Laline Paull - The Ice - A gripping thriller for our times from the Bailey’s shortlisted author of The Bees

Under a big sign that read ‘Follow the Care Path!’ a young soldier lay on the ground, his bleeding shattered legs stretched out in front of him. Sean could not look away from the obscene sight of the bloody white cartilage and spikes of bone, and the dark clotted gore between them. Then a nurse with a tool box sat down on a stool by his side, and began reapplying the gore. She pulled at a bone shard to make it more prominent. Sean felt faint.

‘Lovely,’ the soldier said admiringly. He looked up at Sean. ‘Just like it was, you can see it over there.’ Sean looked where he directed, and saw a body on an operating table. A theatre nurse in a Union Jack mouth-and-nose mask went through the motions of the field-hospital operation, footage of what he assumed to be the real event, playing on a large HD screen to one side.

‘There I am,’ the soldier on the ground called out. ‘Lucky or what? That’s me on the table too, up close and personal, and this is me here on the ground – still waiting for my Equity card. Job for life – travel the world, legless!’ He looked very pleased with himself. ‘What’s it with you then, PTSD? No shame, mate – all in it together, aren’t we? Sometimes you find yourself right where you need to be. Just admit it. You’ll feel better.’

‘I don’t,’ Sean said. ‘I don’t have PTSD.’

A large man in a white coat loomed up beside him, his smile deep and cold.

‘Can we offer you support? It can be hard to accept. Denial is the first stage.’

‘Nah, you muppet,’ called the legless soldier. ‘It’s the bloody injury!’

‘I’m looking for the Scandinavian pavilion.’ His mouth was dry.

‘I can show you.’

Sean turned at the friendly female voice, with its faint Norwegian accent. A tall blonde woman, her beauty plain as new bread, smiled at him with white teeth and pink gums.

He followed her past the disappointed pastor of the Medical Arena, and into the frenzy of the Scandinavian pavilion, where thrash metal deafened from the Finnish stand. This was inadequate to contain the colossal green-and-black tank jutting out into the walkway, which also starred in its own wall-mounted music video.

Sean and his new friend paused to watch for a moment, as, to the apocalyptic soundtrack, the tank crashed through a pine forest, breaking trees like matchsticks, before the film cut to an urban setting where it rumbled down a deserted city street, raising clouds of white dust. It pivoted with amazing dexterity before ploughing into, then over, a row of shops. The crowd roared approval.

The woman smiled wryly. ‘Finland is not in fact in Scandinavia, but is a Nordic country. I am surprised the Expo did not differentiate.’

‘Me too.’ Sean said it knowledgeably, though this was also news to him. He walked on with her and they entered a serene and spacious area marked Dronningsberg, the centrepiece of which was a snowy missile launcher whose base was the size of a large tractor, and whose barrel protruded so high over the surrounding stands, that Sean had seen it from halfway down the huge hall, but assumed it was part of the building. The name Dronningsberg rang a bell – yes, it was in his architect’s plans – they were the provider of broadband on Svalbard. They also did missiles.

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