I was an hour into the dark, tear-shaken, near-frozen, when my heartbreak was finally overridden by the mute fear that had been digesting me like a cobra since leaving the research station.

Not the fear that I had effectively stolen a snowmobile (and coat, and goggles and balaclava)—which had been my biggest concern when I was sobbingly struggling to start the engine and switch on the headlights, sure Paulo or Davey—or God forbid, Phil—would appear at the door any minute.

The fear that the weak tracks my snowmobile was following would be completely obliterated if the wind continued to rise, whipping the snow around me; looming close as TV static in the dense blackness, no stars, all-engulfing like the frigid cold.

The fear that they might not even be the right tracks. Perhaps they didn't go to the hotel at all, but out to the icy bay where Paulo's research equipment was, or somewhere else in the barren wilderness. Somewhere there was no safe destination for me. Somewhere I could only die.

I had begun to accept that was reality, struggle with the potential of turning round, when I finally saw a glimmer of red blinking in the distance, the God-damned relief near breaking my tight-scrunched little heart.

It was the mast. It was the hotel.

I wasn't going to die, somehow, despite pulling such a foolhardy stunt.

But what had I come back to?

If the radiation was driving people to suicide, why was I going back there?

Three days, I told myself. If I can just make it through the next three days, I can go home to Shetland and never, ever, ever leave again.

I saw the little vegetable patch behind Granny's cottage, heard the call of a plover, felt the summer sun on the stone back-step.

Dear God, I wanted to go home.

What if I couldn't make three more days? How dangerous could that phone mast be?

I parked my snowmobile and scuttled to the hotel entrance, shoulders tight, one suspicious eye always on that ominous red bulb flickering through the swirling snow.

The lobby was eerily empty. It couldn't be much past 5am, but I'd expected someone to be on reception at least. There wasn't a soul.

I couldn't bear to go to my room. I was just too cold. My face felt sore and chapped despite my goggles and balaclava, my fingers and toes stiff and burning with their lack of heat. I headed down the blue-ice corridors and across the yard to the changing rooms, the warmest place I could think of.

The changing rooms were deserted too.

Shivering, I peeled off my gloves with great difficulty and tiny whimpers of pain, my hands too numb to move. I was almost tempted to get a sauna to warm up, but thought of Sam and didn't.

Instead, I pulled open my locker—my fingers awkward and lumpen around my key—and plugged in my phone, leaning in to study it, my whole body shaking.

I didn't have any messages or calls.

What was I even looking for?

I navigated to Safari, whimpering like a disconsolate baby.

Most of the hits were what I would expect. Non-statistically significant cancer clusters. Brain tumours in mice.

I told myself I was being paranoid.

But then on page three of my search results, things got more worrying:

Maybe I wasn't mad after all.

Maybe I'd worked it all out.

I clicked on the link, read about multiple suicides in some small Welsh village, then swiped back to the search, see if I could find a better source than The Daily Express.

That's when I found it.

Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck.

Phone masts as weapons?

That was a thing? Did that mean... Could it have been the Russians all along?

I typed into the search box again, my fingers numb and trembling, every word taking five attempts to get right.

The results were not good.

Not good at all.

Holy.

Shit.

Suzie was right all along.

Microwaves could kill you. And I didn't need unexpected electromagnetic forces from the Pole to explain it. Just the involvement of the Russian military—the very people who had allowed us, thanks to the ottercopters, to be here in the first place.

I moaned, falling into a squat onto the ground, as if a death-ray was somehow less likely to hit me down low.

I had to do something.

I had to call the authorities.

I had to tell Luca. Maybe he could get the mast turned off?

I darted through the changing rooms, giving the sauna and the exit by it—the last place Sam was seen alive—a wide berth.

I felt totally vulnerable, like the mast and whatever the hell was on it could attack me at any time. I ran breathlessly through the blue hotel corridors, only ice and thin curtains separating me from the oblivious influencers, sleeping soundly while death burrowed into them, radiating right through their bones.

Reception was still unmanned.

I rang the bell. No-one came.

I hesitated, taking in the cryogenically somnolent lobby; the glassy bear, jaws roaring into nothingness above me.

What was I going to do?

Ducking behind the reception desk, I peered into the corridor beyond.

Nothing.

I pushed through the plastic strip curtains, like entering an abattoir deep-freeze.

The tiny yard was empty, the wind whistling above my head like a vortex.

The door to Luca's office was ajar.

"Luca?" I called uncertainly, giving it a light rap. It was muffled, soundless, because of my gloves.

"Luca?" I called louder, pushing the door further open.

He was probably asleep. Would he be pissed off about being woken up?

My theories were too extreme, too unfounded, to pull someone from their bed.

But then I thought of Sam's rimy eyes, of those eight dead men, and going back to my room and trying to sleep was impossible.

"Luca?" I said loudly, stepping inside.

It was cold in there, the heat eaten by the open door. A computer fan whirred emptily into the night.

"Luca?" I repeated, louder.

I knocked on the internal door he had appeared from before.

Nothing.

Pulling my coat tighter round me, I surveyed the room, not sure what I was looking for.

Eyes on the internal door, I went to the desk and clicked on the mouse. The monitor flickered to life, a screensaver of the aurora. It was locked, of course.

I jumped back, sure Luca would enter and find me snooping.

He didn't, and I nearly tripped over a cardboard box pushed between the desk and a filing cabinet. Glancing down, I saw a flash of faded, orange cotton inside.

I knew that fabric.

It brought up memories of electric heaters and tangled blankets, steaming Sports Direct mugs full of hot chocolate.

It was Sam's hoody, the one he'd been wearing the night we met. That box must contain Sam's things. The stuff they'd found in the sauna.

Gingerly, I flicked it open, my eyes still half on the door.

Clothes made up the bulk of it. The orange hoody and a thermal tee, cotton boxers, some Rohan hiking trousers and sock-stuffed boots. A battered tweed wallet and Samsung Galaxy were wedged down one side.

I pulled out the phone.

Did Sam know something? Is that why he was targeted? I pressed the home button.

It was dead.

Biting my lip, I slipped it in my pocket, then pulled on a black wire tangled with the clothes. The charger. I took that too.

Making sure the box appeared undisturbed, I went back to the inner door, taking off my glove to knock again.

"Luca?" I shouted this time, as loud as I could. "Luca?"

There was no reply.

Where was he?

I needed to find him, or at least someone official, another member of staff.

But where?

The portacabins.

They were the staff quarters, weren't they? I had to go up there.

I gulped.

Right into the belly of the beast.

***

The wind was escalating, whipping snow about me. I had to lean right into it, head tucked, as I battled up the hill.

The mast bore over me. I was sure I could sense its dangerous radiation prickling my flesh, alongside the crippling cold.

I pulled the drawstring of my hood tighter, blocking my face from the bite, the whirling snow hitting my eyes, freezing my cheeks, numbing my nose.

Thank God I was in the lush red parka Paulo had given me.

I tried not to think of him, closing my eyes. I couldn't cry. Tears would instantly freeze like concrete on my lashes, making me blind.

Perhaps, if it hadn't been for that, I would have seen it.

It wouldn't have tripped me, sent me sprawling, my face in the snow, my numb toes jarred against the shape that emerged hard and lumpy from the ice.

Gasping, shaken, my elbows sore, I wrestled to get myself upright. My legs were still caught around the body that had caused my fall.

Yes, body.

Blue-silver, as hard as rock, in paisley pyjama bottoms and bare feet, a flimsy t-shirt half twisted half over the head.

Luca.

This time, I screamed.