David Gilman - Ice Claw

The journey became a series of dreams and jumbled thoughts. The turmoil in his mind tossed him around like the unrelenting power of the avalanche, and once or twice he gasped awake, gulping air. He slept fitfully for a couple of hours at a time, but at every unusual sound he awoke, heart banging, muscles tensed, ready to fight his way clear.

Sophie placed a hand on his arm and smiled. It wasn’t just that she was calm, Max decided, but that she seemed emotionless-either that or extremely in control.

“We’ll be safe, Max. No one knows we are here. Once we are in Marrakech we’ll be only a few hours from home.”

“And your dad, how will he feel about you bringing a suspected murderer home?”

“He won’t believe it any more than I do.”

Max looked into her eyes. The girl was still an unknown quantity to him, and he could not help but feel that he was being lured towards a distant place where no one would know where he was. He really would be on his own. But wasn’t that exactly what he wanted? Wasn’t that where the clues seemed to be taking him? He convinced himself that, like all the risks he took, this one was calculated. Trouble was, he also knew that maths wasn’t his strongest subject.

He wished he had gone to the airport with Sayid. Being separated from his best friend made him feel even more edgy.

By the time daylight came he had overcome his need for sleep. Alertness was the key now, to make sure they had not been followed, that no ambushes awaited them.

The seats were uncomfortable, but that kept his mind focused. He had put himself into this dangerous situation. He could have gone home right after the avalanche. He need not have helped Sophie that night at Mont la Croix and earned Sharkface’s enmity, or tried to save the wounded monk. But he had, and he would face the consequences. Cause and effect. Max knew that whatever happened, whether he solved the puzzle or not, Sharkface would keep on hunting, like the predator he was.

He felt a deep-seated sensation inside him. Curled, like a fist.

It was not fear.

Max was ready to fight.

Noise and smells. Voices gabbling. Hands pecked at Max’s clothes like hens at food. Colors dazzled; smoke and incense stung his eyes.

Marrakech, Morocco.

The souk, the market backstreets of the ancient city, teemed with people. Merchants vied for attention, fingers tugged at Max’s sleeve, men jumped in front of him and tried to shove all kinds of goods in his face-silk and spices, jewelry, clothing, copper pots, beads and smoldering incense sticks.

“Anji! Anji! — Here! Here!” the shop owners and their touts shouted.

Pungent smells layered the confined alleys. Arguments broke out; men spat words at each other. Scooters and bikes, overladen donkeys and people-more people than Max had ever seen in such small alleys-jostled to get through the cramped passageways.

Sophie was ten paces ahead, sometimes hidden by the surging crowds, but she often turned back to look for him and, satisfied that he was still following, went back to pushing through the wall of bodies.

Max lost sight of her. Flies and sweat irritated his eyes, and the smells were beginning to overwhelm him. His concentration had wavered for a moment and the hungry sea of faces had swallowed her. He felt the urge to shout her name, but it would have been swept away in the noise of the alleys. Then someone grabbed his shoulder. Sophie. She stood in a darkened passage.

“This way,” she said, and turned into the cool gloom, where a scrawny kitten danced ahead of her.

Moments later she put her shoulder against a heavy wooden door and he followed her into an oasis of calm. An inner courtyard, blessed with diffused light, where mosaic tiles reflected differing hues of blue. A fountain gently splashed water across the center of the stone yard.

And it was quiet. As if someone had closed a door to the cacophony of braying humanity.

Sophie unslung her backpack. “We stay here for the night,” she told him, then called, “Abdullah!”

“What is this place? Is it your home?” Max said.

“It’s a riad , a traditional house,” she said.

“I know what a riad is,” he said.

She hesitated. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to patronize you.”

She walked away towards the entrance and called the man’s name again. Max felt a twinge of remorse. He needn’t have sounded so damned arrogant, but he wanted to score a point to give himself at least some sense of being in control of the situation.

He gazed around at the first-floor balcony that ran around the building, with its delicate handcrafted ironwork, spiraled and shaped into an elaborate pattern. Across the courtyard where he now stood, an archway led to another enclosed area, where a swimming pool, edged with slabs of smooth stone, waited undisturbed for someone to leap and shatter its still water.

This was a small corner of paradise.

“It’s a private hotel. Eight bedrooms, two suites and very expensive,” Sophie told him.

“You’re gonna pay for this?” Max asked her as he pulled off his boots and socks and let his feet cool on the stone floor. It felt great. He let the fountain’s fine spray settle on his face like a cooling massage.

Before Sophie could answer, a man appeared. He was huge, with a barrel chest. His brown face bristled with stubble and his hair was cropped short to his scalp, like a shaved coconut. He wore traditional Berber dress, a djellaba cloak with broad sleeves and leather sandals. He grinned, spread his arms and embraced Sophie.

“Sophie! Good, good. It is my honor to have you in my home again,” the man said. “My staff received your instructions and they have prepared two rooms, as you requested.”

Sophie had bought a phone at the airport and Max had seen her use it. So this was the call she’d made, he realized. Could she have phoned anyone else at the same time? He had to make a decision about her. Trust her or not?

“Max, this is Abdullah Boulkoumit. This is his place. Abdullah, this is Max Gordon. He’s a friend of mine,” Sophie said, bringing the man towards Max.

Abdullah’s gaze had not wavered from Max’s face the moment he had turned away from Sophie. It was as if he searched out every event in the boy’s life that had brought him to his home in the heart of the ancient city. For a moment Max felt awkward. He was barefooted, boots in hand, in the middle of a luxury hotel. He was grimy, unkempt. He realized one of his socks was floating away across the courtyard in the water from the fountain.

“You are welcome in my home, Master Gordon, and I see you are already familiar with our custom of removing one’s shoes before entering. It honors me,” Abdullah said gently, delicately brushing aside his guest’s embarrassment.

Abdullah shook his hand and then, as custom dictated, kissed the tips of his own fingers.

Two staff members waited inside the cool interior; one now eased Max’s backpack from his hands and led the way down the corridor. Sophie walked with him.

“We’ll go to my father’s tomorrow. Abdullah will arrange transport. Freshen up and I’ll see you in a couple of hours,” she said.

“I only take a few minutes to shower,” he told her as they stopped outside an iron-studded door which, once opened, revealed a luxurious room. He could get used to this, Max decided.

“Well, I need longer. So, for once in your life, Max Gordon, slow down and be patient.”

She followed the other staff member and turned out of sight down another corridor.

Max stepped into the room. Beyond the huge double bed, steam rose from a sunken marble bath. Rose petals floated on the water’s surface and a tangy smell of sandalwood filtered through the steam.