Adnan studied the Polaria Museum building as the three children made their way towards it.
‘I hate museums,’ Hatty muttered. ‘They’re boring.’
‘I love them,’ retorted Adnan.
‘You would.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means,’ Hatty explained, ‘that you’re the kind of person who likes boring things, Adnan.’
‘Thanks,’ Adnan said. ‘I like to think of myself as someone who’s interested in the big wide world. Someone who wants to know more than he already knows. I wonder if that makes me boring – or someone else?’
‘Yawn,’ Hatty said.
‘You’re the yawn, Hatty.’
As they reached the door of the museum, Adnan shoulder-barged Hatty. Playfully. Hatty glared back at him. Less playfully.
Polaria was a strange-looking building. It appeared like a stack of blocks of ice, falling like giant white dominoes, as if they were going to tumble into the fjord. The entrance was a massive sheet of glass, revealing everything inside. A shop. A cafe. The museum itself.
‘There’s fish,’ Adnan said.
‘What?’ Hatty asked.
‘Fish,’ Adnan went on. ‘In the museum. Fish to look at.’
‘I hate fish too,’ Hatty said, turning to see that Lesh had stopped his wheelchair and was eyeing the museum warily.
‘What’s up?’ Adnan said. ‘Do you hate fish too?’
‘Be serious, Adnan,’ Lesh snapped. ‘There’s something in there that Hatty hates even more than fish and museums,’ he explained.
‘Eh?’ Adnan looked blankly at him.
‘In there.’
‘What?’ Hatty joked. ‘Georgia?’
Then, to her horror, she saw that Lesh was nodding. And smirking. ‘She’s in the shop.’
Hatty put her hand to her head. ‘Oh no. I have to go in a fish museum that has Georgia in it. This could not get any worse.’
After paying their entrance fee – and before they were allowed into the main museum – they were directed into a cinema to watch a short film about the Arctic. Ignoring the film, they made their way through a set of tanks filled with fish and seals, then past some interpretation boards and a model of a fishing boat, quickly closing in on the cafe.
‘Any sign of Georgia?’ Hatty asked.
‘Negative,’ Lesh said. ‘She’s not in the shop. It looks like she’s gone.’
‘Is Esenin still here, more importantly?’
‘Yes. In the cafe, by the look of it.’
‘Let’s go up there then. See what he’s doing. OK?’
‘OK.’
There was a set of stairs to the left that led up to the cafe, which was over the museum shop. And a lift. The children bundled into it and started to ascend. When the lift door opened and they saw the cafe and everyone in it, none of the three said a word, although each was reeling in shock at what met their eyes. There were about ten people in there, most sitting drinking coffee. Some were eating. At the table in the far corner, overlooking the car park, was Sergei Esenin.
He was sitting – and talking – to another person.
Georgia.