Survival Read online

  Copyright © 2021 David Fletcher

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Matador

  9 Priory Business Park,

  Wistow Road, Kibworth Beauchamp,

  Leicestershire. LE8 0RX

  Tel: 0116 279 2299

  Email: [email protected]

  Web: www.troubador.co.uk/matador

  Twitter: @matadorbooks

  ISBN 978 1800465 763

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Matador is an imprint of Troubador Publishing Ltd

  For Iris

  Contents

  one

  two

  three

  four

  five

  six

  seven

  eight

  nine

  ten

  eleven

  twelve

  thirteen

  fourteen

  fifteen

  sixteen

  seventeen

  eighteen

  nineteen

  twenty

  twenty-one

  twenty-two

  twenty-three

  twenty-four

  twenty-five

  twenty-six

  twenty-seven

  twenty-eight

  twenty-nine

  thirty

  thirty-one

  thirty-two

  thity-three

  thirty-four

  thirty-five

  thirty-six

  thirty-seven

  thirty-eight

  Afterword

  one

  Alex stared at the iceberg. It was huge and it was painfully beautiful; an exquisite blue-white jewel set in the blue-white world all around. It was about two hundred metres from the ship, and it was the nearest of a whole swarm of icebergs, all laid out on the blue, mirror-smooth water of the channel and all sparkling under the bright Antarctic sun. Beyond it were the snow-covered peaks that formed the west side of the channel, their form sculpted by time and their surfaces now coated in every shade of blue and white. They were exquisite themselves – framed by a clear azure sky above and that silver-blue sea at their feet. And their scale was enormous.

  Before he had come to Antarctica, Alex had never experienced such scenery. There had been that brief excursion to the north of Norway where he’d been immersed in a similar palette of just white and blue, but that had been different. There it had been just chilling and a little soulless, just a great expanse of featureless white under a glaring blue sky. But here, here in this southern polar setting, what was outside the cabin window was not just truly exquisite but almost alive. Out there were shapes, contrasts, textures and reflections, and out there was that huge, scintillating iceberg, a great blue-and-white fragment afloat in the channel but looking as though it was anchored to the Earth. It was as still and as fixed as the peaks all around it.

  The whole wonderful spectacle deserved to be gazed at forever, but Alex had other things to do, and he began to turn his attention away from the view through the window. However, just as he did so he observed a little movement in that outside scene, and his attention was captured again. How could it not be? That movement heralded the arrival of whales…

  There were four of them, four humpback whales in a tight group, spoiling the glassy-smooth surface of the channel with their rising, blowing, diving and splashing. Although whether they were feeding, bonding, playing or just relishing their existence, Alex couldn’t tell. But it didn’t matter. To observe any whale in its natural environment was a joy and a privilege. To observe a quartet of them at close quarters – as these were now – was literally captivating. Alex couldn’t take his eyes off them, as first a shiny black back surfaced from the water and then a huge, handsome fluke rose to join it, soon partially obscured as another of the quartet sent forth a tall, misty spout. In fact, it was only when he observed this spout that it occurred to Alex that he should call Debbie to join him. Wherever she’d got to with her preparations, she’d no doubt want to see these wonderful sea-going creatures.

  ‘Debbie, there’s some whales out here. Four humpbacks. You should come and see them. They’re really close.’

  Immediately, Debbie appeared. She’d been in the bathroom and she was now walking towards Alex, her hands to her left ear, clearly still trying to secure a reluctant second earring into its lobe.

  ‘Four of them?’ she inquired.

  ‘Yeah. Just to the left. Over there.’

  She had now joined her husband, and, having convinced that second earring that it should just acquiesce and take its rightful place in her earlobe, she was peering through the window to locate the promised cetaceans.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ she exclaimed. ‘Fantastic. And look, did you see that fluke? It was pale underneath…’

  ‘Well, if it wasn’t, you’d be a bit concerned. They are humpbacks, and their flukes are supposed to be pale underneath. Just like we’re supposed to have a crease in our bum.’

  ‘Don’t be vulgar,’ responded Debbie. But her words were delivered with a smile, and then she made another observation.

  ‘Just look at them,’ she said. ‘Aren’t they sublime?’

  ‘Sublime and… happy. At least, they look pretty happy. And I must say, it’s difficult to imagine that they’re not. After all, they’ve got this wonderful place to live in and they’ve got each other as well.’

  Debbie turned from the view of the whales to face her husband.

  ‘Just as we’ve got each other,’ she said. ‘As I’m sure you’ve not forgotten…’

  ‘Sorry,’ responded Alex, ‘it’s just…’

  ‘…time we got ourselves ready,’ interrupted Debbie. ‘And I’m nearly there.’

  ‘So am I,’ declared Alex. ‘I just want to put my boots in the wardrobe and sort out the safe…’

  And here he stopped. He had at last taken in his wife’s appearance. His boots and the safe would have to wait just a while.

  ‘Debbie,’ he pronounced slowly, ‘you look beautiful.’

  And she did. No longer young, she still retained the looks that had attracted him to her almost fifty years ago. Furthermore, she had spent a useful few minutes on her face, doing whatever it is that women do in front of a bathroom mirror, and in her brand-new wine-coloured dress and her favourite wine-coloured shoes, she looked like the proverbial million dollars. And half of that generous total must have been invested in her eyes. They were as sparkly as the iceberg outside.

  ‘Thank you,’ she responded. ‘I thought I should make an effort.’

  Alex hesitated, and then he went into the walk-in wardrobe, and was soon back out again, holding in his right hand his bright-blue linen jacket.

  ‘M
ight not be up to your dress, but I’ve brought it this far, and it hasn’t got that many creases in it. As long as you don’t look at the sleeves…’

  Debbie grinned.

  ‘It’ll do just fine. I mean, just absolutely fine. In fact, I think that together we will be the best-dressed couple aboard. No matter how many creases…’

  ‘Bloody right,’ confirmed her husband. ‘Absolutely bloody right.’ And then he approached her, threw his jacket on the bed, and embraced her tightly – and held her in this embrace for quite some time. When he finally released her, he then spoke.

  ‘I love you,’ he said slowly. ‘I always have and I always will. In fact, I may love you more now than I’ve ever loved you before. And if that sounds stupid…’

  ‘It doesn’t,’ interrupted Debbie. ‘Because I feel just the same. I mean, I really do. So… it can’t be stupid, can it?’

  Here she gave her husband a generous smile, and then she reverted to the inescapable practical.

  ‘But I now think that while I go and check on my face, you should sort out whatever you’re doing with your boots and the safe. Then we might just be ready. And we should get a move on. You said so yourself.’

  Alex got the message. He again embraced his wife, less tightly this time. And then, when he’d disengaged, he took his boots into the wardrobe, and after that he knelt before the cabin’s dresser that housed the safe. Here he began to fiddle with the safe’s contents before locking it closed. When he’d done this, he put on his bright-blue jacket.

  Outside, the whales were still cavorting and the iceberg was still sparkling. Inside their cabin, the good-looking Debbie and the now relatively well-dressed Alex were finally about to embark on their plans for the evening.

  seven weeks earlier

  two

  Nobody was fat. Alex just couldn’t help noticing. Nor could he help himself thinking that, of the ninety-two people seated in the ship’s lounge, few if any would balk at applying the term ‘fat’ to other people. After all, whilst there were maybe half a dozen of the assembled throng who were arithmetically middle-aged, the vast majority of the ship’s passengers listening to the safety briefing were more euphemistically middle-aged, and they must have all grown up in a time when fat people could be called fat without it risking censure from others. The average age of the MS Sea Sprite’s human cargo, Alex thought, must have hovered somewhere around seventy. And their body shapes fell somewhere in the range of slim to well-fed, with here and there just some overwide hips and the odd minor paunch.

  It was not that unusual for Alex to find himself in the company of people like himself: not-fat, old – and white. And this was because he had spent the past quarter of a century travelling around the world on wildlife holidays, and he’d discovered that the majority of those who shared this interest in wild animals and wild places (and could afford to indulge this interest) were… not-fat, old and white. However, here on this ship, there were just so many of this sort gathered in one place, and they weren’t just the majority but they were the overwhelming majority. This was going to be a predominantly old-age pensioner expedition, where youth, obesity and any sort of diversity would hardly feature at all. Or at least it wouldn’t in respect of the passengers.

  The crew and the expedition staff were a different matter. The captain (Captain José) was a youngish Panamanian and his crew were mostly fairly young Filipinos. Then the members of the twelve-strong expedition team, who without exception were from Britain or from one of its former ‘Anglo’ possessions, came in a variety of ages. But, of course, just like all the passengers and all the crew on this vessel, not one of them was fat.

  These team members had all introduced themselves before the safety briefing had got under way, and they had all done this with a mix of humour and irreverence. It would take some time for Alex to remember all their names and what their specialities were, but a few of them had already established themselves in his mind. There was Nick, a professional Australian ornithologist, whose long lean body put one in mind of a stork, but whose facial features had more in common with those of a hawk. One only had to look at him to be reassured that he really knew his stuff, and no doubt all the stuff he would ever need to know about the birds to be seen on this trip. By way of contrast there was then Mike, an ex-Royal Marine, who had fought in the Falklands War and who, more recently, had worked on anti-piracy assignments off Somalia. He didn’t owe his body shape or his looks to any bird, but instead he put Alex in mind of a bull. He was big and he was solid. Then there was Tony, a stocky Scottish geologist, who had apparently worked in the Antarctic in his youth and who, despite his attempts at humour in his self-introduction, looked and sounded so dour that Alex wondered whether he was still suffering from some sort of Post-Antarctic Stress Disorder. Or maybe it was just because he was Scottish…

  None of these notable three had been selected to demonstrate the use of an immersion suit. That was what was going on at the front of the lounge just now. Two others from the expedition team had drawn the short straw to do this. One of them was a younger, slimmer ex-Marine called Terry, and the other was a bearded Canadian naturalist called John. And they were both now attempting to show how relatively effortless it was to encase one’s body in a fully enveloping immersion suit in the event of one having to immerse oneself in cold Antarctic waters. However, they were not having much success. As it appeared that, even after training as a Marine, it was hellishly difficult to deal with these awful insulated onesies without the help of somebody else. And that wasn’t the plan. One was supposed to be able to don these life-savers without assistance in the same way that one was supposed to be able to don one’s conventional life jackets on one’s own, and even that wasn’t easy.

  Alex could not imagine himself ever rising to the challenge. He was slim, but he was also tall and not very coordinated. He knew he would still be tangling with his onesie as the Sea Sprite slipped beneath the waves, and he would just have to put his faith in the successful operation of the lifeboats and hope that not even a life jacket would ever be needed. Indeed, he had already paid a great deal of attention to the location of his and Debbie’s muster station and to the location of their designated lifeboat. Both of these had been shown to them before the lounge session, together with an explanation of what toots on the ship’s whistle meant ‘gather’ and what toots meant ‘abandon ship’. There didn’t, he’d noticed, appear to be any toots to announce that the wrong toots had been used in the first place and should now be ignored.

  Well, with the immersion-suit demonstration now concluded, the safety briefing was nearing its end, and was finally drawn to a full stop by an announcement by the cruise director. This was a woman in her fifties, who went by the name of Jane, and who had the shape of a sergeant major and a demeanour to match. And her announcement concerned the promise of a forthcoming mandatory lecture on the subject of biosecurity for the duration of the cruise. As with this safety briefing, she informed her audience, names would be taken of those attending in order to identify those who needed to be tracked down to attend. And just like names, there was no way that prisoners would not be taken. Jane, it appeared, expected everyone’s full cooperation. Or else.

  Back in their cabin, Alex and Debbie discussed Jane’s rather severe attitude, but they ultimately decided that, on a voyage to the Antarctic such as this, there was a need for such severity. Someone had to emphasise the importance of safety on board and of the need to keep the places to be visited safe – from alien species and from any other sort of damage. And in any event, it was no less than they had expected. The tour operators were hardly likely to have put some sort of softie in charge of this trip. Nor would they have countenanced the trip being late getting under way, which was why the MS Sea Sprite was now edging away from the dockside in Ushuaia and manoeuvring itself to commence its passage down the Beagle Channel. This would take it into the South Atlantic, where it would then make its way to its first dest
ination: the Falklands.

  Alex and Debbie donned their fleeces and stepped out onto their modest balcony. They wanted to observe their departure from Argentina’s southernmost port, and they wanted to relish what this meant: nearly three weeks at sea in a fabulous pocket-size vessel, visiting what promised to be some of the most pristine and most breathtaking places on the planet. It would also mean a long, welcome sabbatical from all the nonsense of the oppressive and dispiriting world; a feature of the trip that was reinforced beyond doubt when Alex and Debbie returned from the balcony and Alex turned on the cabin’s TV.

  They had satiated their interest in their departure from the rather scruffy end-of-the-world settlement of Ushuaia, and Alex had wanted to discover from CNN – which was one of the two external channels on the ship’s TV system – just what they would be abandoning for the next three weeks of their lives; what aspects of the world would not be accompanying them on their trip. None of it, it transpired, was much of a surprise. For it appeared that for twenty-one days they would have to survive without a continuous commentary on the latest turmoil in the Middle East, without an account of the latest predictably inane utterances of the resident of the White House, without the latest episode in the coverage of the latest flu outbreak in China, and without any repeated bulletins on the latest egregious behaviour of either Russia or Iran. For a little time at least, Alex and his wife would be insulated from the soul-destroying reality of the modern, human-dominated world, and would instead be able to savour the unadulterated delights of the world as it was meant to be; one that was largely free of unwelcome human interference but one that was still able to elevate the human spirit though its untrammelled natural beauty. Even if it might involve the intervention of a highly capable ship’s crew and the skills of a team of talented chefs and solicitous waiters. Whose skills were just about to be put to the test.