ICEHOTEL

by Hanna Allen

  ‘Are we going to get anything out of it?’ said Mike, scratching his face. ‘I hear Sami’s a weird language, and no mistake.’

  ‘That should not deter you from seeing the play. Few Swedes understand Sami, but we still go.’ She looked directly at him. ‘Anyway, you will be familiar with Macbeth. I can tell from your accent that you are Scottish.’ She beamed, delighted with herself.

  I glanced at Mike. The look on his face was priceless.

  ‘And now, I must leave you,’ she said. ‘I hope you have enjoyed the tour. It has been a great pleasure for me also.’

  She inclined her head, acknowledging our applause. We watched her sashay down the corridor, her heavy buttocks rolling as she walked.

  Chapter 5

  The group dispersed. The Ellises marched out first, Robyn in the lead, then Jane left with the Danes, who were still arguing about chess. Harry announced he was going to unpack (and it would take him ages), and Liz said she needed to call the twins before her nap. Mike left for a long workout after accepting with alacrity Harry’s invitation to meet later in the bar.

  I wandered around the Icehotel, getting hopelessly lost until I eventually stumbled on the corridor that led to the suites. I chose one at random. It was larger than the regular rooms, the main feature being a giant ice peacock. He was spreading his tail feathers to create a fan-shaped headboard for the double bed nestling inside his body. Ice trees grew in the corners of the room, their gnarled branches creeping across the ceiling and intertwining to form a dense canopy. A myriad of tiny white lights, glowing hypnotically, hung like raindrops from the branches.

  It would soon be the hour when the Icehotel ceased to be a gallery and became a hotel. I found the signs to the foyer and left by the main entrance.

  The Ice Chapel stood separated from the Icehotel by a narrow path leading to the river. From the Chapel door, I could see the expanse of frozen water and the snow-capped forest on the far side. The temperature had dropped, and a chill gripped my body, but the sun had not yet set. Promising myself only a few minutes outside, I started towards the bank.

  Workmen were warming their hands at a smoking brazier. They watched silently as I passed, making no attempt to detain me. A JCB was still out, its faint angular shadow stretching long arms as it lifted the ice blocks and laid them in neat piles. I walked onto the river and peered down. The water, black in the failing light, slid silently past, carrying fragments of blue ice. The man at the controls shouted what could have been a warning, signalling to me to move away. I stepped back and watched the cutting of the ice until a combination of boredom and cold prompted me to leave. As I turned away, I glimpsed the church tower in the distance. The tower with the viewing platform. Perhaps the aurora would be visible tonight.

  I retraced my steps to the Chapel, and pulled at the antler handles.

  The interior was larger than I’d expected. A dozen ice pews, strewn with skins, lined the nave, although there was room for easily twice that number. At the far end, a bare ice altar, striking in its simplicity, stood on a platform. It was overshadowed by the rose window carved high into the wall, its tracery as intricate as anything in a stone-built church. But there was no glass; the Chapel was open to the elements. Glass would serve little purpose, I remembered then, as the daytime air temperature would be the same inside and out.

  The pulpit stood at the side, its curving sweep of steps sprinkled liberally with snow. Unlike the Icehotel’s columns, it was crudely assembled from small slabs of ice. Snow had been pressed into the joins, masking them. There was nothing else in the Chapel other than the broad columns at the ends of the pews.

  Something at the pulpit’s base caught my eye: symbols, carved into the snow. They jumbled around each other as though the sculptor had overreached himself and run out of space. I removed a glove and traced the outline of a shape with my fingers. It was a mythical beast, the long arrowed tail curling back under the belly to protrude obscenely between the front legs. Lettering, too faint to be legible, was scratched into the pedestal beneath.

  I was trying to decipher the letters, my fingers touching the ice, when my legs buckled. I staggered and fell to my knees. The back of my throat tightened, and I realised with dismay that I was going to be sick. I swallowed repeatedly, trying to control the convulsions, bracing myself for the ultimate indignity of vomiting up my lunch in a church. In desperation, I pressed my face into the gritty coldness and hugged the pulpit, praying for the nausea to subside.

  I lifted my head, and looked at the figures. And I saw something that sent a ripple of fear through my body. The mythical beasts had vanished. In their place, a half-formed vision appeared.

  It took shape slowly, like a developing photograph, faint to begin with, then taking on recognisable form. It was a body lying on the ground, blood pumping from it like wine from an overturned bottle. Snow fell, shrouding the figure, melting in the red warmth.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and, shaking uncontrollably, willed the image to disappear. After what seemed like an eternity, I opened my eyes. The figure had vanished, and the beasts were back, leaping into the air, tumbling, vying for space. I struggled to my feet, leaning against the pulpit, but my legs failed and I slid to the ground. On all fours, I crawled to the nearest pew and hauled myself up. Hunched over, elbows on knees, I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes and sat, trembling, as the warmth drained from me and my limbs became stiff.

  The wind grew, gusting past the Chapel, raking the walls with its fingers. I counted to a hundred, then dragged myself up, and limped towards the door.

  I was pushing against the handles when I heard the sound. It came from the pulpit, as though one of the mythical beasts were coming to life, whining to be released from its icy prison. I listened, my heart thumping painfully. And I heard it again. It was now more of sob than a whine and, for one terrifying moment, I thought it was human. But I didn’t turn – it would be foolish – the Chapel was deserted. It would be the wind moaning through the rose window.

  I was alone in the sauna, the fragrant steam warming my body and suffusing my nostrils with the tang of sandalwood.

  There’d been no reply to my hesitant knock at Liz’s door. I’d snatched a coffee and cake in the lounge and made my way to the spa. As I’d passed the gym, I’d peered through the glass door. Mike was lifting weights, the Danes watching. He’d said something that had made them laugh, and a big fair-haired man, whom I hadn’t seen on the tour, had punched him on the shoulder.

  Now, in the sauna, I sat wrapped in the towel, trying to make sense of what had happened in the Chapel. I’d seen things like that before, although not since my teens. My mother had looked at me strangely when I first described them. She reassured me they were nothing to fear, she’d had them too, as a child, the product of an over-active imagination. They were rarely explicit, more a collage of unconnected images with a dreamlike quality where everything was blurred at the edges. Like dreams, I forgot them quickly. But there was one I hadn’t forgotten, one I couldn’t forget, of the prostrate body of my neighbour’s son. Two days afterwards, he was struck by a car and died silently on the pavement, eyes staring into the clouds.

  I sank back against the wall, gripping the towel, remembering what I’d seen in the Chapel: the blood-stained body, a sharp bright image, not blurred at the edges . . .

  The steam swirled around the chamber, its heat soaking into my skin and dispelling my anxiety. I must have dozed off because, when I opened my eyes, the sauna was a crush of people, staring because my towel had slipped. I showered and left, my limbs feeling heavy but relaxed, as if my body belonged to someone else.

  The lounge was empty. I ordered a white wine and took it to the table by the window. The sun had dropped below the horizon, and the sky was turning purple. Strips of cloud, like shredded paper, hung over the unbroken field of snow.

  ‘May I join you, ma’am?’

  I looked around, startled. ‘Mr Bibby.’

  His voice was like his father’
s, a deep southern drawl. ‘Please call me Marcellus.’

  He was so large that he eclipsed the light in the room. He was waiting for permission to sit down. I smiled awkwardly, motioning to the chair opposite.

  He set down his beer and, lifting the wooden chair as though it were a toy, positioned it so he was facing me. As he eased his bulk into it, the seat bent slightly under his weight.

  I saw his features clearly now. The skin was coarse and pitted around the nose, and he had those sunken eyes and premature facial lines that are the hallmark of a life of dissipation. But I’d been wrong about his eyes. They weren’t brown like his father’s, but black pools of viscous oil. He smiled then, and the creases around his eyes deepened.

  ‘I’m Maggie,’ I said warmly. ‘Maggie Stewart.’

  ‘A pleasure.’ He held out his hand.

  I hesitated, remembering his father’s bone-crunching grip. But it would have been bad manners to refuse. I put my hand in his, tensing as his fingers curled around mine, astonished at the gentleness with which he squeezed.

  ‘Did you make the tour of the Icehotel?’ he said. ‘I was sorry I missed it.’

  ‘Yes, I noticed you weren’t there.’

  ‘You did?’ he said quickly. The expression in his eyes softened.

  Embarrassed, I reached for my glass. ‘All the information is in your dossier,’ I said, wanting to move the conversation onto safer ground. ‘And you can wander around the place during the day.’

  He was watching me, a half-smile on his face. He leant back. The chair groaned ominously.

  ‘Your father told me you’re from Charleston,’ I said. I wondered whether Wilson had relayed our conversation, specially my outburst. I decided he hadn’t. He would have forgotten our chat the moment he stepped off the plane.

  ‘My father still lives there. But I’ve moved to New York.’

  ‘It must be quite a shock coming this far north. I can’t remember when I’ve been so cold. And I live in Scotland.’

  ‘I’ve had time to acclimatise.’ He hesitated. ‘I’ve been in Stockholm for a few days.’

  ‘You’ve got over jet lag, then.’

  ‘I wish,’ he said with feeling. ‘No, I find it impossible when I travel east. It takes days. I find myself nodding off over dinner and then I’m wide awake at two in the morning.’ He smiled broadly. ‘You don’t happen to know of a cure?’

  ‘For jet lag? There’s only one cure. Drink heavily.’

  He threw back his head and laughed. ‘Ma’am, if there’s one thing I’ve learnt, it’s when to take advice. What do you say to another glass of wine?’

  I was warming to him. ‘Well, why not? Dinner isn’t for ages.’ I settled back, stretching my legs.

  He signalled to the waiter.

  The lounge was filling. The Danes had arrived, Jane Galloway with them, and their laughter reached us from the bar. But there was no sign yet of Liz or Harry. Or Mike.

  Our drinks arrived. I lifted my glass in acknowledgment. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t mention it, ma’am.’

  ‘It’s Maggie.’

  He hesitated. ‘Maggie.’

  I sipped slowly. ‘Your father tells me you run the Bibby Foundation.’

  ‘I’d hardly call it “run”. My father is the director. I do the day-to-day.’

  ‘What does that entail, exactly?’

  He crossed his legs. The chair creaked, but it held. ‘We get applications from all over the world. For funds – the Foundation is essentially a charity. My father decides how the funds are to be awarded. It’s his money, after all.’ There was a note of sourness in his voice. ‘My job is to ensure that the money gets to the successful applicants. And that they spend it the way they say they will.’

  ‘What kind of applications do you get?’

  ‘There are different categories of awards, and they change from year to year. We’re in Stockholm because my father is setting up something with Sweden. It’s totally new.’ He took a gulp of beer. ‘I can tell you, it’s no secret. We receive applications from poor schools in the southern states of the US. As well as giving them aid in the form of grants, my father is organising a programme of exchange visits to schools in Sweden.’

  ‘So Swedish children visit South Carolina, and vice versa?’

  ‘Not just South Carolina. The programme will eventually extend to all the states in the US. The Swedes won’t have to pay a penny. My father is funding it entirely, capital costs, running costs. The whole nine yards.’

  ‘Why Sweden?’ I said, curious.

  He gazed at me with his sloe-black eyes. ‘My father’s intention is to do this all over the world. Sweden just happens to be the first country that’s responded to his invitation.’

  ‘And the Foundation is funding all of this?’

  There was more than a trace of irritation in his voice now. ‘All of it.’

  I did a rapid calculation. The scheme would cost millions, billions even. It would make a serious dent in Wilson’s coffers, if not empty them entirely.

  ‘It’s going to mean a lot of extra work for the Foundation,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘The work’s not the problem.’

  I was tempted to ask what was, but the finality of his tone made me stay silent.

  After a pause, I said, ‘Marcellus, you may already know this but one of my friends, Henry Auchinleck, is an academic who’s been receiving grants from the Bibby Foundation.’

  ‘An academic?’ He shook his head. ‘Then advise him to look elsewhere for his money.’

  I felt my mouth go dry. ‘But why?’

  Marcellus’s mobile rang, and he reached into his pocket. ‘Because his source of funding is about to come to an end.’ He glanced at the phone. ‘I’m sorry. I need to take this.’ He got to his feet. The chair came with him. He pulled it away and set it on the floor.

  I gripped his arm. ‘Wait. Please. What do you mean, his source of funding is about to come to an end?’

  ‘As of next year, my father is scaling down the Foundation’s range of supported activities. He’s decided scholarly research is to be the first casualty.’

  ‘Funding for research is coming to an end? That’s definite?’

  ‘My father still has to run it past his board of governors.’

  ‘And what are they likely to do?’

  He laughed bitterly. ‘Nothing. They’ll do absolutely nothing. They never do. They probably won’t like it, but my father always gets his way.’ He hesitated. ‘As I said, it’s his money. Now you really must excuse me.’ He clamped the phone to his ear and left the room.

  I thought about the resentment in Marcellus’s eyes as he’d said it. And he’d said it twice: It’s his money.

  Money which Wilson was spending like water.

  Chapter 6

  I was still grappling with the implications of what Marcellus had said, when Mike arrived. Flushed after his workout, and breathing heavily, he looked ready for a drink.

  ‘I wouldn’t sit in that chair,’ I said lightly. ‘It’s liable to break.’

  He stared at the array of empty glasses. ‘You been here long?’

  ‘I’m a fast drinker.’

  He set down his beer. ‘So Maggie, before she comes in, tell me about Liz. I’d like to get to know her better, but I don’t want to make a fool of myself right and left.’

  ‘She’s not married.’ I kept my eyes steady. ‘I’m guessing that’s what you want to know.’

  He laughed. ‘So like a woman. Straight for the jugular.’

  ‘You should look her up when we’re back in Edinburgh. You can meet her children,’ I added mischievously.

  His didn’t rise to the bait. ‘So what does she like to do? What sort of a person is she?’

  ‘Easy to talk to. Personality-wise, she’s just like me – warm and wonderful, and she laughs a lot.’

  ‘A merry widow?’ A smile crept onto his lips. ‘Even better.’

  ‘Actually, she’s divorced.’

&
nbsp; ‘And is she with someone at the moment?’

  It was my turn to laugh. ‘Now who’s going for the jugular?’

  ‘It’s a straightforward question, so it is.’

  ‘Well here’s a straightforward answer. It’s none of your business.’

  He shook his head in mock exasperation. ‘And, here I am, thinking I might enlist your help.’

  ‘I would think again, pal,’ I said good-naturedly. ‘Oh, did I mention she’s a karate expert? You wouldn’t think it to look at her, but she’s incredibly strong. She can floor a man twice her size,’ I added, making a point of looking at Mike’s body.

  He said nothing, but his smile widened.

  ‘What about you, Mike?’ I said, after a brief silence. ‘What are you all about?’

  If he was surprised by the directness of my question, he didn’t show it. ‘I work hard and I play hard.’

  ‘And what form does playing hard take?’

  ‘Oh, I’m like everyone else. I drink, I socialise, I . . .’ He moistened his upper lip with his tongue.

  ‘Womanise?’

  He laughed. ‘Who doesn’t? I’m a red-blooded male. It’s not a cause of confession.’

  ‘Yet something tells me there’s a side to you you’re trying not to reveal,’ I said playfully. ‘What really lights your fire, Mike?’

  He opened his arms in an expression of surrender. ‘You got me. I like to gamble.’

  ‘I’m guessing cards. Poker?’

  ‘Spot on.’

  ‘What kind?’

  ‘The kind with high stakes.’

  ‘In Edinburgh? Where?’

  ‘It’s not a part of Edinburgh you’re acquainted with.’

  I studied him. ‘You know, Mike, I’ve never seen the attraction in risking hard-earned money.’

  ‘Ah, but it’s the possibility of relieving someone else of theirs that’s the attraction.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Eight players. Minimum stakes, a thousand apiece.’

  ‘Pounds?’ I said, appalled.