ICEHOTEL (10 page)

‘Jonas,’ I said, when the silence had gone on too long. ‘Is
that a Swedish name?’

He attacked his dessert, scooping up the remains of the
berries. ‘I’m Danish.’ He motioned to his friends. ‘
We
are all from Copenhagen. Do you know it?’

‘I’ve never been.’

‘You should visit. It’s a beautiful country.’

‘What’s it like living there?’

‘I don’t live in Copenhagen. My home is in Göteborg now.’

Geography was never my strong point. I hesitated. ‘In
Denmark?’

‘Sweden. I work for a Swedish company.’ He set down the ice
dish. ‘Göteborg is a wonderful city. It’s a pity my company is always sending
me to Stockholm.’

I was having difficulty keeping up. ‘Why don’t you live
in Stockholm, then
?’

‘I have a woman in Göteborg.’ He glanced at my breasts
again. ‘Anyway, it’s no skin off my face. The company pays for the hotels. I’ve
been
to Stockholm
so many times I must have
stayed in all of them.’

‘Don’t you get bored with hotels?’ I said, bringing the
napkin to my lips. ‘All that powdered coffee and tiny soap?’

‘It depends on the hotel. My favourite was the Maximilian.’
He smiled lazily. ‘It was the best. Not too large, but not small either. And
the finest wine cellar in Europe. The company kept a suite there. But the hotel
closed down last year because – ’

There was a sudden shout as the
Dane nex
t to Jonas knocked over a bottle. Beer spilt onto the table,
spreading in all directions. Jonas jumped up as though touched with a cattle
prod. He grabbed his napkin and mopped at his crotch, cursing in Danish as his
friends bellowed with laughter and slapped the table. He hissed, wiping himself
down, then resumed his seat and called to the waiter for more beer. When the
man reappeared, he thanked him politely, took the bottle and drank deeply.

‘You must excuse my friends. They have no manners.’ His eyes
rested on my face. ‘So, did you go on the tour of the Icehotel?’

‘Absolutely. It was simply marvellous.’

‘Then you know that the Icehotel is different every year.
It’s why I always make time to look around it.’

‘I didn’t see you on the tour.’

‘Sometimes I take the tour.’ He pulled a face. ‘But not if
Marita is the guide.’

‘I thought she was excellent,’ I said, leaping to her
defense.

‘I don’t know how to say it in English, but she’s’ – he
stopped and conversed quickly with one of his companions – ‘tight-arsed,’ he
said loudly, his face serious. ‘But occasionally, Karin gives the tour. She is
much more’ – he paused for a second – ‘loose-arsed.’

I nodded, making a supreme effort to keep my face straight.
Most of the conversation in the room had stopped.

Jonas’s eyes wandered to the Bibbys. He motioned with the
bottle. ‘Who are those two sitting on their own?’

‘Wilson Bibby, and his son, Marcellus. Have you heard of the
Bibby Foundation?’

‘What is it? A type of face-cream?’

‘A charity.’

He spoke slowly, his words distorted. ‘Why don’t they sit
with us? Are they tight-arsed too?’

Harry, who’d been staring at Jonas, drew himself up. ‘The
father is certainly not very sociable. In fact he’s downright rude. He ignored
me in Stockholm when I tried to speak to him.’

Jonas’s words were now so slurred I could hardly make them
out. ‘That is not very nice. He should come here and apologise.’ He aimed at
the word several times and still missed. Hunching his shoulders, he planted his
hands on the table and scraped the chair back. He staggered to his feet,
overturning the chair with a clatter. Swaying alarmingly, he thrust his head
forward and lurched across the room.
I knew this type
of drunk: soaked enough to lose the use of his legs but never enough to lose
the contents of his stomach.

Marcellus sprang to his feet and put himself between Jonas
and his father. ‘I suggest you return to your table, sir,’ he said.

Jonas tried to stand straight. ‘And if I don’t?’

‘I might forget my manners,’ he said softly.

A murmur rippled through the room. One of the waiters
stepped forward, but his companion caught him by the arm, and shook his head.

Marcellus and Jonas were large and evenly matched. But
Marcellus was a martial arts expert, and Jonas was drunk. His friends leapt
from their seats and pulled him away. He grumbled loudly, trying to shake them
off, but he was outnumbered. They dragged him unceremoniously from the room,
still protesting, and his shouts grew weaker as they stumbled down the stairs.

Marcellus resumed his seat and he and Wilson continued their
conversation as though nothing had happened. I watched him pour wine for his
father, a faint smile on his lips, and wondered idly how often he had to deal
with the Jonases of this world. He caught my eye, and nodded briefly. I smiled
back.

Mike’s voice cut into my thoughts. ‘Pity about that.’ He
sounded genuinely disappointed. ‘I was keen to see how it was going to end. I’d
have put money on Marcellus, given the condition the other feller was in.’

Harry was subdued, but his expression said it all: he, too,
seemed disappointed that Jonas’s attempt at a confrontation had been thwarted.
Liz slipped her hand into his and leant into him, smiling, saying something I
couldn’t hear.

The waiter brought coffee, and reloaded the tray with the
empty bottles, muttering under his breath. I was relieved that Jonas’s
half-hearted challenge had come to nothing. But as I drank, I couldn’t dispel
the image of Marcellus, chest puffed out like a cock pigeon, balling his fists,
ready to smash them into Jonas’s face.

It was Tuesday, the day of the
snowmobile safari, and we were boarding the coach. The sun was a pale yellow
ball, grazing the horizon.

As Leo Tullis conducted the name check, I scanned the seats.
Liz and Harry were at the back, chatting with Mike. T
he
Ellises, dressed as though leading an expedition to the Pole, were sitting
behind the driver.

Wilson’s voice boomed out, a few rows behind. ‘Have you been
on a snowmobile before, ma’am?’

I craned my neck. He was sitting w
ith
Jane Galloway.

She smiled shyly. ‘Never.’

‘The first time I rode on one of these contraptions was when
I visited Greenland. It was quite an experience, I can tell you.’ He began a
rambling monologue about the pros and cons of snowmobiles versus husky-drawn
sledges, leaning in so close that she was forced to draw her head back.

Marcellus was missing; I noticed he’d skipped breakfast.
Perhaps the cold had defeated him. But, as the driver started the ignition, he
boarded the coach.

He lowered himself into the seat beside me. ‘Good morning,
ma’am,’ he said softly. He unfastened his parka, snapping the poppers one by
one, his hand moving slowly down the jacket. He opened it out, but kept it on.
‘I’m sorry about that little spat last night. I hope it didn’t spoil your
dinner.’

‘Does that sort of thing happen often?’ I said quietly.

‘Someone wanting to take a swipe at my father?’

‘That’s one way of putting it.’

He looked away. ‘It happens.’

‘You must be constantly on your guard.’ I glanced at his chest.
It was the sort you could hang forty medals on. ‘What brand of martial arts do
you practise?’

‘Shotokan.’ I must have looked blank because h
e added, ‘It’s the no-nonsense brand.’

‘Your father told me he was once nearly kidnapped, and that
you act as his bodyguard now.’

He swung round, his neck jerking so sharply that the bones
cracked.

God, he must have thought I was criticising him. ‘Although
I’m sure he can rest easy with a martial arts expert around,’ I said quickly.

‘I like to think so.’ His eyes searched my face. He smiled
faintly, a movement at the corner of his mouth that had more to do with
politeness than friendliness.

I turned away. We journeyed in silence.

A familiar voice rose above the general hum of conversation.
Jonas Madsen, sitting in front of us, had turned to shout to someone at the
back. His face was mottled, his red-rimmed eyes, bloodshot, and he stank of
beer.

‘Erik!’ The rest was in Danish.

Erik shouted something back
which ended the conversation. Jonas, turning away, caught sight of Marcellus.
His eyes narrowed, and his lips curled into an expression of distaste. For one
electrifying moment, I thought he was going to take a swing at Marcellus, but
good sense prevailed and he settled down in his seat. Marcellus gazed calmly at
the back of Jonas’s head. The look on his face was unreadable.

We were approaching the snowmobile
depot. Leo Tullis was giving us some brief information about the trip, for the
benefit, he said in a mocking but good-natured way, of those who hadn’t bothered
to read his notice. The part I assimilated was that lunch would be at the top
of the mountain.

The depot was a slatted wooden building hulking inside a
wire-fenced enclosure. A line of snowmobiles stood outside. I did a quick head
count. We were sixteen, so we could have a machine each.

We disembarked, and
Leo led
us into the building. C
hattering excitedly,
we
assembled in a waiting room consisting of half a dozen rickety chairs and a
foam sofa. There was a strong smell of tar. Leo disappeared and returned
shortly with a burly man in snowsuit and boots.

Leo lifted his arms to get our attention. ‘This is our
guide. His name’s Sven. I can’t pronounce his surname,’ he added with a grin.

Sven laughed and clapped Leo on the back, sending him
sprawling. ‘Snowsuits are in the changing room.’ His voice was guttural, the
accent thick. ‘Then we’ll start the machines. You can ride on your own, or with
a partner.’ He caught my eye and winked.

In the changing room, a smaller version of the Activities
Room, Harry sidled up to me. ‘Maggie, can I ride pillion with you? I’m a bit
nervous about going on one of these contraptions on my own.’

‘You’ll have to hang on, Harry.’ I kept my voice
matter-of-fact. ‘I’m a bit of a speed demon.’

‘My dear, how fast can you go in that old banger of yours?
Forty? And I should imagine that’s downhill with a following wind.’

Liz was clambering into a white suit. ‘Are you riding with
me, Mike?’ She buttoned her hood.

‘Sure,’ he said, after a pause.

His expression suggested he might have preferred a machine
to himself. I smiled inwardly. Whatever Liz had intended, she may have
miscalculated.

We lined up behind the snowmobiles and watched Sven
demonstrate the controls.

‘It sounds deceptively simple, Maggie,’ Harry said
nervously.

‘It has to be. Most of the people using these are tourists.’

Sven finished his demonstration. ‘Remember that once you get
going it will be noisy. If you are in pairs, you won’t hear each other speak,
so don’t try. And I would keep your hood up and your gloves on because, although
the handles are heated, there is a strong wind chill. I will be at the front
and Leo at the back, so there’s no danger of anyone getting lost.’ He stroked
his cheek thoughtfully. ‘Although you would be surprised how people still
manage it. I lost three machines last season.’

I stole a look at Harry. I could tell this was something he
hadn’t wanted to hear.

Sven climbed onto the front snowmobile. At Harry’s
insistence, we took the next machine in line.

‘I want the guide in my sights the whole time,’ he said,
eyeing Sven. ‘Not just because he’s a magnificent specimen, but because I don’t
fancy my chances with the polar bears.’

‘Harry, there are no polar bears here.’

He looked at me over the top of his reading glasses. ‘We’re
north of the Arctic Circle, dear girl, which means that polar bears are a
distinct possibility. And where there are polar bears, man is not top of the
food chain.’

I removed his glasses gently and tucked them into his breast
pocket, before climbing into the front seat. Harry pulled up his hood and
clambered on behind me. I started the ignition, revving the engine
experimentally. The snowmobile jerked forward, and Harry flung his arms around
my waist, clinging on as though his life depended on it. Sven moved away and we
followed in an orderly line.

We went slowly at first, gathering speed as our confidence
grew. Once through the
double
gates marking
the depot boundary, we were in wilderness. The terrain was varied: we travelled
mostly on paths snaking through the tundra, although once we crossed a main
road. Every so often Sven stopped us using a prearranged signal, then he and
Leo did a quick count. The first time we stopped, I asked Harry if he wanted to
try the controls, but he gaped at me as though I’d grown horns.

‘You must be joking, my dear. If I tried to drive, I’d
inflict grievous bodily harm on this machine, and we’d find ourselves in a
ditch. No, you’re doing so well. But y
ou might think
about slowing down. If we go any faster, we’ll travel back in time.’

‘I’m keeping up with Sven,’ I said in mild irritation.
‘That’s hardly fast.’

At the next stop, which was longer and gave us an
opportunity to stretch our legs, I left Harry and went to find Liz.

She was rubbing her backside, Mike watching her. ‘I’m
saddle-sore already, Mags, even through this thick suit.’

‘You’re too skinny.’ I grinned. ‘You need a derrière like
mine.’

‘How’s Harry managing?’ said Mike.

‘He thinks we’re going to be eaten by polar bears.’

The Bibbys were with their snowmobile near the back of the
line. They were deep in conversation, Marcellus holding his mobile to his ear.
‘Don’t even think about dicking me around, pal,’ I heard him say into the
phone, his voice measured.