ICEHOTEL (8 page)

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 shre
dded 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.

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.’

‘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.

‘I’m not talking pence, Maggie.’ He wiped his mouth with the
back of his hand. ‘I see you’re shocked.’

‘So how did you get into it?’ I said, after a pause.

‘When I was young, we all did it. There are plenty of places
in Dublin.’

‘And you say this goes on in Edinburgh?’

‘It’s not in Yellow Pages. Only the cognoscenti know where
to go. I’d offer to take you when we’re back, but somehow I think you’re not a
player.’

I stared at him, aghast.

‘That’s what I thought,’ he said.

‘Do you ever lose?’

‘Mostly I break even, though there are times when I come out
with my pockets crammed. Ah, but it’s a grand feeling when that happens.’