That afternoon, cooped up in our cabin, we worked on two things together. The first was the rough cut of our film. Amelia had told Macmillan we’d already made a start. While that was true, we still had a huge amount to do. Editing film is time-consuming. Between us we’d taken a lot of footage. And so much of it was good. Choosing what not to include was tough. We sped up the footage to run through it more quickly, but if we viewed it at anything above quadruple speed we risked missing details, so the process still took ages. I kept reminding Xander and Amelia that we weren’t trying to create a masterpiece at this stage; it was a question of cutting out the dead wood so that we could save all the good stuff. And I wasn’t about to rely on Macmillan for that. Although I knew it would take ages to upload and download such a big file, I wanted Xander to send it to me, Amelia and Mum via WeTransfer for safe-keeping.

  While Xander spearheaded the work on the film, I pulled together what we had on ‘shockwave’ and our wider misgivings about GreenSword and Macmillan. Mum would know what to do with this information. I knew she’d take me seriously, and I knew she’d alert the relevant authorities if she thought it necessary. I also knew she’d trust me to do what I could to find out more in the hours we still had left, and take any steps I could to sort things out.

  The difficulty I had, with Mum in particular, was Armfield. Somehow, I couldn’t fully implicate him. It seemed too cruel to let on that I suspected he was in cahoots with Macmillan, was using me, and stood to benefit from whatever crooked deal GreenSword was pursuing. I toned down my concerns and wrote only that Armfield was too close to Macmillan for me to risk raising my suspicions with him at this stage. But I included copies of Armfield’s photographed notes in the document; she could draw her own conclusions from them.

  Though we worked all afternoon, we still hadn’t finished by dinner-time. We arrived in the mess to find Armfield, Macmillan and Timo already at a table with, among others, Popov the pilot. This suited me – we got to sit on our own. I shovelled down a bowl of creamy chicken supreme quickly. We still had so much to do. Portholes ran down one side of the mess. They were full of reflected light: it was dark outside now. As we stood up to leave, Armfield broke from his conversation, looked my way, raised a thumb and nodded. His clear-eyed gaze seemed unconcerned, his greeting genuine. I didn’t know what to make of it.

  After dinner, it took me a while to finish my dossier for Mum. Amelia and Xander paused in their film-making to review it before I pressed send. Xander said, ‘Looks good to me’ but Amelia – as I knew she would – suggested some tweaks. ‘Prioritise the blueprints,’ she said. ‘Insist she gets them to somebody who will know what that machine is. Also, you’re too soft on Armfield: his notes make it clear that he’s in the know. That should be a full stop and start a new paragraph here and –’

  ‘I get it,’ I said, struggling to mask my irritation. She was right about the punctuation and the importance of the blueprints, obviously. But about Armfield: what did she know? ‘I’ll make the changes,’ I said. ‘And once I’ve sent this, I can help you guys.’

  Just before midnight, I sent what I had to Mum. To be sure she’d see it, I messaged as well, telling her to check her email. Amelia and Xander still hadn’t finished the edit. We spooled through more footage into the small hours, but it soon became apparent that to finish properly we’d have to stay up all night, and something told me we’d need to be rested – and alert – in the morning, so I called a halt. Bleary-eyed from so much screen-squinting, we all went to bed.

  Whereas the night before I’d been plagued by bad dreams, that night my subconscious gave me a break. I’d become a sluggish device with too many apps open, all of them competing for my processing power. Sleep rebooted me. I awoke feeling ready for anything.

  51.

  Unfortunately, feeling ready for anything is no use if nothing’s happening. It’s just frustrating. And that’s how the following morning began. I woke up at six and immediately scanned my messages for a reply from Mum, but there was none. We were two hours ahead of her in England. Perhaps she hadn’t seen my message before she went to bed, and the time difference might explain a slow response in the morning. At seven-thirty her time I called, but she didn’t pick up. Then at quarter to nine I finally received a text which simply said Can’t get through to you? Don’t jump to conclusions or do anything rash. I’m looking into it.

  She clearly didn’t realise the seriousness of the situation. I tried calling back to put her right but, just as she apparently hadn’t been able to reach me, her phone now went straight to her voicemail. In exasperation I sent more texts, but they too went unanswered.

  Meanwhile, Xander and Amelia ploughed on with the film edit. It was turning out to be much more time-consuming than we had imagined. We hadn’t even got to the footage of the submersible yet; that, together with the ice-breaking, would take a while to pare down. I was all for chopping together stuff more or less at random, just to get Macmillan off our backs, but Xander was adamant that we should do the job properly. Amelia agreed with him. ‘The film could well be the only good thing that comes out of this trip,’ she said.

  I could see her point, but still. It occurred to me that if Macmillan simply wanted us out of the way, then hitting us with this draconian deadline was a good way of achieving that end. Although I kept the thought to myself, it made me antsier still. The morning ground on. We couldn’t all work on the film together productively at the same time, so I went back to looking through the material I’d sent Mum, trying to see it through her eyes and wondering why she wasn’t more alarmed by the implications of what we’d discovered. Was it all a bit vague, perhaps? Was the ‘disruption event’ some corporate tactic after all, and the blueprint of the machine somehow a joke? The more I looked at the notes, the screenshots and the conversation snippets, the more I began to doubt myself, until suddenly I couldn’t bear being cooped up in the cabin a minute longer. I had to get out, immediately, and do something, even if I didn’t know what.

  ‘You guys OK to finish up?’ I asked. ‘The end’s in sight now, right?’

  ‘Sure,’ said Xander without looking up from his screen.

  ‘Cut that bit in next,’ Amelia said to him, not me. Then, ‘Yeah, whatever, we’ll make the deadline, and we’ll see you for lunch.’

  I headed out on my own, unsure where I was going, just intent on taking another look around the Polar Flow. We were well clear of the ice now, headed south through water as black as ink. From the lower rear deck, I watched the white spume churned up by our propellers spread out and melt away to nothing. A couple of gulls circled the boat, high above us, cutting back and forth across our wake. I skirted the stubby crane, walked up the gangway to the helipad, crossed it and re-entered the boat amidships.

  Technicians were at work in the laboratory, doing what, I had no idea. The operations room stood empty. The workspace next to it was full, however: through the open door I caught sight of Timo and Macmillan holding court. The latter, spotting me, gave me an ironic salute. It made me want to punch him, but what would be the point in that? I moved on, realising that the gesture was meant to make me do exactly that: it was at once mock-friendly and unwelcoming. Maybe that’s why the salute – and everything about Macmillan – annoyed me so much: though he seemed so chilled and accommodating, he was in fact controlling, manipulative, fake.

  I worked my way up to the bridge. Captain Lander and First Officer Harvey were there, bent over a screen, in the middle of a discussion. Neither noticed me stop in the doorway behind them.

  ‘If he wants us in this close, so be it,’ said Lander. ‘It’s no skin off my nose.’

  She stood back from the screen and put her hands on her hips.

  The first officer said, ‘Yes, but why the late change? What’s the point?’

  ‘Who cares?’ said Lander. ‘It’s hardly a difficult manoeuvre. They chartered the boat. They’ve got the relevant permissions. Our job is to navigate the prescribed route safely.’

  Harvey, lips pursed, breathed out hard through his nostrils, shaking his head. ‘If I knew the purpose of it, I’d be happier.’

  Captain Lander shrugged. ‘Don’t overthink it.’ She raised her hands to the back of her head and yanked her red hair more tightly through the elastic band that held her ponytail in place. Amelia does the same thing when she’s drawing things to a conclusion. Turning, Lander caught sight of me. Unease flickered in my chest: she’d been dismissive of us before, so would she berate me for being there now? Far from it. She seemed to welcome the diversion. ‘Hey,’ she said with a smile. ‘I saw you send that drone up. Are you pleased with the footage so far?’

  ‘Definitely,’ I said. I felt compelled to add, ‘Thanks for having us on board’ but kicked myself afterwards as it sounded so stilted.

  She smiled. ‘You’re welcome,’ she said, and turned back to First Officer Harvey.

  From the bridge I made my way to the forward observation deck. The visibility was good, the sky above us clear, the curve of the sea uninterrupted to the horizon. I had nothing concrete to navigate by and it occurred to me – more as a feeling than a thought – that I only had one real option, and that was to confront Armfield. Although I didn’t trust him, he was no Macmillan. We were connected. Even if I didn’t like it, I had to admit that fact. I’d talk to him at lunch, tell him we knew something was amiss, and ask him for an explanation. He’d probably lie to me, but at least I’d give him the chance to come clean.

  52.

  By now I knew the cook would be serving lunch, so I threaded my way back through the ship to the mess, where I was greeted by the smell of coriander-topped fish chowder, a bowl of which I demolished on my own while I waited for the others to arrive, fetch their own helpings and join me. They’d sent the film minutes before, Xander said. He looked genuinely relieved, proud in fact, to have submitted the edited footage by Macmillan’s deadline. I couldn’t help feeling pleased for him.

  ‘Great work, well done,’ I said.

  ‘Has to be said, it’s a slick first edit,’ said Amelia. ‘But there’s masses more still to be done at home.’

  Macmillan, dressed in a Norwegian fisherman’s jumper – thick knit, dark blue with flecks of white and a deep ribbed neck – padded into the mess a few minutes later, after Timo and a couple of technicians. Before collecting his own meal he swerved over to our table. ‘Guys, I’ve not looked at it yet, but I saw the message and clocked the attachment. Well done getting the film in on time.’

  Xander shrugged modestly.

  Amelia said, ‘Until you’ve watched it, you can’t be sure it’s a worthy effort.’

  ‘I trust you,’ he said, grinning at me. ‘We’re due back in port in the small hours. Enjoy the rest of the trip until then.’

  Trusting him and enjoying our remaining time on board the Polar Flow were both impossible. Right now, I just wanted to speak to Armfield. But although we stayed at our table all the way through the lunch sitting, he didn’t show up in the mess. Xander headed back to the cabin. Amelia stayed with me until everyone else had left, then said, ‘Why are we waiting exactly?’

  I explained what I’d decided to do.

  She narrowed her eyes. ‘In the absence of a further breakthrough, I suppose that’s a sensible option.’

  ‘If he doesn’t show in the next few minutes, I’ll go to his cabin,’ I replied.

  ‘Sure, do that,’ she said. ‘But don’t expect him to give you any answers.’

  I let ten minutes slide past. The cook began to wipe down all the floor-bolted furniture – tables and seats alike – with a bright blue dishcloth. When only our table remained for him to do, I stood up to go. Amelia fell in behind me, but I stopped her. ‘It’s probably best if I have this conversation alone.’

  ‘Are you sure you have all the detail at your fingertips?’ she couldn’t help asking.

  ‘Enough of it.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ she said matter-of-factly. ‘I’ll go help Xander.’

  With a heavy heart I trudged down a deck and forward to Armfield’s cabin. Up until that moment, a part of me had still been hoping against hope: now I was resigned to the fact that this conversation could only bring bad news. I almost turned back. But I had a duty – to Mum, and to myself – to confront Armfield and get to the bottom of what was going on.

  Steeling myself, I knocked on his door.

  There was no answer.

  I knocked again.

  Nothing.

  Again, harder.

  Not even a rustle. He wasn’t in there. The anti-climax tasted like a mouthful of dirt: I’ve eaten enough of it falling off my mountain bike over the years. Still, I had to climb back into the saddle. If he hadn’t been at lunch, and he wasn’t in his cabin, he had to be somewhere else on the ship. I did another lap, from the bridge to the bilge and from the stern to the bow, but I didn’t run into him. There were plenty of closed doors I couldn’t see through, however: he had to be behind one of those, I assumed, in a meeting with GreenSword’s technicians or Timo’s men or the ship’s crew. It was beyond frustrating – infuriating, in fact – not to be able to have it out with him now that I’d decided to do so, but I wasn’t about to change my mind. I’d give it an hour then look for him again.

  In the meantime, I sent him a text. Need to talk to you is all it said.

  I’d half expected an immediate reply, but none came, so I retreated to our cabin to wait. On the way, it occurred to me that there was one last lead to follow up. I’d overheard the captain mention a ‘late change’. Presumably she meant to our schedule. Were we still following the route Armfield had traced on the nautical chart? With Amelia’s help, I double-checked.

  During the early part of the afternoon, we seemed to stay more or less on course. As the daylight waned, however, it seemed that our route diverged from his projection: only by a few degrees, but instead of heading straight back to Hammerfest on a south-by-south-easterly course, the Polar Flow was veering ever so slightly to the west.

  If I’d been able to track him down, I’d have asked Armfield about this as well as everything else, but though I made more circuits of the ship and kept checking my phone there was no sign of him that afternoon … at all.

  Six o’clock came and went.

  There were now just a handful of hours left before the shockwave event, and not many more before we were due back in port.

  Mum hadn’t replied to me. Neither had Armfield. Though Xander mined the seam of the dark web tirelessly right into the evening, he found nothing new. I felt powerless, rudderless, and horribly becalmed. I knew it was the sort of calm that comes before a storm.

  53.

  I didn’t dare hope that Armfield would show up at dinner, and I wasn’t disappointed. I waited twenty minutes but I didn’t eat: I’d lost my appetite. As soon as it seemed certain he wasn’t coming, the three of us returned to our cabin, but not before I’d suffered another of Macmillan’s facetious salutes. I swear he mouthed ‘Not long now!’ at me as we headed past him.

  For an agonising hour, which turned into an hour and a half, two, three, I could think of nothing further to do, except hope that Xander would have a breakthrough. But he didn’t. The frustration played on his screen-lit face. He barely moved a muscle, just sat there fixed in concentration. I, on the other hand, couldn’t stop pacing up and down the little cabin. Sometimes, for me, movement can jog a new thought. With just half an hour to go before midnight I heard myself ask, ‘If we stay on this heading, where do we end up?’

  ‘Nowhere much. The coast, a bit to the west of Hammerfest,’ said Xander.

  ‘Why go there?’

  ‘Who says we are? We could tack back to port at any time.’

  ‘By why the deviation? What’s between us and the coast?’

  Xander pulled up a different map, zoomed in on the blank blue sea, and homed in on a pinprick that, as it grew, acquired a name. He read it out, though we could all see it. ‘Goliat. Whatever that is.’

  ‘It’s an oilfield,’ said Amelia. ‘A big one, not far offshore.’

  ‘How near it are we?’

  Xander’s fingers moved quickly. ‘Er, we’re pretty much there, if this is right.’

  I’d already begun putting on my all-weather gear, and I didn’t have to wait long for the others to follow me up to the forward observation deck. We arrived there out of breath. Haloed lights were already apparent up ahead. They shimmered in a cluster above the surface of the sea, still a way off, but close enough to distinguish from land. These lights belonged not to a town, a village, or even a homestead, but to an enormous oil rig in the middle of the sea.

  As that became clear to me, the Polar Flow’s engines quietened and the boat slowed. We were still a couple of hundred metres from the oil platform, but coming to a stop.

  I was watching what was happening through a filter of incomprehension, unable to fathom it. What was that light in the sky to the west, for instance, wafting towards us? Did it have anything to do with the new buzzing noise?

  Out of nowhere, a gust of needle-sharp snow blew straight into my face. It felt like a slap and it brought me to my senses. The Polar Flow had stopped just short of a rig in the Goliat oilfield, and a helicopter was now approaching. Not directly from the rig: that lay to our south, but the copter was drifting towards us from the west. Why did that matter? I couldn’t say, but it did.

  ‘What did Timo say about a helicopter in the conversation I overheard?’ I asked.

  ‘“The copter pilot knows to get us out of here pronto”,’ Amelia replied.

  ‘What does that mean?’ I asked. Then, without waiting for an answer, ‘Quick, follow me, we may not have much time.’