The Ice: A gripping thriller for our times from the Bailey’s shortlisted author of The Bees. Laline Paull
in Parch-speak meant: don’t quote me. ‘That’s a nice watch, by the way, you should get it.’
Sean spun round. Parch’s voice was in his ear, and also coming up behind him in person, a big smile on his beaming face, his hand out-thrust. Sean took it and Parch pumped enthusiastically.
‘You – are – the coming man! Massive congrats!’ He looked around conspiratorially. ‘Ah, but maybe you’re still keeping the schtum-powder on it? Shouldn’t bother, everyone’s talking about you. Sean Cawson has never been so sexy. True dat.’
Somewhere in his early forties, Parch still looked like a naughty schoolboy, with bright colourless eyes that sparkled, pale brown hair he wore to one side, a slim frame and a rapid, confident delivery. Sean was never quite sure what Parch actually did; he seemed to move around a lot, like some kind of cleaning fish, his exuberance commensurate with the status of his current host. Large, by his manner.
‘Have you just traced me, illegally?’
‘Illegally? As if! I just happened to be in the area. Although sadly not dropping sixty grand on man-candy like the plutocrat I’ll never be, hashtag sighs. No, definitely not illegally. But you have correctly sussed that Parch has gone up in the world. And my master is terribly impressed with your latest news.’
‘What news?’
‘Don’t freeze me out.’ Parch looked even more innocent. ‘Anyway, he desires me fetch you to him for a spot of luncheon, were you available at such short notice.’
‘And your master is?’
‘Philip Stowe. I’m his new private secretary. Proud to say I’ve already outlasted my predecessor. Very talented man.’
Sean had heard many other things too. Stowe had seized the post of Defence Secretary after a vicious and decimating Westminster rumble of his own creation. Sean waited for his payment to be processed. Stowe had sent for him? He felt Parch’s eyes on his back and smelled his soapy cologne.
‘Might you be free? Offers like this don’t tend to repeat. Unlike my master, but I shall never mention that. By the way, there’s a car waiting outside, on a double yellow. Only if you had no other plans. I’ll run along if you do.’
Sean’s phone buzzed again, this time Kingsmith. He had never before dropped his call. But the money was banked, the deal done, and Midgard Lodge was his. The buzzing stopped, and Parch turned from the display case over which he’d busied himself.
‘Nothing vital?’
‘I’m free.’
‘Good man! Hope Indian’s OK? One of those pop-ups, all the rage. And if you don’t mind my saying, you look like you could kill a Cobra.’
Inouarfigssouak, Grand Massacre Bay
Grand Massacre? Kratoutsiak explained it in a few words. The story, though old, is worth telling. It remains in all memories.
Two boys were fighting on the shore of an island – the island where we were. A little brutally perhaps, like most children. One of them fell over. He shouted. The other, to keep him quiet, pummelled him with feet and fist. By chance, the grandfather of the fallen boy saw him. He ran up and joined them as he ought. There was a battle. Full of anger he hit so hard that one of the boys fell dead upon the rock. The other grandfather was furious and intervened. So did fathers, shrieking mothers, mothers-in-law, uncles, aunts, cousins, nephews and nieces. The whole camp was fighting. Injuries, invectives, horrors. All were in a state of unspeakable fury. They threw stones and bones at one another’s heads. Someone pursued a woman with a bloodstained harpoon. They destroyed themselves. Of the whole village only one person was left.
The story does not say how the survivor died.
The Last Kings of Thule (1956)
Jean Malaurie
As the ministerial car with darkened windows headed south, Sean assumed he was meeting Stowe at Westminster, and all this cloak-and-dagger stuff was Parch’s misplaced sense of drama, intended to impress Sean with his own command of perks. But they skirted Parliament Square and sped east along the Thames, and Parch begged Sean’s forgiveness in not saying more.
By the time they were passing the Tower of London, Sean guessed they were en route to Docklands, and by Canning Town and the highly visible police presence on the streets, he remembered seeing some protest on the news about the bi-annual arms fair, held at ExCel Centre. Parch rolled his eyes.
‘Word to the wise: we say Defence Expo.’ They looked out. A dense crowd of respectable-looking businessmen, and a few women, waited at the main entrance. Many had flight cases. ‘The British Government would not dream of sponsoring something as mercenary as an arms fair. Oops, don’t say that either.’
‘What, mercenary?’ Sean enjoyed his temporary Whitehall gravitas, reflected in the faces of the armed police waving their car through security. ‘Or Arms Fair?’
‘I’m serious. I can’t tell you why you’re here because all I know is that Stowe’s keen to meet you, so I crow-barred some daylight in his diary then chased you down, like the good dog I am. I’m guessing it’s a one-shot opportunity, but who for I don’t know. DQM, or poor Parch will be thrown off the gravy train.’
The car passed through tall steel gates and into the shadow of a line of battleships, moored outside the conference centre. As they got out they paused with a small crowd, watching a black-clad commando team demonstrate how they would take a ship, from a rigid inflatable boat several storeys below on the brown water of the Thames. Six men in balaclavas shot lines that attached to the freeboard of the ship, which they then scaled with extraordinary strength and dexterity. Sean felt soft and inadequate.
‘Here’ – Parch slipped a lanyard over his head – ‘you’re an MoD consultant for the day. Anyone asks if you’re a journalist, leave them in no doubt. One weaselled in yesterday under false pretences, then refused to leave. Started shouting about freedom of information. Like he’d know what to do with it. Come on, I’m starving.’
Parch’s ‘super-cool pop-up’ was in the Officers’ Mess of the Indian naval destroyer Kali. At the top of the gangplank a phalanx of dazzlingly starched officers waited to welcome them and Parch was as airy in his greetings as if he were the British Defence Secretary himself. He led Sean through to the source of the delicious aromas – a buffet hidden behind a wall of tall and broad khaki, navy and black backs, gold braid abundant on their shoulders. There was no getting through for a while, so he and Parch accepted samosas and bottled Cobra beer from passing waiters. Parch looked wistful.
‘We did one on ours, yesterday. A lunch. Friends, allies and countrymen, poached salmon and Coronation effing chicken, who thought of that? I wouldn’t say the tumbleweed blew, but it was nothing like this. Waft a bit of curry around, et voilà! Prey and predator at the watering hole. Spend on the catering, that’s the motto.’ He dropped his voice. ‘Problem with old Team GB is, their tastes were formed at public school. No gristle in the custard, they send it back.’
Sean tried not to stare. The mess looked like a fancy-dress party before people had had enough to drink. The bristling moustaches did not look real, and the braid and ribbons were comically bright. Out of a porthole he could see a golf-buggy full of men in Arab robes stopping at the bottom of the gangplank. One had a large hooded bird on his wrist.
At that moment, a volley of laughter burst from a nearby group and Sean saw the face of the British Defence Secretary, animated at its centre. The Indian commodores and generals around him were vastly amused.
‘Probably just mentioned Coronation Chicken,’ Parch murmured, smiling