Chapter 7
7
SAINT-CHAMBéRY, FRANCE
‘You know what’s gonna happen, right?’ Erin began in a whisper. ‘We are going to be taken to a log cabin and it’s gonna be all hot chocolate and niceties until he turns… and the sweet middle-aged-man act is gonna drop and you and me are going to be killed like this ferrety weasel thing over my shoulder and he’s gonna turn us into snow mummies.’
Erin gave a muted yelp as the rather unique vehicle they were travelling in bucked over what Orla assumed was a rut in the road. There might be the carcass of a dead something on the parcel shelf but Orla hadn’t ruled out it being a shawl, no matter how anatomically incorrect that might be. But, so far, everything was as it should be. They’d been met at the airport by their driver, Gerard, as it had stated in Frances’s email, and they were on their way to Saint-Chambéry where they were going to be staying at a small hotel with the name ‘Delphine’. Once there, Orla’s remit was to report on the pregnant reindeer and meet the mute man who had developed a special bond with the animal. She was already hoping the ‘special bond’ included a unique way of communicating, as she had experience with Navajo Code and she’d found that fascinating. However, Frances had written:
I’m envisaging Vincent from Lost meets Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer and hoping the guy looks like Ian Somerhalder. Heart-warming, factual and sexy – the holy trinity.
‘Shh,’ Orla said to her sister, looking out of the window at their surroundings and glad for the Christmas music Gerard had put on over an hour ago.
‘Shh?’ Erin said in whispered shouting. ‘It’s freezing! I can’t get internet at all and the friendly barman/postman/Santa’s buddy or whatever he called himself is gonna murder us. Here. In this cold, cold place.’
Orla looked at Erin then, squished next to her in the back seat of this weird three-seat vehicle where their cases were in a footwell next to the driver’s position. Was she seriously a little bit scared? Her sister had her acrylic nails between her teeth and Orla needed to remember that despite all Erin’s swagger, she was still so young and obviously home was not currently the comforting sanctuary it was supposed to be. Perhaps Orla had a chance to provide some sisterly reassurance here in France, make her feel safe.
‘Erin, everything’s fine,’ Orla said calmly. ‘The very last place a murderer would take us is to where he lives and we’re heading exactly where we’re supposed to be going.’
‘But how do you know ? He could be driving away from where he lives and where we’re supposed to be because everything looks the same. Look!’ Erin put the flat of her hand to the window as if she was trapped in a transparent box.
Orla did look though, and it was spectacular. Towering fir trees as far as the eye could see, the road like a slippery white snake slithering a path through the density, craggy mountains specked with snow, white mist hiding their peaks. It was the epitome of a winter wonderland. Quiet, simple, but she knew the potential of what quiet and simple on the outside could hold. Maybe it wasn’t so much what the brief of the assignment here was, perhaps it was more about what she could make it…
‘I know,’ Orla said to Erin. ‘Because I’m following our route on Google Maps.’
‘You have service?’ Erin exclaimed, thoughts of murder temporarily forgotten.
‘How long until we get to the village now, Gerard?’ Orla asked, leaning forward a little.
‘ Vingt minutes. ’ He paused. ‘ Désolé . I will speak in English. It is twenty minutes. It has to be twenty minutes because I have many things to do before the opening.’
‘Opening?’ Erin was leaning forward now too. ‘It sounds like an event. Is there an event? Will there be a red carpet?’
‘Erin, do you have your seat belt on?’ Orla asked.
‘Yes,’ Erin said, tugging at the strap to prove it.
‘I have blue carpet,’ Gerard answered. ‘Not red.’
‘Sorry, Gerard, my sister just means what kind of event is it?’ Orla asked, the car still bumping along.
‘And will there be a DJ?’ Erin added.
‘Is first Christmas fête in Saint-Chambéry. We switch on winter lights. We eat. We dance. We drink my homemade beer. Everyone is happy.’
Erin flopped back into the seat, arms folded across her chest. ‘Not everyone. Not me. Sounds lame.’
‘Well, I heard eating, beer and dancing,’ Orla said, nudging her sister’s arm. ‘And, I have the company credit card.’
‘Really?’ Erin said, brightening up considerably.
It was true, but she would have to account for each expense and use it sparingly, for necessities only. But Erin didn’t need to know that in this particular moment.
‘I think we are going to like the fête, Gerard,’ Orla assured. ‘Very much. Trés beaucoup .’
‘Well, I hope there are enough cookies,’ Gerard said with a grunt. ‘We were only expecting one of you.’
Yes, she hadn’t actually told anyone on this side of the Channel that she was travelling with a companion now and she hoped it wasn’t going to cause problems. Surely whatever room Frances had booked would accommodate a five-foot-five, almost size eight, addition.
‘And here we are,’ Gerard announced almost twenty minutes later. ‘The start of Saint-Chambéry. Here is the luxury spa hotel. Then, on the left there is the designer shopping village and modern mall.’
‘Where?’ Erin asked, body snapped into staying still by her seat belt.
Orla knew Gerard was joking but she also knew that wasn’t going to go down well with Erin. They were not even at their final destination and she was already worried that Erin being here wasn’t going to be easy.
‘Ha! I am joking with you!’ Gerard said, bursting into laughter as the steering wheel seemed to be swayed by the terrain.
Erin went very quiet. The worst kind of non-appreciation when it came to her. An annoyed and feisty Erin was always preferable to the silent version who was doing more thinking than shouting. Reassurance .
‘Don’t worry,’ Orla whispered to Erin. ‘I mean, I do have to work but if this village is as dead as a cemetery then I am certain we can find the nearest city at some point and have a night out.’
‘Nearest city is Grenoble,’ Gerard butted in. ‘Where we have driven all this long long way from.’
Erin shifted in her seat, turned to completely face the window like she could be looking at a brick wall instead of a snow-festooned town. Knowing there was nothing she could say to help in this moment, Orla looked out of the other window as a few buildings began to appear. Most were wooden, like chalets, some on stilts. There were strings of lights hanging from their roofs, lanterns glowing amber and yellow, the only lights that seemed to just about differentiate the road from the not-road. But as they travelled, people began to appear, walking, wrapped up in thick coats, hats and gloves like burritos packed for the Ice Age. Orla had checked the temperatures before they left, but was now wondering if she had underestimated the clothing needs. A side-eye to her sister confirmed that Erin was wearing leggings just about fit for autumn in the UK not minus temperatures in the mountains.
‘Oh, there is a roadblock,’ Gerard announced, pulling the car to a rather skiddy halt.
‘A roadblock?’ Orla asked. One glance through the windscreen showed old wooden barriers with orange beacons flashing on and off and two large men looking official standing in the way. Were they policemen? What was going on? ‘Has there been an accident?’
‘ Non ,’ Gerard replied. ‘It is the Christmas fête. No traffic in the village square. I thought we would arrive before this time but…’
‘But?’ Orla asked, hoping they were very close to where they should be or that their driver had a plan.
‘But your plane came late,’ Gerard reminded her. ‘It is OK. I will park the car and we will walk.’
‘Walk!’ Erin exclaimed as though the word was really code for ‘do a marathon’.
‘I don’t think snow is particularly good for pulling luggage,’ Orla said, empathising with her sister. It was freezing. She needed to clarify the length of this walk before anyone opened any car doors. ‘So, Gerard, how far do we need to go on foot because?—’
Suddenly, the car was spun around like it might be about to take part in a high-octane street race and Orla’s words were taken from her as she smashed into Erin.
‘It is not far,’ Gerard answered as he morphed into Charles Leclerc. ‘You have good walking shoes, non ?’
Why Orla felt the need to look down and check what she had on her feet as the car raced away from barriers, people and towards towering pines, she had no idea. But her usual not-anything-special trainers might not cut it if ‘not far’ was further than a catwalk runway…
‘Orla,’ Erin said through gritted teeth. ‘I feel sick.’
Oh no! Suddenly Orla was cast back in time to a visit to the fair when her sister was eight or nine. Erin had suffered with motion sickness for a few years after a frantic fling-around on the Waltzers and Orla had never been able to look at popcorn in the same way ever again. But she had outgrown it, right?
‘Stop the car,’ Orla demanded. ‘Erin, take a slow deep breath.’
‘I… am trying to stop the car… it does not… seem to be working.’
Now Gerard sounded just a tiny bit panicked and Erin was doing a very good impersonation of a bleached sheet… There was only one thing for it.
Orla grabbed the handbrake and pulled on it hard. Instantly the car slipped into a sideways skid and suddenly there was something or someone now in their path. Big, black, getting closer. Orla was torn between taking the handbrake back off or grabbing the steering wheel from Gerard. Erin let out a shriek and then…
Thump .
The noise was loud, the impact hard, but suddenly the car was stationary and Orla realised exactly how quiet everything now was. The car engine was idling, Erin was silent apart from a few panicky breaths and Gerard seemed like he was dazed and confused as to what had occurred. But beyond all that Orla felt something was wrong. The dark apparition. Had they hit something? Hit someone ? She was reaching for the door handle, unconcerned for the cold outside now.
Her trainers crunched down into snow that was a couple of inches thick but she barely noticed, eyes searching the darkness that was only less like night because of the bright white of the ground.
‘Hello!’ Orla called. ‘Is anyone there?’
She couldn’t see anything but snow, trees and the top of the mountain in the distance. They couldn’t have slid that far away from civilisation. And where had the dark figure/thing gone? Now she felt the cold. It was already penetrating her apparently inadequate puffer jacket.
‘ Oú est ton chapeau ?’
Orla jumped at the sound of a man’s voice, hand going to her chest.
‘ Vous n’avez pas de gants ?’
What little French Orla knew consisted of the niceties of meeting someone and ‘do you sell ice cream’. Neither were appropriate for now. She turned around and lost her breath to the freezing air. The man was huge. Tall, broad, dressed head to toe in black from his woollen hat to thick sturdy boots. He had some kind of wrap across his face, the only stand-out was his eyes. Large, deep, dark brown and staring at her.
‘ Parlez-vous Anglais? ’ She didn’t know where she had remembered that from, but her GCSE teacher would have been proud.
‘Yes, I speak English,’ the man answered. ‘I asked you where your hat and gloves are. You cannot be out in these temperatures without them here. In the centre of the village, maybe, especially tonight with all the crowds of annoying people, but definitely not here.’
She had a hat and gloves. In her case. Just not on her head or hands. And why was he talking about that when someone could be injured?
‘What?’ the man asked her, presumably because of the confused expression even she could feel she was wearing. ‘Is my English not understandable?’
‘No, I… I thought the car hit someone and?—’
‘Yes,’ the man answered. ‘It hit me.’ With that said, he walked past her and around to the driver’s side of the vehicle.
‘Sorry, what?’ Orla said, following the man. ‘But you’re… walking.’
‘Yes,’ the man answered as Gerard emerged from the car. ‘Strangely enough I have been doing this since I was around a year old. And it never stops amazing me. The one foot in front of the other. The balancing.’ He spoke in French to Gerard and Gerard replied. Orla had no idea what they were saying except the odd ‘ oui ’ and a name – Jacques.
‘But we hit you,’ Orla said, breaking into their conversation. ‘I heard the impact and?—’
The two men started to laugh, still speaking in their native tongue, apparently finding this accident utterly hilarious. And now she really was feeling the cold.
‘Fine!’ she announced. ‘Be rude! Be not injured! Just show me and my sister the way to walk to get to the hotel I’m meant to be staying in!’
More laughter and now it was starting to get on Orla’s nerves.
‘Right, well, thank you for the lift most of the way here, and the added hell ride at the end, but we will be fine from now on!’ She wrenched open the back door. ‘Come on, Erin, let’s go.’
‘Orla,’ Erin mumbled as if she had something stuck in her throat.
The smell. The visual. Orla didn’t need an explanation but Erin managed one anyway.
‘I’ve been sick.’