ICEHOTEL (4 page)

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 wa
s 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 across 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.

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
o
ur 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 in 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.