of something floral is released as he opens the wardrobe. A row of shelves holds her sweaters, T-shirts and underwear. Trousers, a spare coat and a single dress are hanging up. He steps closer, pressing his face against fabric, breathing in her scent. The clothes are simple and functional, designed for comfort and warmth. And yet, if the photograph is recent, she is still the lovely young woman he dreamed of, night after night in his prison cell.
The trinket box is made of white bone china, oval in shape, with a circle of violets on the lid and, for a moment, Freddie is lost. Once, he saw that box every morning when he woke. The lid feels cool and delicate under his fingers. Inside are hair grips, a couple of pairs of stud earrings, a silver lily on a chain and a wedding ring.
He feels tears rising, his throat tightening. He bought this ring himself, when he couldn’t imagine not being in love, not looking forward to the future with anything other than joy. He’d thought that man was dead and buried, and now he finds he was here all the time, just waiting to be woken.
Unable to help himself, he slips the ring into his jacket pocket. He bought the silver lily too, a birthday gift, but she can keep that. The wedding ring he needs.
A little unsteady, he sits on the narrow bed. Outside in the corridor a door opens and footsteps walk away. He is wasting time. She’s gone to Bird Island and if he wants to find her, he has to go there too.
He gets up. On the desk beside the incubator is an open chart, weighed down with a stapler, a calculator and a reference book. It shows the entire island of South Georgia, a circle drawn in red ink around Bird Island in the top corner. To one edge of the chart are stuck several Post-it notes. The first seems to be a crude calculation of the journey time in a RIB. Six hours, at an average of twenty knots. The next is a list of items she needs to take for people called Jan and Frank. The final one contains radio frequencies and a weather forecast for that day.
Is it odd, he wonders, that she has taken none of this with her?
The noticeboard above the desk holds a computer print-out of a work timetable. She’s outlined that day and the following two in red ink and written: Bird Island, fledgling tagging. Her plans really couldn’t be clearer.
So, she is six hours distant, and the only way to follow her will be by boat. Somehow, though, he doesn’t think stealing a RIB will be quite as straightforward as picking a lock. If she’s gone to Bird Island, she’s successfully put herself beyond his reach and he’s travelled across the entire world for nothing.
He wanted to talk, that’s all. To fucking well talk.
Freddie is overcome by a sudden urge to wreck, to destroy. He turns to the penguin chicks and imagines hurling their cage against the far wall, taking his knife to her clothes, smashing the glass of the photograph into fragments. He steps towards it.
Except … in one of the neatest rooms he’s ever seen, she’s left a chart open on the desk, left behind weather reports she’ll probably need.
Freddie takes a moment, breathing deeply, until the rage subsides. Then he reaches beneath the desk to pull out the wastepaper basket and upends it. Crumpled tissues, a can of diet Coke, and an empty box of – he holds the label up to face the light – water purification tablets.
Why will she need water purification tablets at a BAS base? Why circle Bird Island on a chart that she’ll need again? And according to the woman in the shop, she’s been stocking up on supplies when she’ll surely be able to get everything she needs from the base. A smile breaks Freddie’s face. He’s done here.
The door of Felicity’s room closes softly behind him and he turns for the main entrance.
‘Help you, mate?’
Freddie spins back to face the slim man in jeans and a sweater. He is in his mid- to late thirties and something about his stance, if not necessarily his build or his stubbled beard, suggests the military.
‘I’m looking for Felicity,’ Freddie says. ‘Have you seen her?’
The man’s blue eyes narrow as he glances towards Felicity’s closed door. ‘You were in her room?’ His voice is pitched low, with a trace of