“Sweet Christ,” he muttered, wiping his mouth, “you’re a grown man. Get a hold of yourself.”
Job saw the way Kate’s hand fell after her father had pushed rudely past her, and compassion moved his face into a slow, unaccustomed frown. He started forward towards her, but Colin pre-empted him, sliding a comforting arm round her sagging shoulders. They walked towards the orange net and set about picking up the fire tray and relighting the fire. The Eskimo’s eyes moved back to the golden sea. None of the others had said anything since Hiram Preston’s terrible death, but he assumed that their minds were, like his own, still full of it. It seemed distant now, for so much had happened since, but he could still see the horror of those madly twitching legs heaving out of the water with nothing above them except the dark empty cave of a belly from which all the intestines had been torn. And that huge insolent head coming back up to collect them.
He was deeply disturbed by the fact that no words had been said over the poor boy’s body. As Kate had guessed within minutes of their first meeting, he was a deeply religious man. Religion had been drummed into him at the Methodist school he had attended on the shores of the Hudson Bay as a boy, and another religion by his grandfather in their village. Now he stood between two worlds, torn between gods. He didn’t know whom to pray to for salvation: to the Methodist God of houses and cities, or the gods of the wilderness who had protected Innuit from time immemorial. The words for the boy should be Christian at least; but his prayers for them and for their salvation might be better addressed to Aipalookvik the Render and Destroyer, god of the Icebergs and the deep waters; or perhaps to Torgasoak, protector of Innuit, of the People.
He walked slowly away towards the top of the floe, as near as he dared to the edge beyond which the old camp had been sited, where Hiram Preston had been torn in two. As he moved, he cried in a deep voice which echoed hollowly over the lapping ocean: “I would not have you ignorant, brethren, concerning them which are asleep, that ye sorrow not, even as others which have no hope.” He had come near the edge now and, although there was more than a yard of ice ahead of him, it was dangerously cracked and far too unstable to be trusted with his weight. He stopped, threw wide his arms and declaimed over the sea, closing his mind to the terrible memory of Hiram’s death, of the stark thrust of his spine pushing out of the thick cut muscles of his back, of the fat white worm of his spinal cord . . .
“O Lord Jesus, who by thy burial did sanctify an earthly sepulchre; vouchsafe, we beseech thee, to bless and hallow this grave, that it may be a peaceful resting place for the body of thy servant; through thy mercy.” He closed his eyes, opened them slowly and gazed over the golden-green ocean, as though expecting to see Preston himself walking on the water there. Then he turned and went back: there was nowhere else to go.
Warren came out of the latrine tent, pale, shaken, shamefaced but calm. The size of the ocean sent a shiver through him, but he controlled his panic and went towards Ross and Kate who had a fire burning on the tray. Quick stood a short distance off, separate. Kate glanced up, and even though her face was half hidden by the ridiculous rounds of her dark glasses, he could see hostility in it. A stab of anger went through him – after all, he couldn’t help his fear. She turned, and spoke quietly to Ross. Warren realised that he had driven his daughter into Ross’s arms. Unreasoning jealousy rose in him as Ross asked, “Are you all right?”
“Of course I am!” He snapped it out pettishly. Quick looked across speculatively. Ross frowned, not understanding. Warren felt that the big man was patronising him, and stumped past him towards the fire. He stood belligerently over Kate, willing her to look up at him.
When she did, drawing back her hair out of her eyes, he said, “I’m sorry baby, I . . .” It was difficult to say more. He was ashamed of the weakness. He gestured at the ocean, the ice, the distances. “Agoraphobia.” The one word explained it all.
“Oh, Daddy.” She was on her feet. She came to him and hugged him.
“Are you all right now?” asked Ross quietly. Warren felt as though Ross had been eavesdropping, and said nothing.
“We’ll go inside the tent,” said Quick understandingly. “Then you’ll feel better.”
It was a good idea on the face of it. Certainly it helped Warren, but in the confined space the five of them crowded uncomfortably together and the atmosphere of hostility became almost tangible. To begin with there was an uneasy silence. “Is anyone hungry?” asked Kate. They all shook their heads.
The human body gives off approximately as much heat as a two-bar electrical fire. The heavily insulated tent, designed to hold three people, rapidly became warm. Job was the first to undo his heavy outer jacket and strip it off. The others silently followed suit, Job helping Ross whose great frame and club-like left arm made him unwieldy in the cramped conditions. Quick, sitting close to Kate, suddenly became aware of her as she moved. Even the heavy vest and tightly buttoned red-checked shirt could not conceal the fact that she had been unable to replace her broken brassiere. Quick froze, fascinated by her breasts as they moved beneath the heavy layers of cloth. He stared unashamedly until she looked up. They had taken their masks and glasses off in the mellow shadow of the tent and their gazes met. It was too late for Quick to disguise the lust in his own, and her blue eyes raked him like claws. He shifted, blushing. Another element was added abruptly to the strain of the atmosphere in the tent. With her eyes coldly on Quick, Kate leaned her back against her father’s still shoulder, lifted her buttocks, pulled down the sealskin overtrousers, and kicked them off.
“For Christ’s sake . . .” he muttered, and wrenched his eyes away. He found that he was trembling.
Kate knew very well what was in Quick’s mind. It made her angry. What the hell did he think she was? She couldn’t help being a woman, and wrapped up as she was, she was hardly anybody’s pin-up; and yet at the least thing, his pale eyes kindled and stripped away every layer she was wearing. Well sod him! she thought viciously. Her eyes flashed around to the others: Ross and Job were concerned with Ross’s jacket, her father was thinking of something else. Quick looked back at her, and she automatically looked down to check that all her buttons were done up.
She lost her temper. “Mr. Quick. If you can’t think of anything else to look at, at least put your mask back on so I can’t see your eyes!”
All their eyes swivelled to Quick who went red with embarrassment and rage. His mouth opened and closed, but he said nothing. He half rose, jostling Job, and began to make for the way out.
“Oh for Heaven’s sake, man,” snapped Ross, his temper at last in shreds, “sit down and act your age. It’s not her fault she’s a woman, or that her bra’s broken.” He tried to get Quick to sit down.
“Keep your hands off me!”
“Sit down, Simon.”
Quick slumped back to the other side of Job, and remained where he was, his face twisted. “I’ll get you for that . . .”
“Oh for God’s sake shut up, Simon.”
“You can’t order me about! I’m not one of your team! You’re not going to leave me to die!” In two deft bounds, Quick’s mind was back to the inevitable plaint.
“Let it rest!” snapped Ross.
“No, I will not let it rest!” Quick gasped for breath, his self-control completely gone, looking for any weapon, finding only one sharp enough, two-edged but sharp. “That’s what Charlie said. But I wouldn’t.” His mind worked feverishly, fabricating a story, which would wound his enemy deeply. “ ‘Let it rest’ she would say, stupid cow that she was, ‘Let it rest’.”