Miguel paced for a further two minutes, and then began to worry. What was Floria doing? Of course – she was keeping Mr Collins occupied! But within a few seconds the doubting seeds of the hydra had arisen about it all – as soon as he dismissed one with a swift recourse to logic, another lifted its head to engage him: everything was going according to plan, wasn't it? But what plan? Perhaps he had merely imagined what she had hinted. But no, she definitely said it – Room 405. He remembered correctly. Why else would she have deliberately given out misinformation? But did she really know what she was doing? And was she able to do it alone? Did he miss something – a call for help, perhaps? Should he go ahead and call the police, regardless of the consequences? After all, this Mr Michael Collins was a going to be trouble, wasn't he?
And all the time, this great white suitcase, obviously brand new and not bearing a single scuffmark, sat silently before him – a enemy sentinel guarding watch. What the hell was inside? He went over and touched it, lifting it to feel the weight. It was certainly heavy, and full. Whatever it was had been packed firmly. He considered throwing it from the balcony, to break it open, but the snow would soften the impact. He searched the apartment for something to smash it open with; he found a hair dryer, a small crown cap bottle opener the plastic toilet brush. His backside perched on the apartment chair and a leg bounced in agitation. He reached the end of his deliberations when Floria knocked at the large oak stained door.
She was flushed – a combination of caffeine, the walk in the cold and not having removed her black puffer jacket. She sat down on the bed beside the white suitcase. Then flopped back, arms outstretched sighing loudly.
“So, Flo, what happened?” He shook his head.
“We’re safe! At least I think we are.” She sat up again.
“What do you mean? What happened? Where’s Mr Collins?”
“I don’t know. He left me back at the bar. He’s gone home, back to his hotel.”
“And he’s going to come here? To pay?”
“I don’t know. I think so.”
“You think so? What time did he say he was coming?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t arrange that. But I said we’d take the case for him.” She shrugged.
“Yes, all right, maybe that was good. But why give him the wrong number if he’s going to come here some time later and pay for our room?”
“I don’t know. It just felt like the right thing to do. Like we had to keep it a secret.”
He stopped. This was worse than he imagined. He had assumed that she’d contrived some great plan in mind, that she had been able to figure out a way to get them out of here, but no; she was only his stupid sister after all, blundering her way from moment to moment. And right now he felt no cleverer.
“A secret? So, what do you think will happen when he comes around to pay our bill? When he finds out? Don’t you think he’s going to be… bothered, I mean angry, even? I mean, we have his suitcase, you remember? And we still don’t know what’s in it.”
“I don’t know, Mig, I really don’t know! I was just trying to make things work out. What are we going to do, Mig?” She held her face in her hands, as if about to cry. She was her mother.
He sat down again, opposite her. “OK, OK. Let’s think.” And they sat silently wondering what to do. They had done nothing but think since this morning, their minds were now a-whish with stupefaction and non-ideas. He asked about her motives. She replied about the modelling scam. Then, using his hands like his father, they went through their options. They could meet Mr Collins and do as he said. That would be safer for now, and their bill would be paid, but it might get them into all sorts of trouble later on if there was some sort of problem with the contents. They could phone their parents and explain everything to them, but they would be worried out of their wits, immediately call the police and then try desperately to get to them. They could run away – but to where? There were no buses and to get down the road they would have to get past the Fuente Dé hotel where Mr Collins’s was sure to see them. And then where would they go – walking around at night in the snowed-up mountains? They could call the police, a potentially dangerous situation if they had to wait around with Mr Collins until they got there. Or they could just act normally, go skiing and think of something during the day, as if they knew exactly what they were doing.
As predicted, by midday the snowfall had lifted. From rooftops light flurries whirled in the light breeze. They could not see the end of the cables through the cloud, but were able to get onto the second cable car. The snow was soft and prone to drifting. In the treeless, skyless landscape of the glaciated cols above the top station there was little pleasant skiing to be had, but it felt good to be out of the confines of their predicament. The urgency of their situation focused the mind and the skiing made them nearly forget their row that morning. They persevered, quite happy together as brother and sister, and were only unhappy at the prospect of returning to their room and that dreadful white suitcase.
By three they were hungry. Miguel was down to less than ten Euros – for the rest of the day and the next. By the time the snow had begun to fall again, they were returning in a packed cable car and the picturesque valley-bound world had opened up before them through the steamy windows. Each tree was laden with a Christmas card covering of white that contrasted with the black green of their foliage, and the low-angled rooftops of the buildings supported a metre or more of thick multilayered snow. As they neared the terminal, they were pleased to see that the snowplough had made it to the base station; the driver was resting up with a cigarette. The doors opened and each passenger stepped out, making his or her way down the steps to deal with his or her situation – hotel rooms, drinks and dinner reservations, or chains on tyres and a tricky skidding drive back down to civilization. The siblings were amongst the last to leave. They still hadn’t figured out what to do. They had not talked about it, for it was quite beyond them both.
“What if he’s already there?” Floria voice was quiet, full of guesswork.
“Then we say thank you, hand back the suitcase, and leave. I think we can get the bus now.” But this was a forlorn hope. He knew there was little or no chance that the local bus could make it through the drifts on the mountain roads, even to the nearest village.
Skies aloft, they stepped into the lobby. As they did, the receptionist called them over.
“A Mr Collins has called. He says you have his suitcase.”
Miguel nodded.
“He is waiting in the dining room.”
They each peered one eye around the doorframe until they took in the whole room. He was not there; it was still and empty.
Floria took his hand. “Oh God, I’m afraid, Miguel.” She needed a wee, and rushed to the toilet. Miguel went back to reception, but they had not noticed or not noticed the man since he'd come in. He asked her to call the police.
–
Mr Michael Collins stood in the bedroom –their bedroom– silhouetted against the window, staring out across the balcony like a stern father patiently sifting in his mind how best to deal with two errant children. He stroked his day's beard growth; it rasped noisily on his big shovel hands. Quite what he would do next very much relied on what happened when they turned the key in the lock.
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