Killer

Kate, in a rage with herself, clamped her teeth together for a moment very tightly and then said, “Look, look . . . Oh dammit, I’ve forgotten your name!”

“Hiram, ma’am, Hiram Preston.”

“Look, Hiram, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be rude, I . . .” There were tears running down her cheeks. It was shock, she told herself; shock, nothing more. She picked up a towel conveniently to hand and began to wipe the tears away. The rough cloth came away coloured brownish red. She began to scrub harder, choking back sobs, hiding tears, cleaning her face.

As she found her handbag, brushed her hair, changed out of her stiff clothes and into jeans, shirt and heavy Arran pullover, her father and Preston continued to talk.

Halfway down the vertical row of seats on Kate’s right, someone else moved. “My God!” said Simon Quick’s voice, “what the hell happened?”

Quick had been half-unconscious for some time. Now he had jerked awake. “Oh, my God,” he said again. Then he undid his belt, opened it out and painfully began to crawl out of his seat.

Kate at the foot of the gangway combed her hair as she watched him roll out of his seat, grab on to the sides of the seats above him, and climb stiffly through the hole at the front of the plane. Suddenly the full uncertainty of their position washed over her. The euphoria caused by the simple fact that she had survived chilled in her. Had she survived to any purpose? Would she – would any of them – last for long on the ice without food or shelter?

“Ye Gods!” she said, her voice shaking with panic, “what on earth are we sitting in here for? What’s going on outside?”

“Well . . .” began Hiram.

“Oh never mind!” She began to search through all the jumbled contents of the cases on the floor for anything which would be of immediate use, but there wasn’t much. She caught up her dark glasses – those, she thought, would be useful against the painful brightness she could see through the portholes. Gloves, other things. She stuffed them all in her capacious handbag. Then she picked up her father’s book Food in the Arctic, and held its bulk speculatively in her hand, reading the title for the thousandth time or so. What do I need the book for now? she thought. I’ve got Daddy in person! She felt excited and began to climb up the seats . . .

Job, coming round the tail as fast as he dared, saw Colin lying there, saw the black wound in the ice running under his friend’s stomach, widening inexorably. Colin’s right hand was anchored firmly among a jumble of crates; his left was uselessly in the water. Without thought, working from countless experiences of the same nature, the Eskimo ran catfooted forward, grabbed Ross’s ankles, and gave a spasmodic heave. Ross was torn back, away from the crates, over the grinning mouth of the ice, and into a heap beside his friend. The green eyes were distant, the face paper-white.

“God,” said Ross, “but my arm hurts.”

“Of course it does,” said Job gently.

After a moment, Ross’s face began to clear. “The crates,” he said. “They’re full of equipment. We can set up a camp!”

Just then Quick’s voice came from behind them. “What are you two up to? Stealing the rifles, just to make sure you get through? A bit of food, perhaps, in case it gets short? Oh, I know how you work in these conditions, Colin, old chum, and I’m going to make damn sure that this time if you make it we all make it.”

Job took a step towards Ross, fearing an explosion of anger at the younger man’s taunts, but suddenly Ross was smiling. “You always were a self-confident boy, Simon; well go ahead: save us.”

Quick was for a moment nonplussed by Ross’s abrupt change of attitude; but it was plain what needed doing, and so he set about doing it.

“Most of the crates will have their contents stencilled on the side,” he said. “Job, what are those?”

“All food.”

“A good start. What do we need first?” This to himself, but Ross answered, “Clothes, I should say.”

“Right.” Quick was too preoccupied with the immediate problem to continue for the moment his feud with Colin. There was still much to be done if they were to survive the bright arctic night. “Clothes and then shelter. The tents were packed to this side, they should be there.”

“Perhaps they came out further back down the peninsula,” Job.

“Yes; right. We’d better check on that. No, you two had better continue getting the stuff out of there.” He banged on the side of the plane.

In the hold, the loose wire swung and sparked.

“Co-pilot! What’s his name? Preston? Preston! We need you out here.”

“Coming.” Muffled.

Ross gave Job a grin, and began to move the crates of food away from the wreck. As they moved towards the first low hills of the pack, however, the ice became slushy and rotten. Their feet began to sink deeper and deeper.

“This is no good,” said Ross after a few yards. “We’ll have to take them round the other side. At least the ice is firm.”

Job nodded. They reversed. They had just reached the crack at the plane’s tail when a much aggrieved Warren came round the port engine.