Salka glanced at the curve of the rod and watched the line, leading away under tension into the depths where the trout had sought refuge.
She jerked the rod with all her strength. The line whistled as she saw it zip past her face, minus the fly. She waded ashore, sat on the grass and felt for her phone.
‘Hi, Mum, I’m free now. How are you?’
‘Sorry. Did I interrupt you while you were fishing?’
‘No, it’s all right,’ Salka fibbed. She took the thermos from her fishing bag and poured coffee into the lid.
‘I worry about you, Salka.’
‘There’s no need to. I feel absolutely fine here and I’m going to make the most of being here for a couple of days.’
She managed to untwist the cap of the half-bottle of cognac she had bought especially for this trip and poured a slug into her coffee.
‘You used to go so often to Lax River…’
‘Well, we did,’ Salka said, cutting her off. ‘But I’ve seen plenty of fish about, and the food at the house is much better,’ she said, realising that she had just delivered a couple of non sequiturs as a way of changing the subject. It was all to no effect, as her mother simply continued.
‘Heard anything from Eysteinn?’
‘No.’
‘He hasn’t called?’
‘No. He hasn’t called,’ she said sharply, and immediately regretted it. She could almost feel his breath on her neck. She could hear his words, indistinctly.
… I give up … It’s all your fault. I’m out of here…
‘How’s Dad?’ she asked, banishing unwelcome thoughts from her mind.
‘He’s so quiet, as you know. You’d hardly know he was there, so to tell the truth I couldn’t say how he’s feeling inside. He says he’s fine. I just have to believe what he tells me,’ she said with a low laugh.
Salka was very familiar with the shades of her mother’s laughter and couldn’t miss how forced it sounded this time.
She reached for the fishing bag, which strictly speaking belonged to Eysteinn, and pulled it closer. She opened a side pocket, taking out a lighter and a box of Café Crème cigars. She couldn’t stop herself from smiling. Smoking was something that neither of them ever had ever done, except when they went fishing.
‘Give him a kiss from me,’ Salka said, as she lay back in the grass and gazed up at the sky above. She drew the smoke deep and grimaced. She felt the harshness of the bone dry tobacco fill her mouth. All the same, she liked the sensation. ‘I’ll come and see you soon,’ she said, blowing a stream of smoke hard at the black cloud of midges that had gathered over her head.
She recalled when María had caught her with a cigarette in her hand. María had been ten years old and wept tears of fury. It had taken Salka such a long time to convince her daughter that she was just dabbling, that she hadn’t started smoking. Which was in fact the truth of the matter. She allowed herself the occasional smoke with a drink. It had also taken her ages to convince María that she wasn’t about to die.
‘Are you smoking?’ her mother asked.
Salka was taken by surprise, and sat up.
‘No. What makes you think that?’ she said, as she noticed a fisherman wade into the stream from the other side of the river, looking as if he was about to cast a fly by her rocky outcrop. She watched as he looped his rod until he released the line, so that it lay like a feather on the water upstream from the rock.
‘What did you say?’
‘I asked if you had heard anything from Pétur?’ her mother said.
‘Pétur? Why would I hear from him?’
She watched the dry fly float downstream towards the rock.
‘I ran into him yesterday. He promised… Said he’d get in touch with you. The police here in Akureyri are so short-staffed.’
‘Mum, don’t. Please,’ Salka implored her.
‘What?’
‘I’ll apply for jobs when I’m ready. There are things you don’t need to worry about.’
She knew her mother well enough to know that this would make no difference. Her mother had always been the one to take the initiative, call the right people, go to the right place, sort things out. Salka felt that this was the best way to be; all the same, her mother tended to go into things at full tilt.
‘You know that my happiness is your happiness, Salka. I just thought it would do you good to be back at work. Take your mind off things and work with what you do best. There are plenty of good people ready to give you a job.’
Salka watched the man cautiously reel in his line, then cast again. She heard the whirr of the line and saw the fly land nearer the outcrop than before and drift towards it.
‘Mum, please stop all these calls and inquiries on my behalf. I’m an adult. It’s not like it was when you were applying for summer jobs for me,’ she said, and sighed. She knew that she was coming across more sharply than she had intended. ‘I know you only want the best for me, and I love you for it. But I’m fine and I can sort myself out. Now that’s pretty good…’ she said as the man’s fly vanished from the surface just below the outcrop. A large trout broke the surface, jumping clear of the water.
Salka grinned and got to her feet.
‘What’s pretty good?’ she heard her mother say.
‘Nothing. I’ll give you a call later,’ she said, ending the call.
She went down to the riverbank.
‘Need any help?’ she called out to the fisherman. He had been struggling with the fish, which had fought hard and then gone to ground under a rock by the islet, refusing to move.
‘That would be much appreciated,’ he called back.
Salka picked up a fist-sized stone and waded out some way downstream, towards the islet where the current flowed faster. She was up to her waist in water and knew that one more step and the fast-flowing stream would snatch her off her feet. She saw where the line lay, close to the islet, and threw the stone so that it landed as close as she dared to the line. The trout immediately set off upstream, judging by the line’s position, heading straight for her. Salka leaned over and almost lost her footing as the line swept past, just missing her head, even though the man had lifted his rod as high as he could.
Salka waded over to the man and as she reached him, he handed her a landing net.
‘You use one of those?’ she said, after having glanced at him in surprise.
‘What do you mean? Other than what?’
‘Hands,’ she said, grinning.
They sat on the bank after the man had brought the fish into the shallows, where Salka had caught hold of it and brought it ashore.
The man didn’t hesitate. He took out a wooden club and gave the trout three sharp blows to the head.
‘Magnús,’ he said abruptly, offering his hand.
‘Salka,’ she replied, taking it.
His grasp was firm, like hers, and lasted for a while, as if there was no hurry to let go.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Really?’ she said, ready to withdraw her hand.
‘Aren’t you Didda and Steini’s daughter?’
‘Well, yeah. You know them?’ she said, gazing down at the water.
‘No, not exactly. I’m in the police myself and… Yes,’ he said and coughed. He seemed to have realised that his words were falling on stony ground. ‘That was quite a fight back there,’ he said, trying to lift the tone. ‘With the fish, I mean,’ he added after she stared at him with blank eyes.
She knew exactly why he had changed the subject. Her father had retired after a career in the law, during which he had defended many of Iceland’s worst criminals. After his success in getting Akureyri’s most notorious criminal off the hook, he had in turn been convicted by society, especially in Akureyri. She had never been able to fathom why this continued to be such an emotive issue, even though that had been more than fifteen years ago.
‘Just a bit,’ she agreed, shaking off dark thoughts. ‘I see you know how to cast a fly. Been fishing long?’
/>
‘You could say that,’ he said, wiping his knife clean on the grass after gutting the fish. ‘Since I was a kid. There haven’t been many opportunities in the last couple of years, but I go when I get a chance,’ he said, and she discerned a touch of a northern accent in his words.
‘Where are you from?’ she asked, passing him the brimming cap of the cognac bottle.
‘Hrafnagil. Very peaceful, and good to live away from the noise in Akureyri,’ he said, knocking back the contents of the lid, and passing it back to her.
He took off his cap and flapped it from side to side. The midges had been making a concerted assault on him. He smoothed back his dark hair and smiled, a delicate smile. His greenish eyes were mild and bright. Salka guessed he had to be around forty. There were creases in his forehead, and clear lines ran from his nose to the corners of his mouth. There was a striking cleft in his chin.
‘And you?’
‘Here and there, I suppose,’ Salka said. ‘I suppose you’re in the Akureyri police?’
‘Yes. Drugs squad.’
‘It’s not always peaceful at Hrafnagil. Isn’t that where there was a fire last year? I’m sure I read something about it online.’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ he said, a serious edge to his voice. He paused for a moment before continuing. ‘That was a real tragedy. The house burned to the ground in no time at all. The couple who lived there had no chance.’
‘Were you there?’
‘No, I wasn’t,’ Magnús said. Salka noticed that he was deep in thought. ‘I was up on the heath hunting for ptarmigan.’
‘Did you know them?’
‘No. I didn’t know them, exactly. They were people who had moved there from somewhere out of town. But I knew the place, and not in a good way. They were people with troubles of their own. They’d been seen earlier that evening in a bad way. The house burned down that night.’
‘The Special Unit was called out, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes. Shots had been heard inside the house. But by the time the Special Unit was on the scene, the house was already in flames. Tragic,’ he said, and lay on his back. Salka did the same.
‘Have you been here before? To Lax River?’ she asked after they had watched the sky in silence.
‘No. First time. Wonderful river. And the area’s a real paradise… It’s ruined,’ he said and smiled.
‘What’s ruined?’ she asked in surprise, and they both sat up.
‘The fly. It’s had it,’ he said and showed her the dry fly. In the struggle with the trout, the bindings had given way. ‘Are you still in the police? CID?’ he asked.
‘You seem to know quite a bit about me,’ she laughed.
‘Ach. I’m sorry. I know Pétur very well. You know, the senior officer in Akureyri.’
‘Yes. I know him.’
‘I had a word with him the other day and he mentioned that you’d be fishing up here. All the same, I reckoned I’d be more likely to run into you at the chalet than down here by the river,’ he said, sounding apologetic.
Salka rolled her eyes, and thought of her mother.
‘Well, I understand. But no.’
‘No, what?’
‘I’m not a serving officer. Not at the moment. I’m on leave.’
‘Weren’t you working with CID in London? Pétur said something about that.’
Salka said nothing.
‘Well,’ she said, and forced a smile as the silence became awkward.
‘You wouldn’t consider joining us in Akureyri? Pétur mentioned that we’re short-staffed.’
‘I don’t believe in coincidences … Magnús,’ she said after a pause. For a second she had forgotten his name. ‘I was talking to my mother just now, and she said exactly the same.’
‘I’m sorry. It looks like I’ve been stalking you. That wasn’t the intention at all…’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said, inspecting a daisy held between her fingertips. She had to laugh. ‘It’s funny, I suppose,’ she said, catching his eye.
‘Hey, look,’ Magnús said in surprise. He had been about to put the fish in a bag when he noticed something in its mouth. He took a pair of pliers from his bag, eased them into the trout’s mouth and showed Salka what he had retrieved. ‘He had another fly in his mouth,’ he said, laughing out loud.
‘That’s my fly,’ she said quietly.
‘What do you mean?’ he asked doubtfully.
‘That’s my fly. This fish took it earlier.’
‘You’re joking! What sort of a coincidence is that? The same fish took both our flies?’
‘I told you I don’t believe in coincidence. This fish is so big that he wouldn’t let anything else onto this stretch of river. Like any other predator, it has its own territory. So there’s no coincidence. You caught my fish,’ she said, and it was her turn to laugh.
‘Remarkable,’ he said, and fell silent. He looked a little abashed, and a smirk appeared on his face. ‘Actually, I had been watching you.’
‘What do you mean? Watching me?’
‘When you were fishing earlier. I could see you knew what you were doing when you cast down towards the rock there. You knew there was a fish down there, didn’t you?’
She stared at him.
Damn, you look good, she thought.
She had already noticed the absence of a ring on his finger.
‘Yes. I knew. Are you alone?’ she asked and felt herself flush. She was surprised at the emotion that surfaced inside her, which felt a lot like a twinge of conscience. ‘I mean, did you come here with a group?’
‘No, I’m on my own. Arrived this morning and I’ll be spending a few days here,’ he said, and looked into her eyes, for a long time.
6
Hróbjartur opened his eyes as wide as he could. He couldn’t figure out what was restricting his vision. He closed them again, and gradually recalled the events in the kitchen. At the same time, he felt the pain in his face intensifying. He had a hazy recollection of what had happened, but he was sure that there had been a bunched black fist in there somewhere. Now he remembered, and opened his eyes. He could feel the pain in them. That man had been quite right. He hadn’t even felt the blow. To begin with, he wasn’t sure where he was. He looked to one side, where a familiar lamp cast its glow from the bedside table. He saw the Bible that lay next to the lamp. He was in his bedroom. Thank God, he thought, and tried to sit up. But he couldn’t. He could make no movement at all. He felt that his arms and legs were tied to the bed. Something squeaked every time he moved. He swung his head to one side, and discovered that a sheet of plastic had been laid under him, covering the whole bed.
‘Awake, are you?’ asked the man, who now stood in the doorway.
‘What happened?’ Hróbjartur asked, his voice hoarse and trembling.
The man went over to him and whipped away the blanket from Hróbjartur’s naked body. Lifting his head as far as he could, he realised that he wasn’t tied only hand and foot. Three yellow bands held down his legs, waist and chest.
The man took a seat on the edge of the bed. He looked at Hróbjartur for a long time. Then he leaned close and whispered.
‘The truth, Hróbjartur. If only you had told the truth, then you wouldn’t be in this unfortunate position. It was in the text you read just now. But you won’t accept the truth,’ the man said and looked at him again.
‘Yes, I’ll tell you everything…’
Hróbjartur’s words were cut off as the man placed a strip of silver coloured tape over his mouth. He leaned over him again, and whispered.
‘Shhh. It’s too late now,’ he said with a smile. ‘You’re a man of the Church, Hróbjartur. Do you know how many of you there are, priests, I mean? Well?’
He raised himself up and looked into Hróbjartur’s eyes. He leaned down again and whispered.
‘There are around a hundred and fifty of you. One hundred and fifty good men who carry out your duties to God and men. Ach, I’m sorry. There aren’t a hundred and
fifty of you. I forgot the bad apples. Those bad apples spoil so much. And they’re all over. In fact, bad apples don’t get to go to market. They get thrown in the bin. But among people we can’t throw away the bad apples. These rotten individuals find their way into every corner of society, banks, politics, sports clubs, youth clubs. The Church. The house of God. Are you the rotten apple in God’s house, Hróbjartur? How come you, the spoiled fruit, were able to hide yourself away there so well, and for so long?’
The man again straightened his back and looked down with a smile at Hróbjartur, who stared back at him. The smile vanished, and he again leaned forward to whisper.
‘You know how it is with the house of God, the church. All those symbols. Don’t you? Yeah, you know them all. All right, I’ll see what I can remember of it,’ he said and stood up. He paced the floor. ‘The church itself symbolises heaven. It’s also often likened to the ark Noah built to save men and animals from the great flood. There are churches that leak like sieves and anyone whose path lies that way doesn’t come back unscathed. Apologies, Hróbjartur. That stuff about Noah’s just a distraction,’ he said and laughed. ‘The doors of the church are the symbol of Christ. Jesus said, “I am the door”. The church spire represents the good news and the bells are the bringers of the word. The space between the door of the church and the altar is the holy road. Beautiful, isn’t it?’ the man said, and fell silent.
He stared for a long time at a heavy wooden cross that hung on one wall, and the gilded figure of Christ crucified on it.
‘Talk to him now and again, do you?’ he asked in a low voice and went over to the cross.
Hróbjartur mumbled and fought back a stifled cough.
The man turned and ripped the tape from Hróbjartur’s face; he gasped for air.
‘Jesus. Do you talk to him? Do you get any answers? Maybe the right answers that echo inside your head when you beg for forgiveness?’
There was no reply.
‘It doesn’t matter. There’s more interesting stuff to come. All this symbolism. It’s all very beautiful, and don’t misunderstand me. I mean what I say. Very beautiful. Let’s go on,’ he said and sat again on the edge of the bed. He leaned close to Hróbjartur and whispered again.
The Commandments : A Novel (2021) Page 3
