The Split - Sharon Bolton Page 0,3

a scrap of clothing. Every now and again it flares up, but they didn’t want to operate because of the proximity of the kidney.’

He should have worked it out by now. A badly healed scar, no access to decent surgery. Freddie will despise him for a fool if he hasn’t.

The doctor is no fool. Lightly, he touches Freddie’s right arm.

‘May I?’ he asks, as he raises and straightens it.

Freddie waits while the doctor examines the tattoo. A spider’s web, encircling his elbow and reaching several inches along both upper and lower arms. An elaborate design, because time hadn’t been an issue, drawn entirely in black, because colours weren’t available.

‘It symbolises boredom,’ Freddie says. ‘Sitting around for days on end with nothing to do. Spiders make webs on limbs that don’t move.’

‘I know,’ the doctor replies. ‘I’ve seen them before. You were stabbed, weren’t you?’

‘In the prison library. Most of the blood spatter went over the crime-fiction shelf, but they threw thirty books out all the same. Shame really. We never had enough to read.’

The doctor thrusts a thermometer towards his mouth, as though to shut him up.

‘Can you help?’ Freddie says, when his temperature has been taken. Slightly raised, nothing to get excited about. ‘With the abscess, I mean. I realise the tattoo is permanent.’

‘Lie on the couch, please,’ The doctor says. ‘Face down.’

Freddie does what he is told. It’s a habit he’ll probably never shake off now.

‘I can drain, clean and dress the abscess and give you a course of antibiotics,’ the doctor says, to the accompaniment of rattling instruments. ‘When you’re home, you might want to consider some exploratory surgery, see if you can fix the problem once and for all. It should be easier now that—’

‘Now that I’m out,’ Freddie finishes for him.

The doctor works in silence. Freddie closes his eyes, feeling nothing once the anaesthetic has kicked in.

‘I’ll be OK to go ashore tomorrow?’ he asks, when he’s been told he can get dressed.

‘As long as you’re feeling well enough.’ Sitting at his desk, the doctor starts typing. ‘What brings you to South Georgia?’

‘There was a book in the library,’ Freddie tells him. ‘Written by a couple who’d sailed there in the 1990s in an engineless sailing ship.’

‘Fair play.’ The doctor makes an impressed face.

‘Exactly. I thought they were mental. And brave. So, when I had the chance to do a trip, I thought I’d come here. Honour their journey, if you like.’

‘It’s certainly a beautiful and unique place. Did you come via South America?’

The doctor will know this already. All the passengers on board are on a three-week package tour that will take them, ultimately, to the Antarctic. He has been helpful, though, and the last thing Freddie needs now is to become the target of official attention.

‘Flight from London to Santiago, then on to Stanley,’ he says. ‘Coming here independently was beyond my means.’

The doctor hands over a slip of paper. ‘Give this to the pharmacy. They open in half an hour.’

Freddie takes the prescription.

‘How long did you serve?’ the doctor asks.

‘A long time,’ Freddie tells him. As he turns back to smile at the doctor, the other man takes a small start. ‘I deserved it,’ he says.

4

Felicity

A low mist hangs over the ring of mountains as the Rigid Inflatable Boat, the RIB, turns around Larsen Point. In Cumberland East Bay three private yachts swing at anchor close to the shore and a large cruise ship is parked up a little further out. With trembling hands, Felicity lifts her binoculars and sees the Southern Star on its port bow. Relief seems to suck the air clean out of her body. This ship has been in harbour for three days and is due to leave today. Its replacement, the last of the season, hasn’t arrived. She has time.

The RIB that has brought the team back from the glacier nudges the jetty and she jumps to her feet.

‘Whoa, steady on there, missy,’ Ralph, the head boatman, grumbles.

‘I’m fine, really. I’ve got it.’ Already out of the RIB, Felicity wraps the rope around the cleat to secure it. She runs along the jetty, across the stretch of land between the administrative buildings and the sea, and into the harbour master’s office. The wind takes the door from her hands and slams it open. Papers flurry, blinds rattle, and cigarette ash puffs into the air.

Nigel, one of three government officers who lives and works on the island on a rotational basis, isn’t alone. There are eight other people