by Hanna Allen
That was one I hadn’t seen coming. I felt my cheeks flush. ‘And after you’ve set up your schools’ programme, have you any plans for other similar initiatives?’ I doubted he’d tell me, but I was smarting from his remark and had to say something. I moved my knight into the centre of the board, exposing my queen.
He didn’t hesitate. He advanced his bishop and took my queen. ‘Check.’
I moved my king out of danger.
‘After my schools’ programme is off the ground?’ he said. ‘I’ve no particular plans,’ he added in a non-committal way. He repositioned his knight. ‘Check.’
I took the knight. ‘Checkmate,’ I said softly.
He stared at the board, then lifted a hand and slowly pushed the white king over. ‘I shouldn’t have underestimated you, Maggie.’
‘I wasn’t aware you had. Your play didn’t show it.’
‘Don’t patronise me, young lady.’ He leant back, studying me. ‘I’m not used to losing.’
I smiled hesitantly. ‘Another game?’
Before he could reply, Marcellus entered. He caught his father’s eye and brandished his mobile. Wilson rose, excusing himself, and they slipped into an alcove where Marcellus made a call.
‘Hello now, Maggie,’ said a familiar voice. ‘We’ll have to stop meeting like this.’
Mike took the seat vacated by Wilson. He surveyed the board. ‘Ah yes, the chess grandmaster.’ He lifted the white king and rubbed it with his thumb. ‘Who were you playing?’
‘Wilson Bibby.’
‘Did he win?’
‘No.’
A slow smirk spread across Mike’s face. ‘And did he take it well?’
‘No.’
‘You know what they say: Good losers don’t make good winners.’
‘That’s crap, Mike.’
He glanced towards the alcove where the Bibbys were deep in conversation. ‘Would you look at Bibby sitting there, like the grand lord? I can’t imagine why he’s prepared to mix with the plebs. He could buy the Icehotel several times over, like his fat-cat friends.’ He sneered. ‘But then the rich have a reputation for salting their money away.’
‘I’ve never seen the point of that,’ I said, smiling. ‘I intend to run out of money and breath at the same time.’
His lips twisted. ‘It must be lovely to have so much that you don’t know what to do with it.’ He set the piece upright on the board but kept his hand around it.
‘You obviously know something I don’t, Mike.’ I lowered my voice. ‘Tell me what you’ve got against Wilson Bibby. I don’t believe it’s just the money.’
‘It’s how you make it. I assume you don’t know the story of how Wilson became a millionaire.’
‘The way everyone does? Lots of hard graft?’
‘By ruthlessly exploiting people.’
‘Now that’s rich coming from someone who works for an IT company,’ I said, laughing.
‘Says someone working for a pharmaceutical company,’ he spat back.
‘Look, Mike,’ I said in a placatory tone, ‘I’m sure Wilson made his fortune perfectly legitimately.’
He shook his head. ‘His grandfather, Wilson Bibby I, did that.’
‘How?’
‘Property deals.’
‘How big was the fortune?’
‘I don’t think anyone knows, but big enough that the family could have lived like millionaires just on the interest.’
I moved the chess pieces to their starting positions. ‘I presume Wilson is just continuing the family tradition.’
‘Well, you presume wrong,’ he said nastily. ‘Listen and learn. Bibby’s father, Wilson Bibby II, squandered most of the fortune.’
‘In what way?’ I said, intrigued.
‘The casinos at Vegas.’
‘How on earth did he get through that much money?’
‘It took him a lifetime.’
‘And did the current Wilson Bibby make the money back?’
‘He did it in the worst possible way. On the backs of his workers.’
‘In the States?’
‘He couldn’t touch those, they’re heavily unionised. The ones he exploited were in South America.’ He was tapping the white king with a fingernail.
I leant towards him. ‘Tell me.’
His eyes rose to meet mine. ‘When I was in Dublin, I had a Venezuelan girlfriend. Consuela. She came from a large Maracaibo family. Her father worked for Bibby’s company, a manual worker, not a professional. Well the workers tried to form a union. It was ground-breaking, that sort of thing, but they didn’t succeed. Bibby crushed it.’ He dropped his voice. ‘According to Consuela, he had the politicians in his pocket. Sure, and that didn’t surprise me, given his wealth and the corruption in the government at the time. There was talk he was involved in narcoterrorism, although I find that hard to believe. He strikes me as a man who doesn’t take unnecessary risks.’
He lowered his voice further and I had to strain to hear him. ‘After destroying the union, he carried on doing what he’d done from the outset: increasing the workers’ hours and reducing their pay. It was always in stages. He promised it was a short-term measure because of the global oil crisis. He was constantly reassuring them that things would soon return to normal.’
‘But they didn’t.’
‘And that’s not all. There was no health and safety legislation, and Bibby took advantage of it. The ventilation in the factories was expensive, and he cut corners. As his workers became sick, they were replaced. There were always queues of men at the gates. It was just a matter of time before Consuela’s father contracted lung disease and was laid off. And everything went downhill from then on.’
‘Didn’t he get sickness benefit?’ I said, shocked.
‘There was no such thing. To make ends meet, Consuela’s mother took a second job cleaning offices. One of her sisters went on the game, although she didn’t tell her family, only Consuela knew.’ He stared at the chess board, his face grim. ‘You know the real irony? Consuela was a bright kid and got a scholarship to study in Europe. You know who paid for it?’
‘The Bibby Foundation?’
‘Got it in one. She earns enough now that she can send money home. It keeps her family going.’
‘What happened to her father?’ I said quietly.
‘He died a year after he lost his job. His wife never recovered, poor woman.’ He was staring into his drink, his mouth working.
Pieces of the jigsaw were falling into place. ‘You’ve not told me the whole story, Mike.’
The silence lengthened.
‘Let me guess,’ I said. ‘You got a scholarship too.’
He nodded dumbly.
‘And it was the Bibby Foundation that paid for it,’ I added.
After a pause, he said, ‘My parents couldn’t afford to give us a decent education. We were so poor we didn’t have a pot to piss in. It was watching my Mam boil potato peelings and my Da working all the hours God sends that made me want a decent education so I could earn real money. And in the type of job where I’d be in demand and could put two fingers up to my employer and leave if I wanted to.’
It said much about Mike’s state of mind that he was prepared to disclose these details to a comparative stranger. Seeing Bibby again must have removed his inhibitions.
He rubbed the underside of his jaw. ‘My school advised me to write to the Foundation. They offered scholarships to study at Trinity College, so I applied and won a place. My saving grace is that I didn’t know about Bibby. But it doesn’t make me feel any better.’ He lifted the white king and rolled it between his palms. ‘It makes me feel contaminated. Can you understand that?’
I looked away, unable to think of a reply. I knew what was going through his mind: the one thing worse than accepting tainted money was accepting it, not realising, then making the discovery too late. I understood why he’d been so hard on me and my acquaintanceship with the Bibbys; he was really being hard on himself.
‘Don’t beat yourself up, Mike,’ I said, as kindly as I could. ‘It’s not your fault. You weren’t to know.’
He stared balefully towards the alcove.
‘All these years, you haven’t been able to let it go, have you?’ I said. ‘You’ve been keeping tabs on Bibby, following his career. That’s how you know so much about him.’
I nearly said: And perhaps why you’ve followed him to the Icehotel.
Mike said nothing but, from across the table, I could feel his body tighten. He seemed to buzz with hatred, vibrating and thrumming like a wasps’ nest.
Chapter 9
It was 8.00pm. We were in the Activities Room, dressing ourselves for the Ice Bar.
Mike was sprawled on a bench in his thick snowsuit, watching us struggling into ours; of us all, he was the one who’d mastered the art of slipping into snowsuits quickly and gracefully.
His good humour had returned. ‘Did you see the aurora, Maggie? I noticed you didn’t stay for coffee.’
‘Did I hell. I froze my backside off for half an hour and saw damn all. And the sky was clear, too. I was pretty fed up.’
‘That’s the trouble with natural phenomena, I’m afraid,’ Harry said, zipping up his light-blue snowsuit. ‘You can’t see these things to order. You’re always at the mercy of Mother Nature.’ He pulled on a blue hat, and yanked it down over his ears.
‘Maybe I was too early. They have a good idea of the date, but they can’t predict the time with any accuracy. There might be something later tonight.’
‘But, my dear, you’ll be too blotto to go out. That’s if this Purple Kiss lives up to its reputation.’
Liz was pulling on a pair of oversized fur-lined gloves. ‘Does anyone know how on earth we’re supposed to hold our glasses in these things?’
‘We’ll find a way, that’s for sure.’ Mike got to his feet. ‘There’s not much that can come between an Irishman and his drink, not when he has a throat on him.’
The bar was packed. We pushed our way to the counter or, rather, Mike pushed his way and we followed in his wake. Marita was with a dark-haired girl whom she addressed as Karin. They looked harassed trying to serve the crush of customers and, from the number of pitchers on the counter, they were expecting a full house. We picked up our drinks and backed away carefully.
We found a free ice table. Mike ran a hand over the coarse hair covering the seats. ‘Do you think these reindeer skins are going to keep our lovely arses from freezing?’
‘They seem to work extraordinarily well for the reindeer,’ Harry said, lowering himself gingerly. He took a sip of the purple liquid. ‘Not bad, not bad at all. Try it, Maggie.’
But Purple Kiss was too sweet, with a sickliness that set my teeth on edge, and so cold it gave me sinus pain. I set down the ice glass, wondering what else there was to drink. A mark on the rim caught my eye, an imprint where the warmth of my lips had melted the ice. ‘I think I read somewhere you have to drink quickly from these before they disappear.’
‘Well there’s no time to waste then,’ said Mike, downing his in one go. ‘It’s a bit on the sweet side. I prefer a pint of the black stuff any day.’
Liz had abandoned her mittens. Her fingers were turning blue clutching the glass. ‘What’s that strange taste?’ she said, dabbing at her lips with a handkerchief.
‘Violet cordial,’ said Harry. ‘Wonderfully refreshing, don’t you think? Do you like it, Maggie?’
‘I’m afraid it wouldn’t be my first choice.’ I took another sip, but I had to leave it. Nothing else seemed to be on offer. If this were indeed all they were serving tonight, I’d be the only one sober at the end of the evening. Brilliant.
A commotion at the entrance heralded the arrival of the Danes. They jostled their way to the bar and crowded out the people standing there. In a matter of minutes, they’d emptied the pitchers. Marita refilled them, protesting at their conduct, but they ignored her. Jonas propped himself against the counter and tried to engage Karin in conversation, but she picked up a tray and strode past him as if he didn’t exist.
Jonas snatched up a pitcher and staggered around the room, refilling the empty glasses. On reaching our table, he stopped and stared, glassy-eyed. ‘Have a drink, Mike.’
He started to pour, holding the pitcher high, but was so wide of the mark he missed Mike’s glass altogether. The liquid spilt onto the table, sending out purple pseudopodia. Jonas swayed and lost his footing, sprawling across the table and knocking the glasses to the ground. Mike clapped him on the back and hauled him to his feet. Laughing loudly, they dragged each other towards the bar. Liz groped in the snow for the glasses, moving her feet away from the purple stain. I watched in fascination as the top of the table began to dissolve.
Harry was watching Jonas. ‘It seems that young man has recovered from yesterday’s drinking binge. Or maybe it’s the hair of the dog. Do you think, when it comes to alcohol, he’s a match for Mike?’
‘I doubt it,’ I said cheerfully. ‘No-one’s ever won a drinking contest with an Irishman.’
But Jonas didn’t make it to the bar. He collapsed and lay in the snow, despite the efforts of Mike and Erik to revive him.
I shook my head. ‘Who was it who said, When enough people tell you you’re drunk, it’s time to sit down?’
The Bibbys had appeared. They didn’t queue at the bar, but made for the table next to ours. Wilson produced a cigar and lit it slowly, sending clouds of smoke billowing to the ceiling. I caught Marcellus’s eye. He smiled, as if to say, ‘Don’t look at me, he’s always like this.’
Seeing Karin, Marcellus waved her over, and she arrived with a pitcher and glasses. He produced a wallet and offered a tip but she shook her head and hurried away. Wilson drank greedily, licking his lips with relish, savouring the taste.
Mike had returned with a fresh pitcher.
‘Not drinking with your buddies?’ I said.
‘That big feller, Jonas, may be good company in the gym, but he’s beginning to get drunk.’
‘Beginning to?’
A loud laugh from Wilson made us turn. Marcellus was smiling, murmuring into his father’s ear. Wilson’s eyes were streaming with laughter. He lifted a hand to wipe them and accidentally knocked his elbow into Karin, who was rushing past. She stumbled and the pitcher went flying, showering purple liquid over him and Marcellus.
Wilson got to his feet. ‘I do apologise, ma’am.’
Karin looked as though she were going to cry. ‘It’s all over your clothes,’ she wailed. She began to wipe the front of Wilson’s suit.
He took the cloth from her hand, smiling sympathetically. ‘I can do that, ma’am. Please don’t worry yourself, it was my fault.’
She threw him a look of gratitude before retrieving the pitcher and slipping away.
Marcellus seemed unfazed, and poured another drink for Wilson. I noticed he left his own untouched. So someone else was finding Purple Kiss too sweet. He glanced at the stain on his blue snowsuit, and ran a hand over it to remove the purple stickiness. Our eyes met, and he grinned. I couldn’t tell what he found amusing: the fact the accident had happened, or his father’s behaviour towards Karin. He held my gaze briefly, then turned his attention back to his suit.
Liz leant towards me, her eyes gleaming. ‘I think he fancies you, Mags.’
‘Who? Wilson?’
‘Marcellus.’
‘He does not.’
Her gaze sharpened. ‘I wouldn’t let him near your drink, though.’ She smiled, nodding eloquently. ‘Remember Marcia Vandenberg?’
‘Honestly, Liz, I wonder about you sometimes. Do you really believe that story?’
‘Don’t you?’
I thought through my interactions with Marcellus. ‘I think Marcellus is a decent man.’
Her smile widened. ‘I rather think that’s what Marcia thought too.’
I turned away pointedly.
It was quieter now. The Danes were leaving, probably to continue their drinking in the Excelsior.
Mike left us to sit with Jane and the Ellises. He refilled Jane’s glass, leaning in close, his thigh hard against hers. I tried to envisage a seduction scene in the gelidity of the Icehotel, but my imagination failed. I glanced at Liz, wanting to gauge her reaction to Mike’s sudden change of amour, but her interest was taken elsewhere.
‘Harry.’ She shook his arm as if waking him from sleep. ‘Look, sweetheart.’
Harry, who was gazing deep into his glass, jerked his head up so sharply the bobble on his hat shook.
Wilson was standing at our table. He inclined his head deferentially towards Harry. ‘I believe we met in Stockholm, sir.’ There was a slight burr to his words.
Harry lifted his chin. ‘I would hardly call it meeting you, Mr Bibby. You snubbed me, I seem to remember. And there was absolutely no call for it.’
Wilson held out his hand, swaying with the effort of keeping his arm extended. ‘Please accept my apologies.’
Harry ignored the gesture, his face red with suppressed anger. ‘Mr Bibby, I don’t much care for your manners. I’m afraid I cannot accept your apology. Now, please leave us.’
I closed my eyes, unable to believe what I was hearing. Harry was being given a chance to impress Wilson through his magnanimity, yet he was behaving like a complete idiot. And all because of his stupid pride.
Wilson’s expression changed. He lowered his arm. ‘Ah, the hell with you,’ he said under his breath.
Marcellus was returning from the bar with a full pitcher. Seeing his father reeling, he hurried over. He put the jug down in time to catch him before he fell, and supported him gently, setting him on his feet. I was surprised at the distress on his face, and wondered if he’d witnessed Harry’s rejection of his father’s apology.
Wilson made a show of brushing down his suit. He shrugged off Marcellus’s arm and drew himself up. ‘Come on, son. We’re going to the Excelsior for a nightcap. I need a scotch.’ He let Marcellus put an arm around his shoulders. They left the bar.
Liz was gazing at Harry. ‘Oh Harry, you were quite magnificent.’
