Shiver Page 2

  More storage rooms; more locked doors. The light switches are on short timers and occasionally turn off before I’ve pressed the next one, leaving me in total darkness, having to grope my way along the wall. The silence is creepy. If someone popped out from behind one of these doors, I would just about have a heart attack.

  At last a familiar sight: the main entrance onto the glacier. I hurry toward it. Nobody will be out there at this time of night and the door will probably be locked, but if it isn’t, I want to taste that ice-tinged air. It’s been so long.

  It opens. Wind rushes through the gap in a high-pitched, relentless scream. The sound is strangely human. I yank the door shut and stand there breathing hard. I knew this would be the problem if I came back here. Too many doors I’d be better off not opening.

  Get a grip, Milla.

  Okay. I can do this. Once I get a couple of drinks in me, I’ll be fine.

  Upstairs, they have a function room where they host weddings and stuff. A useful moneymaker for tiny resorts like this one, especially during the off-season. I’ve only ever seen it in pictures, but that must be where everyone is, because I’ve checked everywhere down here.

  Here are the stairs. At the top is a heavy fire door, and the air on the other side of it seems even colder. A faint smell. Familiar. What is it? Heather’s perfume, maybe.

  Voices from the door on the right.

  Stop! reads a sign. The game is on. Phones must be left in the basket.

  I let out my breath. A game. Some kind of quiz, maybe, about snowboarding or what we remember about each other. Something to get us talking about old times. And it’s exactly Curtis’s style, telling us what to do like this, not wanting any outside distractions from whatever he has planned. I lower my phone into the basket. Except . . .

  The sign snags my attention again. The game is on. I once said those words to— No. It’s a common enough phrase. It doesn’t mean anything. I dump my phone on top of the four already there and go inside.

  The function room juts out over the mountains, the carpet a thick white pile to mirror the snow outside, the furniture white and silver and no doubt stupidly expensive. Upholstered satin chairs; tables of glass and chrome. The opulence is in stark contrast to the rustic furnishings below. It even smells different. Gone is the fug of woodsmoke, replaced by the scent of fresh paint.

  The entire back wall is windows, white velvet curtains tied back with a sash. The view must be spectacular in the daytime, but for now it’s total blackness. Not a light in sight. Eerie in our current situation, but otherwise a beautiful venue for a wedding.

  If you can overlook how many lives this glacier has claimed.

  And how many bodies it still holds.

  Don’t think of that.

  It’s so cold in here that I can see my breath. Damp, too. The room probably hasn’t been used for months. The others all have drinks. A lone beer sits on a nearby silver tray—Kronenbourg 1664. The glass is icy against my palm. I used to love these little bottles of French beer, sweet and fizzy. Haven’t drunk it since the last time I was here.

  It’s just the five of us still. The staff must be along the corridor. Curtis keeps looking at the door. What does he have planned?

  Heather’s French-manicured nails curl over my lower arm. “Did you see the game?”

  “What game?”

  She tows me across the carpet to a tall wooden box sitting on a low table. Beside it are pens, good-quality cream envelopes, and cards. And a printed, laminated sheet. Icebreaker. The script is ornate, the sort you see on the order of service at funerals.

  And weddings, I remind myself quickly.

  Write a secret, something about yourself that none of the others will know. Post it in the box. Draw the envelopes out, one by one, and guess who wrote what.

  I glance at Curtis again, amused he’s gone to so much effort when we’d have been happy to just drink ourselves stupid. He strides past me to the window, rubs condensation from the glass, and peers out. The fluidity of his movements always reminded me of a male gymnast, and that hasn’t changed. He still has the same powerful grace.

  I need more alcohol in me before I approach him, so I head over to Brent instead. I’m surprised by the beer bottle in his hand. He never used to drink.

  “Been snowboarding lately?” I say.

  “Once a year,” he says. “All I can afford. I still do a load of skateboarding.”

  “I can tell that from the state of your shoes.”

  His DCs are so worn on one toe that I can see his sock. DC used to sponsor him, but presumably he had to buy his current pair. I’m touched he stayed loyal to the brand, but that’s Brent all over.

  He was only twenty-one that winter, with the lean frame and all the energy of a teenager. He’s filled out a bit now. Hard to say beneath his baggy clothing, but he still looks in pretty good shape. Still wears his jeans halfway down his arse as well.

  His dark good looks, courtesy of his Indian father, brought him brief success as a model before his snowboarding career took off. I check him out online now and then, but his Instagram doesn’t reveal much. I want to ask if he’s seeing anyone—if he has children even—but he might get the wrong idea. I need to know that he’s happy.

  “So you really didn’t invite me here?” Brent asks.

  “No,” I say. “I told you.”

  Curtis meets my eye from across the room, looking . . . troubled? Wondering where the staff are, probably.

  “You still riding?” Brent says, clearly making an effort to steer the conversation to safer territory.

  “Not since I left here,” I tell him.

  “Seriously? Not once?”

  “Busy with work.” I can see his surprise. Back then snowboarding was all I could think about, and I always imagined I’d be doing it well into my old age.

  The truth is I’m terrified of it. Terrified of who it makes me become and what other lives I might destroy. The moment I fasten into my bindings, nothing else matters.

  Brent doesn’t know what I did, not all of it. None of them do.

  And I intend to keep it that way.

  CHAPTER 3

  Heather claps her hands for attention. “Icebreaker time.”

  “Aw, I’m starving,” Brent says.

  “Me, too,” I say. “I found a casserole in the kitchen.”

  Heather pouts. “It’ll be fun. We can eat after.”

  Was she always this annoying or has being married made her bossier? She tips back the rest of her wine. Maybe she’s just drunk.

  Brent grumbles, but Heather hands out cards, pens, and envelopes. I look at Curtis again, but he sweeps past me out of the room.

  “What are we supposed to write?” Brent asks.

  “Something juicy that no one else knows,” Heather says.

  My throat goes dry. I drain my beer, but it’s the kind of dryness that no amount of alcohol will wash away. I know because I tried it when I left here ten years ago.

  I chew the end of the pen, straining to think of something funny to reveal, and hear Curtis’s voice in the corridor. He has his phone to his ear. Typical Curtis—makes us give our phones up, then uses his. Is he talking to his girlfriend? He sees me watching and shuts the door.

  I look down at my card, but I’m too cold and hungry to think straight. In the end I just write: I have a cat called Stalefish.

  Brent has disappeared. I slip my secret into an envelope and post it in the slot at the top of the box. Where did Curtis get this thing? Apart from being white, it’s completely out of keeping with the rest of the room. The flimsy plywood sides have been badly glued together and given a dodgy paint job, and it looks like something my granddad would make.

  I need the toilet. The ladies’ is the first door down the corridor. The water comes out the tap so cold you’d think the pipes would freeze.

  Back in the function room, Brent has produced a large bag of potato chips. I take a handful.

  I nod at Brent’s snowboard jacket. “Does Burton still give you stuff or did you have to buy that?”

  He crunches chips. “I get a discount.”

  “All right for you. I had to buy myself a whole new kit for this trip.” I lick salt from my fingers. I gave all my snowboard gear away ten years ago to a kid who lived across the street. She deserved it more than me.

  Curtis has returned from his call and resumed his post at the window, back turned. What’s he looking at? There’s nothing to see.

  Dale comes in with another handful of beers. Brent and I swipe a bottle each.

  “Ready to play?” Heather says.

  “Just a sec,” Curtis says, and ducks out once more.

  Heather looks like she’s about to combust. I hide my smile. It’s as though Curtis did it just to piss her off.

  “See any staff?” I ask Dale.

  “No,” he says. “I reckon we’re on our own up here.”

  “Looks that way,” Brent agrees.

  “But there was hot food in the kitchen,” I remind them.

  “Yeah, I saw,” Dale says. “I guess they figured we could help ourselves. Send someone up the lift in the morning to make us breakfast, maybe.”

  “A bunch of guests left unchaperoned? I’m amazed they would allow it,” I say.

  “Saves on costs,” Dale points out.

  Brent nods. “Must be hard for a tiny resort like this up against mega resorts like the Trois Vallées.”

  “What about the game?” I ask. “Did they set that up, too?”

  They can’t answer. And from the way they’re looking at me, they
still think I have something to do with it.

  “Shall I do the honors?” Heather says the moment Curtis returns. Without waiting for an answer, she opens the flap at the bottom of the box, wrestles out the topmost envelope, and rips into it.

  The rest of us pull up chairs. What’s she so excited about anyway? What does she think the cards are going to say?

  “I’ll read them all out, then we’ll guess who wrote what, all right?”

  She’s so twitchy, she’s not just drunk. I think she’s on something. Then again, Curtis seems equally on edge. He sits stiffly upright, keeping a constant watch of the room.

  I can’t feel my fingers. I stuff them under my thighs, but my satin chair seat is as cold as everything else in the room.

  Heather reads the card and her cheeks color. “I slept with Brent.”

  She darts an anxious look at her husband as though fearing he’ll think it an admission, but he’s looking at me, as are Brent and Curtis.

  “I didn’t write that,” Curtis says.

  We all laugh.

  Everyone except Heather. “We said we’d read them all out before we guess.”

  She’s trying to boss Curtis. Good luck with that.

  “I didn’t write it either,” I say.

  The guys laugh some more. Heather glares at me.

  Dale puts his hands up. “Don’t look at me.”

  More laughter.

  One of the guys must have written it for a joke. Curtis probably.

  Heather’s opening the next envelope already. Her haste makes me wonder. Was there ever anything between her and Brent? Even if there was, surely she wouldn’t advertise it. She and Dale got together pretty early on that winter.

  She clears her throat. “I slept with Brent.” Her voice is overbright.

  More laughter, louder this time, from me, Brent, and Curtis. Dale isn’t smiling.

  Curtis slaps Brent’s shoulder. “No wonder you never made the Olympics. You didn’t get enough sleep.”

  It’s good to see Curtis looking happier. His icebreaker is having the desired effect. Warming us up—whether from amusement or embarrassment—despite the frigid air temperature. I’m enjoying seeing Heather squirm. From the expression on Dale’s face, if there was ever something between Brent and his wife, it’s news to him.

  A look passes between Brent and Heather. A wrinkling of Brent’s brow that says: What are you playing at? Brent thinks Heather wrote it! Heather answers with a slight shake of her head. What does that mean? Not now? Or that she didn’t write it?

  My brain is boggling. If Brent thinks Heather wrote one of them, does that mean he actually slept with her?

  I crane my neck to see the handwriting, not that I would recognize it—we didn’t do a lot of writing that winter—but the card Heather holds is written in neat capitals, the way you write when you don’t want someone to recognize your penmanship. It’s a joke, it must be. A prearranged joke between Curtis and Brent to stir things up. Curtis and Dale always had a problem with each other. Yet Brent’s surprise seemed genuine.

  I could speak up, insisting I didn’t write either of them, but I think I’ll wait and see what the next one says.

  Heather opens the third envelope. She looks at the card and sucks in her breath. “I slept with Saskia.”

  Nobody laughs this time. A line has just been crossed.

  Despite our differences, I can’t imagine why anyone here would write that. As far as I know, only one person present has slept with Saskia, and I didn’t think it was common knowledge. I’m careful not to look in Brent’s direction—or Curtis’s.

  Heather eyes her husband, clearly wondering if he wrote it. If I stick to my assumption that Curtis and Brent wrote the first two, Dale must have written this one. But why the hell would he do that?

  Heather opens the next one. Must be thinking it can’t get any worse.

  But apparently it is, because she blinks and looks up in shock. “I know where Saskia is.”

  Curtis snatches the card from her hand and studies it, stony-faced. “Is this some sort of joke?”

  Nobody answers.

  “Did anyone actually write any of these?”

  Eyes slide around the room. Heads shake.

  Unease creeps through me. A glance at the window, at the total and utter blackness out there, reminds me how alone we are. It’s just the five of us. Nobody else for miles and miles. I need to know if Curtis invited us here. Because if he didn’t . . .

  I look at the door, thinking of all the long, dark corridors beyond. Is someone out there?

  Brent breaks the silence. “Let’s hear the last one.”

  Heather opens it and turns pale. The card flutters from her fingers to the floor.

  I pick it up. “I killed Saskia.”

  CHAPTER 4

  TEN YEARS AGO

  A girl flies high above the half-pipe, white-blond hair streaming out from below her helmet. She’s good. On her last hit, she spins one and a half rotations—540 degrees—and brakes to a stop in front of me, spraying me with snow.

  I know who that is. Saskia Sparks. She beat me in the British Snowboarding Championships last year, placing third to my fourth.

  And this year I’m going to beat her.

  My long blond hair, a few shades darker than hers, is pretty distinctive, and if I recognize her, she probably recognizes me, yet if she does, she doesn’t reveal it. She simply unfastens her back foot from her bindings and skates across to the tow lift.

  I dump my backpack and hurry after her. I’ve heard stuff about her. The Ice Maiden, they call her.

  My lift pass is in my pocket. I tilt my hip to the scanner, wait for it to beep, then push through the turnstile. The lift is pretty basic, weather-beaten plastic T-bars that dangle from a tatty-looking moving cable. I seize the nearest T-bar, slide it between my thighs, and watch the action as it drags me up the slope.

  With its naturally forbidding terrain of rugged cliffs, narrow couloirs, and slopes too steep for the average package holidaymaker, Le Rocher holds cult status among expert skiers and snowboarders.

  The resort has another big draw, and here it is: the Le Rocher half-pipe. The snowboarder’s equivalent of a skateboard ramp, the long white channel stretches up the slope. Built to Olympic specification—a hundred and fifty meters long with walls of snow six meters high on either side—it looks in pretty good shape.

  Riders are crisscrossing back and forth, launching out of the sheer ice walls and doing all kinds of crazy shit. It’s hard to tell who’s who under the hats or helmets and goggles, but there are clearly some big names gearing up for the Le Rocher Open tomorrow.

  I wish I’d gotten here earlier. The season started two weeks ago, on the fifth of December, but I was still working. Had to make sure I’d saved up enough to last the whole winter; that way I can focus on my training. I’ll never make the UK top three if I’m up all night working some crappy bar job. Anyway. Catch-up time.

  Saskia is back at the top already. Is she here for the season or just the Le Rocher Open? She drops in and pulls another huge 540 spin. Really nails those landings.

  The first time I saw a half-pipe, the steepness of the near-vertical walls terrified me. It’s an illusion. The vert is your friend. Land on it correctly and it’s so smooth you don’t feel it. But the ice is hard as concrete, so if you screw up, you’re in trouble.

  Fear tingles through me as I fasten my boots into my bindings. Inside my leather pipe gloves, my palms are clammy. I’m more nervous than usual because my snowboard is new—a Magic Pipemaster 157 from my first-ever board sponsor.

  Normally I go easy on my first run, to get a feel for the pipe, but Saskia’s the girl I need to beat, so I’m going to try a 540 on my last hit. I ride down the side until I have enough speed, then plunge in. Down the wall, across the pipe floor, then up the opposite wall and into the air.

  My front hand finds the heel edge of my board and grips it tight. Backside Air. I soar above the ice, mind pure and empty, seeing nothing, hearing nothing. Only feeling. These precious moments of weightlessness at the top of the arc, suspended by gravity. This is why I juggle three jobs for half the year and push myself to the limit in the gym.