. He couldn’t last much longer.

“Colin? Where are you?”

“Here, Job. Hurry.” He was shaking as though in a high fever. There was a bright light in front of his eyes, out of focus, drawing nearer. Abruptly he saw Charlie in the middle of it.

“Charlie,” he whispered. “Help me, Charlie.” But she just stood and watched. Not helping. As she had always refused to help. Loving a dead brother more than a live husband. All his old futile bitterness flowed back. Just standing away, far away. Not answering his letters. Not coming to see him during those months in hospital, not caring to face him, to have it out with him. Just distantly blaming him for something that Robin had brought on himself. Not giving him a chance. No chance . . .

Inside the plane Kate was trying to open her eyes. She raised her eyebrows, straining. Something seemed to move on her forehead, cold and crusted, but still her eyes would not open. Her hands flew to her face by reflex, and felt the sticky mess on her skin. What was wrong? She absolutely refused to panic, rubbed her fingers over her eyes, then her knuckles like a crying child, then the backs and the heels of her hands. And at last the eyelids separated. She blinked.

All she could see was a multicoloured jumble, stretching away half-focussed to grey curves of wall; a movement of her head revealed seats on their backs. Her disorientation was complete. She tried to move and discovered that she was still trembling – not with the effort of remaining calm, but with bitter cold. And she was stiff with bruises.

“It was all over so fast, he didn’t even have time to call out.” She recognised the co-pilot’s voice.

“A terrible way to go. You wouldn’t think the ice . . .” Now her father’s voice.

“Daddy?”

“Katherine? Ah, so you’re awake, are you?” His voice came from above her head, and she looked up. She had been lying on her back anyway. Now she was looking straight along the body of the aircraft. On her right was the single row of seats, on her left the double row. Her father’s head peered from the front seat of the single row. She could have been standing looking down the plane at him – the illusion was complete. But she knew she was on her back: her father, the co-pilot one seat above him, the whole plane – they were all on their backs.

“We crashed,” said her father.

Her face itched. She remembered about her eyes and looked at her hands. Her stomach heaved. Abruptly the co-pilot was out of his seat, climbing down towards her using the sides and backs of the seats like a ladder.

“Take it easy,” he said. “The blood’s not yours. You’re OK. Honest.”

She moved, half sat, shuffled across the mess of clothing and wrecked cases until her back was supported by the roof of the cabin. The co-pilot was beside her, pale but calm.

“You’re OK,” he said again. She looked down at herself. She was totally saturated with blood: skin, hair, clothes – everything. She was very careful not to ask whose blood it was – time enough for that, she thought, when she had herself more in hand. She frowned.

“Yes,” said the co-pilot, “they’re a mess. You’d better change out of them. Have you anything else?”

“Of course. In my case . . .”

Her voice trailed off. She was sitting on the stuff that had been in her case, that had been in all the cases. She began to look around. He was standing on her favourite negligee. Before she could stop or think, she snapped, “You’re standing on my things!”

“Oh. Of course. I’m sorry. I . . .” He blushed like a schoolboy and began to climb back up the seats.