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- Herausgeber: Fledgling Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Edinburgh is basking in an unnaturally warm winter until the snow starts falling. When a student disappears, along with his climate research, and the national government close down all communications, Professor Finlay Hamilton realises there is a link between his own research into dark matter and the freak weather. Suddenly he is in a desperate race to save his wife, Jess, and their young family from a catastrophic event. His only help is a man from Jess's past, a past he never knew existed. From the author of Whirligig: longlisted for the CWA John Creasey New Blood Dagger 2020 and shortlisted for the 2020 Bloody Scotland McIlvanney Prize, something completely different - an environmental thriller like no other.
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The great sea moves me, sets me adrift.
It moves me like algae on stones in running brook water.
The vault of heaven moves me.
Mighty weather storms through my soul.
It carries me with it.
Trembling with joy.
From the Inuk poem-song
‘Earth and the Great Weather’ by Uvavnuk
CHAPTER 1 Gaia’s Children
I
In less than twenty-four hours, Siobhan would be dead – but for now she lay in bed as comfortable and careless of time as a cat. Edinburgh Zoo was less than a mile away, and sometimes, when the air was still and night lay upon the city, she caught incongruous jungle sounds through open windows and imagined herself in far more exotic locales.
Siobhan had always been a dreamer. Caught in a strong current of whimsy from an early age, her life had followed an impetuous flow to the present where she now circled in a slow-moving eddy, waiting for the moment when she would be borne somewhere afresh. She had studied for a degree in Film at Napier University, a decision made for her by teachers and parents desperate to find a career suited to her personality. Surprising everyone, not least herself, she had graduated with a first but now worked at a florist shop on the High Street with that dream a distant memory.
The house retained other lost souls; flotsam deposited in the same backwater that held Siobhan. Like her, they had come to Edinburgh to study and then remained for reasons they wouldn’t have been able to articulate – moths hypnotised by city lights.
Edinburgh basked in the light of a dying day, the sinking sun catching its own broken reflection in a myriad of city windows, leaving jewels and gold carelessly scattered in its wake. In less than an hour the sun’s funeral pyre would bathe western clouds with its blood and then Rick would be gone.
“Do you really love me?” Siobhan’s dark eyes interrogated his, searching for reassurance, truth. They lay facing each other, the late autumnal light finding a gap in the hastily drawn curtains and sending an inquisitive shaft of golden light into the bedroom. His hand paused its slow traverse across the small of her back, halted in that natural smooth hollow towards the base of her spine. She could feel the tremble in his fingers as they lay still on her skin until he rolled away from her to check the time.
“Do you need to ask?” His eyes found hers again, looked deep into the heart of her. He smiled, the corners of his mouth twisting upwards and small dimples forming on his cheeks. He looked younger when he smiled, boyish and carefree. She stroked his cheek, gently grazing the emerging stubble with the back of her fingers.
“Do you have to go?”
His smile reversed, turning into a parody of sadness. “Money’s not going to earn itself, is it?” He rolled away from her, swinging legs over the edge of the bed to a sitting position. “I’ll be back in time for the demo tomorrow. Keep safe.”
She watched him as he padded barefoot to the bathroom, admiring the lean efficiency of his body, the slight sheen of sweat, the muscle evident under skin. The door closed – she could hear taps running as he washed his face, the scrape of toothbrush against enamel. She stayed immobile, warm, feeling strangely empty from where he’d withdrawn just minutes ago. His scent adhered to the sheets; her hand felt his residual warmth as she stretched an arm over to his side of the bed. Is this what it would be like if he left her for good – nothing but a ghostlike remembrance of him?
The bathroom door opened and he emerged, dragging on underwear and pulling on the security guard uniform so he looked like a fake policeman. He pulled the covers up to her exposed shoulder, tenderly kissing the skin before hiding it under the duvet. “See you later love. Be good.”
“Take care,” she responded automatically, and then he was gone. Siobhan lay there until the front door closed, leaving the house silent and her straining to hear his car starting in the street. Soon that sound had gone as well and she eventually stirred out of bed, pulling the covers down to air before she dressed, hair brushed and tied into a long brown ponytail which flounced behind her back as she ran downstairs to the kitchen. Three faces turned towards her as she opened the door, the smell of curry making her feel hungry.
“Still some left, help yourself.” Kate was a woman of indeterminate age and dressed in an ill-fitting jumper; one she’d bought from a charity shop without trying it on for size and now the garment enveloped her like a loose second skin. She had bought out her ex after the divorce, taken in lodgers to help pay the extended mortgage – and that was all she had ever divulged about her past. None of them had ever thought to ask her exactly how old she was – as if enquiring was somehow politically incorrect once someone was on the wrong side of thirty, much less pry into matters that were obviously meant to be kept locked away. Two young men flanked her, manspreading around the table which held an assortment of papers, bottles and plates.
“Rick away then?” Chris was the one smoking, a stream of white smoke accompanied each word as they left his lips. He watched her through round glasses, elbows resting on the table and eyes magnified by the lenses so his long, lean frame lent him the appearance of a praying mantis. She spooned curry onto a fresh plate, spotting a jar of mango pickle which she deftly grabbed with her spare hand before joining the others at the table. Chris drew his long legs up under his chair to create space for her.
“Yep. Off on nightshift – but he’ll be back for the demonstration tomorrow.”
“Where did you say he works?” Kate this time, her voice conversational.
“Some printers in town. He’s night security, shitty job but it pays well.”
A forkful of curry put an end to that conversation. Chris considered her as she ate, the end of his cigarette glowing red as he inhaled another lungful.
She chewed down on the curry, then paused in confusion as the heat of chilli exploded onto her tastebuds. The fork dropped to the table as she fanned her mouth in a panic, reaching for one of the open bottles to wash away the worst of the heat with warm beer. “Christ, that’s hot!”
They laughed, pointing to their own plates which had scarcely been touched.
“Chris bought these at the produce market, turns out they’re so bloody hot nobody can eat them. Called Dragon’s Breath.” The second male’s shaven head still held beads of sweat. He indicated a packet on the table containing a few red chilli peppers, one of which had been cut in half.
“I just wanted to give it a bit of heat.” The smoker sounded peeved. “If Sandy tried cooking a bit more often then it wouldn’t be left to me to cook all the time.” His appeal to Kate was met with a look that suggested he’d be well advised not to start down that well-trodden road.
“As if there wasn’t enough global warming already!” Sandy attempted a joke, but the subject matter was too serious for humour.
“Which printers did he say he worked at?” Kate continued her questioning only to receive a sharp look in response.
“I’m not a bloody idiot, Kate. He’s not an undercover cop or anything.”
“No-one’s calling you an idiot.”
The two men exchanged a look, eyes expressing a warning to not get involved.
“I’ve not told him anything about Gaia’s Children that he didn’t already know, stuff that’s in the papers. He knows nothing about what we have planned for the demo, just that it’s happening tomorrow in Edinburgh city centre.” She upended the beer bottle, emptying the contents down her throat and reducing the fierce heat left by the chillies to something more bearable.
Kate placed her hands palm down on the table in an attempt to calm the conversation down a notch. “I know you wouldn’t put any of us at risk, Siobhan. It’s just that other cells have been infiltrated and compromised, and they always use the same method – undercover cops getting into your knickers. We don’t know anything about...” She paused, lips pursed in concentration as she searched her memory for his name.
“Rick. His name’s Rick Preston.” She dug an iPhone out of her pocket and launched the Find Friends App, slamming it down on the table between them as if throwing down a gauntlet. The four of them watched as a map appeared on the screen, Rick’s face contained within a small circle anchored on a city street.
“You’ve checked him out?” Kate again, pressing for more.
“Yes! I’ve bloody checked him out. Everything’s cool.” Siobhan indicated the iPhone screen with a painted fingernail. “He knows I track him, he offered to let me see where he is at any time. He wouldn’t do that if he was a cop.”
“No. I suppose not.” Kate sat back in her seat, seemingly content that her concerns had been put to rest. Siobhan stretched her hand out to take another beer and the conversation seamlessly switched to who was ordering the pizza. Kate watched the iPhone screen until it blanked, her mind unaffected by the alcohol so eagerly consumed by her younger housemates.
II
The following day dawned bright and sunny, perfect weather for a climate protest. Kate packed her backpack in the kitchen before the others made an appearance. Sandy was the first to join her, his natural ebullient nature back in play now the pot had worn off.
“Morning.” He bounced across the kitchen like an excited child to give her a hug, before spinning on the spot to turn on the music, filling the room with a pulsing African beat.
“Morning, Sandy.” Kate smiled as he danced towards the toaster, putting bread into the waiting slots in perfect synchronisation to the beat. He really was irrepressible, able to shrug off world events that weighed heavily on her. Sometimes she felt as if she held the world’s many problems on her shoulders, bent double under a weight that would have crippled Atlas. “Chris up yet?”
“Yep. Saw him heading for the bathroom as I came downstairs.” Sandy’s voice issued from the fridge, making him sound as if he was in another room. He reappeared with a tub of butter, adding a jar of peanut butter from the shelf beside him. “I’m starving. Hardly had anything to eat last night.” He grimaced, bottom lip turning out in an exaggerated gesture of disgust. “That curry!”
She laughed with him. “Inedible!”
“We should weaponise it!”
“Not a bad idea. Give them a taste of their own pepper spray.”
“You’d blind someone with that stuff. It’s lethal.”
The toaster sprung into life, launching newly-browned bread into the air which Sandy deftly caught. Kate thought the pleased expression on his face would likely remain there all day. There’s something to be said for finding pleasure in the small things. She put the negativity away, grateful for Sandy and his African music, his daft bald head that had never held an evil thought. If only all men were like him, what would the world be like then? Not poisoned for greed, its creatures brutalised and exploited, stupidly destroying the only home we have.
“We ready?” Chris spoke quietly as he walked in, bringing her out of her contemplation of how things could be.
“Just waiting for Siobhan’s man.” Sandy spoke through a mouthful of toast. As if on cue, they heard the front door open. Kate inclined her head to obtain a view of the hall, catching sight of Rick in his security guard uniform before Siobhan obstructed her view as she flew down the stairs to greet him.
“Just have to change.” His words were cut off as Siobhan sealed his mouth with hers before they ran upstairs in a tangle of arms and legs, giggling like two teenagers or those newly in love.
Kate listened as their laughter quietened, the faint sound of more urgent animal noises reaching her before the bedroom door slammed. She stood, feeling suddenly alone, despite the two men sharing breakfast with her at the table, only too aware of the years since she had last been in love.
Sandy offered her toast, and she took a slice with a slight smile, recalling her lovers, from the most recent until they faded into the pattern left by her knife spreading butter. Was it her? Did she drive them away? Without fail they’d last three or six months before apologetically announcing they had to leave: an RSPB warden on a deserted Scottish island; a year’s contract in New Zealand which was too good to turn down; rewilding a Highland estate with wolves. Anything that took them away from her. She considered why that should be as the African soundtrack played a track she recognised – Stimela – Hugh Masekela’s trumpet playing a mournful lament to the South African mineral miners and the coal trains that ferried them so far away from home. Had her lovers mined her, taken whatever they needed from her motherlode before moving on? She felt as if that might be the case, freely offering herself and giving her love unconditionally to each one until one day she woke with her capacity to love gone. Kate was too young to be this cynical, too old to fall in love easily.
She finished her toast in silence, scarcely listening to Chris and Sandy as they exchanged morning pleasantries. The day ahead consumed her, internal doubts about her course of action needing addressed, dealt with and closed down. They had to do something big, something that made a difference – otherwise Gaia was just another pathetic protest group that would eventually sink into obscurity like all the others.
“That’s them.” Sandy announced as the urgent sound of feet on stairs reached them.
She watched Rick as he greeted the boys, as she termed them, hands gripped firmly, half hugs. Did he look like someone who’d just worked a night shift?
“You sure you’re up for this, Rick? Don’t you want to catch up on some sleep?” Kate retained her innate suspicion that Siobhan’s new boyfriend was somehow more than he appeared.
Rick paused on his way to give her a hug. “Me? No, I’m fine. I can manage a demonstration, especially for something as important as this.”
She turned away from him to pick up her rucksack, denying him the chance to hug her. “Great. Let’s go then. Just one thing – we need to leave our phones here, in case they’re being tracked.” Kate made a deliberate show of placing her phone on the kitchen table. One by one the others’ phones followed suit until there was a small collection of expensive hardware.
They left the house, walking in a companionable group. Kate waited until they’d reached the main road where the traffic noise masked any eavesdroppers.
“There’s one small change of plan.”
They gathered around her, curious faces close to hers.
“We’re not going on the Edinburgh march. We’re going to close Grangemouth.”
Rick was the first person to react. “Close Grangemouth! The petrochemical works?”
Kate nodded emphatically. “That’s the major source of oil and gas production in Scotland. We hit where it will do the most good.”
Chris, Sandy and Siobhan looked elated, but she’d seen the stricken expression flit across Rick’s face before he joined in with the fist pumps.
CHAPTER 2 Mountains out of molehills
I
“Come and look at the snow!” Jess held back the curtain as the children ran excitedly to press snub noses to the glass panes, wide eyes entranced as each flake made inevitable progress from heaven to earth, chased inopportunely by gusts of wind freshly carried on chill easterlies.
“Can we go out and play?” The eldest, a girl of eight young years pleaded, large dark brown eyes in a soft white face framed by brown curls, freckles competing with both hair and eyes to complete the colour coordination.
“Come on then. You’ll have to wrap up warm, it’s cold outside.” Jess ushered the two children out into the hall, the younger boy already impatiently pulling on his jacket and stamping small feet into recalcitrant boots before his sister had dragged herself away from the bewitching sight of falling snow.
“Just wait a minute, Lewis.” She directed the words to the boy, staggering towards the front door with boots facing in different directions. “What have we got here?”
The question was rhetorical but served to stop his progress as she bent down to retrieve an errant foot and replace it into the correct boot. He ducked as she aimed a knitted scarf at his neck but, as expert as a cowhand, she lassoed his neck in warmth, tucking small fingers into woollen gloves for good measure.
“I’m going to make a snowman!” Lewis declared, voice high with excitement. “Me too,” the girl added, keen not to let her younger brother take the initiative. A black labrador joined the throng in the hall, getting underfoot and delaying Jess’s attempts to put on boots and jackets. The animal joined the hysteria that was barely contained within such a small space, its four feet fighting a losing battle to remain soberly anchored to the ground as it had been trained.
“Let me get to the door,” Jess’s laugh cleared a space for her to gain access to the lock, and she pulled the door open to let an avalanche of small bodies and fur run out into a world turned newly white.
“Skye, help me roll the snow into a big ball.”
Jess watched the two children playing in the fresh snow. Barely enough had fallen to gather into any substantial quantity, but they set to with that level of determination that only children can muster. The dog meanwhile had returned to puppydom, snapping uselessly at individual flakes and throwing two front paws down on the ground in a challenge to the elements. Her heart had more than enough warmth to counter the bitterness of the weather, an early cold snap giving due warning of the winter to come.
“I’m going back in, kids,” Jess announced to the two industrious snow engineers, lost in the intricacies of their game to the exclusion of all else. With a last look to check that her offspring were safe, an automatic reflex pre-programmed from unimaginable generations of mothers past, she took herself back into the welcoming glow cast by a woodburning stove, extending fingers to soothe away the red rawness that had so quickly taken hold. She positioned herself to catch the benefit of the heat whilst keeping a watchful eye on the children; then on an impulse, ran to fetch a camera, taking shot after shot of the outdoor activity through the double glazing.
The house sat low and comfortable in the landscape, evergreen firs forming an implacable backdrop. The trees shrugged off the snow with impatient movements of their sloping shoulders as the wind tugged and pulled at the branches. A single road wound its leisurely way up a gentle slope, their house the penultimate destination before it terminated at a farm, further up the hill. The views from here were panoramic. Across the wide flood plain of the River Forth, the city of Stirling was dominated by its castle, perched on an extinct volcanic core much like its more impressive cousin at Edinburgh. Just a few kilometres east, on its own rocky outcrop, the Wallace Monument stuck a stone finger up derisively in commemoration of one of the few decisive battles ever won against the English.
The snow lent charm to the view, fields turning white and virginal as flakes consolidated their hold on the newly ploughed land. Sheep continued grazing, the grass still showing above the little snow that held sway. Car headlights formed a glistening jewel-like ribbon on the motorway far away, too far to catch the continuous noise this major artery generated.
They’d chosen well, she decided, watching the scene from her high vantage point. Close enough for the cities of Glasgow and Edinburgh, handy enough for local schools and shopping, hospitals and restaurants; yet far enough away from all that to provide a quiet and safe environment for them all to live. It was the quiet and solitude that attracted her to this place, tucked away at the top of a single-track road to nowhere. Her mind wandered back to when she was a child, the snow bringing unwanted memories into focus. Blood staining snow deep red, seven-inch blade wet with crimson jewels, the rough feel of arctic fatigues, white on her skin. She looked around her, embarrassed to find herself so easily slipping back into an earlier life – one she needed to keep hidden for the sake of her family.
As she thought of her family, the young girl faded back into the darker recesses of her mind. Jess fetched her mobile to see what the weather was like in Edinburgh, then called her partner on speed dial. Finlay worked just a few days a week at Edinburgh University; one of the perks of being a professor of astrophysics – along with a healthy salary.
“Hi, what’s the weather doing where you are?”
“Hi lovely. Snowing a bit, what’s it like in the sticks?”
She smiled, they hardly lived any distance away from Edinburgh, some 40 miles at best, and most of that on fast motorways. Yet friends in the capital, even here in Stirling, considered their home to be almost in the Highlands.
“It’s not doing very much, a few centimetres at most. The kids are enjoying it, though – and Sorrel.”
“I’m leaving in an hour, just another paper to mark and I’ll be on my way.”
“Drive carefully.” The response was automatic, nothing about the weather was out of the ordinary, but even a small amount of snow caught idiot drivers out, and she didn’t want him to be involved in an accident.
“Love you!”
“Love you too.”
A glance out of the window confirmed the children were still there, although what danger could possibly affect them here, she couldn’t imagine. Besides which the dog would surely bark if any stray car or walker came up the lane. The daylight was already fading, each day contracting towards the winter solstice. Outside, the security floodlights came on, white lights making a stage of the lawn and highlighting the myriad flakes as they pirouetted in each beam. Even so, it would soon be time to call them in before the temperature dropped any lower.
Jess busied herself in the kitchen. Burgers, chips and peas appeared out of ovens and pans as if by magic and were placed on the kitchen table to the accompaniment of the radio news. The children were called, seated, and as they and the dog fed noisily and messily, she listened to the radio with half an ear.
‘This seems as good a time as any to see what the weather’s doing. Here’s Julian at the weather desk.’
“Quiet kids. Let me hear the weather forecast. You don’t want to miss school, do you?” The noise levels redoubled with the possibility of not having to go to school tomorrow, and it was only by resorting to the bribery of ice-cream that she was able to listen to the end of the report.
‘…no significant disruption to travel, although motorists are advised to keep to the statutory speed limits and allow additional space between vehicles. The outlook for the rest of the week is sunny, and any snow should melt away as this unseasonal warm front brings temperatures up to 10 or 11°C, except for mountaintops over 800m which have had their first significant fall of the season.’
‘Good news for skiers then, Julian?’
‘Yes, a good start for the ski resorts, especially after such a poor season last year.’
‘Thank you, Julian. More from him later but first a quick travel update. Climate change protesters, “Gaia’s Children” have blocked the centre of Edinburgh. Police estimates suggest over two thousand protesters have spilled out from Princes Street Gardens and have advised motorists to avoid that area if possible. We’ll bring you updates on this breaking story during the News Report at 5. Until then, here’s a song for everyone stuck in traffic – Feeling Hot Hot Hot by the Merrymen.’
Jess turned the radio off, and they moved en masse to the TV lounge to devour a favourite Disney film before bedtime.
II
Sorrel’s bark announced Finlay’s imminent arrival, headlights swinging up the single-track road before the floodlights confirmed the 4 x 4’s presence on the drive. Jess spooned a thick stew onto two plates, a warming dish for a wintry night just as Finlay came into the kitchen. He made a beeline for her, arms wrapped tightly around her waist until Jess shooed him away so she could continue preparing the meal. He took comfort instead from the Aga, solidly commanding the kitchen with its heat, leaning on the metal towel rail to let the warmth permeate his body.
“God, it’s cold out there tonight. The car said it was two degrees but it feels more like -10 in that wind.”
“Were the roads bad?” Jess added vegetables to the plates, warm, scented tendrils of steam climbed upwards, miniature corkscrews curling towards the ceiling.
“That smells good.” Finlay let go his grip on the warm towel rail and took his seat at the table, knife and fork raised in readiness. “No, not too bad. I was listening to the weather forecast on the way back, they expect it to have all gone by morning.”
Their shared enjoyment of the meal was punctuated by short interrogations of each other’s day, mutual reassurance that all was right with their individual worlds, and a shared despair at the sad state of the rest of the planet.
After the children’s traditional bedtime stories, repeated time after time until the children knew them better than the storyteller, they eventually quietened and fell fast asleep.
Some hours later, as they lay in bed watching the snow building on the Velux rooflights, Finlay ran the concerns he’d heard from one of the staff past Jess.
“You remember Dave Finnigan? He was telling me about the research he’s supervising from one of his students on ocean currents.”
“Is he the one with the grey hair and ponytail?”
“Yep, that’s him. Well, this PhD student is using some supercomputer time to run a ‘what if’ analysis on global warming, and the likely effect on major ocean currents – you know, the Gulf Stream, Humbolt current. Turns out that another degree of global warming causes these currents to switch off.”
“Is that likely?”
“No, I think the trouble is with the model he’s using. But the loss of these currents would be catastrophic! The El Niño would fail in the southern hemisphere, and here, the Gulf Stream would stop providing the warming effect that prevents us from getting arctic weather.”
“I thought global warming meant just that. Haven’t the last few years been the warmest on record?”
Finlay rolled over to face her, hand finding her hand in the dark. “Yes, all other predictions point towards the planet warming up. Increased storms, disruption to rainfall patterns, more flooding as sea levels rise.”
“Lucky we’re up on the hill then.” Jess made light of his comments.
Finlay made a non-committal grunt in response.
“You’re not going to get involved, are you?” Jess knew only too well how he liked to range freely over other departments’ work, an ever-present curiosity that she felt other people took advantage of, leaving Finlay to do the heavy lifting they were too idle to do themselves.
“I just told Dave I’d have a look at the software model for him. Probably just a sign wrong, putting a negative into the wrong part of an equation or something like that. You know what post grads are like – shouldn’t be allowed out on their own.”
Something in his voice ran false, or was she imagining it? “You’re not worried about this are you?” She loved him dearly, but sometimes he was prone to taking the world’s concerns onto his shoulders, and she knew the faltering world climate agreements had unsettled him.
“Good God no! No, it’s fine – just helping a colleague.” He kissed her forehead. “Night.”
Satisfied that all was well, Jess slipped into an easy sleep, to all intents, lost to the world. Under the tousled hair, her senses kept autonomous watch, even as she slept. Some things can never be unlearned.
Finlay lay beside her, eyes still open and watching as the flakes fell, settled and in turn melted as heat escaped from the double-glazed skylights. He waited for sleep to come, but he kept re-running Dave’s conversation in his mind. The meeting had been unplanned and flippant, sharing a grabbed coffee in the afternoon – but he’d felt an underlying concern that Dave had tried to hide. Dave Finnigan was many things, but as one of the leading academics on climate science his opinion was sought after and respected the world over. What if this thesis he had been given stood up to review? The tipping point was precise, just fractions of a degree would be enough to stop the planet’s major circulatory systems in their tracks. It was the unknown that prevented sleep from coming; uncharted territory that he’d normally be eager to explore suddenly became frightening as he ran scenarios past his mind’s eye. Scenes in which he and his family died a slow and lingering death, whilst the world fell apart around them.
He rolled onto his other side, hand up under the pillow to achieve the most comfortable angle for his head. Cursing himself for having an over-active imagination, he closed his eyes and told himself he’d look at the software model tomorrow. Chances were he’d just imagined Dave’s concern, mountains out of molehills.
CHAPTER 3 Under the Ice
I
Dr Donald McDonald sat in front of the screen, watching live data being fed back from the remotely controlled submersible as it steered a course under the Antarctic ice sheet. Living on board the RRS Sir David Attenborough, one of some sixty research personnel and thirty crew who shared cramped space on the polar research vessel, he wondered again at the wisdom of whoever had chosen someone with his name to head up the submersible team. Being placed in charge of Boaty McBoatface, as the submersible was officially known following an online poll, had caused some of the more humour-deficient crew members to outdo themselves with puns and shocking Scottish accents every time they had dealings with him.
It was bad enough that the ship had narrowly escaped being launched with that name, only changed later on by some shadowy dealings in the House of Lords, but the Natural Environment Research Council felt that the overwhelming public vote for a name should still apply, hence the small yellow subsea exploration vessel had obtained the designation by default.
Donald smiled at the screen anyway. A sense of humour was top of the list of requirements for anyone considering a tour of duty at either pole. The work was important, collecting data from the most inhospitable ends of the planet, but meant that you had to commit to a minimum six months locked inside a reinforced steel hull with only sporadic re-stocking visits to the Falkland Islands for diversion.
It was entering summer in the southern hemisphere, with days that stretched out longer and longer, the further south they travelled. The sun had no sooner taken a leisurely dive into the sea’s curved horizon than it started climbing up again, leaving a short period of grey uncertainty between day and night. Donald felt an affinity for this time, the Summer Dim as it was known in his native Shetland. He felt as if he belonged in the Summer Dim, outwardly a man, yet he felt none of the basic human drives that other men felt; neither one thing nor the other and occupying a lonely hinterland of his own. He took refuge from other people’s expectations by losing himself in his work, and these long ocean-going trips provided the ideal environment for him to just be.
“That’s the readings coming on screen now.” Hiyori Mizushima was on her first tour with the NERC, having gained a doctorate in Geophysics and Meteorology from Edinburgh University that year.
“Let’s see what we’ve got.” Donald was all business, concentrating on the figures flowing across the screen – a mathematical analogy of current depth, strength and speed deep within the Southern Ocean, some 1000km off the southern tip of Chile’s Cape Horn. Hiyori moved to one side to allow Donald better access to the array of screens, wondering again at his lack of interest in her. At university, her striking oriental looks had made it commonplace for her to reject advances from both sexes, yet here was a man she admired and, so far at least, he’d shown nothing but professional interest in their shared research.
“That can’t be right!” Donald’s voice was cross, finger pointing at a stream of figures traversing the screen in front of her.
She checked the telemetry data from the submersible, nothing showing as untoward. “The probe reports all sensors operating correctly. Do you want to bring it back for a check?”
“No, it’s only just left engineering and I double-checked everything before we launched.” Donald scratched his head, thick blond hair owing more to Viking genes than that mish mash of Celtic races. “According to this, the Humbolt current isn’t there – at least not this far out. What were the figures last year?”
Hiyori checked her laptop screen, spreadsheets opened containing rows and rows of raw data, looking more like an unbreakable code than anything of use. But each line displayed depth, temperature, salinity, current strength and direction, and were as easy for her to read as a book.
“These were from about this time last year.”
Donald didn’t require a detailed analysis to see that the current had dropped away from a peak to virtually nothing within the last 12 months.
“What about the other factors?”
Hiyori consulted her laptop. “Salinity about the same, temperature’s up point four.” She looked quizzically up at Donald, hunched over one of the screens with disbelief written over his face. “Shouldn’t we expect the salinity to have risen with temperature?”
“I’m going to have to requisition a change of course, take us up the Chilean coast where the current’s stronger. It must just have changed direction a bit.” He smiled reassuringly. “Bit like the Jet stream. Thing’s all over the place.”
He started towards the metal bulkhead door, balance compensating for the lurch as a particularly large wave hit the boat, placing his feet with all the skill of a seasoned sailor. “Could you send the data from this run direct to Professor David Finnigan? I’m only looking at this because he specifically wanted the data for some postgrad. Now I’ll have to explain to the captain why I’ve gone off-piste.”
“Sure, I’ll send it when we get the probe back. I’d just like to check the onboard data in case the telemetry’s got scrambled somehow.” She felt a moment’s dissatisfaction with his apparent asexuality as he left the room, almost as if he was somehow affronting her, then returned her focus to the screens. The live video feed caught a solitary fish in its lights, a brief flash of silver in the otherwise inky blackness. The sight made her think that Donald would be able to live like that with ease; alone, cold and in the dark.
II
Sitting at a cluttered desk in his Edinburgh office, Professor David Finnigan frowned at his computer screen as the latest set of figures arrived from the Antarctic. He re-read the email confirming that all telemetry systems were operating correctly, then looked at the figures again. With a few deft finger movements, the data was transferred across to the website hosting the supercomputer on which his PhD student had requisitioned time for running his climate model. It was now just a case of waiting until spare capacity allowed a low priority student project the few minutes it would take to run the updated data, but he already suspected what conclusion would issue from the simulation.
Leaning back in his chair, his fingers unconsciously stroked the grey ponytail that had become his trademark; an allowable idiosyncrasy for someone so well-respected amongst his peers. The snow that had fallen yesterday had all melted away, delicate crystal structures no defence against the unseasonal warmth of the day. He had noticed some of the more adventurous students had reverted to summer wardrobes – t-shirts and short dresses in defiance of seasonal norms as they revelled in the sudden burst of unexpected heat. Street cafes once more overspilled the pavements, clientele adopting the continental fashion of people-watching from behind frothy cappuccinos or catching glimpses from over the top of Apple laptops as they grabbed free bandwidth. This year had been warm. Nothing remarkable compared to some of the record-breaking events elsewhere on the planet, but the wind that sailed up the Forth and made Edinburgh the windy city of Scotland was unseasonably pleasant, lacking its normal bitter wintry edge.
Whilst the rest of the city basked in an Indian summer that had stretched all the way into December, David Finnigan felt torn between a fight or flee reflex in response to the quandary he now faced. He had the data, plus evidence from thousands of years’ worth of ice core samples, but what to make of the analysis? A leading academic shared many of the same qualities of a tightrope walker, treading a fine line between towering theories with each step cautiously testing the tension and balance; all the while unexpected side winds threatened and onlookers waited hungrily for the misplaced step that would cause his fall from grace. But standing still was never an option. The mere process of placing one step in front of the other helped in some arcane way to keep balance, to thwart the natural oscillation of the high wire that threatened to throw him.
His fingers flicked over the keyboard perched on the edge of the desk, and NASA’s public climate website filled the screen. Running totals for Carbon Dioxide, Global Temperature, Arctic Ice, Land Ice and Sea Level showed as an information bar. Scrolling pictures of glaciers and satellite images made the site look like the glossy pages of National Geographic. The displayed figures all showed agreement with the generally accepted planetary diagnosis of global warming, and he viewed the figures much as a doctor would interpret the digital readouts next to an intensive care patient, lips pursed tightly in response to unwelcome but expected readings.
Slow warming of the planet was survivable. Another 6 cm rise in sea level per year would cause major problems for coastal areas, or the loss of a few more Polynesian islands, but the key word was slow. Slow left room for mankind to understand the reality of a warming planet, change their profligate use of carbon fuels and gradually reduce, or even reverse the worst environmental effects. The alternative was to risk a threatened thermal runaway event that could tip the delicate balance between survival and extinction. His student’s oceanic model turned accepted climate science on its head. The global currents of sea and air that had run like a dependable clockwork mechanism for millennia, mitigating the worst of any warming effects, were predicted to switch off in response to melting ice caps. Fresh water dumped into the polar seas from meltwater was shown to act as a brake, and the resulting change in climate towards another mini ice age was, in geophysical terms, instantaneous. He’d checked the climate model, double-checked the mathematical equations that his student had selected to drive the simulation – he couldn’t find any mistakes. Even so, the model made generous use of some of the worst ‘what if’ scenarios, and he was minded to penalise him on an overly pessimistic and biased approach; that was until he’d seen the latest data in this email.
David Finnigan had not expected the telemetry from the Antarctic research vessel to substantiate his student’s research project predictions so closely – quite the opposite. There was always the possibility that the current had changed position, or there was a problem with the ship’s equipment – but he knew the scientists involved and they were at the top of their game. He could withhold the data, wait until the figures agreed more with the generally accepted understanding of what the planet’s circulatory systems were expected to do – or he could stand alone and face the derision of being the first person to tell the world that it was now too late for mankind to change its reckless use of carbon-derived energy.
It would take a week or two for the Antarctic survey vessel to arrive off the Chilean coast, then another week to track down the Humbolt current – assuming it had shifted. Leaning back in his chair, his chin resting on steepled fingers, David ran his own internal modelling analysis. These calculations involved the feelings he used to have for his wife of twenty years, a weakening release of the neurotransmitter, dopamine, which was going the same way as the errant ocean current, whilst a new, intense tidal stream was taking its place. His eyebrows drew together in irritation as he considered the cause for this change – a young woman laughing at his archetypical concerns that their new relationship was nothing other than a mid-life crisis, a last desperate attempt by his gene pool for some kind of immortality. She was convinced this was love they felt, an emotion so pure and simple that she couldn’t understand how David could believe that their relationship could be anything other than everlasting. He felt the weight of his 45 years, the accrued cynicism and weariness dragging him down so that his leaden feet remained resolutely on the ground. What the hell – you only live once!
Fingers back on the keyboard, he forwarded the latest telemetry data to Professor Finlay Hamilton, thankful that another – more mathematically capable head, had offered to run a sanity check on the figures and computer model. David logged off, unwound his lanky frame from the comforting hold of his office seat, and let go of his sanity; keying a familiar number into the PAYG phone he kept for that purpose. The frown that seconds ago been etched into his face smoothed away as a young woman’s voice answered. If he had been offered the first glimpse of the cataclysmic event that heralded the end of the Anthropocene, he was determined to make the most of whatever time lay ahead.
CHAPTER 4 Dark Matters
I
Fergus McLeod lay in bed, watching the sky lighten from dark cobalt to powder blue through his grimy tenement apartment windows. Bare branches stood stark against a cloudless sky, offering the promise of more unseasonal sunshine. He drew another deep drag from the joint held between nonchalant fingers, cannabis smoke gratefully received into his lungs, adding to the pleasant fug already clouding his mind. Life as a post grad wasn’t too bad, he reflected. Working hours that suited him and pursuing research that was just far enough off the well-travelled academic pathways to allow him more freedom than most. He smiled at the thought of his mentor, Professor David Finnigan, looking over his climate thesis. The maths was well beyond him, he could see that, and whilst the professor was acutely aware of what the environmental model foretold, he didn’t have a clue about the link to the cyclic perambulations of our little planetary system that Fergus was going to add at the last minute. That should wipe the smug smile off his face.
A girl stirred out of slumber beside him as the city came to life, the noise of rush hour traffic evident, even at three storeys high. Fergus stroked her auburn hair, her face still buried in pillows. Was it mere luck that had brought them together – he a PhD student writing a thesis on climate change, and she writing a thesis on astrophysics? Anything other than random chance would imply a cosmos where free will was an illusion, where nothing happens by accident. He’d seen plenty of people seduced by that thought, throwing themselves wholeheartedly on the mercy of an omnipotent being. There was even a research paper he’d read, years ago, evaluating MRI scans of believers and non-believers and finding direct correlation in regions of brain activity between the two sets. Whether a predisposition to religion was hard-wired into the brain or a cultural appropriation was a moot point. No matter, her research fell neatly into his model; although somewhere along the line he’d have to come clean and ask her permission to use it.
A hand crept out from underneath the covers as her face turned towards him. “Give me a toke, you selfish bastard!”
Fergus held the joint until she levered herself up into a sitting position, waiting until she’d brushed the hair away from her face. Slender long fingers took the reefer in a delicate hold, nail varnish crimson red against the pale white of her skin. She inhaled deeply, holding her breath to extract the maximum hit from the tetrahydrocannabinol compounds before reluctantly releasing it, a stream of white smoke forcibly leaving her lips in a jet stream of her own creation. She sighed in contentment, body pressing warmly against his.
“That’s such a good way to start the day.”
Her hand danced away from his as he tried to retake the joint, replacing it firmly against her opening mouth as she took another heavy draw. The tip glowed red, small sparks flared momentarily into the air as cannabis oils burned with the tobacco. Eyes held his in a languorous glance, before she released another narrow stream of smoke in a reverse kiss. “What’s the time?”
Fergus rolled away from her to look at a cheap alarm clock, red LED numbers swirling around in his vision before he focussed.
“Half nine,” he announced carelessly, only to have the remains of the joint thrust into his hand as she half-fell out of bed.
“Shit. Shit. Shit!” She struggled to her feet, clutching various items of clothing as she ran into the bathroom. “I’m meant to be at work. Fuck!” The last word was punctuated by the dividing door slamming shut, cutting Fergus off from the beguiling view of her body which was beginning to impinge on his consciousness even through the narcotic smog. He shrugged, unconcerned about other people’s attention to timekeeping, and the joint automatically went back to his mouth as he extracted the last few millimetres.
“Hey Seonaid – you want to meet up this evening. Go to the pub?” Fergus shouted at the closed door, trying to compete with the sound of running water as she attempted to wash in his cramped bathroom. He waited in vain for a response, until the door flew open and she emerged, half-running past him towards the main door. Her hands busy adjusting her hair until the last second, when she lunged for a shoulder bag.
“You knew I had to be at work!” Her voice came sharp and hurried as she fumbled with the door catch, one hand re-adjusting an errant shoe.
“Sorry,” came Fergus’s nonchalant response.
Her eyes flicked towards his, taking in his square jaw with morning stubble just starting to shade it blue. Lips pursed at her own stupidity, she nodded, already forgiving him another misdemeanour in the mistaken belief that he loved her really. “OK, I’ll see you at 9:00. Got to work late.” She blew a haphazard kiss towards his general direction as she left, slamming the door behind her for good measure.
Fergus heard her feet as they ran down the stone stairs, leather on stone beating an urgent rhythm that faded into the traffic noise, leaving him alone with his thoughts. His eyes lit on the cigarette papers next to the clock.
“Just one more to see in the day,” he told himself, reaching for the aromatic block that promised release from the jumble of thoughts desperately trying to be heard inside his head. Fergus watched his lighter flame dance over the black block, softening the resin until he expertly judged it ready to be crumbled into another joint. His full attention now focussed on the procedure, spreading the cannabis generously along the line of tobacco that lay in wait until it was rolled between fingers, paper sealed with a lick, and the joint held up for satisfied inspection.
