The Christmas Lights

by Karen Swan

  Bo felt her throat begin to close again, the pressure in her temple begin to build. How – exactly how – had they managed to get onto this? A minute ago she’d been having a silent tantrum on her own in the dark and now she was here, discussing with a near-stranger the one topic that was off-limits, even to Zac? ‘They understand my career and my life decisions,’ she said in a tight voice. ‘They know that the nature of my job means my followers don’t want to see Christmas in a sleepy village in southern England.’ She looked at her nails. ‘And besides, it’s not like I don’t ever see them – we chat on FaceTime every week and Zac and I meet up with them when they go on holidays. We regularly fly in to join them wherever they are.’

  ‘So then you just don’t join them at home,’ Signy said, narrowing in on the pertinent point.

  The kettle whistled, plumes of steam buffeting up against the low ceilings and Bo jumped up with relief. What did any of this have to do with Signy? And—

  She frowned as she took the kettle off the flame, turning around to face the back of the old woman’s chair. ‘Wait – how do you know it’s been four years since I’ve been home? I never told you that.’

  ‘No. But you told my grandson.’

  ‘Did he tell you?’

  Signy scoffed. ‘Of course not.’

  So then . . . ‘He said you were asleep,’ Bo said, taking the kettle to the counter and pouring the boiling water into the jug, swirling the hot water with the cold with a wooden spoon.

  ‘No. I was resting my eyes.’

  ‘But you were snoring.’

  ‘No. I was clearing my throat.’

  Incredulous, Bo stared at the top of the back of the old woman’s head. But even if she hadn’t been able to see her reflection in the window, she would still have known she was smiling.

  Zac was out of the bath and lying in bed when she wandered back over, pulling off her clothes and diving under the covers in one fluid motion before the cold could get her.

  ‘Find him?’ he asked distractedly, his attention on his phone.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Lenny. Who’d you think?’

  ‘Oh. No. He’s down in the storehouse with Anna.’

  ‘. . . Surprise, surprise,’ he muttered.

  ‘Yeah.’ She picked up her phone where she’d left it on the bed, checking the time. It was barely eight and yet it had been dark for hours already. She hadn’t remotely adapted to having only five hours of light a day, especially when their jet-lagged lie-in this morning and the guys’ visit to the shops had all but used that allowance up today. Anders had stayed in his grandmother’s cabin for the rest of the afternoon, only looking in briefly before he left to give them the heads-up for the next day’s plan of a hiking trip to the Suitor waterfall; when he had left, the spectacle of the helicopter rising off the tiny plateau had drawn both men to the windows like little boys. Bo had made a pot roast, Anna a cherry pie and the four of them had played Monopoly afterwards, Catfish playing on Lenny’s wireless speaker. Naturally, the entire evening had been uploaded in almost real time to the stories board via their four different accounts.

  One thing was for sure, Norway was a hit. They were getting a great engagement rate for the few things they had posted so far to the grid, no doubt because of the novelty of her and Zac swapping a tropical island for a glacial tundra; people love looking at something new – even paradise gets boring when it’s on loop.

  ‘You were gone a long time,’ Zac – clean-shaven – murmured, as though remembering their conversation, his foot beginning to root for hers under the covers. ‘Did you join them?’

  ‘No. I looked in on Signy and heated up some water for her to have a wash before bed,’ she murmured back, skimming through the most recent comments in her Direct Message pile. There wasn’t a chance of being able to answer them all, but she always tried to get back to at least a few people. There was the usual thread of heart emojis, some moons and stars, and hashtag couplegoals was trending . . .

  You guys are so cute

  I wish one day I meet someone to gaze at the stars with me

  Love you two!

  LOVE LOVE LOVE

  . . . She froze. The taste in her mouth becoming metallic, the palms of her hands instantly clammy. She looked at the name; it was the same as before, the avatar picture too: distinctive, yet odd, somehow twisted – a close-up of a halved pomegranate, the jewel-like seeds spilling out lubriciously. She clicked on it, going into the profile but it was still a private account. Of course it was.

  No followers. Following only one person. Her.

  She went back to the feed and read the comment again. But she knew it was Him. She knew the tone if not the face.

  I’m back, Bo. Miss me?

  Chapter Nine

  Bo shivered in the blue morning chill, waiting for a reply. She pressed her ear to the door, lest Signy’s voice be faint, but nothing came. She put her hand on the doorknob and peered in. The little cabin looked untouched from when they had been sitting the night before – one of the chairs pushed back at an angle from where Bo had risen at the table, the dandelion cushion squashed, a lilac crocheted shawl draped across the back of the rocking chair.

  She closed the door and walked through as quietly as she could in boots, wondering what to do now. The bedroom door was closed but the Bialetti coffee pot was on the gas ring; Anders had told her – before he’d left – that he’d pre-ground the coffee and left it ready to simply add hot water and steep; beside it was a mug and a small brown bottle with two pills on the wooden counter.

  Bo looked across at the door again. There were no shafts of light seeping through the crack, no creaky mattress springs or the squeak of floorboards coming from behind it. Even though Bo had said she would be checking in this morning, if Signy was still asleep it might be best to make a little noise in here first, so as not to alarm her by suddenly standing by the bed like an apparition. She did look a fright – still in her pyjamas herself, Zac’s chunky ironic snowflake jumper thrown on and her feet swamped by his boots. But after an almost sleepless night, getting up and coming over here, doing something, had been a welcome diversion. Was she just far too early?

  Trying to make a reassuring amount of noise, she clattered around as she made the coffee, hoping the enticing aroma at least would tell Anders’ grandmother that her visitor through here had come with kindly intent. She threw a couple of logs onto the stove, seeing how the still-warm ashes kindled immediately, then knocked at the bedroom door. Nothing.

  She knocked a little harder. Still nothing.

  ‘Signy?’ she asked, her mouth close to the door. ‘Signy, it’s Bo. From next door.’

  After another minute, she turned the handle and looked in. The old lady was lying in the bed looking almost flattened by thick blankets. And with good reason – it was freezing; a small fire had gone out in the fireplace at the opposite end and the room felt so cold, Bo half expected to see frost inside the windows. No wonder she didn’t want to bathe in the mornings.

  She shivered as she took in the sight of the bedroom in the weak morning light; she hadn’t been able to pick out any of the detail in last night’s gloom but in contrast to the frugal nature of the main room, the bedroom was decorative, feminine, even fussy: swagged embroidered cotton curtains were draped at the window, the floorboards all but obscured beneath a vast green, blue and yellow flatweave rug. The iron bedframe was black, with brass bedknobs, a decorative pale blue armoire was stencilled with scrolls and floral motifs, and a mirrored dressing table had a small lace coverlet pressed beneath the glass; on it was an enamelled hairbrush with pale nylon bristles upturned on the top, a tortoiseshell comb and an empty perfume bottle with a cracked rubber atomizer. A scalloped mirror hung on the wall above the fireplace, and on either side were two framed charcoal portraits – one of a woman, clearly Signy in her youth; the other of a man who must have been her husband. Both were strikingly good-looking. Signy, who looked to have been captured when she was in her thirties, per
haps early forties, looked haughty, elegant and strong, her head tipping back fractionally as though she was looking down on the viewer. Her husband had a more sanguine demeanour, with an unhatched smile flickering in his eyes, his hair swept back from the face to reveal a timeless bone structure.

  Her gaze coming back to the bed, Bo took in a walking stick propped by the bedside table, a glass of water left on top, a set of dentures in another glass, and an antique wooden commode. The wash-bowl was on the dresser where Bo had left it last night, the empty jug to one side.

  ‘Signy?’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘It’s Bo. I’ve just brought you a coffee and got the fire going next door for you.’

  Again nothing. The woman didn’t stir. Her mouth was parted, as though she was mid-conversation, cheeks caving in slightly on the gums; her skin looked as thin as petals and she was as pale as a rose.

  ‘I’ve also brought your pills in for you,’ she said a little more loudly. ‘Anders left them out before he went back to town last night.’

  Nada.

  She sighed. Putting the coffee and tablets down on the table, taking care to make some noise, she wandered over to the fire and put her hand out. Finding there was still some heat to it, she added some kindling from a bucket to the side and struck a match. The flames took instantly; the wood was all so well seasoned and the air so dry, no fire was ever out for long it seemed. She pushed a small mesh guard in front of the hearth and looked back at the bed. Still no response.

  Wondering what to do next – short of playing the drums or jumping on the bed – Bo drew the curtains back, but even the light outside seemed to hesitate about coming in, barely making any impression on the dimness in the room. She went back to the bedside again.

  ‘Signy? Can you hear me?’ She placed a hand on the old lady’s arm that was lying across the top of the blankets. It was icy to touch. ‘Signy?’

  She looked in fright back at her chest, searching for a rise and fall, but it was impossible to tell anything under those blankets. She scanned her face again, looking for a sign of life. Something. Anything.

  No, no, no . . . Please don’t say—

  ‘I’m not dead.’ Signy’s eyes were still closed but a faint smile hovered over her puckered mouth. ‘Not yet anyway.’ Her words sounded muffled without her teeth in but a distinctive look glittered in her eyes as she opened them – it was the same look she wore in the painting. ‘Maybe tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh my goodness,’ Bo breathed, a small incredulous laugh escaping her that this was some kind of joke. ‘Thank God. I was really beginning to think—’

  Signy winked. ‘Party trick.’

  Like her fake sleeping and pretend snores? ‘That’s a party trick?’

  Signy shifted slightly. ‘One of the benefits of being so old. Everyone’s always expecting me to die any minute. I may as well have some fun with it.’

  Bo chuckled. This woman was ninety-six years old and still pulling practical jokes on people?

  ‘Help me sit,’ Signy said, moving her arm up slightly. ‘The blankets are tucked so tight, it’s like wearing one of my old girdles.’

  With another smile, Bo hesitantly managed to pull her up to a seated position – it was easy enough, she weighed practically nothing – and stuffed some cushions behind her back. With an insouciant air Signy slipped her teeth in and swallowed down the two pills Bo had put on her table.

  Carefully, worried she might spill the coffee, Bo handed over her mug and watched as she brought it to her lips, closing her eyes in pleasure as she drank.

  ‘That is good,’ she said in a low voice, sinking back a little into the pillows.

  ‘Is that your husband?’ Bo asked, looking over at the charcoal portrait again.

  Signy looked over at it, her expression becoming almost liquid as her gaze settled on the man’s face. ‘Yes. He was the best man I ever met.’

  Bo watched her. ‘I can tell you loved him very much.’

  ‘Loved?’ Signy said sharply. ‘He is dead, the love isn’t.’

  Bo’s mouth parted. She had never heard anyone say such a thing before. ‘Were you together long?’

  The old woman closed her eyes, as though sinking into the memories. ‘Lifelong. And we were blessed with five healthy children.’ She opened her eyes again after a moment, a tiny frown creasing her brow as she saw her visitor still standing there. ‘You can go now.’

  ‘. . . Oh.’ Bo felt taken aback. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’

  Feeling strangely disappointed by the brisk dismissal – the old woman was unpredictable and capricious, yet interesting too – she crossed the room, turning back at the door. She was about to say that she’d look in that evening, but Signy had closed her eyes again and was smiling as though the weak light coming through the window was sunlight warming her face; as though in her world, everything was brighter.

  The rap at the door had a spring to it, and a moment later a head of sleek, blow-dried brunette hair peered round the corner.

  ‘Good morning!’ Anna beamed, seeing Bo and Zac sitting at the table quietly together and letting herself in. Zac was taking an arty close-up photo of his steaming coffee cup against the gnarled wood of the table. He had already snapped a spider making a web in one of the corners of the window and a picture of his socked feet, crossed and up on the table, a view of the still-dark fjord beyond his toes. Anything, in fact, to avoid talking to her. He had been a hive of industry since he had woken to find her gone, his initial alarm immediately switching back to hurt pride again, and she knew he was still smarting from her rejection in bed last night. It was the first time she had ever rolled away from him but she couldn’t bring herself to care about that right now; she still felt a million miles away. She had bigger monsters to deal with than his wounded ego, and since coming back from checking on Signy she had sat staring out of the window, waiting for the light and lost in thought. Why – why had He come back?

  ‘Hi, Anna,’ Zac said, pushing away his iPad. ‘Coffee?’ He held up the coffee pot on the table.

  ‘That would be amazing, thanks,’ she said, laying her jacket – a Ridge Riders one too, the same as Bo’s but in red – on the back of the chair and joining them at the table. ‘Hey, you shaved your beard off!’

  Zac rubbed his hands over his smooth jaw. ‘Yeah. The people had spoken. Bo put it to a poll.’

  Anna laughed as she looked between them both. ‘How brilliant!’

  ‘Well, she certainly thinks so,’ Zac replied, throwing Bo a benign look.

  ‘And I do too. You look great!’

  ‘I thought you said I looked like Ryan Reynolds with the stubble.’

  ‘Well, now you look like . . . Michael Fassbender without it!’

  Bo forced a smile, trying to kickstart herself into action. Vaguely, she knew he would like that comparison. She also noticed Anna was perfectly made-up, her lashes brushed lightly with mascara and a slick of gloss on her lips. She was wearing skinny white jeans, a black and red folk-style knitted jumper and Sorel snow boots, a pair of white furry earmuffs clasped around her neck. Bo, in her boyfriend jeans, plaid shirt, bare face and tousled hair felt distinctly underdressed in comparison. It had been a long time since she’d dolled herself up. Why would she? The places they went to never called for it – fine restaurants, dinner parties and black-tie balls weren’t part of their landscape. ‘Did you sleep well?’ she asked flatly, tucking her unbrushed hair behind her ear.

  ‘Actually no, not really,’ Anna said with a sheepish smile.

  Bo felt her stomach drop and she hoped to God Anna wasn’t going to share confidences about her night with Lenny. ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Was it too cold?’ she asked, giving her an out.

  ‘No, it’s not that – the cabin’s lovely, but I don’t think I’m used to the sound of silence. It’s so loud.’ She bit her lip and gave them both a quizzical stare. ‘Does that even make sense?’

  ‘Oh, it does,’ Zac grinned, knowing exactly what Bo had been thinking as he poured her a m
ug and handing it over to her. ‘We get the same thing but in reverse. Cities we take ages to adjust to now; weeks, really. And if we’re under a flight path, forget it.’ He shook his head. ‘Silence is the reward for seclusion but it does take some getting used to.’

  ‘Well, I look forward to acquiring the habit,’ she smiled, copying Bo and wrapping her hands around her mug too. ‘So, where are the others?’

  ‘Well, Lenny’s upstairs –’

  Bo automatically arched an eyebrow, but she wasn’t surprised he hadn’t stayed with Anna last night. In his world, that counted as being ‘tied down’, which made him feel ‘claustrophobic’.

  ‘Hey, Len – are you ready yet or what?’ Zac called up the ladder.

  ‘Coming. I’m just sorting the cameras.’ His voice was muffled but they could hear the sound of his footsteps on the boards as he moved around above them. ‘Ow! Fuck!’

  Zac laughed. ‘Keeps banging his head on the rafters,’ he said confidingly. ‘That’s the third time so far today. He’s not a morning person.’

  ‘Who is?’ Anna sighed, resting her chin in her hand, her eyes roaming the basic, yet cosy cabin. ‘And our guide – Anders? Is he up from the village yet?’

  ‘He should be here any minute.’ Zac checked his Apple watch. ‘We agreed a ten o’clock start. We need a little light to see by, at least.’

  ‘Will he come by helicopter again? That was so cool last night.’

  ‘Not sure. It must be heavy on fuel.’ Zac shrugged. ‘He might come by rib, the way we came.’ He shrugged up his eyebrows. ‘Or maybe he’ll arrive by camel! Who knows? He’s a real action man. Norway’s answer to Bond.’

  They heard the sound of Lenny coming down the ladder, his camera bag slung across his body as he descended, wrinkling his Led Zepp tour T-shirt. ‘Hey, guys.’

  ‘Hey, Len,’ Bo mumbled, seeing how he didn’t throw any intimate looks Anna’s way and construing it as a bad thing: if he’d already slept with her, then this was just the first of many rejections Anna would have to get used to.