Shortly after the fog descended, Ívar had shouted to Helgi to come back to the lighthouse; it would be safest until visibility improved. Helgi, who was perched on the edge of the helipad at the time, had felt relieved. He had chosen the spot to keep out of the others’ way while they worked. The echo of their voices carried to him, increasing his feeling of isolation as he sat there as if alone in the world, the grey cloud before his eyes.
So far Ívar has avoided speaking to Helgi if he can help it, and the other two seem to be unconsciously following his example. At least, they have no reason to snub him, whatever Ívar’s motives. Helgi guesses the man is still wondering what he said or did that evening they met in the bar. This suggests he doesn’t always behave himself when he’s drunk, which doesn’t surprise Helgi as sober Ívar is not exactly a charmer. Still, he hopes the man is becoming reconciled to the idea of his being here, as he’d like to be allowed to join in their conversation once it gets dark.
Helgi swallows the last bite of his sandwich. Their cool-box had looked full when they opened it but already there’s worryingly little left. The remaining food will have to stretch to all tomorrow’s meals until the helicopter picks them up in the evening. They decided to have an early supper while the fog was blocking their view and are now sitting in a quiet huddle by the lighthouse, eating and listening to the noises around them. Full but not satisfied, Helgi decides to break the ice. He was careful to eat less than the others, conscious that if they run short of food, they’re bound to look at him, the fat man, and wonder if he took more than his share. ‘Did we bring a lifebuoy with us or is there one lying around here somewhere?’ The last part of his question is redundant. Since the helicopter vanished from sight three hours ago, Helgi has seen everything there is to see on the rock, every stone, every blade of grass. It’s unthinkable that he could have failed to notice a lifebuoy.
Tóti is the first to answer. ‘No.’ He swallows and dislodges the crumbs of his sandwich from his teeth before continuing. ‘Are you wondering what’ll happen if we fall off?’
Helgi nods. He folds up his sandwich wrapper and puts it in the rubbish container. ‘I thought it would be useful to have one to hand. Just in case.’
‘There’s no point throwing a lifebuoy to a dead man.’ Ívar rubs a hand over his balding scalp as if to check whether a bird has landed on it while he was eating. Two gulls, drawn by the smell when they took out the food, are now hovering overhead, invisible in the fog. From time to time they swoop down like missiles out of the greyness, swerving just above their heads and disappearing again. At some point in their lives they have learnt to be wary of humans and Ívar underlines this lesson by lobbing stones after them. ‘The sea’s shallow at the base of the rock. If anyone falls off, that’ll be the end of their worries.’
So far Helgi has had little to do with the woman, Heida, who has been inside the lighthouse, installing the new transmitter, so the huskiness of her voice comes as a surprise when she finally opens her mouth. ‘Can’t we talk about something else?’ She doesn’t address anyone in particular but peers out into the fog, as if talking to someone floating in mid-air.
‘Sure. Talk about whatever you like. I’m not stopping you.’ Ívar leans against the whitewashed wall, closes his eyes and rests his hands comfortably on his stomach. They are weather-beaten, with skin as coarse as that on his face. Helgi can’t help thinking that these would be the perfect hands for committing atrocities; these are fingers that long to maim. As if reading his mind, Ívar shoves them in his anorak pockets as he speaks again. ‘For God’s sake not politics, though. It could end badly, this close to the edge.’
Heida’s expression indicates that she doesn’t want to discuss politics any more than she wants to discuss the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. Helgi can’t tell if she’s uncomfortable about being the only woman among a group of strange men, or unnerved by the precipice. He’s ill at ease himself, though he’s never been especially bothered by heights. He casts around for some subject to cheer her up. ‘How’s the technical stuff going? Everything up and running?’ It’s as lame as talking about the weather. Suddenly the sandwich feels like lead in his stomach and he wishes he hadn’t bolted it down so fast.
‘The equipment’s in place but not connected yet. The installation and tests always take ages. Generally much longer than you expect.’ Her cheeks are flushed but otherwise her face is chalk-white, which makes her dark eyes appear black in contrast. The effect is to make her look nervous, as if she’s on the verge of confiding some fact of vital importance. Helgi wouldn’t mind taking a few snaps of her without her knowledge. But there’s no chance in the present circumstances; she couldn’t fail to notice his big, cumbersome camera. ‘Some things you just can’t hurry.’
‘Do you all work together?’ Helgi assumes they do, yet they don’t behave like colleagues around each other. While he was taking pictures earlier, he couldn’t help overhearing the echo of their conversation, and as far as he can tell this is the first time Heida has opened her mouth. The men were working outside, of course, but even so you’d have thought they’d exchange the odd word in passing. Perhaps she’s naturally shy and retiring.
‘No.’ It’s Tóti who answers. ‘I was only called out at the last minute. They obviously didn’t trust you to do the job on your own, mate.’ He throws the scrunched-up clingfilm from his sandwich at Ívar, who is evidently not amused. The rubbish is caught by the breeze and flies over the cliff.
Heida breaks the momentary silence. ‘I work for the firm that imports the radio equipment.’ She wraps up the rest of her sandwich, which she has barely touched, and puts it in her pocket.
‘Have you been there long?’ Tóti wriggles over to the lighthouse and, following Ívar’s example, leans against the wall and closes his eyes.
‘Years.’ Heida clearly isn’t going to volunteer any more information.
‘Strange I haven’t run into you before,’ Ívar comments. ‘I usually go along when they have to do maintenance on the transmitters.’ He picks a yellow stalk of grass and puts it in his mouth. It waggles up and down as he chews it.
‘I’ve always been based in the office.’ Heida fiddles with the ring-pull from her can, then crushes it in her small, neat hand.
‘You must know Konni then?’ Ívar spits out the grass stem and it blows back in his face.
‘I’m his daughter.’ Heida stares at Ívar’s closed eyes but he merely nods. It seems to Helgi that Tóti gives more of a reaction; he twitches, but that might just be because he’s falling asleep.
They sit like this for a while, Ívar and Tóti dozing, Heida and Helgi chatting about the weather and the gulls. It becomes increasingly difficult to keep the stilted conversation going and by the time they finally abandon the attempt Helgi is scarlet in the face. He’s never been particularly socially adroit and with women the small ration of conversational ability God gave him tends to desert him completely.
Heida stares in the direction of the helipad, squinting now and then, as if trying to discern something in the dense cloud. Helgi follows her gaze but can’t see anything. ‘Is there something up there?’ He can’t imagine it’d be anything but a gull.
‘No.’ Heida lowers her gaze. ‘It’s just so creepy somehow. You can’t see, and yet you can. If it was just solid grey it would be different, but it’s always shifting, so you keep thinking something’s about to appear.’
Helgi stares into the fog and immediately understands what she means. The constant movement of the tiny drops of moisture makes it impossible to focus on one spot. ‘How long can fog last out here?’
‘No idea. Perhaps they know.’ She jerks her chin towards the dozing workmen. ‘It wasn’t forecast, but then I’ve heard that weather models can’t cope with fog. I suppose it’s completely unpredictable.’ She no sooner stops speaking than the fog lifts slightly. Instead of smiling at the coincidence, Heida shudders and there is a remote look in her eyes. ‘I’ve always found fog really creepy. It disorientat
es you and makes the world seem different. Perhaps it’s because fog doesn’t follow any rules. The truth gets lost. Do you know what I mean?’
Helgi looks into Heida’s glowing dark eyes and doesn’t know how to answer. The truth has never seemed particularly clear to him, with or without fog. Experience has taught him that most things in life are too complicated for easy distinctions between right and wrong. But he doesn’t feel up to trying to expound his personal philosophy in the present circumstances. It’s not especially profound, after all. It’s based on the idea that life is tough and the sooner you accept the fact, the less painful your failures will be. ‘Yes, I think so.’ The spark in Heida’s eyes is extinguished and Helgi realises he has disappointed her, though he can’t work out how.
She turns and strains her eyes south to where the ocean is hidden behind a grey curtain. ‘My uncle used to work on a fisheries development project in Africa and they told him there that if fog stays around for a long time it signifies bad luck. If it lasts more than half a day it means that some important person will die, presumably the village headman.’
‘Which of us fits the description – if the fog sticks around that long?’
‘Ívar, I suppose.’ Heida glances at the man sleeping propped against the wall. His jaw is slack, his mouth half open. ‘He’s the oldest, anyway.’ She turns back to Helgi. ‘And the bossiest.’
Although Ívar is plainly sound asleep, Helgi is not quite so sure about Tóti. His eyes are closed but his alert expression suggests that he has not quite dropped off. Helgi would love to agree with Heida and ask if she too finds the guy sinister, but changes the subject in case Tóti’s eavesdropping. ‘How do you suppose superstitions like that come about?’
Heida shrugs. ‘Maybe a headman died after a fog and people connected the two.’
‘People die every day, headmen included. You’d have thought it would take more than that to convert an incident into a full-blown superstition.’
‘Are you implying that it might have some basis in reality? That fog is an evil omen?’ Heida smiles scornfully. It doesn’t suit her. But the expression vanishes when he starts speaking again.
‘No, of course not. But perhaps it happened more than once in short succession. It must take quite a lot for a whole people to adopt something like that as a superstition.’ Copying Ívar, Helgi puts a blade of dry grass in his mouth and waggles it to and fro. It’s ludicrous to think this African belief might have any substance to it. But irrational as it is, the longer he sits there, the more he can’t help wondering. The cloud seems to be thickening, which only enhances the effect.
‘He also said they believed the dead would appear in fog if they had a score to settle with the living. How do you explain that?’ Heida sounds as if she actually wants to hear his opinion.
‘I can’t. Ghost stories rarely have any rational explanation. Maybe that’s why they’re so tenacious.’ Helgi peers in the direction of the helipad in the hope that visibility is improving after all. An icy chill runs down his spine when he spots a dark shadow where the platform ought to be. He squints to get a better view. It must be a rock he hasn’t noticed before. That’s odd though, because it appears to be quite a large boulder or pillar of stone, roughly the size of a human figure. The fog closes in again and the shadow disappears. Yet Helgi’s eyes remain fixed on the spot and when a light gust of wind sweeps the cloud away, he can see nothing but the square helipad and irregular crag beyond. Nothing that can explain the shape he thought he saw.
Realising how fast he’s breathing, Helgi concentrates on trying to calm down. He has been warned that Stóridrangur can have a bad effect on the inexperienced. People can lose their heads and if that happens the only solution is to sit down and focus on taking deep, even breaths. At the time he was told this he’d smiled at the idea, but now he is far from amused. The simple advice helps. Breathe in. Breathe out. What he thought he saw was all in his head. Breathe in. Breathe out. Slowly.
Then he looks at Heida. She is staring fixedly at the same spot, apparently equally shaken. Her eyes meet his and she says in a low, breathless voice: ‘What the hell was that?’
Helgi can’t answer her, any more than he can explain what he’s doing out here, balancing precariously on a pillar of rock in the middle of the ocean. He shouldn’t be here. There’s no longer any doubt in his mind: the fog has come bearing gifts. But surely there can’t be any truth in what Heida said about the dead having a score to settle with the living? If there is, there aren’t many of them to choose from.
Chapter 6
23 January 2014
It was midday when Nói finally awoke under the baking-hot duvet. He shook off his drowsiness and the remnants of a dream involving a dark night at the chalet. He had no wish to recall the details. Reaching for Vala, he encountered thin air, and vaguely remembered an unappealing invitation to get up and help her unpack their cases. The hopelessly clashing sheets, which they hadn’t used since they’d first lived together in student accommodation, irritated his skin when he moved. He couldn’t remember noticing anything wrong with them in those days and reflected ruefully that once one had become used to smooth, expensive, high-thread-count cotton, there was no turning back.
He made a mental note to change the sheets before evening. Poverty held no charms for him; it was too reminiscent of the relentless struggle and privations of his childhood. It had motivated Nói to pull out all the stops from his very first day at school, despite the lack of support from home. Fortunately it had been instilled in him as a small boy that those who were diligent in their studies went on to get good jobs and become rich, so he had done everything in his power to avoid ending up a feckless alcoholic like his mother. Now that he had realised his dreams there was no question of looking back through rose-tinted glasses. The sheets were going in the dustbin and he wouldn’t listen to any talk from Vala of using them for rags.
The face that confronted him in the large mirror of their en-suite bathroom was puffy from sleep, with pronounced bags under the eyes. There was a rasp of stubble as he rubbed his cheek. He splashed himself with cold water, glad to be free of the chlorine smell you got in America. He would have liked to let the pure, icy stream play over his face and rinse away the tiredness but decided to jump in the shower instead. As he washed, the longing for a mug of strong coffee became so insistent that he could almost taste it on his lips in the cloud of steam. He was fed up with knocking back American dishwater from giant cardboard cups. His relief at being home was suddenly so overwhelming that he wanted to emit a holler of triumph like a hunter who has brought down a lion. He felt an urge to run downstairs and put the family’s passports through the shredder so they would never be tempted to go abroad again. The sound of movement in the bathroom interrupted his domestic bliss and spitting out soap bubbles he called out to Vala.
No answer.
‘Vala, is that you?’
There was no sound but a furtive rustle. Nói turned off the tap. ‘Tumi?’ No response. The rustling had stopped. Foam dripped down his forehead, stinging his eyes, and he turned on the water again. It must have been Púki, though usually the cat avoided the bathroom like the plague if someone was in the shower.
When he stepped out of the cubicle, the cat was sitting outside the bathroom door, yellow eyes glaring, following his every movement. Although Púki had never bitten or scratched, Nói could have sworn that he was preparing to pounce and sink his claws into him. Anyone would have thought the cat had read his thoughts about lion hunting and wanted to take revenge for his distant kin in Africa. Nói closed the door and thought he heard Púki hiss. The cat was nowhere to be seen when he emerged shortly afterwards.
Down in the kitchen he was met by the aroma of coffee from the brimming jug and was again filled with a heart-warming sense of being back where he belonged. He wandered out in search of Vala, still in his dressing gown; he was in no hurry and savoured the sensation as the caffeine began to take effect. By the time he found her cramming dirt
y clothes into the washing machine in the utility room, he was feeling restored. He kissed her on the nape of her neck, wishing he could tempt her back into bed, but didn’t speak the thought aloud.
‘Afternoon, sleepyhead.’ Vala smiled at him. Her teeth were strikingly white in her attractively tanned face. The Florida sun had obliterated all trace of Icelandic winter pastiness. She was wearing an old, threadbare top that she’d owned for donkey’s years and only brought out for doing the household chores. It was like a red flag: if Vala appeared in this shirt, both father and son knew to do as they were told. Yet in spite of this Nói liked the top; it had worn so thin that you could see the outline of her pert breasts, and the baggy neck revealed her sharp collarbones. Ever since he had first set eyes on her, Vala had been slim, but because she worked as a personal trainer he had no idea if she was naturally slender or owed her figure to constant exercise. It used to fill him with pride when they were in company to see that she was in better shape than all the other women her age and most of the younger ones too. She made sure that he kept fit as well, dragging him out running with her and insisting that he attended her gym three times a week. Before he met her it had never crossed his mind to do any exercise. When he was a boy there had been no money to pay the membership fees for sports clubs, let alone buy the necessary gear, so he had never developed the taste for it. It gave no tangible rewards and merely took up valuable time when there were more important goals to be met. Were it not for Vala he probably wouldn’t even own a pair of trainers.
Why Did You Lie? Page 6