Authors: Hanna Allen
ICEHOTEL
ICEHOTEL
by Hanna Allen
Text copyright
©
2012 Hanna R Allen
(UK English Edition 2012)
All Rights Reserved
To Shelagh Graham, whom I wish I had
known better.
A debt of gratitude
to Alison Aiton, Jonathan Cameron, Liz Cole-Hamilton, Dorothy Graham, Jane
Greaves, Christiane Helling, Gaitee Hussain, Moira Jardine, Caroline McAdam, Anne
McCreanor, Andrew Menzies, Julia Prescott, Key Proudlock,
Val Smith, Liz Work, and Annette Zimmermann
for
reading (and re-reading) the manuscript, and suggesting ways in which the novel
could be improved. Especially to both Michael Pollak and Krystyna Szawelski, for
their faith in this work and for their unflagging enthusiasm. Finally to Andrea
Bremner and Nick Cole-Hamilton for their sound advice in helping get this book
to market.
Chapter 1
‘It’s happened again, hasn’t it,
Maggie?’ Dr Langley watched me, her face a mask. ‘Tell me about it.’
‘I’ve told you before. It’s always the same.’
‘Tell me again.’
Again? Why did she want to hear what she’d heard so many
times before? But she was the doctor.
‘It’s night,’ I began. ‘I’m in a dark room, with windows
from floor to ceiling. The windows have shutters.’
‘Are they open?’
I made a point of not answering directly whenever she
interrupted. ‘The moonlight makes patterns of light on the floor. But I don’t
linger there because I’ve seen the door in the far wall. I skirt the furniture,
which is covered in dust sheets. As I reach the door, something makes me look
back. The furniture’s gliding across the floor, the pieces zig-zagging past
each other. I hurry into the next room, and the rooms after that. Then I’m
there.’ My heart began to pound as the memory returned. ‘The bathroom’s large,
with no windows. It’s flooded with a harsh light.’
‘Where’s the light coming from if there are no windows?’
She hadn’t asked this question before. ‘I don’t know,’ I
said. ‘Is it important?’
‘Everything you say is important.’ She smiled. ‘Please go
on.’
‘The bathroom’s tiled in white – the walls, the ceiling, the
floor. The bath’s in the middle of the room, sunk into the ground like a
swimming pool. The water’s level with the floor, and the surface is still.’
I hesitated, as I always did at this point, because I felt
the fear start to grow. It germinated slowly, a tiny living thing, fattening in
my gut, twisting, sprouting tentacles, filling my spaces. ‘I look into the
bath, but it’s too murky to see. Yet I know something lies hidden under the
water. I stretch a hand towards the taps, and pull at the chain. But I can’t
shift it. It’s lying along the bottom and something heavy is weighing it down.
I grip it with both hands and tug sharply. The thing at the bottom
stirs, as though it’s wakening. Then I know I’ll have to
do w
hat I’ve dreaded since entering the house. I plunge my hands into
the water and slide them down the chain. They’re so numb I can barely feel
them. Icy water spills over the edge and soaks into my feet.’ I squeezed my
eyes shut in an effort to blot out the image. ‘I pull hard, straining against
the weight, and the thing shifts and starts to rise. The water thickens,
changing colour from brown to dark red.’ My eyes flew open, and I started to
gag.
‘Breathe deeply, Maggie. You’re nearly there.’
‘I try to loosen my grip, but I can’t. I hear something
behind me. I turn round. The room’s empty. The door’s disappeared, it’s tiled
over, become part of the wall. I pull and pull, and the thing in the bath
reaches the top, and breaks the surface.’ The last words came out in a rush.
‘And you wake up.’
I nodded, seized by the fear. Its fleshy tentacles, now
fully grown, were coiled around my throat, constricting my breathing, creeping
into my nostrils. I opened my mouth wide, panting, and struggled for control
until the tentacles loosened and slipped from my throat.
‘How does waking feel?’ Dr Langley said gently.
I ran a hand over my face. ‘I’m in a sweat and out of
breath. I think I must cry out. The woman in the flat above gave me a strange
look when I passed her on the stairs.’
Dr Langley placed her palms together as though in prayer.
For a second, I imagined her mumbling in Latin.
‘What
do you think is in the bath, Maggie?’ she said.
Another question she hadn’t asked. I wondered whether she
was trying to trick me but I dismissed the thought; she was my doctor. ‘I’ve no
idea,’ I said. ‘But there was one thing that was different. The smell.’
‘Describe it.’
‘It was dank, like a pond. Or a river.’
And laced with something impossible to describe, something
I’d smelt in the Chapel at the Icehotel. Oh God, that Chapel. My stomach
lurched. I swallowed hard, trying to stop the retching.
Dr Langley rose quickly and walked to the sideboard, her
shoes squeaking on the polished parquet. She poured noisily from a crystal
decanter. I slumped back, listening to the tone change as the glass filled with
water.
The surgery was like none I’d seen. And I’d seen a few. The
sideboard was antique; I’d asked about it at our first session, more to keep
the conversation going than from genuine interest. Above it, a gilt-framed
mirror hung suspended from the picture rail. There was a time when I’d have
leant forward to admire my reflection. Not any more.
‘Drink this,’ she said, leaning over to hand me the glass.
I wrapped myself in the powdery
scent of her perfume, and listened to the room’s sounds. They seemed strangely
magnified
: the ticking of the grandfather clock, the distant traffic
through the partly-shuttered windows. I drained the glass, holding onto these
sounds as though sanity depended on it.
She returned to the desk.
‘Can I smoke in here?’ I said. ‘I’m probably not allowed to,
but, as it’s your office . . .’
The expression in her eyes changed. So, after all these sessions,
I could still surprise her. The thought gave me a cat-got-the-cream sense of
satisfaction.
‘I didn’t know you smoked, Maggie.’
‘I started yesterday,’ I lied.
She arched an eyebrow but I pretended not to see it. I pawed
in my bag and found the Marlboro Lights I’d taken from Liz’s kitchen table
. But I had n
o matches. I glanced up, smiling
awkwardly. Without a word, Dr Langley reached into a drawer and produced a
silver lighter. She nudged the ashtray in my direction. I lit a cigarette and
sucked gratefully, wondering whether she, too, was a smoker. Studying her as I
exhaled, I concluded she wasn’t. The lighter would be for her patients, all as
pathetic as I was, craving nicotine to get through the day and not remembering
essentials like matches.
Yet I wanted to see her reaction. I thrust out the pack.
‘Would you like one?’
‘I don’t smoke.’
She smiled then, a wide smile that showed her perfect teeth.
A Julia Roberts smile. She was older than Julia Roberts, her hands one of the
give-aways, putting her in her early fifties. She was slim for her age, without
the leanness of women on permanent diets. Her sharp trouser suit and silk
blouse, ruffled at the neck and cuffs, would have been purchased in one of
Edinburgh’s designer shops. She wore only a trace of make-up over skin that was
largely unlined.
But
she’d let her hair go
grey, even though the cut was modern. If she’d dyed it, it would have taken ten
years off her age. Her most remarkable features, however, were her eyes. They
were large and doe-like. And they saw everything.
If anyone can help you,
Maggie, she can.
My GP’s words.
From somewhere within the building a door slammed, shredding
my nerves. I lit another cigarette, and was pocketing the lighter when I
remembered myself. I balanced it on the edge of the desk, avoiding Dr Langley’s
eyes.
‘Why am I having this dream?’ I said.
She studied her finely-manicured hands. The nails were
varnished in the palest rose. I thought of my own, ragged, bitten to the quick,
and slid my hands under my knees.
‘You need to bear in mind, Maggie, that there’s rarely a
simple explanation for a dream.’ She was in teacher-mode now. ‘Dreams consist
of elements which have to be disentangled. That’s not always easy. In yours,
some associations are clear. The smell of river water, for example.’ She leant
forward, her eyes steady. ‘But the thing you can’t see, the thing that’s under
the water – that holds the key. It’s something you want to discover, which is
why you can’t release the chain and the door disappears, trapping you in the
bathroom and forcing you to make the discovery. But it’s also something you
dread discovering, so your brain wakes you before the thing reaches the
surface.’
‘And the water turning to blood?’
‘That’s not so surprising, given what happened at the Icehotel.
But the white tiles.’ She made an arch with her fingers. ‘Your subconscious is
drawing your attention to them. My suspicion is you’ve seen them somewhere. Can
you remember?’
‘I can’t remember what day it is, let alone where I’ve seen
white tiles,’ I said, hoping she wouldn’t realise I was lying.
‘Then that’s something we’ll keep working on.’
‘And when I find out what’s under the water, I’ll stop
having the dream?’
‘It’s equally likely you’ll stop having it before you find
out.’
I rested my head against the back of the chair and stared at
the ceiling. I hadn’t always had dreams. My childhood and early teens had
passed without them. Dreams had appeared at the onset of adulthood and, with
it, responsibility. But this dream, that had reduced me to a fraction of my
former self, was recent, brought on by the terrible events earlier in the year.
Weeks would pass without it, then, for no apparent reason, three would come
consecutively, like buses. I wondered whether the others who’d been at the
Icehotel had dreams. Liz might, although I doubted Mike would. But not Harry.
Not now.
Dr Langley’s voice broke into my thoughts. ‘You’re making
progress, Maggie.’ She was writing, adding today’s observations to her case
notes. ‘Don’t you feel it?’
I ran a hand over my face. ‘I feel I’m living someone else’s
life.’
She replaced the cap on her fountain pen, then blotted and
closed the file. She always did it in that order. I was fascinated both by this
little ritual, and by the medical profession’s apparent disregard for the
ballpoint.
‘We went a little further today,’ she said. ‘I see evidence
of improvement each time we meet.’
‘The men in white coats aren’t coming for me, then?’
‘When you can recall your experiences without reliving them,
you’ll be through the worst.’ She searched my face. ‘But there’s something
you’re holding back. Something you’re not telling me.’
I kept my expression blank. It was a look I’d perfected in
recent weeks.
‘I’m not saying you’re doing it deliberately.’ She
hesitated. ‘But you’ve still to tell me what happened at the Icehotel.’
What did she want to know? It had been in all the newspapers.
‘You’re back at work in the New Year.’ She had the file open
again and was scanning the pages. ‘A pharmaceutical company, isn’t it?’
She played these little games. She knew the name, but wanted
to see if I remembered it. She knew everything about my life: my childhood, my
time at university, my first job in Newcastle. And the move to Edinburgh.
‘It’s Bayne Pharmaceuticals, Dr Langley,’ I said, my voice
level. ‘They’ve given me six months’ leave of absence. My boss has been
brilliant about everything.’
‘And how are you sleeping? On the nights you don’t have the
dream,’ she added.
‘Having a drink before bed helps.’
I wondered if she’d guessed I needed to drink myself into
oblivion. Even then, I rarely slept through. The worst hour was three in the
mornin
g: I’d wake and, unable to sleep, would
chain-smoke in bed. But she knew I drank before our sessions. She couldn’t fail
to notice the odour on my breath. I rarely went to the surgery without at least
two drinks inside me. The first gave my brain cells a wake-up call, but a
second was needed to make them fully functioning.