ICEHOTEL

by Hanna Allen

  ‘I’ve got it,’ said Liz suddenly. ‘It was Marcia. The woman who died of an overdose. Her name was Marcia Vandenberg. It was last year, wasn’t it, Harry?’

  ‘Well remembered, my dear.’

  ‘A bit of a bitch, apparently. She had affairs with half the men on Wall Street. She made enemies, mostly among their wives.’ A knowing look appeared on her face. ‘Really silly of her to do that. Anyway, there was a feature about the overdose in Hello magazine, but Marcellus wasn’t mentioned – I would have remembered a name like his.’

  ‘Then it looks like Wilson did indeed hush things up,’ I said.

  Intrigued, I leant forward and studied Marcellus. He was lighting his father’s cigar, waiting patiently while Wilson puffed, taking his time.

  We were boarding the flight to Kiruna. The plane was so small that the concept of first and second class didn’t apply; we weren’t given boarding cards, but told to fill the plane from the rear.

  I found myself next to Wilson Bibby. I’d expected him to ignore me as he had Harry so I was surprised to hear him say, in a soft southern accent, ‘What takes you to Kiruna, ma’am?’ He was smiling, his eyes full of warmth.

  ‘I’m on holiday,’ I said warily. ‘We’re going to the Icehotel.’

  My carry-on bag was still in my lap. He glanced at the label, then pointed to an identical label on his own. ‘Then we’re on the same tour. My name’s Wilson, by the way.’ He indicated Marcellus across the aisle, two rows in front. ‘I’m here with my son.’

  He held out his hand. The skin was smooth, the nails expertly manicured. I hesitated, then put my hand in his, feeling my knuckles crack as he squeezed.

  ‘Maggie Stewart.’ I massaged my fingers, wondering why he hadn’t given me his full name. Whatever the reason, I decided to play along. ‘What made you come on this tour, Wilson?’

  He smiled broadly, showing perfect teeth, polished to such a high shine he could have been in a toothpaste advert. ‘It’s the snow. I love it. I can’t get enough of it. Whenever I can, I travel to cold climates. The best, of course, is Antarctica.’

  ‘Lapland should be just the place, then,’ I said brightly. ‘And have you had a chance to look around Stockholm?’

  ‘I’ve been here for a few days, on business. I’d always wanted to visit the Icehotel so I’ve postponed some of my meetings to make the trip north.’

  ‘Aren’t there tours from the US direct to the Icehotel?’

  ‘They’re short, two or three days at most.’ He pointed again to the label. ‘This company takes you there for a week. I’m surprised, given that it’s just a British company.’

  ‘If you love the snow so much, why do you live in the southern USA?’

  He turned his eyes on me. ‘How do you know where I live, ma’am?’ His voice had a steel edge.

  I thought quickly. Appealing to a man’s vanity usually worked in sticky situations. ‘I can tell from your accent that you’re a southern gentleman.’ It made me cringe, but I said it anyway. ‘You sound just like Rhett Butler.’

  I could tell he was delighted with my answer; his gravelly laughter rolled around the small plane like the aftermath of a thunderclap.

  I felt like a fish that had been let off the hook. ‘So what do you do for a living, Wilson?’

  ‘I have a variety of interests as a businessman,’ he said smoothly. ‘You?’

  ‘I work in finance. A pharmaceutical company, in Edinburgh.’

  He drew his brows together and, for a second, I thought he’d made the connection with Harry. ‘Scotland?’ he said. ‘My family came from there, originally.’

  He proceeded to give me an unabridged version of his family history, his narrative rolling along sluggishly like the Mississippi. I listened politely, noticing how careful he was not to mention the name Bibby.

  He fumbled in his bag, and produced what looked like a large diary. It was bound in heavy-duty canvas cloth, in a red and blue tartan. ‘My organiser. You’ll recognise the tartan, of course.’

  When I said nothing, he added, ‘It’s MacGregor. As I told you, I’m a MacGregor on my mother’s side. I have these made specially, every year.’

  He opened the book at the back. The pages were edged in gilt and imprinted with an elaborate watermark. The lettering was a fine black copperplate.

  ‘It’s essentially a diary – see the month and date at the top? – but I can also use the pages for memorandum notes.’ He flattened the book on his lap. ‘You can see the perforations if I open it out.’

  There were two pages for each day. Each had space at the bottom for Wilson’s signature, and the signature of a witness. What added to the book’s thickness were the carbons attached to the pages.

  ‘I’ve never seen one like it,’ I said, fascinated.

  He seemed pleased. ‘My own design. I’ve learnt the hard way that verbal instructions have their weaknesses. This enables me to keep track of my decisions on the move.’

  I thought of the instructions I gave my own staff, in e-mails and scribbled post-it notes. Wilson’s modus operandi was that of a man not used to relinquishing control lightly. Pandemonium would ensue if he lost his diary. Perhaps he slept with it under his pillow.

  ‘A pretty tartan, don’t you think?’ he said. ‘I’m having a kilt made.’ He returned the diary to his carry-on bag and delved about inside, producing a bottle of pills.

  I glanced quickly across the aisle. Harry was gripping the arms of his seat, staring straight ahead, the veins in his neck swollen. I felt a pang of guilt. Neither Liz nor I had reminded him to take his medication.

  Wilson threw his head back sharply and swallowed several pills in one gulp.

  ‘Do you have a fear of flying?’ I said.

  ‘Health is a real pain in the ass, Maggie,’ he said, side-stepping my question. He replaced the bottle in his carry-on, but not before I’d had a good look at the label. ‘My doctors have instructed me to watch everything I do,’ he continued. ‘I’m not supposed to exert myself, I’ve been put on a special diet, and I’ve been told to cut down on drinking and smoking.’

  I watched him swallow his scotch, remembering the fat cigar at the airport.

  He caught me looking. ‘Cut down, but not cut out.’ He smiled disarmingly. ‘If the bastards had said cut out, I’d be searching for better doctors.’

  He was so sure of himself, I decided to end the pretence. ‘Mr Bibby, you may not be aware you upset my friend at the airport,’ I said as politely as I could. ‘I can understand it must be annoying to be constantly approached, but Harry was hurt. He was trying to thank you for funding his research.’

  Wilson stiffened. The smile vanished and a glittery look came into his eyes. He was like a snake, sizing up its victim, waiting for the moment to strike. The heavy-lidded reptile eyes moved across my face. My breathing quickened. This was not a man to cross.

  ‘He was your friend?’ He smiled thinly. ‘Well, he should know better than to creep up on people.’

  I was disappointed he’d mistaken my tone. But Harry had deserved better. ‘That’s still no reason to behave the way you did,’ I said hotly. I knew how it would sound, but I couldn’t stop myself. ‘What happened to the manners the South is so famous for?’

  I’d touched a nerve. The snake’s eyes vanished and, for an instant, he looked bewildered.

  But he recovered his composure quickly. ‘I admit I may have been rude to your friend. But there’s something I’m sure you’ll appreciate, young lady.’ He brought his face closer to mine. ‘A man like myself will always be on the defensive when approached by strangers, even in public places.’

  ‘You’re not travelling with a bodyguard.’ It was a stupid remark, I realised, after I’d said it.

  His reply stunned me with its candour. ‘Back home, I have several. On vacation, my son Marcellus acts as my bodyguard. He’s a martial arts expert.’ He said it with a comfortable insolence, as though this single fact was a guarantee of his safety.

  I glanced ac
ross the aisle. Marcellus had removed his sweatshirt, revealing an army-green singlet stretched tightly across his chest. His arms were like tree trunks, the veins bulging.

  ‘I understand your son works for your Foundation,’ I said, my eyes on Marcellus.

  Wilson seemed unsurprised by the remark. ‘He manages our New York office. Of course, I see less of him than I’d like, but we take our vacations together. We travel incognito, even though it means we have to drop our standards now and again.’

  I studied Marcellus’s clothes. They were more suited to a holiday in the Bahamas.

  Wilson must have read my expression. ‘The main problem is agreeing the location. You see, unlike myself, Marcellus is a sun-worshipper. He can’t stand the cold.’

  As we started our descent into Kiruna, Wilson’s last words rang in my head. The holiday couldn’t have been Marcellus’s idea. The Icehotel was a strange choice of location if you couldn’t stand the cold.

  Chapter 3

  Kiruna airport was packed. All flights that day seemed to have arrived at once.

  We pushed our way into the tiny arrivals lounge, searching for our tour guide. He was holding a company placard, scanning the crowd anxiously.

  Harry was the first to reach him. ‘I’m Harry Auchinleck,’ he beamed. ‘I believe we’re on your tour.’

  ‘The Edinburgh group? Great. I’m Leonard Tullis. Call me Leo.’ The guide smiled broadly, showing uneven teeth. His fair hair was a tangle of curls, as though he was just out of bed. He seemed too young and, anywhere else, I’d have taken him for a sixth-former. ‘First things first,’ he said. ‘I’ll need your names.’

  The Bibbys came forward. Wilson stood aside while Marcellus took care of business. Leo made a mark on his sheet but, if he recognised the name, he gave no indication.

  ‘Looks like the Bibbys will be with us,’ I said to Liz.

  ‘I do hope it doesn’t spoil Harry’s holiday. He’s been so looking forward to it.’ She lowered her voice. ‘You don’t think there’s going to be any unpleasantness, do you?’

  ‘I wouldn’t put anything past Harry. You know how he is about his research.’

  ‘I meant on Wilson’s part.’ She looked fondly at Harry. ‘Whatever the situation, Harry’s manners are always impeccable.’

  Wilson was speaking quietly to Marcellus, who was smiling and nodding. No, I couldn’t see Wilson raising an issue about the incident at Stockholm; his manners would also be impeccable. Unlike Liz, however, I was less sure about Harry.

  A girl with fiercely-permed red hair was peering over Leo’s shoulder, watching anxiously as he ran a finger down the list. He found her name, and she relaxed visibly, flashing him a smile which illuminated her face. She seemed to have limitless energy, like a puppy, and was unable to stay still for long. Her porcelain skin, vacant blue eyes, and cupid-bow lips reminded me of a Dresden china doll. Leo glanced at her from time to time, interest on his face, and I wondered whether, like a china doll, she could be damaged easily.

  The last names on the list were Jim and Robyn Ellis. Robyn was a small woman, marginally bigger than her enormous rucksack. She had to lean forward permanently to keep her centre of gravity from toppling her backwards. Her husband was remarkably the same – they could have been brother and sister – although he was taller. Both were wiry with short greying hair that stood straight up like brush bristles. Their physique was that of hill-walkers, which they probably were given the condition of their boots. They made a beeline for the wall, and peered with bloodshot eyes at the map of the local terrain. Robyn made notes. I turned away, smiling. I knew the type – they meant business.

  Leo called us to attention. ‘Okay, folks, time to rock and roll.’

  He pulled up the hood of his black ski suit and fastened it firmly at the neck. I watched his deliberate movements impatiently, hungry for my first glimpse of Lapland. When he drew on his gloves and worked them over his hands, pressing firmly between the fingers, I realised I could wait no longer. I pushed open the swing doors and stepped outside.

  My initial reaction was one of shock, laced with disbelief.

  The freezing air crisped my face and hands, the cold seeping through my clothes and into my body. I gasped, drawing in air which seared my throat, reminding me of my first clandestine iced vodka. A second later I was shuddering. And it was still only midday.

  Leo had brought the others outside. He watched me with amusement in his eyes. ‘You think this is cold?’ The corners of his mouth lifted. ‘The temperature starts dropping about now.’ He led the way to the coach.

  Once we were on the road, he explained he’d be posting daily notices in the hotel Excelsior’s foyer, even on those days we’d be sleeping in the Icehotel. Preliminaries over, he described the excursions. But at that point, I only half-listened, I’d read the brochure several times.

  The road to the Icehotel wound through the suburbs of Kiruna. I glimpsed a steepled church, colourful buildings with vertiginously sloping roofs, and a park where children shrieked in the snow. The houses yielded to dense forests of conifers, broken by snow-covered tundra and frozen lakes. In the far distance, the mountains thrust their peaks to the sky, the white crowns bright in the sunlight.

  Harry’s colour had returned and he was chatting happily to Liz. Leo was sitting with the red-haired porcelain doll, mounting a charm offensive. The Bibbys were at the front. The heat in the coach seemed insufficient for Marcellus, who kept his thick parka tightly buttoned. His hair, released from its ponytail, hung untidily over his shoulders. He’d clamped his mobile to his head and was talking into it, rarely pausing to listen. Wilson was dozing, the snake eyes starting to close, his head lolling forward and jerking him awake. I smiled to myself. The early start – and the whisky – had finally caught up with him.

  Leo’s voice cut into my thoughts. He was standing at the front of the bus. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’ll soon be arriving at the Excelsior. We’re going to be joined by the final member of our Edinburgh party, who’s making his own way there. His name is’ – he peered at the sheet – ‘Mike Molloy. I’ve got one more item of housekeeping, which is to read out your room numbers. They’ll be posted on the notice board in the foyer. Remember that your room number is the same in both the Excelsior and the Icehotel.’

  The coach juddered to a halt. I followed the others out, bracing myself for the sudden stab of cold. The snow was soft and clean after a recent fall and I sank up to my knees in the drift. I floundered helplessly, my breath forming warm clouds in front of my face.

  The Excelsior stood at the top of a short incline, its red plaster façade and criss-cross of wooden beams reminiscent of the buildings in Kiruna. A thick mantle of snow clung onto the steep roof in a victory of friction over gravity. Without warning, a huge clump fell to the ground with a soft whooshing sound, sending up a shower of snow. On the wide slope, conifers had been planted at regular intervals. They stood to attention like a parade of alpine soldiers, the arms of their dark branches bent to snapping point under the weight of snow.

  We’d arrived early; the path was still being cleared, and the workmen were throwing us anxious glances.

  But we’d lost interest in the Excelsior. Flanking the path, forming a welcoming party, was a group of life-sized ice statues.

  They were circus characters. The largest, and most striking, was the clown. Tufts of ice hair, glinting in the sunshine, had escaped from beneath the rim of the bowler hat, which he wore back off the forehead. His face had been roughened to simulate a clown’s paint, the markings adding the finishing touches to the coarse clown’s lips and Charlie Cairoli nose. Ice tears trickled down his cheeks, his wistful gaze imploring you to ignore the clown’s trappings – frilly shirt, baggy pantaloons, and oversized shoes – and see the man beneath. A small drum hung from his neck. He stood, shoulders back, arms raised high, drumsticks poised and ready to strike.

  A ballerina stood opposite, gazing dreamily at the clown. Her hair was swept up into a chignon and held i
n place with a single ice flower, a garland of the same flowers curving across the bodice of her impossibly-frilled tutu. She stood en pointe, arms above her head, fingers touching lightly. Her head was tilted to the side, a seductive smile on her lips as she watched the clown begin his drum-roll. Beside her, a juggler was leaning forward, on the point of throwing his skittles into the air. He was distracted by the ballerina and was turning his head towards her, a look of anguish in his eyes. Opposite him, a barrel-chested strongman, sporting a magnificent handlebar moustache, was flexing his arm muscles theatrically. The ice had been so well polished that his hair, parted down the middle, seemed silky with oil.

  A group of ice penguins had gathered at the Excelsior’s entrance. They stared sightlessly up at us, their bow ties and tuxedos a fond indulgence on the part of the sculptor. Next to them was a lion-tamer in military-style trousers and boots, an animal skin across his chest. He was holding a whip the way an orchestra conductor holds a baton. Below him crouched a maned lion, ready to spring into the air.

  The recent snowfall had covered the statues lightly and patches of blue ice, like the skin of animals at the end of their moult, were visible through the snow. I ran my fingers over the lion’s head, feeling the finely chiselled grooves in the ice fur. As I rubbed the muzzle, I thought I saw the expression in the eyes change.

  Leo broke the spell. ‘Lunch is about to be served, so please do come inside. And don’t forget today’s tour of the Icehotel. We meet in the Activities Room at three o’clock.’

  The Icehotel. I spun round and peered down the path, past the coach, and beyond.

  Its shape was instantly recognisable from the brochure. Shafts of light radiated like spears from the curved surface and, for an instant, I was dazzled. Then a cloud slid across the sun and I saw it clearly – the long blue igloo and the flat structures. Something dark hung over the entrance, as though the bloated toad were yawning.

  A feeling of unease stole over me. I was aware of Liz, tugging at my arm, urging me into the Excelsior. But I was unable to move. A chill was creeping through my body, a chill that had nothing to do with the plummeting temperature.