The Ice: A gripping thriller for our times from the Bailey’s shortlisted author of The Bees

But it was too late in the day for the horses, and Sean sat on a bench with a coffee from one of the kiosks, trying to sober up. Vodka he could skilfully calibrate, but pints of beer somehow sidestepped that control and made him too emotional. From deciding as he walked away from the pub that he would park the whole Greenland nostalgia trip, he was now flooding with memories of it. He’d been there on three separate expeditions, the first with Tom, on the Lost Explorers’ Expedition when they were twenty. They had been racing partners on the ten-dog sled, and both had imagined that reading about it was tantamount to expertise. They had made complete fools of themselves and had never had a better time. The next couple of times had been for Kingsmith, investigating some mining tender that came to nothing; he had spent time in the capital Nuuk – but it had still been Greenland, still the Arctic.

The first time was the best, despite their incompetence. Because of it, perhaps. He and Tom sweating and stumbling about in the snow, desperately trying to wrestle ten dogs into their harnesses, the air snapping and flashing with the frenzy of excited barking, the dogs fully aware they had novices to deal with. One by one they got them in, resorting to both of them grabbing one dog and managing at last to work out which leg went through which bit of harness – exhausted before they even set off, but the dogs howling and leaping with the thrill of it, as if they’d never done it before either.

It was a shock when his phone rang, in Hyde Park. It was Mogens Hadbold, and he had good news.

One is often asked what is the attraction and what are the joys of Polar exploration. The answer is – Adventure – going where man has never gone before. Achievement – discovering something of value to mankind, such as the whale-fishery of South Georgia; or ramming your way through ice or any difficulties under steam or sail. The wonderful pure beauty of these regions, the healthy invigorating life; and last but not least – comradeship – the comradeship of men. Men who fight alongside you, toil with you, laugh with you, and chaff you. Pals who rack their brains for abuse and epithets to hurl at each other, and who fight for their absent chums. Pals who stand by each other through thick and thin; who share trials, hardships, joys, dangers and food, and are determined, at all hazards, to ‘see it through’ together. For such men you feel a great affection, and the results are teamwork and loyalty of the finest, highest quality, with joy of memory that never fades away.

Under Sail in the Frozen North: The Log of the 1926 British Arctic Expedition (1927)

Frank Arthur Worsley

8

From his park bench, Sean sent emails to Kingsmith, Radiance and Tom. He phoned Martine and said he would be over soon, then he called Gail, to say he wouldn’t. He told her the news and first she congratulated him then asked for a divorce. She knew that Martine was part of the consortium and not one of his silly little girls, and she understood that now his relationship with her would become paramount. Gail wanted the dignity of immediate separation. She told him her lawyer’s name and hung up. Sean was shocked that she was so prepared.

When he arrived at Martine’s apartment she had a spare key and a bottle of chilled Krug waiting. This was the moment they had imagined, and though he enjoyed seeing her blaze with their triumph, he felt oddly detached. Perhaps this was a sign of success; when vintage Krug became a fizzy drink. Not a noble pint in a fuggy all-comers pub, with a mate who kept you level.

Martine slid down onto her knees in front of him and smiled, in the way he understood. He closed his eyes. The effort was over, success was his. The strain of living a lie with Gail was also gone. And Tom had come in and done exactly what Sean had brought him in to do: make him the winner. But he did not feel happy. After a while Martine looked up, concerned. He wound her hair in his hands and tried to surrender to her skill. He tried harder, thinking of the two girls in the pub, of recent porn – an appetite no woman would ever wean him from. Still nothing. Gently he lifted her back up to him. He held her.

‘Why am I not happy?’

‘You got what you wanted. Now you feel empty.’

He nodded. It was true, and her insight made him feel tender. He stroked her hair, in silent consolation for their first erotic non-event. Later they watched television together, also for the first time.

‘A decent man’s content with profit,’ Kingsmith used to say to him, in the early days. ‘Only fools want more – and fools are tools but never partners.’ And Sean, or Sean boy as Kingsmith called him, had laughed and watched the money rolling in, and worked seven days a week if necessary, as it often was, learning his mentor’s particular ways, travelling with him, growing familiar with the Russian dolls of his financial habits, and Kingsmith’s migratory routes: the Caymans to Panama, Monaco to Jersey, to Zurich – to thin air. Very often a scrap of a percentage point of profit fell under the table to Sean, sometimes as a cash bonus, but more often as a last-minute allocation of some IPO, some hitherto obscure company Kingsmith had carefully cultivated up to its stock market debut, usually but not always connected with mining, one of his major interests. Sean proved himself an excellent steward of his financial good fortune, using part of his profit to grow his property portfolio, and always reinvesting in something else Kingsmith recommended.

Both knew Sean would never be in the same league, but he was a quick study and had become personally wealthy beyond the dreams of his twelve-year-old, or even twenty-year-old self. Wealthy enough to acknowledge that money was not enough. What he’d always dreamed of was his name on the map. Literally. Like Barentsz or Bering or – well, OK, not like Cecil Rhodes – but to be a man of daring and discovery and honour, whose explorations could name mountains and seas.

Now, after the Pedersen deal, that secret glory-seeking part of him rejoiced like never before. He, Sean Cawson, owned a tiny piece of the Arctic. The ice was receding and the TransPolar sea route was busier every day, moving global markets from supermarket checkouts to construction contracts as the price of goods went down. Untold mineral wealth was newly within reach. There was something magical in the air; it was a new golden age of trade and opportunity, and he was a very modern buccaneer, in it for positive influence, not plunder. Surely that was worthy of some sort of recognition?

Midgard was Sean’s biggest coup, but somewhere deep inside he had always known he would succeed. Several months ago, and in the face of the heavy odds against him winning the bid, he had placed a large retainer on the services of his chosen Norwegian architect, in order to capitalise on the narrow time window for the work. The morning after the Pedersen decision, and after Martine had left for work, he made that call from her apartment, and the sound of jubilation in the Oslo office buoyed him in happiness all the way across Kensington Gardens.

He was walking towards Selfridges, to kill a bit of time before meeting Joe Kingsmith for lunch. As yet he did not know the venue or the hour – but that was typical. Sean hadn’t even known he was in London but found the email when he woke, saying he’d be at the Wallace Collection, then they could grab a bite. He liked to look at the old weapons collection, Sean remembered. It was the older man’s indulgence to himself, and usually meant things were going well.

The sky was an empty blue and it was so hot for February that although the trees were bare the joggers were dressed for summer. Sean walked across the park, repressing a feeling of irritation at how his mentor, affectionately though he felt towards him, still seemed to think of him as the callow and grateful undergraduate, willing to dance attendance on his whims. That was a lifetime ago, but if Kingsmith still treated him like a kid, then that was the price of access to his capital. One hundred and fifty million dollars in this case, which, along with Tom’s participation, had got him Midgard Lodge. Once Sean had referred to him as ‘the old man’ and people had thought Kingsmith was his actual father. He had not corrected them; he felt much more Kingsmith’s son than his own unknown father’s. And though wild horses wouldn’t have dragged it out of him, in Sean’s heart he was sure the old man had some paternal affection for him too. So fine, he would kill some time in the Watch Room at Selfridges, and wait for his call.

This was a place long soothing to Sean’s spirit, and he had visited it many times before he could afford the things he wanted. It was always the same, the dawdling wealthy shoppers, sparkling vitrines and his own enhanced reflection in the tall apricot-lit mirrors.

He should commemorate his journey from staring at the painting of the icebergs on the care-home staff landing, to standing here, the legal owner of a piece of the Arctic, with a watch. A new time in his life, something that fitted his new role of merchant prince and environmental champion. Nothing vulgar. Sean had no idea what that would be. It amused him that as he went from case to case, the glittering dials, exotic straps and satin-draped plinths jostling for his attention, he gathered sales assistants like iron filings to a magnet. There was a new display since he had last come in, ‘The Hall of Fame’ case. And in it, a platinum Rolex Cosmograph Daytona, with its ice-blue dial the colour of a glacier. He tried it on and looked at his reflection. He didn’t want to take it off so he bought it and slipped his Patek Philippe into his pocket. Collecting beautiful watches went with his self-image; even if the price made him slightly nauseous.

Perhaps he should buy a watch for Martine too. No more philandering. Marriage to Gail had not worked, but he still wanted a mate – not to be like Kingsmith, who for all his wealth and rosters of willing beauties around the world, seemed to lack the centre of gravity that a relationship gave. He had no children, no regular partner, but a different gorgeous woman was always available, wherever he was. Once Sean had thought this highly desirable, but now it seemed increasingly sad, though that was one emotion he’d never seen Kingsmith display.

Sean browsed the women’s watches. He wanted to buy something for Rosie, but the idea of calling her and asking what she liked, and the possibility of her being vile to him on this day of triumph – he shrank from the pain of that. What about Radiance Young then? This was also her triumph. She had brought China to the table and he wanted to show his appreciation – but she was so eccentric. Who knew what sort of inappropriate behaviour a gift from him might trigger? She kept her Facebook page frequently updated and either referred to herself as ‘Bi-Polar Babe’ due to her extraordinary feats of endurance at both Poles, or, ‘Simple Girl Looking For Love’. Sean had yet to meet another thirty-four-year-old single Chinese woman with hundreds of millions of dollars at her disposal. Or a chain of specifically Chinese-friendly hotels in hitherto untapped markets (most of Europe), a portfolio of interests in several African countries, and her own shipping line, a wharf in the port of Dalian included. Radiance was bumptious, exuberant in her appetites, driven, tactless and generous: but simple she was not.

‘That’s so pretty, would you like to see?’

A smiling sales consultant was already unlocking the case before him, and lifting out a black ceramic watch with a diamond bevel. Sean took it from her.

‘Is it waterproof?’ He imagined it dripping on Martine’s wrist when she wore a black bikini. He knew she wanted to be invited onto Kingsmith’s beloved yacht Brisingamen, the nearest place he had to a home. He would ask him about it over lunch. As if by telepathy, his phone trembled in his pocket and he grabbed it at once – Joe never let it ring more than three times before hanging up.

The name Rupert Parch flashed on the screen. Sean knew him vaguely, he was not quite sure how, but apparently he had given him his number.

‘Rupert.’

‘Is that the famous polar explorer?’ said an enthusiastic voice. ‘I said I’d get you. I’m testing this amazeballs app from the MoD, locates your contacts. Asymmetric intel, heard it here first. Probably not though, you’re well clued up. DQM, though.’ Which in Parch-speak meant: don’t quote me. ‘That’s a nice watch, by the way, you should get it.’

Sean spun round. Parch’s voice was in his ear, and also coming up behind him in person, a big smile on his beaming face, his hand out-thrust. Sean took it and Parch pumped enthusiastically.

‘You – are – the coming man! Massive congrats!’ He looked around conspiratorially. ‘Ah, but maybe you’re still keeping the schtum-powder on it? Shouldn’t bother, everyone’s talking about you. Sean Cawson has never been so sexy. True dat.’

Somewhere in his early forties, Parch still looked like a naughty schoolboy, with bright colourless eyes that sparkled, pale brown hair he wore to one side, a slim frame and a rapid, confident delivery. Sean was never quite sure what Parch actually did; he seemed to move around a lot, like some kind of cleaning fish, his exuberance commensurate with the status of his current host. Large, by his manner.

‘Have you just traced me, illegally?’

‘Illegally? As if! I just happened to be in the area. Although sadly not dropping sixty grand on man-candy like the plutocrat I’ll never be, hashtag sighs. No, definitely not illegally. But you have correctly sussed that Parch has gone up in the world. And my master is terribly impressed with your latest news.’

‘What news?’

‘Don’t freeze me out.’ Parch looked even more innocent. ‘Anyway, he desires me fetch you to him for a spot of luncheon, were you available at such short notice.’

‘And your master is?’

‘Philip Stowe. I’m his new private secretary. Proud to say I’ve already outlasted my predecessor. Very talented man.’

Sean had heard many other things too. Stowe had seized the post of Defence Secretary after a vicious and decimating Westminster rumble of his own creation. Sean waited for his payment to be processed. Stowe had sent for him? He felt Parch’s eyes on his back and smelled his soapy cologne.

‘Might you be free? Offers like this don’t tend to repeat. Unlike my master, but I shall never mention that. By the way, there’s a car waiting outside, on a double yellow. Only if you had no other plans. I’ll run along if you do.’

Sean’s phone buzzed again, this time Kingsmith. He had never before dropped his call. But the money was banked, the deal done, and Midgard Lodge was his. The buzzing stopped, and Parch turned from the display case over which he’d busied himself.

‘Nothing vital?’

‘I’m free.’

‘Good man! Hope Indian’s OK? One of those pop-ups, all the rage. And if you don’t mind my saying, you look like you could kill a Cobra.’

Inouarfigssouak, Grand Massacre Bay

Grand Massacre? Kratoutsiak explained it in a few words. The story, though old, is worth telling. It remains in all memories.

Two boys were fighting on the shore of an island – the island where we were. A little brutally perhaps, like most children. One of them fell over. He shouted. The other, to keep him quiet, pummelled him with feet and fist. By chance, the grandfather of the fallen boy saw him. He ran up and joined them as he ought. There was a battle. Full of anger he hit so hard that one of the boys fell dead upon the rock. The other grandfather was furious and intervened. So did fathers, shrieking mothers, mothers-in-law, uncles, aunts, cousins, nephews and nieces. The whole camp was fighting. Injuries, invectives, horrors. All were in a state of unspeakable fury. They threw stones and bones at one another’s heads. Someone pursued a woman with a bloodstained harpoon. They destroyed themselves. Of the whole village only one person was left.

The story does not say how the survivor died.

The Last Kings of Thule (1956)

Jean Malaurie

9

As the ministerial car with darkened windows headed south, Sean assumed he was meeting Stowe at Westminster, and all this cloak-and-dagger stuff was Parch’s misplaced sense of drama, intended to impress Sean with his own command of perks. But they skirted Parliament Square and sped east along the Thames, and Parch begged Sean’s forgiveness in not saying more.

By the time they were passing the Tower of London, Sean guessed they were en route to Docklands, and by Canning Town and the highly visible police presence on the streets, he remembered seeing some protest on the news about the bi-annual arms fair, held at ExCel Centre. Parch rolled his eyes.

‘Word to the wise: we say Defence Expo.’ They looked out. A dense crowd of respectable-looking businessmen, and a few women, waited at the main entrance. Many had flight cases. ‘The British Government would not dream of sponsoring something as mercenary as an arms fair. Oops, don’t say that either.’

‘What, mercenary?’ Sean enjoyed his temporary Whitehall gravitas, reflected in the faces of the armed police waving their car through security. ‘Or Arms Fair?’

‘I’m serious. I can’t tell you why you’re here because all I know is that Stowe’s keen to meet you, so I crow-barred some daylight in his diary then chased you down, like the good dog I am. I’m guessing it’s a one-shot opportunity, but who for I don’t know. DQM, or poor Parch will be thrown off the gravy train.’

The car passed through tall steel gates and into the shadow of a line of battleships, moored outside the conference centre. As they got out they paused with a small crowd, watching a black-clad commando team demonstrate how they would take a ship, from a rigid inflatable boat several storeys below on the brown water of the Thames. Six men in balaclavas shot lines that attached to the freeboard of the ship, which they then scaled with extraordinary strength and dexterity. Sean felt soft and inadequate.

‘Here’ – Parch slipped a lanyard over his head – ‘you’re an MoD consultant for the day. Anyone asks if you’re a journalist, leave them in no doubt. One weaselled in yesterday under false pretences, then refused to leave. Started shouting about freedom of information. Like he’d know what to do with it. Come on, I’m starving.’

Parch’s ‘super-cool pop-up’ was in the Officers’ Mess of the Indian naval destroyer Kali. At the top of the gangplank a phalanx of dazzlingly starched officers waited to welcome them and Parch was as airy in his greetings as if he were the British Defence Secretary himself. He led Sean through to the source of the delicious aromas – a buffet hidden behind a wall of tall and broad khaki, navy and black backs, gold braid abundant on their shoulders. There was no getting through for a while, so he and Parch accepted samosas and bottled Cobra beer from passing waiters. Parch looked wistful.

‘We did one on ours, yesterday. A lunch. Friends, allies and countrymen, poached salmon and Coronation effing chicken, who thought of that? I wouldn’t say the tumbleweed blew, but it was nothing like this. Waft a bit of curry around, et voilà! Prey and predator at the watering hole. Spend on the catering, that’s the motto.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Problem with old Team GB is, their tastes were formed at public school. No gristle in the custard, they send it back.’

Sean tried not to stare. The mess looked like a fancy-dress party before people had had enough to drink. The bristling moustaches did not look real, and the braid and ribbons were comically bright. Out of a porthole he could see a golf-buggy full of men in Arab robes stopping at the bottom of the gangplank. One had a large hooded bird on his wrist.

At that moment, a volley of laughter burst from a nearby group and Sean saw the face of the British Defence Secretary, animated at its centre. The Indian commodores and generals around him were vastly amused.

‘Probably just mentioned Coronation Chicken,’ Parch murmured, smiling deferentially at his boss. Stowe nodded to Sean and held up his finger. Like Kingsmith, he thought. Sit, stay, up for a biscuit. But … good biscuits.

‘Before I go,’ Parch said in a low voice, ‘he’s very pro your price. For what you’ve pulled off, everyone thinks you deserve it.’

Sean took a slow pull at his Cobra.

‘My price?’

‘Come on.’ Parch looked at him sideways. ‘A Special K. You said you wanted one.’

‘Wasn’t that some kind of old nightclub drug?’ Sean knew exactly what it was, slang for a knighthood. But how on earth did Parch know he wanted that?

‘I believe it might have been. Didn’t you mention it at that brilliant party after Wimbledon last year? Or was it Royal Ascot? Land of Hope and Glory ring any bells?’

‘Not really.’ Sean looked at his new watch. He remembered all too well. It was at a post-racing party in Berkshire held on the Last Night of the Proms. Things had been very bad with Gail – or rather, he had behaved extremely badly yet again and only a massive bender could anaesthetise his shame.

It had all culminated at this party. At first all was well – the beautiful horses in their stables and the Union Jack bunting, the strangers who shared their coke, the cocktails – and then out of nowhere he was talking about his marriage, any marriage, surely everyone knew marriage was hard, surely everyone needed help?

The coke grabbed him by the lapels and announced through his drunken mouth that he didn’t mean to be such a shit, he was going to fix that just like he’d fixed himself his whole life, he wasn’t finished yet, and one day it was his ambition – he was up on a table by this stage – his ambition to serve his country and do something that mattered. He would show the world that he was a man of honour and the proof would be that he, Sean Cawson from nowhere, would win a fucking knighthood. For his country. He loved his country even if it didn’t love him. People had clapped, someone had helped him down. No. He had fallen. He shuddered at the memory.

‘I was totally fucked up too,’ Parch confided, ‘much worse than you, don’t even worry. I only remember it because it was such a rousing speech. You were like Russell Crowe in Gladiator when he’s going to kill the one with the twisty face. I thought, aha now, there’s a man to watch. And wasn’t I right? By the way, I even heard you mentioned at Chatham House the other day, in the same breath as the words: paradigm shift. Before you won the bid. Certain people have been watching you very closely. Obviously I can’t reveal who.’

‘Obviously.’ Sean went to drink his beer and found it empty. While Parch wittered on, name-dropping the latest world leaders and giving the impression he was almost on sleepover terms, Sean kept an eye on Philip Stowe. The new Defence Secretary paid smiling and intent attention to each of the Indians in the circle. Sean could not decide which way the interview was going – or if it were a circle of wolves deciding whether they would eat the creature in the middle. As he looked at his watch, Stowe disengaged from the group and came over.

‘Go away, Parch.’ Philip Stowe had a pleasant voice and twinkly eyes, which he kept on Sean. He offered his hand. ‘Good of you to come.’

‘And you to ask.’ Sean shook with equal brevity and firmness. Stowe had asked for the date, let him lead.

‘How’d you do it?’ Stowe didn’t mess around. ‘Midgardfjorden. Not the biggest, not the prettiest, ruled out weeks ago – but suddenly you’ve got the ring on your finger.’