Graham Joyce: The Silent Land

Her first instincts had been to get warm and to look after Jake, forgetting that her own ordeal had been worse than his. Although he too had been picked up by the avalanche and deposited on the slopes, he’d not been buried alive. Images from the ordeal were starting to return to her mind for the second time since Jake had dug her out of the snow. Her hands were trembling. She got back into the lift and returned to their room.

Jake had gone back to sleep in the bath. She stood in the doorway looking at him and he seemed to sense her presence. He opened his eyes.

‘There’s no one there.’

‘Where?’

‘Downstairs. I just went downstairs. There’s no one there.’

‘Well, the hotel is usually dead at this time, isn’t it? All the guests are out.’

‘What about the staff?’

‘Probably off on a cigarette break.’

She looked doubtful. ‘But they’re not, are they?’

‘Who aren’t what?’

‘The guests. They’re not all out, are they? The slopes are closed.’

‘Well, maybe the avalanche was worse than we thought it was. Maybe everyone is up on the mountain. Helping.’

‘Do you think so? Do you think it was a really bad one?’

‘It was bad enough for us. I mean, I’ve no idea. Maybe we just got caught in a tiny wing of the main avalanche. What can we do?’ He stepped out of the bath and reached for a towel. ‘All we can do is wait until they come back.’

She went through to the bedroom and sat on the bed, twisting her fingers.

Jake appeared wrapped in his towel, his pink skin still steaming slightly from the warmth of the bath. ‘There must be a rule,’ he said, ‘that says a man shouldn’t find his wife so dirty-sexy. Especially after a near-death experience.’

He whipped the towel off and upended her on the bed, lifting her legs in the air. She shrieked, and when he launched himself on top of her she fought back. He winced.

‘My ribs.’

‘Serves you right.’

‘We nearly died! We nearly died. I want to be all over you. Like that avalanche.’

‘Come here.’

‘I’m getting hungry. Where’s that steak, dripping with blood? To hell with the prices, let’s rustle up some room service.’ He studied the menu. ‘What do you want ordering?’

‘Rare steak, yes. Red wine. Anything that’s bad for you.’

He dialled the number for room service. There was no answer, so he dialled the reception desk. No one picked up. ‘Odd.’

‘I told you, there’s no one there. You don’t listen.

He hung on to the phone a while longer. Then with a gentle click he laid the receiver back on its cradle. ‘Let’s get dressed. We can get something at the restaurant.’

On their way to the restaurant, Zoe got an attack of the giggles. She put her hand over her mouth but a pig-snort came out. Jake stopped in the corridor and looked at her, but the quizzical expression on his face only made her worse. Maybe it was hysteria after the close encounter with death, but something made Zoe want to laugh now. Not smile, or giggle, but laugh. The urge to laugh at nothing was uncontrollable.

There was an uninspiring abstract print on the wall near the lift and this made her want to laugh. The silly musical chime of the lift arriving on the third floor made her want to laugh, too. There was something absurd about these vapid decorations that stood in vivid contrast to where she’d just been, upended in the snow. The mirrors in the lift made her want to laugh. The notice about the weight capacity of the lift; the strip of carpet on the floor; the alarm button. It all seemed so ridiculous she wanted to guffaw.

‘What?’ said Jake. ‘What?’

She slammed herself back against the mirror in the lift and howled, convulsing, holding her ribs.

‘No, I’m glad you find it all so amusing,’ said Jake. ‘I do too. Sort of. We nearly died. That’s hugely entertaining. You’re cracked.’

Almost to shut her up he pressed her against the wall of the lift and put his tongue inside her mouth. She felt her own convulsions discharging through Jake, like a power source. She felt him hard against her. They’d only just fucked and he wanted her again. She wanted him again, too.

The lift reached the reception and the doors opened. Zoe pushed him off her, flicked her hair and composed herself before stepping out of the lift.

She needn’t have bothered. There was still nobody there.

They crossed to the reception desk. Jake hit the bell. ‘Shop!’ he shouted, mugging at her.

‘Let’s try the restaurant.’

They passed the neat but vacant concierge’s desk of blond wood and walked through to the hotel restaurant. The dining room was habitually quiet during the daytime, with most of the guests eating there in the evening only, but one or two tables were usually occupied.

Not today.

The lights were up everywhere, but all the tables were empty. A sign at the entrance to the dining room directed guests to wait to be seated by the maître d’, but there was no maître d’, and there were no waiters. The restaurant was set perfectly for business: crisp linen table cloths and napkins, heavy crystal wine glasses, silver cutlery, all spotlessly presented. Faint muzak piped overhead.

Jake stood with his hands on his hips. He turned back and forth and then headed towards the kitchens. He stepped through the swing doors, and Zoe followed.

There was no kitchen staff. The clean stainless-steel work surfaces were primed with freshly chopped vegetables and cuts of red meat, all as if ready to be prepared for lunch. On the far side of the kitchen an industrial-sized stainless-steel dishwasher had been loaded with dirty breakfast plates and dishes. Jake opened the door of a giant freezer cabinet and was hit by a blast of cold air. After a quick glance inside he closed the door.

Zoe touched him on the forearm. ‘Do you think we should leave?’

‘Leave?’

‘Leave the hotel.’

‘Why would we do that?’

‘Here’s what I think. This hotel lies at the foot of the avalanche slope. It lies right in the path of the snow. After this morning’s avalanche they’ve evacuated everyone. Look around you: it’s been cleared in five minutes flat. I think we’re in danger here. I think we’d better go.’

Jake blinked. ‘Christ. Okay, let’s get our coats. We’ll walk into the village.’

‘And let’s just pray it doesn’t come down on our heads right now.’

‘You pray if you like. I’d rather just fret.’

‘Oh shut up.’

So they left the hotel and walked into the village of Saint-Bernard. Normally there was a shuttle service: a minibus running regularly on the half-hour covered the distance in six or seven minutes. Walking took about thirty.

The road was silent. It was still snowing. The light had changed and the snow on the ground had an eerie blue-grey tint. Any footprints or tracks had been almost covered by fresh, soft, feathery snow.

On the previous evening they had made their way from the hotel into town on foot. It had been a memorable walk. The snowy path was lined with spruce and fir trees exhaling a sappy perfume, and the way was illuminated, at one-hundred-metre intervals, by the soft orange glow of graceful wrought-iron lamp posts. They’d been passed en route by an enormous black horse pulling a sledge carrying a couple of happy but bashful tourists. Steam rose from the great horse’s flanks and plumes of vapour billowed from its nostrils as it trotted through the thick snow. The couple in the sledge had waved shyly.

But today the route seemed dangerous. They walked briskly, not talking, both straining their ears for the sounds of the mountain. Because there were warning sounds. A distant crump , way up high, like a single round of gunfire. A creaking. A kind of groan, like a great weight shifting on the mountain itself. A breeze that became a sigh through the snow itself. All could be premonitions of sliding snow.