The path turned out to be less easy than she had expected. There was deep grass to negotiate and and streams to cross. In some places old wooden beams served as makeshift bridges, while in others there was nothing for it but to jump from one bank to the other. A few birds scattered away from her as she approached their nests, crying their alarm into the night.
She stopped at one of the streams and drank icy water from her cupped hands. Bright-green moss clung to the banks by the water, but elsewhere the coarse, stunted grass this far north showed no sign that it was summer, regardless of whatever the calendar might say.
She walked slowly. She was in no hurry, and was anxious to avoid stepping on the any nests that might be hidden in the grass. Always tired, she had to admit to herself that her body was asking her to take it easy.
She stopped by the ruins of a house where, according to the information notice, an avalanche ninety years before had buried a herring factory and a farm.
Finally reaching the shore, she gazed for a long time over the fjord at the town opposite, peaceful and innocent at this distance. Apart from the birdsong, there was silence; the air was still and the water mirror calm.
After the visit to Katrín in Landeyjar the summer before, Ísrún had gone directly to her doctor, certain that she was at death’s door. A few visits to specialists later and she had confirmation, or at least a strong likelihood, that she was suffering from a rare inherited condition. This could lead to the growth of tumours, which, while generally benign, could result in a variety of physical symptoms. There was also the possibility of something worse to come.
She had flatly refused to stop working. Instead she had used every sick day she was entitled to and swapped shifts with colleagues when she needed to.
She told nobody about her disease. The doctors were not in agreement about the next step, but there was every indication that the tumours were indeed benign. There were differences of opinion over whether or not surgery was the right option. She was sure that the doctors were still swapping emails about her case. All Ísrún could do was remain as calm as she could in the midst of all this.
It was more than likely that her grandmother had been wrongly diagnosed; she had probably suffered from the same condition and it had killed her. Was it now Ísrún’s turn?
She felt she was living in a vacuum, unwilling to discuss it with anyone other than the doctors. She had lived through a winter of fear, but, as the sun rose in the sky, things seemed brighter. Yet she had no idea what might happen next.
It would be difficult, but she was determined to beat the fear.
She gazed out over the placid sea, bright under the night-time sun. She thought of her grandmother’s phrase for sudden darkness: blackout. For the past year, since the diagnosis, she had been living under a dark cloud. But now she suddenly felt as if daylight had conquered the blackout, at least for the time being.
Acknowledgements
Blackout is dedicated to my parents, Jónas Ragnarsson and Katrín Guðjónsdóttir, who have encouraged me to write from a very early age. They have read and reviewed the drafts of my stories and books, providing invaluable support, from the short detective stories I wrote as a young boy for friends and family, to the full-length novels I have since gone on to write, including the Dark Iceland series. Thanks, Mum and Dad.
I would also like to acknowledge my late grandparents, as the book’s locations are inspired by them. Guðjón Helgason and Magnþóra Magnúsdóttir were from the Landeyjar area in Iceland, where a part of Blackout is set, and Þ. Ragnar Jónasson and Guðrún Reykdal, lived in Siglufjörður.
There is a great team behind the publication of the Dark Iceland series, all of whom deserve my gratitude: My UK publisher and editor, Karen Sullivan of Orenda Books, my English-language translator, crime writer Quentin Bates, my agents, Monica Gram at Copenhagen Literary Agency, and David Headley at DHH Literary Agency, my Icelandic publisher, Pétur Már Ólafsson and my Icelandic editor, Bjarni Þorsteinsson.
I would also especially like to thank all the wonderful readers of the Dark Iceland series in the UK. The reception of the series, starting with Snowblind and Nightblind, in the UK has been beyond belief and this support has certainly provided me with encouragement to continue to write about Ari Thór.
And as always, I owe the biggest debt of gratitude to my family, my wife María, and my daughters, Kira and Natalía, for their unlimited support.
An exclusive extract from Ragnar Jónasson’s Rupture, translated by Quentin Bates and published in Spring 2017 by Orenda Books
1
It had been an evening like any other, spent stretched out on the sofa.
They lived in a little apartment on the ground floor of an old house in the western end of Reykjavík, just off Ljósvallagata – one of three joined together. It was positioned in the middle of an old-fashioned terrace, built back in the 1930s. Róbert sat up, rubbed his eyes and looked out of the window at the little front garden. It was getting dark. It was March, when weather of any description could be expected, but right now it was raining. There was something comforting in the patter of raindrops against the window while he was safely ensconced indoors.
His studies weren’t going badly. A mature student at twenty-eight, he was in the first year of an engineering degree. Numbers had always been one of his pleasures. His parents were accountants, living uptown in Árbær, and while his relationship with them had been difficult, it was now almost non-existent, as his lifestyle had no place in their formula for success. They had done what they could to steer him towards bookkeeping, and that was fair enough.
But now he was at university, at last, and he hadn’t even bothered to let the old folks know. Instead, he attempted to focus on his studies, although these days his mind tended to wander to the Westfjords. He owned a small boat there, along with a couple of friends, and he was already looking forward to summer; it was so easy to forget everything – good and bad – when he was out at sea. The rocking of the boat was a tonic for any stress and his spirit soared when he was enveloped by the complete peace he found there. At the end of March he’d be heading west to get the boat ready. For his friends, the trip to the fjords was to some extent an excuse to go on a drinking binge. But not Róbert. He had been dry now for two years – a necessity after the serious drinking that began with the events that unfolded on that fateful day eight years earlier.
It was a beautiful day. There was scarcely a breath of wind on the pitch, it was warm under the summer sun and there was a respectable crowd. They were on their way to a convincing win against an unconvincing opposition. Ahead of him lay training with the national youth team, and later that summer the possibility of a trial with a top Norwegian team. His agent had even mentioned interest from some of the teams lower down in the English league. The old man was as proud as hell of him. He had been a decent player himself, but never had the chance to play professionally. Now times had changed; there were more opportunities out there.
Five minutes remained when Róbert was passed the ball. He pushed past the defenders, and saw the mouth of the goal and the fear on the goalkeeper’s face. This was becoming a familiar experience, as a five-nil victory loomed. He didn’t see the tackle coming in, just heard the crack as his leg broke in three places and felt the shattering pain. He looked down, paralysed by the searing agony, and saw the open fracture.
It was a sight that was etched onto his memory. The days spent in hospital passed in a fog, although he wouldn’t forget the doctor telling him that his chances of playing football again were slim, at a professional level, at any rate. He gave up, and after that sought solace in the bottle; each drink quickly followed by another. The worst part was that he made a better recovery than expected, but by then it was too late to turn the clock back.
Now things were better. He had Sunna, and little Kjartan had a place in his heart as well.
It was well into the evening when Sunna came home, tapping at the window to let him know that she had forgotte
n her keys. She was as beautiful as ever, in black jeans and a grey roll-neck sweater. Raven hair, long and glossy, framed a strong face. To begin with, it had been her eyes that had enchanted him, closely followed by her magnificent figure. She was a dancer and sometimes it was as if she danced rather than walked around their little apartment, with a confident grace imbued in every movement.
He knew he had been lucky with this one. He had first chatted to her at a friend’s birthday party, and they’d clicked instantly. They’d been together for six months now, and three months ago they had moved in together.
Sunna turned up the heating as she came in; she felt the cold more than he did.
‘Cold outside,’ she said, and the chill crept into the room. The big living-room window wasn’t as airtight as it could have been and it was difficult to get used to the constant draughts.
Life wasn’t easy for them, even though their relationship was becoming stronger. She had a child, little Kjartan, from a previous relationship and was engaged in a bitter custody battle with Breki, the boy’s father. To begin with, Breki and Sunna had agreed on joint custody and at the moment Kjartan was with his father.
Now, though, Sunna had engaged a lawyer and was pressing for full custody. She was also exploring the possibility of continuing her studies in Britain, but this was not something that she and Róbert had discussed in depth. It was a piece of news that Breki wasn’t going to accept without a fight, so it looked as if the dispute would end up in court, where Sunna believed her strong case would see Kjartan returned to her.
‘Sit down, sweetheart,’ Róbert said. ‘There’s pasta.’
‘Mmm. Great,’ she said and curled up on the sofa.
Róbert fetched the food from the kitchen, bringing plates and glasses and filling a jug with water.
‘I hope there’s some flavour in this,’ he said. ‘I’m still finding my way.’
‘I’m so hungry it won’t matter what it tastes like.’
He put on some relaxing music and sat down next to her.
She told him about her day, the rehearsals and the pressure she was under. Sunna was set on perfection, and hated to get anything wrong.
Róbert was satisfied that his pasta had been a success; nothing outstanding, but good enough.
Sunna got to her feet and took his hand.
‘Stand up, my love. Time to dance.’
He stood up and wrapped his arms around her as they moved in time to a languid South American ballad. He slid a hand under her sweater and his fingertips stroked her back, unclipping her bra strap in one seamless movement. This was where he wanted to be.
‘Hey, young man,’ she said with mock sharpness, her eyes warm. ‘What do you think you’re up to?’
‘Making the most of Kjartan being with his dad,’ Róbert answered, and they moved into a long, deep kiss. The temperature between them was rising, as was that of the room, and before long they had made their way to the bedroom.
Out of habit, Róbert pushed the door to and drew the curtains across the bedroom window overlooking the garden, but none of these precautions stopped the sounds of their lovemaking carrying across to the apartment next door.
Spent and relaxed, he heard the indistinct slamming of a door, muffled by the hammering rain. His first thought was that it was the back door to the porch behind the old house.
Sunna looked up in alarm and glanced at him, disquiet in her eyes. He tried to stifle his own fear behind a show of bravado and, getting to his feet, ventured naked into the living room. It was empty.
But the back door was open, banging to and fro in the wind. He glanced quickly into the porch, just long enough to be able to say that he had taken a look, and hurriedly pulled it closed. A whole regiment of men could have been out there for all he knew, but he could make out nothing in the darkness.
He went from one room to another, his heart beating harder and faster, but there was no unwelcome guest to be seen. It was just as well that Kjartan was not at home.
And then he noticed something that would keep him awake for the rest of the night.
He hurried through the living room, frightened for Sunna, terrified that something had happened to her. Holding his breath, he made his way to the bedroom to find her seated on the edge of the bed, pulling on a shirt. She smiled weakly, unable to hide her concern.
‘It was nothing, sweetheart,’ he said, a tremor in his voice that he hoped she would not notice. ‘I forgot to lock the door after I took the rubbish out; didn’t shut it properly behind me. You know what tricks the wind plays out back. Stay there and I’ll get you a drink.’
He stepped quickly out of the bedroom and rapidly cleared away what he had seen.
He hoped it had been the right thing to do, not to tell Sunna about the water on the floor, the wet footprints left by the uninvited guest who had come in out of the rain. The worst part was that they hadn’t been stopped there, inside the back door. The trail had gone all the way to the bedroom door.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Icelandic crime writer Ragnar Jónasson was born in Reykjavík, and currently works as a lawyer, while teaching copyright law at the Reykjavík University Law School. In the past, he’s worked in TV and radio, including as a news reporter for the Icelandic National Broadcasting Service. Before embarking on a writing career, Ragnar translated fourteen Agatha Christie novels into Icelandic, and has had several short stories published in German, English and Icelandic literary magazines. Ragnar set up the first overseas chapter of the CWA (Crime Writers’ Association) in Reykjavík, and is co-founder of the international crime-writing festival Iceland Noir, selected by the Guardian as one of the ‘best crime-writing festivals around the world’. Ragnar Jónasson has written five novels in the Dark Iceland series, which has been optioned for TV by On the Corner. He lives in Reykjavík with his wife and two daughters. Ragnar’s debut thriller Snowblind became an almost instant bestseller when it was published in June 2015, with Nightblind following soon after. Rupture will be published by Orenda Books in 2017.
Visit him at www.ragnarjonasson.com or on Twitter @ragnarjo
ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR
Quentin Bates escaped English suburbia as a teenager, jumping at the chance of a gap year working in Iceland. For a variety of reasons, the gap year stretched to become a gap decade, during which time he went native in the north of Iceland, acquiring a new language, a new profession as a seaman, and a family before decamping en masse for England. He worked as a truck driver, teacher, net-maker and trawlerman at various times before falling into journalism largely by accident. He is the author of a series of crime novels set in present-day Iceland (Frozen Out, Cold Steal, Chilled to the Bone, Winterlude, Cold Comfort and Thin Ice), which have been published worldwide. He’s currently working on translating the next title in Ragnar Jónasson’s Dark Iceland series: Rupture.
Visit him at www.graskeggur.com or on Twitter @graskeggur
Copyright
Orenda Books
16 Carson Road
West Dulwich
London SE21 8HU
www.orendabooks.co.uk
First published in Icelandic as Myrknætti, 2011
This ebook published by Orenda Books, 2016
Copyright © Ragnar Jónasson 2011
Translation copyright © Quentin Bates 2016
Map copyright © Ólafur Valsson 2016
Ragnar Jónasson has asserted his moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.
All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
ISBN 978–1–910633–47–2
Typeset in Garamond by MacGuru Ltd
The author would like to thank the people of Siglufjördur for their wonderful setting, and would like to point out that the characters and the story are enti
rely fictional. Grateful thanks are due to prosecutor Hulda María Stefánsdóttir for her invaluable insight into police work. I would also like to thank the city of Stockholm’s cultural programme for the use of a guest apartment at Villa Bergshyddan, where Nightblind was partly written.
This book has been translated with financial support from
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