Out of the Ice by Ann Turner

I’d expected. I stood over them and looked around, calculating. The knives and saws were quite a distance away across the room. I was sure I hadn’t been in this spot. I left the skis and marched over to the huge rusted pressure cooker where I’d seen the red material.
    ‘Is this where they boiled the blubber?’ asked Kate and I jumped.
    ‘Hey, calm down, I’m right beside you,’ she said.
    But my attention was elsewhere: the red material – the T-shirt or whatever it was – had disappeared. I walked around the vat, my throat tightening: it was definitely not there.
    ‘It’s gone,’ I said. ‘The material I saw. That man must have come back and taken it.’ I took photos with a flash, cursing myself for not doing this the other day.
    ‘Are you sure you’re in the right spot?’ said Kate, shining her torch along the pressure cookers. ‘There are quite a few of these.’
    I headed along them, walking around their huge circumferences, checking everywhere. No red material.
    ‘Someone’s been here,’ I said firmly. ‘Georgia’s going to have to talk to Connaught. Send a strong message that this place is off-limits.’
    Kate stared at me, wide-eyed. ‘Can we go to the penguins?’
    I retrieved my skis, taking more photos, and kept shining my torch around the blubber cookery. It was a haunted place, misery sitting like fog even when the day was clear. For a moment I saw the whales thrashing around in the sea, screaming in pain, crying like children, and imagined the sour smell of their blubber as it boiled in the vats that loomed above me. Their cries merged with the cry of Hamish – the cry I’d never heard, and tears sprang, hot and wet. I brushed them away as I forced myself to bring my feelings under control.
    By the time I went outside, Kate had already put on her skis and was stomping up and down impatiently, trying to keep warm. The temperature was dropping by the minute. Even our breath was icing up.
    I quickly strapped on my skis and we headed off. The harbour opened up before us, a dazzling blue. It looked more like Saint Tropez than Antarctica – if you ignored the scuttled ships sticking out like monster’s teeth, rusting eyesores in the pure water.
    And to our right, further up the bay towards Alliance Point, was an extraordinary sight: thousands of Adélie penguins were dancing on the ice, little black and white bodies swaying from side to side as they hopped from foot to foot, their tiny wings thrust out, their beaks towards the sun. They were shrieking a deafening song of happiness. The wall of noise intensified as we approached. Kate was grinning from ear to ear.
    ‘Careful,’ I called but she’d forgotten all about me. She crouched down and undid her skis, then stood and drank in the sight of the dancing birds. When she walked towards them her tall, slender body started to sway as she fell into their rhythm.
    I stayed behind and watched, curious to see how the penguins reacted today. I pulled out my camera and started to film, recording Kate’s path through the Adélies. The noise cracked my ears; I wished I’d brought earplugs.
    I zoomed in on Kate as she moved freely among the Adélies, her agile steps so light she appeared to float. She was as one with them and they seemed to treat her as their own. No birds attacked.
    After half an hour Kate came back, ecstatic. ‘They’re beautiful,’ she announced breathlessly. ‘Completely unused to humans.’
    I frowned, unsure what to say. Perhaps I had a bad effect on the penguins, just like I had on most men at Alliance. But then the scientist in me kicked in.
    ‘Let’s go through the rookery,’ I said.
    We headed up to the rocky slope where thousands more Adélies had gathered. I let Kate get ahead, again recording her movements. All went well – the penguins chattered around her, gathering stones, sitting on their nests. She fell into pace with the little be-suited birds and walked confidently among them. I was intrigued –