‘Yes, it’s all very peculiar,’ Thóra said. ‘I was hoping I could find something that would shed light on the subject while I’m here, but perhaps that’s unrealistic. Too much time has passed.’
‘Yes and no,’ mused Leifur. ‘The eruption, and the time that followed, are still fresh in the memories of those who experienced it. It was a terrible ordeal.’
‘I can only imagine,’ said Thóra. She pointed at the stone arch over the entrance to the cemetery. ‘Isn’t this the gate that was in the famous photo?’ She was referring to a picture taken during the eruption. In it the cemetery was completely covered in ash and the only thing standing out from the pitch- black blanket was the arch, with the Biblical inscription I live and you will live. In the background a column of fire stretched up into the sky. It was a very stirring image, and the photographer had managed to tell an incredible story. ‘I didn’t realize the cemetery had been dug out.’
‘A lot of things were dug out of the ash after the eruption. For a while they were removing nearly ten thousand cubic metres of ash from the town every day. Landa Church was partly buried,’ said Leifur, pointing in the direction of the imposing but unostentatious chapel standing next to the cemetery. ‘A few houses were dug up, next to the ones where the current excavation is taking place.’ It was clear to Thóra that she had to learn more about the eruption if she didn’t want to waste all her time uncovering facts that were already common knowledge. She had brought the book Gylfi got from the library, and could start reading it in her hotel room that evening. Leifur continued: ‘I actually don’t know why the houses on our street weren’t uncovered then. I’m sure there was a logic to it, as with anything else. They’d doubtless been considered ruined, and quite rightly. I can’t imagine anyone bothering to try to make the ruins they’ve already dug up inhabitable again.’
‘I know I couldn’t be persuaded to live in any of those houses,’ said Thóra. ‘My trip the other day was enough, even without what was found in the basement.’
‘My wife and I were thinking of inviting you to dinner tomorrow night,’ said Leifur as they pulled up at the hotel entrance. ‘Both of you, I mean,’ he added when he realized that he’d forgotten Bella. ‘Nothing fancy, but easier than you having to trek off to a restaurant. There actually aren’t many places to eat in town, so I expect you’ll be glad of the change.’
Thóra looked back at Bella, who shrugged indifferently. She turned again to Leifur. ‘That would be lovely,’ she replied. ‘What time?’
When everything was settled regarding dinner, Thóra and Bella said goodbye, but Leifur insisted on carrying their suitcases into the hotel and took his leave only after each of them had received the keys to their separate rooms. ‘Don’t hesitate to get in touch if I can help in any way,’ he said. ‘I know this place like the back of my hand and I can help you out if you need it. As you can imagine, I want to do everything I can for my brother.’ He handed Thóra his mobile number, turned and walked away.
‘There’s something strange about that man,’ said Bella, as she and Thóra stood by the large window in the hotel foyer and watched him get into his car.
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Thóra in surprise. She had found him extremely pleasant, if a little distant.
‘There’s just something spooky about him,’ said Bella, and walked towards the stairs without any further explanation.
Adolf turned onto his side and his stomach churned. Without opening his eyes, he knew what he would see in his bed. The odour that filled his nostrils was a blend of perfume and sour alcohol. The turbulence in his stomach grew but he fought against it, breathing through his mouth so that he wouldn’t throw up. When the discomfort had almost passed he wished he had just puked over the woman in his bed, whose name he couldn’t remember for the life of him, and thus ensured that he would never see or hear from her again. He looked at her and tried to recall what he had found attractive. It wasn’t her nose, which from close up he could see was completely covered with blackheads. Her thick black mascara had run, making it look as if he’d woken up next to Alice Cooper. Adolf considered pulling the covers down carefully to look at the rest of her naked, because it was still possible she had a great body. The shape under the duvet didn’t seem to suggest she was very fat, rather the opposite: she seemed to be very thin. It actually didn’t matter whether she was fat or thin, though - it had been a stupid mistake to bring her home. It had never been more important that he kept himself to himself. He screwed his eyes shut, full of self-loathing. Why couldn’t he ever stick to the plan? Have two beers, then stop. Go home. Alone.
The girl shifted in her sleep, and Adolf held his breath in case she woke up. He needed a little more time to compose himself before talking to this bird he could barely remember. What did she do, how old was she? He wasn’t too bothered about what she was called - he never remembered people’s names. People rarely had conversations in which their names played any real part, as he knew from long experience. On the other hand, he had to prepare himself for the unwanted affection she might show him, and at the same time work out how to get rid of her without hurting or insulting her. As it was Sunday it was ludicrous for him to pretend that he needed to go to work, so he was in trouble. He wondered what time it was. Was she likely to wake up soon? He tried to look at his alarm clock on the bedside table, but had to lift his head to see over the girl. He took care not to make the bed springs squeak. It was only ten thirty. He breathed a little easier. He couldn’t really remember when they had got home, let alone what time they had fallen asleep. The smell in the room suggested that it hadn’t been all that long since they’d finished. He also felt sure that he’d kept drinking late into the night.
Why the hell hadn’t he taken his lawyer’s advice? What was so hard about staying away from girls for a few months? The time would pass quickly, and it wasn’t as if he would actually miss them. Surprisingly, he was even getting bored with how easy it was to get them. All he needed to do was go to a club, sit down at the bar and pretend to be lost in thought. Within minutes some drunk girl would appear next to him and start chattering away. It wasn’t exciting any more, if it ever had been. It was about as challenging as fishing with a dragnet at a fish farm. The psychologist they’d forced him to see said that he was one of those men a particular type of woman found attractive, and with that came a great deal of responsibility. Oh, sure. Why should he have to shoulder the blame? They could do that themselves. It wasn’t his fault he sent out some sort of involuntary primal signal that charmed the opposite sex.
Anyway, clearly the worst case scenario was that more women would start to press charges, or even just blog about him. Even so, he couldn’t resist temptation. He had to get a grip on himself. The money was within reach, so close he could hear it rustling. If he could just think of that and let it suffice whenever his longing for women crashed over him.
He would have little use for money if he was found guilty. And how would he get women then? Waste all his money on prostitutes? He was flooded with self-loathing again, and his headache intensified. He let out a moan, and to his horror the wretched girl’s eyelids flickered. Adolf held his breath and waited. She didn’t wake up, and he relaxed slightly - but not for long, as suddenly her eyes opened and she stared straight ahead, still woozy with sleep. He watched her eyes dart around as she tried to figure out where she was. Finally they came to rest on him, and her face broke into a wide smile as she pulled herself out from under the duvet.
‘Good morning,’ she said, her voice slightly hoarse.
‘Good morning,’ he replied. ‘How do you feel?’ He tried not to let his voice betray the fact that he couldn’t care less.
‘I’ve felt better,’ she admitted. ‘Do you have any Coke?’ She gave him a look that was doubtless meant to be seductive, but which stirred no feelings in him bar irritation. He might have found it cute if she’d looked better, but the smudged make-up and lack-of-sleep-face didn’t do much for her. Maybe she was good-looking u
nder normal circumstances; for her sake, he hoped so.
‘Absolutely,’ he said as he half raised himself off the bed. He swept his feet over the edge but had to wait for the dizziness to pass before standing up. He must stop drinking. Or at least cut down. He stood up and had to wait another moment before he could walk steadily into the kitchen. He knew without looking that the girl was staring at his naked body, and it aroused him despite how poorly he felt. On his way through the room he looked around for a cigarette and spotted a half-crumpled pack on the coffee table, next to an overflowing ashtray. As he fished a bent cigarette from the packet he made a mental note to buy a bigger ashtray. His lighter lay in a dried-up pool of red wine on the table. After several attempts he finally conjured a flame from it and lit his cigarette. He inhaled hard and let smoke leak from his mouth without exhaling. Now all he needed was a Coke, and things would start looking up. He went into the kitchen with the burning cigarette in his mouth and pulled open the refrigerator. Coke was one thing that he always made sure he had, in bottles of all different sizes. He took the top off a two- litre bottle and gulped down the cold soda, which would help to settle his upset stomach.
As the refrigerator door swung shut he noticed a note that he’d stuck there a long time ago but hadn’t remembered to throw away when it no longer served its purpose. Alda — 6:00 Weds. Adolf tore it off, crumpled it and threw the ball of paper in the direction of the open rubbish bin, where it hit the rim and rolled back across the floor. It stopped at his feet and rocked there for a moment. Adolf looked down at it for a second then kicked it, sending it skimming across the floor into a corner. It was best to forget everything about that woman, as soon as possible. He had seen to it that she would leave him in peace from now on.
Adolf turned away from the ball of paper and focused his mind on the present. He couldn’t remember whether they’d used any contraception, and considering the fog that surrounded his memories of last night, he doubted it. He would have to take his own precautions. It was bad enough paying child support for one love-brat. They were pretty hefty, those payments. He reached into the kitchen cabinet for a glass. None of his glasses were the same; he’d collected them from here and there. He rummaged around until he found what he was looking for: a thick dark blue tumbler, almost opaque. Next he pulled out a drawer and grabbed an envelope from inside. From the envelope he took six little white tablets which he ground with a spoon on a cracked saucer. Four was probably enough, but he felt more confident using six as he would be in no position to make sure that the girl took the second dose, which was recommended for twenty-four hours later. He stirred the powder into the Coke and looked down into the glass, happy with the result. Only a tiny bit was left floating on top. He fished out the white speck with his index finger and licked it off. It could hardly do him any harm. Adolf picked up the envelope to close it, and felt it before he stuck it back in the drawer, discovering much to his sorrow that there were only two tablets left. He would have to get more, right away.
Adolf screwed the plastic cap shut on the Coke and held the bottle in one hand. Then he lifted the glass and tilted it as if he were toasting an invisible friend, before turning back into the bedroom. On his way in he wondered how best to get rid of the girl without any repercussions. The morning- after contraceptives in the glass would only win half the battle; he would also have to throw up a blockade against their getting to know each other any better. He didn’t have much time to think things over, so he decided to use an old excuse that had served him well. He would say that he was getting over a difficult break-up and that he couldn’t commit to anything right now. He would conclude by asking her whether he could phone her after he’d sorted his head out, since he felt there was something really special about her. She would swallow this hook, line and sinker — everyone wanted to be special. If she only knew how incredibly average she was. By tonight he wouldn’t even remember the colour of her hair. He stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, which pushed two other stubs onto the table. Christ. Maybe he could trick her into helping him clean up, or even better: get her to clean up without him having to help at all.
‘Coke,’ he said, waving the glass to and fro. He stood in the doorway and leaned against the doorpost. ‘Would you like a drink?’
The girl looked up and licked her dry lips. ‘Oh, yes please.’
She smiled and sat up, making the bedcover fall from her breasts. She did nothing to try to cover them. Adolf smiled back. Nor was there any reason to hide such beautiful breasts. He sat on the edge of the bed next to her and handed her the glass. She took big gulps as if her life depended on it and Adolf watched her chest rise and fall. She removed the glass from her mouth and took a deep breath. ‘God, I’m so hungover.’ She handed him the nearly empty glass. ‘You want some?’
He took the glass but did not drink. Instead he placed it and the Coke bottle on the bedside table and moved closer to the girl. Now it would be fun to find out what she was like in bed - he recalled so little about last night. Afterwards he could give her the speech about how emotionally handicapped he was at the moment. He was, after all, wasting his last tablets on her. A little smile crept over his lips. The story wasn’t exactly a lie. He was emotionally damaged. His dealings with that bitch Alda proved it. A nasty giggle slipped out and he saw from the girl’s expression that she wasn’t completely sure what to do. How ridiculous. As if this girl had any choice. No meant no - he was completely prepared to accept that. The trick was to suppress the no before it emerged, prevent it from being said. He kissed the helpless girl on the forehead and placed his hand lightly over her mouth.
Chapter Eight
Sunday 15 July2007
‘Do you know anything about the volcano?’ Thóra asked as they walked out of their hotel into the warm air.
‘No,’ replied Bella. ‘Nothing except that it erupted.’
‘Yes, as usually happens with volcanoes,’ said Thóra, wondering why she had thought it was worthwhile to bring her secretary. ‘Well, you’ll learn more about it later. The man we’re going to meet knows everything about it, Markus says.’
‘Can’t wait,’ drawled Bella, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket.
Thóra paid no heed and kept walking as the secretary stopped to light up. Bella didn’t hurry to catch up after her cigarette was lit, so they walked the rest of the distance to the harbour-master’s office a few paces apart. Thóra used the time to think about what she wanted to get from this Kjartan Helgason. Apparently he had been out at sea a great deal in his day, and Markus considered him to be among those best informed about the eruption and the rescue work following it, and had said that as Kjartan had been a friend of his father, it should be easy to get him to open up. Thóra had little hope that much would come out of this interview, but she and Bella would at least know a bit more about the eruption afterwards. Maybe he would even have some thoughts about who the men in the basement might be, and could point Thóra in the right direction. She was well aware that the police were working day and night to find out precisely the same thing, and that they had connections out in the world with which Thóra could scarcely compete, despite her owning the whole series of Our Century books. On the other hand, it was clear to her that identifying the bodies would speed, up the investigation significantly, as well as providing clues as to who they might have had dealings with and what they had been doing in the Islands. How people live influences how they die.
Kjartan welcomed them on the steps outside the harbourmaster’s office, where he was having a cigarette with another, younger man. He introduced himself when Thóra arrived and shook her hand firmly. The top bone of his right index finger was missing, and his palm was rough. He appeared to be approaching retirement age: a few dark hairs could still be seen on his otherwise white head. He limped slightly as he showed them in, and told them unexpectedly that he still hadn’t recovered after being struck by a boom nearly twenty years ago.
‘That’s why I stopped
going out to sea,’ he said, smiling ruefully. ‘You can’t tread the waves very well with a gammy leg.’ He slapped the top of his thigh.
‘And did you go straight from that to working here?’ asked Thóra as they made their way up to the second floor.
‘No, my dear,’ replied Kjartan, stepping up one more stair with great effort. ‘I’ve done this and that from the time I became a landlubber. I’ve only been here for five years.’
‘And you can’t get an office on the ground floor?’ she exclaimed, surprised that a partially handicapped man should be forced to hobble up the stairs.
‘Yes, I’m sure I could,’ replied Kjartan. ‘But I don’t care about that. This bother with the stairs is worth it.’ He opened the door to a small office. ‘I have to have a sea view,’ he said, and pointed out of the window to where the harbour and Heimaklettur Peak appeared. ‘I’m like a puffin. I can’t take off unless I’ve got the sea in my sight.’ He waved his hand around the room. ‘I’d get nothing done.’
It seemed to Thóra from the piles and scraps of paper covering the room that the man’s accomplishments were scarcely exemplary, despite his view of the sea. ‘I live by the sea, too, and I know the feeling,’ she said, lifting a strange- looking device from the nearest chair. ‘Can I put this somewhere else?’ she asked, looking around to find a secure place. Although it looked like it might be a piece of junk, it could just as easily have been valuable, hence its place on a chair rather than on the floor like most other things in the office.
‘Just throw it on the floor,’ replied Kjartan as he took his own seat. Thóra placed the object down carefully and sat in the chair. Bella pulled another chair over to Kjartan’s desk and also sat, after removing a plastic bag that appeared to contain some glasses or cups. She put the bag down quite roughly, and Thóra had to wait until the glasses stopped clinking before she started to speak. ‘I hope we’re not dragging you away from home to meet us,’ she said. ‘Markus said that you would be here, but since it’s Sunday I wasn’t sure.’
Ashes to Dust Page 7