Dark Matter (18 page)

OK?
How is it OK? A week till they leave means maybe nine days before they get here. That’s nearly December. How can I hope that the coast will be clear
of ice? I could be stuck here till spring. I’ll never make it.

When I got the transmission, I thought about going after Bjørvik. To hell with everything, just strap on your skis and get out of here.

But by then he’d had two hours’ start on me. And I don’t know where his camp is. It isn’t on the map. All I know is that it’s somewhere on the far side of Wijdefjord, which is vast.

I even thought of tracking him. But the wind has obliterated his trail.

My wristwatch has stopped, but according to Gus’ alarm clock, it’s eleven in the ‘morning’. Another hour till I have to go outside and do the readings.

Yes, we’re back to that again. Back to bolstering your courage with whisky and cigarettes. Back to bribing the dogs with sweets to keep them with you. Back to watching the sky for the least trace of cloud.

I keep wondering what they did to him, the trapper of Gruhuken. I think of that miner I saw at Long-yearbyen.
Men like that – when they know they won’t be found out – they will do anything.

I remember the malevolence of that figure in front of the cabin. The endless black inhuman rage.

How can I hold out for another week?

I had a massive drink and a stiff talk with myself, and I feel a little steadier.

What you’ve got to remember, Jack, is that it can’t
do
anything to you. That’s what I keep coming back to. That’s why I still cling to the hope that I can hang on here until the others arrive.

Because what haunts this place is merely
spirit
.It is not
matter.
Not as I am matter, not as this pen and notebook and table are matter.

It can’t hurt me. All it can do is frighten.

I knew things would change, but I didn’t expect it to happen so quickly, and I never thought it would involve the dogs.

While Bjørvik was here, I couldn’t really imagine what it would be like when he left. A day later and it’s as if his visit never took place. The moon has waned. It’s just a slit in the sky. The dark is back.

Once, I thought fear of the dark was the oldest fear of all. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe it’s not the dark that people fear, but what comes in the dark. What exists in it.

I’m prevaricating. The dogs.

Yesterday after Bjørvik left, I made a titanic effort to absorb the shock about Gus and Algie. I mustered my courage and did my work. I prepared food and forced it down.

As I went about my duties, I experienced nothing untoward. No presence. No dread. Only a shrinking inside me: the apprehension of what might come.

By half past six I’d fed the dogs and was facing my first evening alone. I wasn’t hungry, and although I was tired, I knew I wouldn’t sleep, so I did what I’ve never done before and won’t do again: I knocked myself out with morphine.

I slept for twelve hours, and woke ten minutes before the seven a.m. readings. I made it by a whisker.

I was on the bicycle generator, about to start transmitting, when I remembered I hadn’t let out the dogs – or rather, they reminded me with indignant complaints from the doghouse. As I was already late for Bear Island, I shouted to them to wait, and set to work. At one point I think I was aware that their howls became louder, then abruptly ceased. Or maybe that’s my imagination, adding details in retrospect. When I got outside, the doghouse door was open and they were gone.

I waved my lantern. ‘Isaak! Kiawak! Upik! Jens! Eli! Svarten! Pakomi! Anadark!
Isaak
!’

Nothing.

It’s not like them. They’ve never strayed, not even into the next bay. Huskies don’t. At least, ours don’t. And they always come when I call, as they know that I mean food.

That was twelve hours ago.

How did they get out? What were they trying to escape? What happened to them?

I’ve left food for them in front of the cabin, and wedged open the doghouse door, with more food inside. I know that risks attracting bears, but I don’t care. I’ll do anything to get them back.

And they will come back, won’t they, when they’re hungry? And since they’re always hungry, they’ll come back soon.

But what if they don’t?

Two days since Bjørvik left. One since the dogs disappeared.

I walk bent over, as if there were a tumour in my gut. I miss the dogs. Without them, there’s nothing between me and what haunts this place.

It can come at any time. It can stay away for days, as it did when Bjørvik was here. But always I sense it waiting. That’s the worst of it. Not knowing when it will come. Only that it will.

A few years ago, I read a speech in the paper by the American President; he said,
The only thing we have to fear is fear itself.
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know.

I’ve tried to pity the trapper of Gruhuken. He had a miserable life and a terrible death. But I can’t. All I feel is dread.

And knowing who he was doesn’t help me, because I can’t do anything to appease him. It doesn’t matter that I’m innocent. It isn’t only the guilty who suffer.

Besides, I
am
guilty. Because I’m here.

ISAAK IS BACK!

I found him huddled against the door when I returned from the noon readings. He was in a terrible state, soaking wet and shaking with fright. I fell to my knees and flung my arms about him, ‘Isaak, Isaak!’ And still that convulsive shivering, panting with terror, his black lips drawn back, and a wildness in his eyes that I’d never seen before.

Where have you been?
I wanted to ask.
Tell me what you saw.

When I opened the door he was through it in a flash, scrabbling to get into the hall. Then he shot under my bunk and refused to come out.

All entreaties failed, but at last a chunk of butter-scotch succeeded. I towelled him down and fed him a
tin of pemmican, and gradually the shaking eased and he became more like himself. His fur fluffed up in the heat of the stove, his eyes lost their wildness. But when I rose to hang up the towel, he followed me anxiously, keeping so close to my heels that I nearly fell over.

‘Don’t worry, Isaak,’ I told him. ‘From now on you’re staying in here with me. No more doghouse for you, my lad. You’re safe.’

He watched my face, his ears twitching as he listened.

It’s amazing how reassuring it is to have someone to soothe. It makes you so much braver and more resourceful. I suppose that’s how parents feel. You’ve got to stay strong for the children.

‘But the thing is,’ I went on, ‘if I left you free to roam around in here, you’d eat everything in sight. So I’m afraid I’m going to have to tie you up.’

To stop him chewing the rope, I soaked it in paraffin. Then I tied one end to his harness and the other to the most immovable thing in the cabin: my bunk.

Of course it didn’t work. When I was out of sight in the main room he set up a heart-rending yowl. And it turns out that he quite likes paraffin: he dispatched the rope in five minutes. So instead I dog-proofed the cabin as best I could, moving everything remotely
chewable to the upper bunks and shelves. Then I scattered a few sticks of driftwood as decoys and set him free.

Ignoring the driftwood, he burnt his nose on the stove, then rushed about, sniffing and lifting his leg whenever I couldn’t stop him. Soon he began to pant alarmingly, and I realised he was hot. I gave him a bowl of water. He lapped desultorily and continued to pant. I fetched a big bowl of snow. Better. He snapped it up and the panting lessened. After that he found my reindeer hides, which I’d forgotten to move off my bunk, and settled down to eat them.

I’d been so busy that I’d missed the five o’clock readings, and had to wire an excuse to Bear Island. I didn’t care. It’s wonderful having Isaak with me. To hear the click of his claws on the floor. To feel his cold nose nudging my palm. He’s not house-trained – he’s never
been
in a house – so I have to watch him constantly, and that’s exactly what I need. Just now he started to squat, so I grabbed him by the harness and dragged him outside. I stood with my back to the door, like a suburban householder trying to persuade Fido to do his business. I felt no hint of the presence. Nor did Isaak show any signs of fear. The food I’d set out for the dogs was still there in the snow, but to my surprise, he ignored it. Instead, when he’d done what he needed, he trotted off a few paces and stood facing
seawards, with the wind at his back. Then he lifted his muzzle and howled. I felt the hairs rise on the nape of my neck. Such loneliness. Such grief.

It didn’t sound as if he was calling his pack. It sounded as if he knows they’re never coming back.

He still howls for his pack, but he’s becoming accustomed to being inside, and I no longer have to watch him all the time.

Nor do I need to worry about my wirelesses, because he never goes near that end of the cabin. He becomes agitated when I’m working there. Wise dog. I wish I could do as he does, and stay away.

This morning, I nearly missed my talk with Gus because of Isaak. I’d switched on the Eddystone, but Isaak was about to squat, so I’d taken him out, and when we got back inside, the lights were flickering.

I rushed to put on the head-phones; I didn’t want to miss a single one of those disembodied dits and dahs which are Gus’ words coming through the ether.

JACK WHERE ARE YOU? ARE YOU OK? JACK!

That he’d used an expression like ‘OK’ made me smile. It reminded me of one of our first conversations on board the
Isbjørn,
when I’d said ‘OK’ and he’d said
‘grand’, and I’d been so touchy. So I couldn’t resist using his own word in reply.
I’M GRAND STOP HOW ARE YOU?

Being Gus, he got it at once.
OH HA HA BUT I WAS WORRIED!

DOGS GONE BUT ISAAK HERE STOP

WHAT? WHAT?

I told him about the dogs, and Isaak coming back. I explained that Bjørvik had left, although I didn’t mention that he’d asked me to go with him and I’d refused. Gus’ anxiety crackled through the wires, and I basked in it. I was like Isaak: it didn’t matter what Gus said, it was the fact that he said it which counted. The fact that he cares enough to worry.
JACK YOU ARE SO BRAVE! EXPEDITION OWES ALL TO YOU!

Yes it bloody well does, I thought. But because it was Gus, I flushed with pleasure.

When he’d gone, I stared at his words on the page. I couldn’t bear to put them in the stove, so I slipped them inside this journal.

I’ve never felt this way about anyone. I suppose you’d call it hero worship. Or maybe I cling to him because I’m so frightened. All I know is that if he was here now, I could bear anything.

The silence after the noisy transmission was awful. The cabin looked smoke-stained and dirty. Everywhere
I turned I saw Gus’ possessions. His microscope, his books. Piles of his clothes on the upper bunks, like bodies.

And around the table, five chairs. Five. A convocation of ghosts.

Then I spotted some scraps of reindeer hide underneath, which Isaak had missed. I got down on hands and knees to pick them up, and he padded over to investigate, and I felt better.

I don’t know what I’d do without him. I love the way he slumps down with a
humph
, and thumps his tail at my approach. I love it when he lies on his belly with his muzzle between his paws, and twitches his eyebrows to follow my every move. I love the leathery smell of his pads, and the croaky ror-ror-ror noises he makes when he’s talking to me. His eyes are extraordinary. They’re not ice blue as I used to think, but
warm
: the light, clear blue of a summer morning. I know that’s ridiculously over the top, but it’s true.

As I write, he’s under the table, leaning against my calf. I reach down and sink my fingers into his fur. I feel the heat of his flank and his muscled ribs; the rapid beat of his heart.

I keep breaking off to talk to him. ‘We won’t be parted again, I promise. When all this is over, you’re coming home with me. To England, Isaak, that’s where I live. I don’t care how much it costs or how
long it takes. People do keep huskies in England; Gus knows a family in Berkshire, they’ve got three. I’ll get a job in the country. You’ll like it there. And you’ll love chasing rabbits. You’ve never seen a rabbit, but you’ll know at once that it’s got to be chased. You’ll be good at it, too. And I’ll find you a mate, and you’ll father puppies. You can start your own pack.’

Isaak sits with his muzzle on my thigh, gazing up at me with his extraordinary eyes.

The south wind is still blowing, breaking up the last of the ice. I can see the black water in the bay. I hold on to that. The bay is still open. They can still get back.

Somewhere on the outside of the cabin, a corner of tarpaper is flapping. A while ago I ventured out and tried to find it, but I couldn’t. And I didn’t try for very long.