Wilderness Page 3

  “How long is it to the camp?”

  The driver shrugged, and took a big right turn that sent the boys pushing into Sandra, and they kept pushing long after the driver had straightened up, Johnny into Tom, both of them into Sandra, until she told them to stop. They were excited again now that they were moving, and they could see lines of trees made fat with snow – joined by snow, as if the trees were holding hands – and house lights shining across fields of snow that hadn’t been touched yet.

  They drove slowly through a town the driver told them was called Muonio. They passed a long, flat building.

  “Last school before the Arctic Circle,” he said.

  And another.

  “Last hospital. . . Last supermarket.”

  He turned right and stopped in front of a row of wooden houses, and got out. The door behind them slid open and the cold slid in, and the woman who’d been sleeping smiled before she stepped out. Johnny heard her chatting to the driver. They laughed, and he heard the rear door – the boot – open and close, and the driver got back in and started the minibus.

  “Soon,” he said.

  Another left, a right, and the driver stopped again, in front of a two-storey building. This time, he didn’t get out. The boy and girl picked up rucksacks and shopping bags. They pushed on the side door. Again, the cold came in. The boy and girl climbed out. They heard the boot being opened.

  “Students,” said the driver.

  He nodded at the building.

  “College. They learn to be guides.”

  He nodded to the back of the bus.

  “Not very good, I think. They cannot find skis.”

  He got out of the bus and grunted his way past their window to the back. They heard scraping and banging – no barking – and the boot was slammed again. The driver came back the other way, so he could shut the sliding door.

  “Very soon,” he said as he climbed back in. “Long day.”

  “Yes,” said Sandra.

  They were off again, slowly, to the end of the street where there was just darkness ahead of them. He did a slow U-turn, and they went back past the little college and the two students struggling towards it, covered in bags and skis. A few more turns, and the town was behind them. They were on a straight road, streetlights for a while, then gone. And trees, in lines beside them, pushed low by the weight of the snow, branches out, holding hands, keeping the minibus safe on the road.

  The trees were gone now on the right side, and they saw a long black gap that the driver told them was the river.

  “Sweden,” he said. “Other side.”

  They passed a bridge and, halfway across it, the border checkpoint. The lights were out, the roadblocks down.

  “Can we go across to Sweden one of the days?” said Tom.

  “Yes,” said Sandra. “Why not?”

  “Cool.”

  “Sweden.”

  “Two countries.”

  “Three,” said Johnny. “England as well. Manchester Airport, remember?”

  “Oh, yeah. Cool.”

  The driver slowed down, as if he was searching for something in the trees, and then he turned right, and they saw that they were on a road that had been well hidden. The trees on the left weren’t there any more and the hotel was. They liked it immediately. Johnny smiled at Tom, and Tom smiled back.

  “Coo-il.”

  It was a low, long wooden building that seemed to be hiding in the snow. It was surrounded by smaller buildings, some lit, some dark, all like something built for a film. The minibus swung into a wide space – a car park, maybe, but no cars. There were banks of thick snow on each side of the hotel door, and untouched snow all around them, lit by high lights that made it brighter than any snow they’d seen before.

  By the time the driver pulled open the side door, Johnny and Tom were shoving each other to be first at the snow. Sandra heard, then felt, the crunch of the snow under her boots. It wasn’t as cold as she’d expected. It wasn’t really cold at all. She followed the boys to the back of the minibus. The driver opened the door, and stepped back to lift it. And they stepped back to avoid him. They moved from behind his back and looked – no dog. He pulled out their bags. Still no dog. He put the boys’ bags on the ground.

  “Hey, mister,” said Johnny. “Where’s the dog?”

  “Dog?”

  “The dog you put in at the airport.”

  “Got out in town,” said the driver. “Met a lady dog.”

  He laughed, and handed Sandra her bag, and, she thought, he winked.

  “Come on, lads,” she said.

  The boys were up to their knees in snow, wondering where to start.

  “Later,” said Sandra. “Let’s see what the room’s like.”

  “Ah.”

  They went inside, to the reception desk.

  “Coo-il,” said Tom.

  There were knives for sale, in a glass cabinet behind the counter. Their granddad used to show them the blades on his Swiss army knife when they went to his house on Sundays. But these knives were different. They were shining steel, nothing hiding the blades – they were dangerous even to look at.

  “Can we’ve a knife?”

  “Each?”

  “No.”

  Sandra was filling in a form for the woman behind the counter.

  “We’ll pay with our own money,” said Johnny.

  “No.”

  They tried to see the prices on the knives. There were little tags attached to the handles with pieces of string. They leaned across the counter, but Johnny could get further because he was taller than Tom, and his body and jacket pushed Tom back. And, suddenly, Tom was angry. Tom was growing too, but he could never catch up with Johnny, and this always happened – he ended up in second place, in the back seat, with the smaller potato, the broken toy. He could feel tears climbing to the eyes, and that wasn’t fair either, because Johnny would start laughing at him.

  He hit Johnny. He slapped his back. His hand bounced off Johnny’s jacket; it couldn’t have hurt him. But the noise was like an explosion, and it made Sandra jump. The pen she was holding skipped across the paper. She had to get between Johnny and Tom before the fight got going.

  “Stop that! Now!”

  She was embarrassed, and that made her angry – because she hated being embarrassed, and she hated herself for being embarrassed.

  “Do you want to get us thrown out?” she said. “Before we even get in? Well?”

  “No,” said Tom.

  “Well?”

  “No,” said Johnny.

  “So, stop.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Yes, well.”

  She got the key to their room and led the way. The floor was stone; the doors they passed were big and wooden. The corridor was nicely dark. There were lights, but they couldn’t see them. Sandra stopped at a door, and they saw now that the key was huge, like a key from a film with pirates or prisons in it. She unlocked the door, and then a strange thing – the door opened outwards. They had to step back, and then go into the room.

  “Wow!” said Sandra.

  She loved the room. It was huge, and almost dark. The main bed was as wide as a field. And the bunk beds were even bigger. There was space for the boys and every friend they’d ever had. The whole place was wood, just nicely warm and—

  “Hey!”

  Johnny found it, beside the toilet. A sauna.

  “God,” said Sandra.

  She sat on the bed, and lay back – the most comfortable, warmest, coolest bed she’d ever been on. She closed her eyes. This was all she’d wanted.


  “Want to go out and play, lads?”

  They were already getting into their blue thermal underwear, the leggings and the long-sleeved vests. They were dressed again, and gone.

  “Seeyeh,” said Johnny.

  Sandra sat up, got her boots off, and lay back on the bed.

  The boys legged it down the corridor, past the reception and the knives – the woman behind the counter smiled – out the front door, and into the darkness and snow. Johnny grabbed a handful and made a ball. Tom did the same. They faced each other, laughed, and got ready to throw.

  Then they heard the howl.

  The Bus

  Gráinne was on the bus to the airport. Alone. The way she wanted it. She was meeting her mother. By herself.

  She looked out the window. It was still dark, and cold.

  The bus was on the motorway now. They’d be there soon.

  She took out the photograph. The speed of the bus made her hand shake. She put it back in her bag. She’d know her without the photograph. She’d know.

  CHAPTER THREE

  It wasn’t just one dog. They realized that as they walked across the wide space in front of the hotel. There were two dogs, two different howls. The snow here was ice, packed solid by heavy boots. They slid a bit, and Tom fell. He wasn’t hurt. He laughed, and Johnny helped him up. They moved towards a high wire fence. There were lights here too, much higher than the streetlights in Dublin. But it was darker than the front of the hotel. They were moving nearer the trees too, and they could hear the wind in the branches, and the lights swayed. The wind made a singing, screeching noise and in it Johnny heard the howls of the dogs. And he knew: There were more than two dogs – lots more.

  They reached the fence. It was way up over them, like a fence around a prison. They were really cold for the first time. The snow had seeped through their gloves. They were nearer the howls now. “It’s just dog noise,” said Tom.

  “Yeah,” said Johnny.

  They kept going.

  Johnny saw the lane beside the fence, to their right. He pointed, and walked that way. He walked differently on the ice. He had to lift his legs higher than usual, and put each foot down flat on the ground. And he held his arms out from his sides. It was either that or slide.

  They got to the entrance of the lane and saw that it widened ahead of them. A high branch swayed and blocked the nearest light. They were right under the trees; they formed one side of the lane. Tom could hear them groan, and something, a branch, some ice, snapped not far away. Tom moved closer to his brother.

  They stopped. It was really, really cold.

  “Look.”

  A line of them.

  “Snowmobiles.”

  Parked side by side, about ten of them.

  “Coo-il.”

  Tom wasn’t frightened now; he hadn’t really been frightened anyway. There were people around somewhere, people who parked their snowmobiles.

  They walked towards the snowmobiles. And now, ahead of them a good bit, they saw small, stomach-high sheds that they both guessed were kennels. It was like a village of kennels. The kennels were great, real doghouses. They couldn’t see the dogs yet. But Johnny could smell them.

  “God.”

  Tom laughed.

  “Dog breath,” he said.

  Then he heard a howl that didn’t sound funny. He kept going, close to Johnny, over the icy ground, nearer to the kennels, and the first dog he noticed was standing on the roof of his kennel. Staring at Tom. And there was another, in front of his kennel, eating from a bowl. And another beside him, drinking water. All staring at Tom.

  The wind was blowing straight at Johnny. It was cold and almost solid; it made his eyes dry. The dogs were silent now, but they were looking straight at him and Tom, even the ones that were eating. He could hear their teeth.

  “They’re not that big,” said Tom, quietly – Johnny could hardly hear him.

  “Look,” said Johnny. “They’re chained.”

  The chains were long and fixed to the sides of the kennels. One of the dogs howled, and others all around joined in. It was a noise Johnny didn’t hear that much from dogs at home, but it wasn’t that fierce or frightening. The huskies were chained but they were wagging their tails, and yapping. They really weren’t as big as Johnny had expected, and they didn’t look too wild. Two or three of them stretched their chains to get to Johnny and Tom, but they didn’t lunge at them or growl. None of them barked. They were curious. And the smell made the boys laugh.

  Tom had never seen so much poo. It was all over the place, sitting on the snow, lodged in the ice, steaming new, and ancient. He walked carefully. He was in among the dogs. He could see the breath, and feel the heat on his cheeks, even though he didn’t bend or go too near.

  “Look at their eyes,” said Johnny.

  Tom was already looking at them. They all had the most amazing eyes. One of them, pure white, had a different colour for each eye, a brown one and a blue. And one of them, Johnny saw, had different colours in one eye. He was going to show it to Tom, when they were suddenly in front of one dog that made them stop.

  It wasn’t that the dog snarled, or even growled. It was nothing like that. He stepped away from his kennel, and kind of turned, just a bit, to face them. And he stood there, still, in front of them. They knew: he was blocking their way. A leader. Maybe the leader. They knew, and they didn’t have to say it.

  They didn’t move. They stayed still and looked at the dog’s eyes.

  “What colour are they?” said Johnny.

  “Don’t know,” said Tom.

  The eyes were like nothing the boys had ever seen before. There really was no name for their colour.

  “Blue?” said Tom.

  “No,” said Johnny.

  “Turquoise?”

  “Not really.”

  The dog stared back at them. He stood there in the dirty snow, as calm as anything, and looked at the boys, at Tom, and then at Johnny, at Tom, then Johnny.

  They weren’t really like a dog’s eyes at all.

  “It’s like there’s someone trapped in there,” said Tom.

  Johnny nodded. He knew exactly what Tom meant.

  They stepped back, still looking at the dog. They were afraid to turn their backs on him. They stepped back again, into thick, clean snow. They did it again, and bumped into something hard. They turned, and looked up at the biggest, tallest, widest man they’d ever seen.

  The man was a solid wall in front of them. The dog was right behind them.

  “Why – are – you – here?” said the man.

  Tom had to look up, and up, to see him properly. He had to stretch his neck right back. He hoped he’d see a smile when he got to the man’s face. But there was no smile.

  “You – should – not – be – here,” said the man.

  “Sorry,” said Tom.

  The dogs around them were pulling their chains and whimpering. The man said something in Finnish to the dogs. They were pulling at their chains, trying to drag their doghouses to the man. They liked him. Johnny could see that, and so could Tom.

  But that didn’t make him a nice man. A murderer could be nice to his dog. The man stood huge in front of them, right over them. He had a knife on his belt, like one of the ones they’d seen in the hotel, but longer. They both saw it at the same time. It was hanging there, in front of their eyes. It was old and used-looking; the blade was scratched. The wood of the handle was black from years of sweat and maybe blood.

  Johnny felt something behind his knee.

  The dog.
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  His left knee. The dog poked it, with his nose. Like he wanted to topple him.

  Johnny didn’t look.

  He heard the dog sniff. He felt its breath through his trousers – he thought he did.

  “Come,” said the man.

  They got out of his way. It wasn’t easy – the ice and poo. He walked between Johnny and Tom. And he walked through the dogs, past the kennels. He wasn’t wearing a hat or cap. The dogs pulled at their chains. They whimpered.

  The boys looked at each other and followed the man, to a wall behind the kennels. There were bales of straw, covered by a big sheet of blue plastic. The man pulled back the plastic. It exploded in the wind – that was what it sounded like. It lifted, and flapped, and tried to fly away. He shook it and threw it on to the dirty snow. He kicked a rock on to it. It still lifted and dropped, but couldn’t escape. The boys stayed well back.

  “Come,” said the man.

  The bales were up to their heads, a little higher. They were like huge bricks. He picked a bale from the top and turned to the boys. He held it out.

  “Take.”

  Johnny stepped nearer to the man, and Tom followed him. They were under the bale now. It was too big for their arms. The man lowered it. They moved further apart. He held it between them. They put their hands out, under the bale. He let go.

  “God,” said Tom.

  “Heavy?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Not – heavy.”

  He pointed at the nearest kennel.

  “Go.”

  They dropped the bale before they got to the kennel. But they knew what they were doing now. They carried it a bit more, and got it to the kennel. The dog came and sniffed at it.

  Johnny looked back at the man. He picked up two bales, one shoulder for each. He turned and came towards them. The dogs were whimpering again. He dropped the bales beside the boys. Johnny felt the weight of them through his boots.

  He looked down at the boys. He took the knife from his belt. He wiped it on his red jacket. He looked at them, and bent down. He cut the bale twine. He didn’t wear gloves. He put his fist in the straw. He pulled out a big handful. Straw twirled in the wind. Tom felt it, rough, on his cheek. The man walked up to the first kennel. He kicked the roof off it. The explosion and clatter made the dogs mad. Just for a second. The man bent down, put his other hand into the kennel. He took out old, wet straw.