‘Well,’ said Thóra, looking around. ‘Are there any wine glasses here?’
‘No,’ replied Friðrikka. ‘The camp’s regulations prohibit drinking, so the only glasses are the ones in the kitchen.’
She prepared to stand up to go and get them, but Thóra beat her to it. ‘Did you all really follow the rules?’ she asked on her way out.
‘No,’ Friðrikka said again. ‘It’s impossible to forbid adults to drink unless it interferes with their work. Arnar was strongly opposed to people drinking here, but no one listened to him. It wasn’t that much really, we stayed here for months at a time and never brought anything more than the amount allowed by customs, and maybe a case of beer we bought in Kulusuk if we had time before continuing on our way here. Arnar just made himself scarce the few times that we drank here in the lounge. Now and then, on special occasions, the company served wine with dinner and invited us to drinks in the evening – when we were here over the holidays, for instance.’ She pointed at a printed poster on the wall next to the doorway, announcing a Midwinter Feast that was to have been held on Saturday 16 February. For such a small workforce, a lot of effort had clearly been put into the event: a banquet director had been nominated and the evening’s entertainment included everything from bingo to a karaoke contest. ‘I expect there would have been alcohol at that,’ she declared.
Thóra met Matthew and Finnbogi at the door. Matthew was holding a plastic bottle with the colourful Opal label, and the doctor a bottle of cognac. She hoped he wouldn’t mind drinking from a milk glass. The only glasses she could see in the cabinets were the same as the ones they used for their suppers, clumsy cafeteria glasses that stood upside down among the small white coffee cups and a few larger and more colourful mugs. These looked like they belonged to particular employees, and Thóra started looking through them automatically. When she picked up a mug decorated with blue flowers and inscribed Oddný Hildur, the good mood that had slowly been overcoming her physical fatigue disappeared again. She hurriedly put the mug back in its place, surprised that the woman’s co-workers hadn’t removed it so as not to be constantly reminded of her disappearance. Perhaps they thought that would be a symbolic defeat: by getting rid of the mug they would be admitting she was dead. Thóra hurriedly gathered seven glasses in her arms, one extra in case Eyjólfur showed up.
The refrigerator started up unexpectedly and noisily, and Thóra was so startled she thanked her stars that she didn’t drop the glasses. Adrenaline rushed through her veins and her heart beat wildly; it calmed down quickly, but she hastened out of the lonely cafeteria nonetheless.
Shortly after they had filled their glasses Eyjólfur appeared, looking dishevelled. ‘Is this where you all are?’ he snorted. ‘I fell asleep.’ He plonked himself down next to the door. ‘Did anything happen while I was sleeping?’ He smiled sarcastically, clearly convinced that they were no closer to getting to the bottom of things as they’d been earlier in the evening. When no one answered, he looked indifferently at the window. ‘The weather’s getting worse. My window woke me up shaking and rattling.’ He laughed mirthlessly. ‘I was so confused when I woke up that I thought for a moment there was someone outside knocking on my window.’ He yawned again. ‘I even thought it was Bjarki.’
‘Ugh, Eyjólfur.’ Friðrikka put down her glass. ‘We’re trying to forget what happened here. I don’t know about the others but I don’t want Bjarki to appear in front of me out there, like the living dead.’ She fell silent.
Suddenly the ceiling light dimmed. They heard a loud bang and saw a sudden bright light outside. ‘What the hell?’ Alvar, who was sitting near the window, stood up and shaded his eyes. Friðrikka let out a low moan and Eyjólfur grabbed the arms of his chair with both hands and squeezed until his knuckles whitened. Although they were all startled, the light did not induce such extreme reactions in Thóra, Matthew, Bella and Dr Finnbogi.
‘What was that?’ asked Thóra, when it became clear no one else was about to say anything. ‘Did a car go past?’ Maybe the helicopter pilots had come to fetch them by land.
Friðrikka was breathing rapidly. ‘Those are the floodlights that were set up after Oddný Hildur disappeared. The security guard suggested them.’
‘And?’ The doctor seemed just as puzzled as Thóra.
‘And they come on if movement is detected by the sensors attached to posts around the camp. The idea was to scare away any polar bears or other unwelcome visitors.’
‘Is there a polar bear out there?’ The Opal had definitely started to make itself felt and Thóra felt quite exhilarated at the thought of seeing one. Standing up, she went to the window, pressed her face against it and peered out. The lights, mounted on two tall towers, made the white snow even brighter. She hadn’t noticed them earlier.
‘Get away from the window.’ Eyjólfur’s tone was stern. ‘It’s probably not a bear.’
‘How do you know?’ asked the doctor, who had followed Thóra’s example and looked out. There was no answer.
Thóra moved away from the cold glass. ‘What is it then?’ If she’d been tipsy before, the feeling had left her abruptly. She imagined the bloodstains on the driller’s pillow and wondered whether the floodlights had gone on just before he had started to bleed.
‘It’s not an animal.’ Friðrikka ran her hand through her red hair. It was so dirty that it stood up on its own. ‘The system hasn’t been working since we arrived. I’d even forgotten about it. It has to be turned on, and a polar bear can’t do that.’
Now they all understood why Friðrikka and Eyjólfur had reacted as they did. ‘Where does one turn on the system?’ Now Matthew had stood up and come over to the window, despite Eyjólfur’s warnings. He peered out but saw no more than Thóra had. ‘And where are the sensors?’
‘The sensors are located between the towers, and they’re turned on from the office building. It’s rather complicated, meaning no one can do it by accident. The equipment is under the steps.’ Eyjólfur looked at Friðrikka. ‘Did you turn on the system?’
‘No, of course not.’ Friðrikka seemed even more alarmed. ‘I hadn’t even remembered it.’ Their old mutual animosity was stirring again. ‘And are you going to say next that I set off the floodlights? I was sitting here, in case you’ve forgotten. Just like you.’
Matthew interrupted. ‘None of us did this.’ He turned back to the window. ‘Probably some animal wandered through the sensor beam and ran off when the lights went on.’ He looked around at everyone. ‘Did anyone mess with the equipment at the office building?’ No one spoke up. Matthew looked out one last time and stared at the lifeless environment until the floodlights suddenly flicked off, leaving him looking only at his own reflection in dark glass. ‘It must have been caused by a power outage. It was probably on the whole time but someone connected the electricity this evening, which brought power back to the system.’
Everyone was happy with this conjecture. This was one of those moments when it was good to have some sort of explanation, however unlikely. The healing power of words destroyed doubt, and everyone contributed by murmuring ‘of course’ and ‘that must be it’.
They sat down again shamefacedly and tried to revive the cheerful mood that had developed earlier. The bottles were quick to empty and it wasn’t long before Alvar started fidgeting in his seat. Friðrikka, who also appeared to want more, stood and announced that she was going to check whether the wine kept there for celebrations was still in its place. ‘Was there any alcohol left after the Midwinter Feast, Eyjólfur?’
‘No idea. I wasn’t here.’
At that Friðrikka left, and Thóra drank the remainder of the Opal from her glass. She wasn’t sure that she’d want any more when Friðrikka returned; the alcohol would just make her sleepier. It looked as if Matthew was in the same state, but all the others appeared to have been refreshed by the drinks; the frown had even vanished from Bella’s face, though she was still several glasses away from smiling. So fatigue was probably the reason wh
y Thóra and Matthew were the last to react when Friðrikka’s screams carried into the lounge.
Chapter 17
21 March 2008
Arnar’s hands had stopped trembling, but instead of relief, he only felt regret. That in itself didn’t really matter; he didn’t expect to feel better any time soon, and the regret wasn’t the worst of it. What bothered him was that he didn’t know what he regretted, what he was missing. It wasn’t the trembling of his fingers, but something else, something he could not grasp. There was enough to choose from: mistakes from the past that he would never have the chance to mend; money that was gone and the debts it had left behind; friendships that would never be revived. No one thing stood out.
He had started from a dreamless sleep from which he felt he had derived no rest, because he was just as exhausted as when he had laid his head on the pillow. It was possible that he’d only slept for a short time; he had lost his watch and since he wasn’t allowed a mobile phone in therapy he couldn’t use that to see how much time had passed. It was pitch-black outside, but that meant nothing; the sun didn’t come up until around nine in the morning at this time of year. He could always wander into the hallway and ask the night guard what time it was, but he didn’t feel like it, knowing that if he got out of bed it would be even harder to get back to sleep. He tried in vain to think of something positive. All that came to mind other than the hopelessness of his life was the empty bed facing him. It had previously contained his roommate, an alcoholic who had suffered arrhythmia and been taken to hospital. The man had snored terribly and would occasionally talk in his sleep. This should have made it easier to sleep soundly without him, but that wasn’t the case. In fact, Arnar wouldn’t have long to wait before another person took the man’s place; in fact, it was a little strange that the gap had not been filled the next day. Arnar suspected it was because of his sexual orientation, which he had admitted to the group early on, during his second day of therapy. He had decided to come out with it immediately to prevent the men from talking to him about ‘chicks’ and picking up women. The story had spread like wildfire throughout the treatment centre. He couldn’t care less; everyone here shared a problem with alcohol, first and foremost, and no doubt welcomed having something else to talk about. By revealing this information he also ensured himself a certain privacy, because it meant the men generally avoided him; but on the flip side, the women, who were in the minority, paid him more attention than before. Arnar didn’t believe that the men avoided him because of any antipathy toward homosexuals; they simply had enough to contend with, without complicating life by spending time with a fellow addict who might also be eyeing them up. As it happened, Arnar had no interest in anyone at the centre, either as a sexual partner or as a friend; it would be a long time before his desire for sex or companionship reawakened. Luckily, others couldn’t possibly know that.
Maybe his former roommate, the old snorer, had invented his heart ailment for fear that Arnar might try to take him by force in his sleep. Arnar smiled for the first time since being admitted. The man was in his sixties and slept wearing his false teeth, that produced a wet clack at the start and end of every snore. Arnar would never have dreamed of it.
His smile vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. He didn’t deserve to regain his happiness, any more than anyone else who had selfishly and stupidly extinguished the light in the eyes of a fellow human being. He recalled the words of a woman he had sat next to at lunch. This young woman had sat hunched over her plate, looking completely broken. Under normal circumstances she would probably have been good-looking, but now she resembled a zombie. She had nodded at Arnar when she sat down next to him but hadn’t followed it up with any polite chatter. After picking at her food for a long time without taking so much as a single bite, the woman had suddenly turned to Arnar and told him that pasta had always been her favourite food. She said it mechanically, as if reading from a sheet of paper. When she opened her mouth, a sore on her upper lip tore open. A thick, dark red bead of blood formed in one corner of her mouth and fell to the brown plate, whence it ran slowly down into her pile of tortellini. The woman did nothing to try to stop the bleeding and instead continued to talk, announcing to Arnar that she would never again have a favourite food nor take pleasure in anything whatsoever. She would never smile again. Then she picked up her plate in her frail-looking hands and left without saying goodbye. Arnar didn’t need to be psychic to notice the pale mark on the ring finger of her left hand. It was easy to imagine what had happened. More often than not, the patients who had it toughest at Vogur Hospital were young women who had lost the love of their husband or children on their way to the bottom. He lost his own appetite at the thought of children sitting with their father at the supper table, wondering why their mother couldn’t be like other mothers. It was a blessing that he himself had no offspring to offend with his drinking.
He turned onto his side and wished he could have brought his iPod. Music usually helped when he wanted to focus on something other than his own wretchedness. He had to content himself with thinking about which songs he would play if he had access to it. After putting together a list in his mind he let the songs play from memory, and although he didn’t get the lyrics right he managed to stick to the melody in more or less most of them. When he was halfway through the fifth song he realized that the singers were all rather gloomy and perfect for kindling the self-pity that simmered inside him as it had done before. He abandoned his interior playlist. Why couldn’t they watch TV here? That was good sleeping medicine, given how boring it had been the few times he’d watched it. Even the snorer was better than nothing; Arnar could look at him and try to imagine that he was watching a live feed from some reality series. That was far better than wondering what had caused the sadness that engulfed him.
Arnar pulled the bedclothes down over his toes. His room was cold, since he’d left the window wide open to make sure that he wouldn’t wake with a headache, as he’d done the day before. Greenland came to mind, cold and lonely, just like him. His robe hung on a hook on the wall at the end of his bed and he considered putting it on to make himself warmer beneath the covers. He decided not to, since it was unbearable enough having to put it on and take it off, day in day out, without doing so at night as well. He had had a wonderful duvet in Greenland, which he had splurged on after his first work tour. The quilt he’d received from Berg Technology had been similar to the one he lay under now, filled with polyester or some other artificial material that crumpled stiffly over him with each movement. He hoped no one would take the duvet before he could make arrangements to send for his belongings. If someone broke into his place there wasn’t anything else to steal, except perhaps the old laptop he’d used mainly to watch movies. He couldn’t imagine anyone would want that old piece of junk, but one never knew. What had disappeared from the camp hadn’t exactly all been important or valuable. He’d lost a pair of snow boots, and a hat that he couldn’t imagine a thief would be able to resell. He had owned the boots for many years, and the only reason he hadn’t thrown them away was that he felt it was useful to have a worn-out pair of boots for walking between the buildings at the work camp. When they were stolen, he thought at first that it was yet another practical joke played by his co-workers at his expense and thus didn’t ask around for them until it became clear that that was not the case. Thieves who found a reason to steal worn-out old moon boots and a matching hat were just as likely to nab a laptop. And the bedspread. It was also possible that his co-workers had taken it and damaged it, just to make life miserable for him. That would have been typical.
He found it unpleasant to let his mind wander to his old workplace, even though he’d managed to avoid thinking about what caused him the most pain. It was bad enough to be reminded of the endless teasing that had got worse and worse the longer it went on. At the recollection of it he felt a stabbing pain in his chest, and a familiar ache as though they actually had punched him. The only difference was that if he had been subject
ed to physical violence the pain would have disappeared long ago, along with the bruises. Worst of all, he could neither discuss this in the group nor with the psychiatrist or therapist. It would probably ease his mind to speak to a professional, but it might not and it wasn’t worth the risk. He wanted people to like him, but that wouldn’t happen if he told the whole story as it had really occurred. They would think him an idiot who deserved everything he got. The staff had already started regarding him askance, clearly sensing that something more than his alcoholism was troubling him. It had been a mistake to speak to the girl the night before, about good and evil. She had probably told his therapist about their conversation. At least his sponsor had paid Arnar more attention today than on previous days and had called in on him repeatedly to find out how he was doing.
For example, the therapist had asked Arnar why he never called his friends or relatives. The man apparently kept tabs on him, because when Arnar lied that he’d made several phone calls that morning, the man shook his head and said that that wasn’t strictly true, was it; he knew Arnar hadn’t called anyone since he had been admitted, when he’d asked to be allowed to call his employer to inform them that he was in rehab. Arnar dropped the subject, finding it easier than telling the truth – that he had no one to call. His mother was dead, and his relationship with his father so fragile that it would certainly be shattered if he called him – again – from Vogur. His two brothers had had more than enough of him and the same went for the small group of people he had once considered his friends. If he wanted to have a comforting phone conversation with someone he would have to call the Red Cross helpline, and he hadn’t sunk that low yet. Tomorrow he would go and ask if he could have some money from the pocket of the jacket he’d been made to leave behind along with his other belongings on admission. Then he would call directory enquiries and ask for some random addresses and phone numbers. If he were lucky this would get noticed and they would think he was calling someone close to him. Maybe then they would look at him like any other patient.
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