Cally poured another measure of vodka into the saft and downed it in one. The warm feeling was good. She had missed that. She imagined that Neep had left another bottle back at the hotel, and that he was pouring himself a deep one right now. She had always known he liked a tipple. On the flight out from Aberdeen he had kept necking Pepsi out of a bottle and she’d suspected it had been spiked with something. When he went to the toilet she took a slug and knew for sure. It was the reason he’d slept on the bus.
She wondered if he drank at home. Got in after a hard day and reached for the bottle.
She felt as if she knew a thing or two about hard days. She poured some more saft, added a big splash of vodka and took a deep swallow.
She knew she needed to sleep. Tomorrow would be another hard day. That was certain. There was no question of staying here, cozied up in the sleeping bag, waiting for someone to come and rescue her. She was miles away from where they’d expect to find her. She didn’t know what chance there was of any other skiers coming close to this cabin, but if anybody did come there was a big chance they would want to hurt her. So she would have to go out again, early, and find her own way to safety.
She took another look through Neep’s stuff, hoping to find something to eat. But there was nothing. Then she remembered the drawer in the table, opened it and took out the bag of jelly babies. She had put them there last night. She lifted one to her mouth and found herself biting the head off first and then turning it round and biting off the legs. She knew it was a game she used to play.
But when was that? She couldn’t remember playing that game. She couldn’t remember even remembering it before.
She started to laugh. Maybe the bang on the head has pushed me through a time portal.
It could be like in Neep’s novel. The humorous one about the two walkers who have a boozy night in the pub at Glencoe and then wake up too hung over to go out on the hill. So they hire a rowing boat down at the misty loch and drift sleepily into a whirlpool. When it finally coughs them out they’ve gone back to 1745 and are mistaken for Bonnie Prince Charlie and his chief side-kick, come to lead the rebellion.
Neep was going to call it The Ballachulish Triangle, after the Bermuda one.
But he abandoned it, like all his other attempts.
Now Cally could really feel the vodka. She picked up the first aid box and peered into it, just in case she’d been wrong and some of her benzos were there after all. No luck. She’d have to do some shopping when she got home, get extra reserves. Good old internet.
She took another swallow from the cup and had another look through Neep’s stuff, in case he had any more vodka hidden away. In the bag where she’d found the half-bottle, there was some long underwear and a thermal top.
She struggled out of the sleeping bag and put on the long-johns. She laughed at the idea. She’d always had a fantasy about getting into Neep’s pants, and now it was happening. Maybe right now he’d be fishing her emergency paddies out of her rucksack. She’d be surprised if he found them sexy.
And she would be surprised if - supposing they all got out of this alive - Neep and Richard didn’t shop her to Dr Anne for having prescription drugs on false pretences. By now they would have discovered her benzos. So the plan she had worked on for the last year was in ruins. The plan in which the secret pills and the cover-ups would establish that she was now in good mental health and the ski trip would prove it. And then the cleaning jobs would furnish a good work record as well as giving her enough savings to start a new life elsewhere – faraway elsewhere – before Filshie finished his sentence.
She got back into the sleeping bag and sat down on the bench, then realised she had forgotten to put on the thermal top. She picked it up and held it to her face. It smelled clean.
It brought back the memory of the bath towel she used to use on Sunday nights, after the bad times. She had found it worked best. She would lay it, folded, on her bed then lower her face into it, allowing it to gather the tears and to muffle the sound as her shoulders heaved.
She sat for a long time with the fabric against her nose and mouth, staring vacantly at the saft cup and the empty vodka bottle and the jelly baby packet. And at this silly little red mitten that was on the back of the chair. She had picked it up for a reason that she could no longer remember.
Finally she wriggled into the thermal top. Then she lay down on the floor, on boards stained with a dead man’s blood, pulled the sleeping bag up around her head and fell asleep.
PART FOUR
Chapter 26
Elin Olsen stood alone in the darkest corner of Ash Kumar’s back-garden, looking down on the evening lights of Lillehammer.
There was something about her boyfriend’s place that sat badly with Elin. The house itself was nice enough, a single-storey building on a quiet street off the Sjusjøen road. And it had a great location, high on a slope that looked over the town and the lake and the western hills beyond. But the house seemed almost bashful about the view, preferring to hide in a gloomy garden planted with a superabundance of trees. Whatever the time of year, in order to see anything Elin needed to come out of the house, walk to the end of the garden where the trees thinned, and then look out over the roof of a house in the street below. Back in the summer, when she first met Ash, it had been almost impossible to see the view at all.
She had driven to Lillehammer for her mid-morning appointment at the bank. Her presentation could have gone better, and she wished she had prepared more thoroughly. But she always felt like that after a meeting with them, no matter how well she had prepared. If she showed them a good profit forecast they would ask why she hadn’t given them a report on cash-flow. If she showed them fantastic cash-flow they’d ask about the depreciation of capital assets. It was as if they routed all her reports through a special department for finding faults. She couldn’t help thinking that if all the banks in Norway sacked all their accountants, and then invested the saved salaries in small businesses like hers, the country would be a much better place.
Admittedly she always felt like that after a meeting with them, but yesterday’s nonsense with Gunnar still rankled, and it had sharpened her scorn for the bean-counters of the world.
In view of her level of emotional bruising, it had probably been inevitable that she would land up in Ash’s bed with even less preamble than usual. Which was saying something.
He had invited her to come up for “lunch” after she finished at the bank. And she’d been happy to accept. He was due to go on a business trip to Hamburg tomorrow, on a night train from Oslo, and they wouldn’t see each other for a few days.
Now, despite the blustery weather, she had come into the garden. For a bit of air, she had said, leaving Ash in the kitchen, preparing dinner.
He had proposed to her - again - just an hour ago while they were still in bed.
As usual she had laughed it off, but this time she tried a different rebuff.
“I’ve told you, marriage doesn’t suit me. Anyway, you would hate working at Vesterheim. Just like my ex-husband hated it.”
“You’re right. I would hate working at Vesterheim,” Ash said. ”But you could employ a manager.”
Then he had gone into one of the silly-boy routines that he knew she found so funny. Sitting up in bed, he had whirled his arms above his head and said, “I could offer helicopter trips for the guests. Up, up and away! Maybe even have a special white-knuckle version where I take them through the entrance arch.”
After enacting a version of that, with exciting engine-sounds and wide-eyed stares from the passengers, he had lain down again, looking up at the ceiling. “You could come and live here,” he said, reaching for her. “And in time we could make a baby. Maybe even two.”
She hadn’t taken the bait, and instead had bashed him with her pillow. “Sex, sex and more sex! – Is that all you ever think about?”
Then she had rushed into the bathroom, and stayed in the shower for as long as had seemed reasonable.
And now she was out in the garden. For a bit of air. Even though the weather was rough and the trees beside her swayed and creaked in the wind.
She knew Ash would now back off a little - at least for a few days. His trip to Germany would calm things down, too - at least for a few days.
But she felt that a line had been drawn.
It was now fully dark, and the view from the corner of the garden was only of the lights of the town. The lake and the western hills had gone. By now Elin should have been halfway to Vesterheim. But a couple of hours ago Ash had received a call saying some police-rota work had come up. Someone had reported a possible sighting of the missing hunter, Hawkeye, away to the west, toward Jotunheimen, and the police wanted Ash to fly over and take a look. Elin had heard him say that he needed to keep the afternoon free, but could spare a few hours in the morning. As his routing would take him past Vesterheim, he would drop her off there, saving her the two-hour drive. Her car could stay in his garage until he got back from Germany.
When she went back into the house he handed her a glass of wine and said, “I’m sorry, Elin. I know I need to stop coming on so strong. It’s just that, you know, what we have is so special and I can’t help wanting more of you.”
He seemed lost for words.
He crossed the room and got his drink from the work-top. He picked it up and then put it down again. Then he said, “I tell you what – why don’t you drive tomorrow? We could make it a full-scale simulation, with no input from me, just as if you were flying solo.”
“Do you mean that? “
“Of course I do”. He seemed relieved to have found a safer topic, one that made her smile again. “Anyway if you’re still serious about getting your pilot’s licence then you have to build up your flying time. You need forty-five hours on the sticks and you’ve only done ten.”
“Twelve,” she corrected.
“Twelve? Then I already feel safe in your hands.” He clinked glasses. “Here’s to a good flight.”
So now she could look forward to a nice meal, an hour of TV perhaps, and then - no doubt - an early night.
She just had to be careful to keep the conversation away from marriage.
Ash was the best thing to have happened to her in a long time. Kind, intelligent, funny, good-looking, nice in bed. It was just a pity that he was so keen to settle down, while she was so . . . not. Not while the scars from her failed marriage were still so livid. And not with the added complication of a child, someone else who would suffer if it all fell apart.
She sat in an armchair sipping her wine and watched Ash prepare dinner, another of the Indian dishes his mother used to cook. He looked so relaxed in the kitchen, so much at home.
She now knew for certain that she would lose him. But it didn’t need to happen tonight.
Chapter 27
Cally was dreaming.
A room. Alone in a dark room. No, not alone – there is a dog, her dog, nice dog wanting Cally to stroke its back and tickle its ears. But then it snarls and barks. Protecting her. Someone scratching the door, wanting to come in, to come for her. Again. No! Not nice! But the person keeps coming, switches on the light – bright flash. No! Keep the door closed – cold, shivering. A man with his hands raised. Angry. The dog barking and snarling. The man scratching at the door.
A horrible scratching sound.
A sound so insistent that it brought Cally back to wakefulness.
But even when she was awake, lying wide-eyed in the blackness of the cabin, the dream seemed to continue. The sound didn’t stop.
Someone was outside. Trying to get in.
Constricted in the sleeping bag, Cally knew she was defenceless. She had to get out of it fast, but had to do it quietly. She sat up and pushed the bulky fabric over her hips. Then reached out a hand and moved it across the floor, searching for something to use as a weapon. Her fingers brushed against the leg of the table. She raised herself on to her knees and moved her hand carefully over the table-top. There was something cold and hard. The vodka bottle. It would have to do.
Clutching it in her hand she stood up as carefully as she could and crossed to the window, moving on tip-toe, hoping there was nothing on the floor that would trip her, betray her presence.
Slowly she parted the curtains.
Twilight. Grey-black sky. No lights. No sign of anyone.
Then she saw it, the animal. Trying to dig its way into the other part of the cabin, Hawkeye’s part.
It was a fox. Digging and biting at the snow and clawing at the wooden door, sensing meat.
Feeling huge relief, Cally opened the curtains a little wider, and as she did so the rail rattled slightly.
The animal looked round sharply and stared at the window for several seconds before running silently off into the half-light.
Now that the fox was gone, Cally was intensely aware that she was alone. Her instinct was to find a safe place to sit on the floor and steel herself for the inevitable panic attack. But she had no sense of panic. Her breathing was regular. Her palms were not sweating. Her vision was not clouding.
Maybe she was still in what Dr Anne called the catharsis period, the period of calm that was supposed to follow an episode, as if all the bad stuff had been flushed away and would take time to build up again. But she had never really believed in Anne’s theory, not since the time when she’d had attacks on three consecutive days. And even though her last episode had happened only yesterday, she would have been surprised if a catharsis period was going to continue much longer, in the circumstances. She’d had no medication for thirty-six hours, the longest gap in over a year. And she was as alone as she had ever been.
But now that no attack seemed to be gathering itself, preparing to strike, she felt disappointment rather than relief. Because now she wanted it.
She had to start skiing soon, and she could not risk an episode while she was on the move. She needed to get the damn thing over with now.
She put on Richard’s duvet, aware that she would probably mess it up again. She felt bad about that. Then she stepped into her boots and went outside into the half-light. Leaving footprints in the new snow, she walked away from the cabin, feeling like the sacrificial child in some corny film, sent out on to the ice to await the coming of the dragon.
But although she waited until the cold grew unbearable, no dragon came.
To warm herself up, she jumped up and down, feeling silly in Neep’s baggy long-johns.
As she jumped, she noticed that although the day was dull and stormy there were patches of light coming over the faraway hilltops. She found herself admiring the scenery, almost enjoying being alone. This was a waste of time.
She caught sight of the pulk-sled beside the cabin, and when she had jumped herself breathless she walked over to it. She remembered almost falling over it last night. God, she’d been in a hell of a state. Her head felt okay now. There was a swollen lump and she knew there was dry blood in her hair. But the dizziness had gone - in spite of the vodka.
From the paw-prints in the snow, she could see that the fox had taken a quick sniff at the pulk and had then gone straight to Hawkeye’s door. That probably meant there was no food in the sled, but it was worth checking.
She loosened the elastic bungee cord that secured the pulk’s canvas cover and saw two large jerry cans. Opening them, she smelled petrol. There was also a small metal bottle with water in it. She rummaged around and saw a big knife, a saw, an axe and a box with bullets in it.
The fox had been right. There was no food. There was everything you might need if you wanted to chop up a human body and burn down a wooden cabin, but there was nothing to eat.
From the animal’s paw prints, Cally could see that on its way here, it had come down the slope in a straight line. When she looked higher up the slope, she could see that the fox prints crossed over another set of tracks.
Ski tracks. With pole plants at well-spaced, regular intervals. So there had been just a single skier, travelling uphill. In spite
of the new snow, the tracks had not drifted over at all. So they must have been left recently - definitely since Cally arrived at the cabin, and probably just a few hours ago.
Someone had gone past in the night, while she was sleeping. Someone who was unlikely to have been taking an innocent midnight excursion.
Suddenly she felt very cold.
She rushed back into the cabin, pulled on the rest of her clothes and crammed her stuff into the rucksack.
She knew she had been lucky. Lucky that the new skier had not been on his way back down when she’d been cavorting out on the snow like a fool. And just as lucky that he had been in too much of a hurry to stop on his way up the hill in the night.
But how could someone be in that much of a hurry? Too impatient to pause even for a minute at a cabin where - if Cally was right – he would have known there was a decomposing man and a sledge full of petrol. What the hell was happening?
She thought of Neep and Richard. She had been assuming that they’d made it to safety last night, that even if they had spent a lot of time searching for her, they would still have been able to get down to the hotel at Vesterheim. She hoped they hadn’t been benighted and forced to dig a snow-hole.
Because in that case they might be waking up right now, to find themselves looking at yet another monster with a big gun.
One thing was clear in her mind. If Neep and Richard were in danger, the only way she could help them was to get down to the valley and call the police.
And even if they weren’t in danger, she was! This guy could come back any minute.
She came out of the cabin, with the rucksack on her back and with her skis and the dead hunter’s poles in her hands.
The Red Mitten Page 16