Now
Isla’s eyes ached as she gazed out at the miles and miles of freshly fallen snow, the bright sun reflecting off its brilliant whiteness. It was quiet, nobody for miles, and she felt so absorbed by the silence that sitting in the back of a taxi felt unusually easy.
A moose in the distance wandered, slow and lumbering, and Isla pulled out her camera. She lowered the window, the bitter cold air making her face tingle.
‘Are you staying here long?’ the taxi driver asked, as she rested the camera lens on the glass, zoomed in on the moose and snapped a picture.
‘A week,’ Isla said. ‘I wish it was longer.’ She slid the window to a close, and the driver dashed a look over his shoulder. He was about thirty, with a friendly smile.
‘I live in Kiruna,’ he said, his English good, although there was no doubting he was Scandinavian.
She glanced out once more at the miles and miles of endless snow. This was perfect.
‘Kiruna’s the most northerly town in Sweden,’ he continued, as though proud of his home. ‘Although it will all move eventually.’
‘What will?’
‘Kiruna.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes.’ He nodded. ‘The area will one day be swallowed up by Kiirunavaara.’
‘Kiirunavaara?’ She imagined a monster gulping down the small mining town.
‘Kiirunavaara is the mountain,’ he continued. ‘It has one of the world’s largest iron-ore mines, but the ground below is becoming rickety.’ He took his hand off the steering wheel and mimicked a rocking gesture.
‘Oh God.’ Her startled eyes met his in the rear-view mirror.
He laughed. ‘It’s fine right now,’ he said, continuing to chuckle. ‘It will be many years before we need to worry – long, long time before that happens.’ He laughed again, throwing his head back. ‘You see, I’m a good tour guide, yes?’
‘You are indeed,’ she said, smiling and making a mental note of all he’d told her for her book.
Apart from the roads, the whole area was buried under eight feet of snow, but the taxi driver seemed oblivious to the weather conditions, driving at a fair speed. At home in the UK, a sprinkling of snow caused havoc, Isla thought, and yet here he was, taking it in his stride.
They pulled up in front of Camp Arctic, a sprawling one-storey, wooden lodge, in Abisko. The driver unloaded her case, and she paid him.
‘You want more good tour, you call and ask for Erik, yes?’ he said with a smile, pocketing her generous tip.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said, as he got back into the taxi, leaving her alone.
Inside the building, she stomped her booted feet at the entrance to shake off the snow. Two huge, shaggy dogs bounded over to greet her, their claws clattering on the wooden floorboards. She ruffled their heads with gloved hands.
‘Bry dig inte om dem, de inte bita,’ a woman with wiry, red hair called from behind a small, wooden counter, although Isla had no idea what it meant. ‘Tindra! Max!’ The woman slapped her thigh, and the dogs scooted off and disappeared behind the counter.
Isla collected the key to her room from the woman, who told her the timings for breakfast and dinner.
Her room was tiny, reminding her of the hostel in Sydney. Her parents had sent extra money back then, so she didn’t have to share a dorm. ‘It will be safer,’ her mum had said. The irony hit her now, but she battered down the memory.
She turned on her phone, noticing the battery was low. After heaving her case on the bed, she opened it, hunting for the charger.
‘Crap,’ she muttered, as she rummaged further in her case, realising she’d forgotten it. She picked up her mobile and, with the phone’s last breath, texted Jack and her mum, telling them she was a numpty, and if they needed her in an emergency to call the hotel. She would attempt to borrow a charger, but needed them to know all was well, in case they worried.
She tugged her teddy bear that she took everywhere from the case and sat it on the bedside table.
Wasting no time, she grabbed her camera, and made her way back to reception, where she hired a snowsuit, thermal gloves and a pair of boots from the red-headed woman. She pulled them on, and dived out into the frosty air.
After walking for half an hour, the silence and sheer peace clearing her head a little, and the pleasure of snapping photographs soothing her senses, she spotted someone in the distance. The sun glanced off the snow making it hard to see. She stopped, pulled down her goggles and squinted, trying to make out the figure standing against the whiteness wearing a dark snowsuit and holding walking sticks.
She looked about her. There was nobody else around. It’s just a tourist, she told herself, but with everything else that had happened, a desperate need to turn back, to run, was overpowering.
The figure lifted a snow stick, as though greeting her, and she spun round and attempted to walk at speed. Her boots were heavy in the deep snow, like walking in treacle, but she kept on going, looking back every few seconds. Whoever it was didn’t move; just watched as she ploughed on, snow crunching under her feet, her emotions on hyper alert.
As the figure grew smaller in the distance, another figure appeared, dressed in pink. The two figures appeared to talk for a few moments, before turning, and moving off in opposite directions.
Once back at the lodge, Isla almost fell into the doorway out of breath.
‘Is everything all right?’ the red-headed woman asked. She was large, with a rather bohemian look.
‘Yes,’ Isla said, feeling ridiculous, and angry with herself that he was still there – even in the quiet of Abisko – Carl Jeffery, messing with her head. How had he done that? How had he crawled back under her skin and set up home?