ICEHOTEL (14 page)

‘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.’

I played with my glass. Magnificent, yes, but he could kiss
goodbye to any hope of further funding.

Harry was still shaking. He reached for the pitcher. ‘I
don’t normally behave like that. I think I need another drink.’

‘Me too, sweetheart. Here, let me do it.’ Liz took the
pitcher from his hand. ‘What about you, Mags? Your glass is empty.’

‘Thanks, but I’ve had enough.’

Mike had returned. ‘So, what did Bibby want?’ he said
quietly.

‘To apologise to Harry for offending him at the airport,’ I
said, watching his reaction.

His eyes drilled into mine, but he said nothing.

Harry took a long drink of Purple Kiss. ‘It’s because he was
plastered, dear boy. He wouldn’t have made the gesture otherwise. And I’m sure
he won’t remember it in the morning.’

‘You told him where to get off, though,’ said Liz. ‘I rather
think you won that round.’

Mike smiled. ‘Grand.’

Now that Mike was with us, the pitcher emptied rapidly. I
checked my watch: it was nearly 10.30pm. ‘I think I’m turning in,’ I said.

‘I’m ready for bed, too, children. It’s been quite a day,
what with one thing and another.’ Harry stood up, swayed, then sat down again.

He gazed up at Mike, a puzzled look on his face. ‘Dear boy,
do you think you could help me back to the Excelsior? My legs don’t seem to be
following my brain’s instructions.’

I knew Harry enjoyed drinking, but I’d never seen him drunk.
From the expression on Liz’s face, neither had she. But, once Harry was on his
feet, he walked as steadily as always, and I could only conclude
he’d put on an act for our amusement.

We returned to the Excelsior and
collected what we needed for the night. In the Locker Room, Liz and I said our
goodbyes to Mike and Harry, who headed off to the men’s changing room.

The women’s area was packed.
People were milling around
in various stages of undress, drinking hot
lingonberry juice and all talking at once. Clothes littered the benches.

I stared at myself in the long mirror. I was wearing
a giant babygro.
‘I can’t believe this sleepsuit is
all we’ll need, Liz. It’ll be minus five.’

‘I’ve never heard of anyone ever dying from hypothermia,’
she said, smoothing cream over her face. ‘I really think the Icehotel would
have closed down if they had.’

We secured our belongings in our lockers, removed the keys
and slipped the rubber bands over our wrists. Then, clutching the sleeping
bags, we made our way to the washroom, where we took hot showers.

I tensed myself for the now familiar sharp drop in
temperature, and stepped outside. Despite the shower and thick snowsuit, the
warmth leached out of my body and I was soon shivering violently. The side door
to the Icehotel was feet away. Liz pulled at the antlers and I followed her in.
She took a couple of steps, then stopped short, drawing her breath in sharply.

Along the walls of the long
corridor, yellow candles
like miniature runway lights sat in the snow.
The amber glow faded into the distance, narrowing to a single point, yet it was
still bright enough to light our passage.

I took Liz’s arm and we wandered down the corridor, our feet
swishing in the dry snow. The candles flared as we passed, throwing giant
shadows onto the snow-pressed walls. They moved in silent congregation, growing
then dying in the flickering light, spirits of the Icehotel, creeping after us.

We’d gone a little way when Liz pointed to a side corridor.
‘My room’s down here, Mags. I do hope we all get some sleep. See you at
brekkie.’

I waited till she’d disappeared before following the signs
to number 16. By now, Harry would be asleep in number 15, Pan leching down at
him. Wilson was on my other side in number 17, and Marcellus, in number 18. But
the Bibbys would still be having their nightcap; I p
ictured
Wilson sitting in the bar, drinking sullenly, ignoring everyone.

I drew back the velvet curtain, seeing my room for the first
time.

The room was plain, and identical to Harry’s in size and
layout. Candles were scattered over the floor, the light dancing in the draught
from the corridor. Facing the double bed was the alcove. In it was an ice
statue, lit from behind.

It was a Knight Templar.
He was
holding his helmet under his right arm,
his gauntleted left hand resting
on the handle of his great sword, still in its sheath. The crosses on his chest
and shield had been roughened like the clown’s face
.
He
stood erect, legs planted in the snow, head thrown back, nobly scanning the
distance for some unseen enemy. I ran my hand over the pepper-pot helmet,
fingering the detail, wondering how the Templars could see through such narrow
slits.

I brought my face close to his. The hair was swept back from
the aristocratic forehead, and curled thickly at the nape of the neck. The eyes
were clear and unflinchin
g as they gazed towards a
limitless horizon. And the mouth was
set in grim determination as a
knight’s should be. My honour would be safe tonight.

I touched his face. As my skin brushed the ice, I felt a
light pricking as though static had discharged through my hand. Slowly, I ran
my fingers across his cheek. The Knight’s features dissolved. Instead of the
pale-blue ice face with its wide-set eyes and high cheekbones, I saw a face
made of flesh and blood.

From the condition of the skin, he’d been dead for some
time. The sunken eyes were closed, and the lips were parted, the tips of the
teeth just visible. His features were familiar, that thin mouth and prominent
nose, but I couldn’t place him. My fingers were still touching his face, making
indentations in his cheek, the flesh cold and sticky like uncooked pastry.
Suddenly, the eyelids fluttered and snapped open. The eyes rolled back till
only the whites were showing. A foul stench filled the room.

I sprang back and fell against the bed, crashing to the
ground and jarring my back so badly I cried out. I stared at the statue,
half-dreading, half-wanting to see the face again. But it had vanished. The
Knight’s ice features gazed out steadily. I studied his face, trying to recall
the image, but the memory was fading, and a minute later I could no longer
remember what I’d seen. I struggled to my feet and touched the Knight’s cheek
again. He continued to stare loftily into the distance.

I sat on the bed, waiting for the feeling of anxiety to
subside. I was sweating heavily, uncomfortably aware of the chafing dampness in
my armpits and between my legs. It was that bloody drink. I’d had only a few
sips but something in Purple Kiss had disagreed with me. I scooped up a handful
of snow and rubbed it into my face.

I knew I was fooling myself. I
t
wasn’t the oversweet Purple Kiss. I’d drunk nothing before my visit to the
Chapel except half a glass of champagne, and I’d still seen that thing in
there. There was an explanation behind these ghastly images. An explanation
hidden to me. I stared into the Templar’s sightless eyes, remembering other
sightless eyes, those of my neighbour’s son whose wrecked body I’d seen two
days before he died. I walked around the room, running my hand over the
snow-pressed walls as though I would find the explanation there. But the
Icehotel was telling me nothing.

There were voices in the corridor. Something brushed past
the curtain, stirring it, causing the candles to gutter. I wondered whether I
should blow them out. But the room had no ceiling window, and I’d need light if
I wakened in the night.

I spread the sleeping bag on the reindeer skins and
undressed quickly, dropping my outdoor clothes on the snow. After zipping
myself in, I drew the hood over my head, and tied the toggles. I lay quietly,
cocooned in a long brown tunnel that ended in a tiny circle of light.

I turned over. The movement drew cold air into the sleeping
bag, giving me a sudden feeling of panic. I grew warm again and drifted off
into an uneasy sleep. Yet each time I turned, icy air on my face woke me.
Eventually, I pulled the toggles loose and, shaking off the hood, peered around
the room.

The candles were low but not out. They cast an eerie
shimmering light on the Templar, illuminating his sword and shield, but keeping
his face in shadow. I peered at my watch – it was 1.00am.

I’d forgotten the aurora. It would be in full flow. And
definitely worth getting up for. I threw back the sleeping bag, dressed
hurriedly, and followed the signs to the back exit. The Icehotel was silent. I
met no-one as I crept along the dark corridors.

I reached the exit and pushed against the handles. The doors
swung open silently. I stepped into the night, my breath pluming white in the
cold air. The moon had not yet risen, yet the snow itself exuded a ghostly
light, profiling the frozen blocks, like pieces of giant
Lego
.

I made for the river, my feet crunching against the frozen
snow. A thin layer of fog shrouded the ice, swirling slowly as I moved. I found
a spot with an unobstructed view of the sky and stared up into the blackness,
startled by the sudden harsh call of a bird deep within the forest.

The sky was cloudless except for a single faint band. It
grew slowly, lengthening at both ends until it spanned the sky in a perfect
arc. As it brightened, it changed colour from white to pale green, then to
yellow. Folds of ghostly curtains appeared, rippling across the black vault.
They dissolved into finger-like threads which pulsated rhythmically, as though
spectral hands were playing chords on a celestial organ. As they faded, leaving
a faint imprint, others emerged to take their place.

I threw my head back and watched, exhilarated, until my neck
and shoulders ached. The warmth bled from my body, chilling my bones and making
my teeth chatter. When I could watch no longer, I pulled the hood tightly
around my head, and trudged back reluctantly across the snow. The night bird
called again. It had left the forest and was gliding across the river, dipping
so low that I felt the brush of its great wings.

The Ice Theatre loomed in front of me like a dark
battleship, menacing against the glowing sky. But, instead of retracing my
steps, I decided to
take the path at the side of the
Chapel and return by
the main entrance. It would be worth the detour to
see the columns and fountain by the shimmering light from the chandelier.

I crept to the front of the Icehotel.

I was pulling at the antlers when a faint creaking to my
right made me turn. The Locker Room door was opening, throwing a sudden stream
of light into the darkness. Someone was at the entrance, on the point of
stepping inside. He turned and looked at me. The hood of his suit was down and
there was no mistaking his features.

I was about to call out when something stopped me. Something
about the way he stood, immobile, staring in my direction, making no attempt to
acknowledge me. With a sudden movement, he lifted a hand and pulled the hood of
his suit over his head.

That single act of concealment was enough. I nearly fell
into the Icehotel. I hurried through the foyer and along the corridors. The
candles were mostly out, and those that weren’t sputtered angrily. I’d reached
my room, when a sudden thought stopped me
. Perhaps
Marcellus Bibby wasn’t going late to bed. Perhaps he’d followed me onto the
river, and that was why he hadn’t wanted to be recognised. The realisation that
he may have been spying on my movements as I watched the aurora brought the
cold sweat onto my brow.

I was about to enter my room, when I saw the curtain to
Harry’s room swaying. A second later, it was drawn back and Harry stepped out.
In the gloom, I could just make out the woollen hat and the bulky frame in the
blue snowsuit. He moved briskly away.

‘Goodnight, Harry,’ I called to his retreating back.

He paused and stiffened, but continued as though he hadn’t
heard. Strange. That wasn’t like Harry. I’d have expected him to reply. But I
put it down to his bladder problems; he might be desperate to get to the
washroom.