Hypothermia

by Arnaldur Indridason

  He did not reply.

  ‘You haven’t changed,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t want to quarrel with you.’

  ‘No, but you are anyway.’

  ‘Couldn’t you see what was happening? Couldn’t you have intervened? Couldn’t you have looked up from your own self-pity for one minute and seen what was happening? I know my own responsibility and I know it’s my fault for not having made sure that they were all right. Ever since Eva sought me out and I saw what had happened, I’ve blamed myself, because I know I failed them. But what about you, Halldóra? Couldn’t you have done something?’

  Halldóra did not answer him straight away. She looked out at the rain, twiddling the lighter between her fingers. Erlendur waited for a hail of angry recriminations, but Halldóra simply gazed calmly at the rain and smoked. Her voice sounded weary when she finally answered.

  ‘Dad was a labourer, as you know,’ she said. ‘He was born poor and died even poorer. Mum, too. We never had anything. Not a damned thing. I imagined another life. I wanted to escape the poverty. Get a nice flat. Nice things. A good man. I thought you were him. I thought we were embarking on a life that would bring us a bit of happiness. It didn’t work out like that. You . . . walked out. I started drinking. I don’t know what Eva and Sindri have told you. I don’t know how much you know about my life – our life – but it hasn’t exactly been fun. I’ve been unlucky with men. Some of them were real bastards. I’ve worked my fingers to the bone. I’ve lived in a series of rented flats, some of them total dumps. Sometimes the children and I were thrown out. Sometimes I went on long benders. I probably didn’t look after them like I should have done. They’ve probably had an even worse life than I have, especially Eva – she was always more sensitive than Sindri when it came to strangers and bad conditions.’

  Halldóra sucked in the smoke.

  ‘That’s what happened. I’ve tried not to give way to self-pity. I . . . I can’t help it if I have a tendency to blame you for some of it.’

  ‘May I?’ he asked, reaching for her cigarettes.

  She shoved the packet towards him, together with the Mallorca lighter. They sat and smoked, each absorbed in their own thoughts.

  ‘She was always asking about you,’ Halldóra said, ‘and I usually told her you were like one of those bums I used to go out with. I know it wasn’t nice of me but what was I to say? What would you have liked me to say?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Erlendur said. ‘It can’t have been an easy life.’

  ‘You brought it on us.’

  Erlendur did not reply. The rain fell silently from the dark winter sky. Three men in checked shirts stood up and walked out, calling their thanks to the cook in the kitchen on the way.

  ‘The odds were against me from the beginning,’ Halldóra said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Erlendur replied.

  ‘There’s no “maybe” about it.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Do you know why?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘They were against me because I gave the relationship a hundred per cent,’ Halldóra said.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But you never did.’

  Erlendur did not speak.

  ‘Never,’ Halldóra said again, exhaling smoke.

  ‘I expect you’re right,’ Erlendur said.

  Halldóra snorted. She avoided meeting his gaze. They sat a good while in silence until she coughed. Reaching for the ashtray, she ground out her cigarette stub.

  ‘Do you think that was fair?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m sorry it wasn’t reciprocated,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘ “I’m sorry”!’ Halldóra mimicked him. ‘How do you think that helps? What on earth were you thinking of?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It didn’t take me long to realise,’ Halldóra continued. ‘To realise I didn’t matter. But I kept on trying anyway. Like an idiot. The better I knew you, the harder I tried. I would have done anything for you. If you’d given us time and . . . Why did you let things go so far? When you weren’t the slightest bloody bit interested?’

  Halldóra lowered her gaze to her coffee cup, fighting back the tears. Her shoulders drooped and her lower lip quivered.

  ‘I made a mistake,’ Erlendur said. ‘I . . . I didn’t know how to behave, didn’t know what I was doing. I don’t know what happened. I’ve tried not to dwell on it. Tried to avoid thinking about that chapter of my life. Perhaps it’s cowardice.’

  ‘I never understood you.’

  ‘I think we’re very different, Halldóra.’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘My mother had died,’ Erlendur said. ‘I felt rather alone in the world. I thought . . .’

  ‘You’d find yourself a new mother?’

  ‘I’m trying to tell you what sort of state I was in.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ Halldóra said. ‘It doesn’t matter any more.’

  ‘I think we should concentrate on the future instead,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘I thought we could talk about Eva,’ he said. ‘This is not about us. Not any more. It hasn’t been for a long time, Halldóra. You must understand that.’

  Neither of them spoke. There was a clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Two men in denim jackets came in and walked over to the counter. They helped themselves to coffee and pastries and sat down with them in the corner. A man in an anorak sat alone at another table, looking through the paper. There was no one else in the room.

  ‘You were bad news,’ Halldóra said in a low voice. ‘That’s what Dad always said. Bad news.’

  ‘Things could have been different,’ Erlendur said. ‘If you’d shown the slightest understanding for how I felt. But it was too painful and you became bitter and full of hate and you still are. You wouldn’t let me near the children. Don’t you think it’s gone far enough? Don’t you think you could let up on the recriminations?’

  ‘Go ahead – blame it all on me!’

  ‘I’m not.’

  ‘Sure you are.’

  ‘Can’t we do something for Eva?’

  ‘I don’t see how. I have no interest in salving your conscience.’

  ‘Can’t we even try?’

  ‘It’s too late.’

  ‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘What do I know about that? It was your doing.’

  Halldóra took her packet of cigarettes and lighter and stood up.

  ‘The whole thing was your doing,’ she hissed and stormed out.

  17

  Every now and then over the next few days Erlendur dropped into the Central Bus Station in search of Tryggvi. All he had to go on was the rather vague description given to him by Rúdólf at the Napoleon, which he hoped would be sufficient. The third time he arrived at the long-distance coach station, passengers were being called for the bus to Akureyri. A small group of people began to gather up their belongings in the departure lounge. The lunchtime rush hour was over and the cafeteria, which served hot meals, soft drinks and sandwiches, was quiet. Smoking was permitted at tables over by the windows facing the bus stands behind the terminal. A man was sitting there alone, clutching a yellow plastic bag that he had placed on the table. He was watching the passengers boarding the Akureyri bus. His hair was rough, there was a big scar on his chin from an old accident or knife wound, and his hands were large and dirty, the nails black on his index and middle fingers.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Erlendur said, approaching him, ‘you’re not Tryggvi, by any chance?’

  The man eyed him suspiciously.

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Erlendur.’

  ‘Huh . . .’ the man grunted, apparently uninterested in strangers who addressed him out of the blue.

  ‘Can I offer you a coffee or something to eat?’ Erlendur asked.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I just wanted a bit of a chat with you. I hope that’s all right.’

&n
bsp; The man gave him a calculating look.

  ‘A bit of a chat?’

  ‘If that’s all right.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’

  ‘Can I get you something?’

  The man gave Erlendur a long look, uncertain how to react to this interruption.

  ‘You can buy me a schnapps,’ he said at last.

  Erlendur gave him a chilly smile and, after a moment’s hesitation, went over to the counter. He asked for a double brennivín and two coffees. The man waited for him by the window, watching the Akureyri bus pull slowly away. Erlendur asked the bartender if he knew anything about the man who was sitting over by the window in the smoking area.

  ‘You mean the tramp over there?’ the bartender asked, nodding towards the man.

  ‘Yes. Does he come here often?’

  ‘He’s been coming here on and off for years,’ the bartender said.

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Nothing. He never does anything and is never any trouble. I don’t know why he comes here. I sometimes see him shaving in the gents. He sits where he’s sitting now for hours on end, watching the buses leaving. Do you know him?’

  ‘Not really,’ Erlendur said. ‘Hardly at all. Does he never go anywhere on the buses?’

  ‘No, never. I’ve never seen him board a bus,’ the bartender said.

  Erlendur took the change and thanked him. Then he returned to the man by the window and sat down facing him.

  ‘Who did you say you were?’ the man asked.

  ‘Is your name Tryggvi?’ Erlendur countered.

  ‘Yes, I’m Tryggvi. And you? Who are you?’

  ‘My name’s Erlendur,’ he repeated. ‘I’m from the police.’

  Tryggvi slowly moved his plastic bag off the table.

  ‘What do you want with me? I haven’t done anything.’

  ‘I don’t want anything with you,’ Erlendur said. ‘And I don’t care what you’ve got in that bag. The fact is that I heard a strange story about your time at university and I wanted to know if there was any truth in it.’

  ‘What story?’

  ‘Er . . . how shall I put it? . . . About your death.’

  Tryggvi stared at Erlendur for a long time without saying a word. He had downed the large shot of brennivín in one and now pushed the glass back across the table. He had colourless eyes set deep under bristly brows, a fleshy face that made an odd contrast with his emaciated body, a big nose that had been broken at some point, and thick lips. His face had succumbed to gravity, which made it appear unusually long and drawn.

  ‘How did you find me here?’

  ‘By various means,’ Erlendur said. ‘Including a visit to the Napoleon.’

  ‘What do you mean, “about my death”?’

  ‘I don’t know if there’s anything in it but I heard about an experiment performed by some medical students or a medical student at the university. You yourself were studying theology or medicine, I’m not sure which. You agreed to take part in the experiment. It consisted of temporarily stopping your heart, then reviving you. Is it true?’

  ‘Why do you want to know?’ the man asked in his hoarse, rough drinker’s voice. He delved into his breast pocket in search of cigarettes and brought out a half-empty packet.

  ‘I’m curious.’

  Tryggvi looked pointedly at the shot glass and then at Erlendur. Erlendur stood up and went back to the counter where he purchased half a bottle of Icelandic brennivín and brought it over to the table. Having filled the shot glass, he placed the bottle on his side of the table.

  ‘Where did you hear this story?’ Tryggvi asked. He emptied the glass and slid it back across.

  Erlendur refilled it.

  ‘Is it true?’

  ‘What about it? What are you planning to do about it?’

  ‘Nothing,’ Erlendur said.

  ‘Are you a cop?’ the man asked, sipping from the glass.

  ‘Yes. Are you the right Tryggvi?’

  ‘My name’s Tryggvi,’ the man said, looking round. ‘I don’t know what you want from me.’

  ‘Can you tell me what happened?’

  ‘Nothing happened. Nothing. Nothing at all. Why are you asking about this now? What’s it got to do with you? What’s it got to do with anyone?’

  Erlendur didn’t want to scare him off. He could have told him, filthy down-and-out stinking of the gutter that he was, that it was none of his business. But then he wouldn’t get to hear what he wanted to know. He tried to be conciliatory instead, addressing Tryggvi as an equal, refilling the shot glass and lighting his cigarette for him. He made some general chit-chat about the place where they were sitting, which still sold singed sheep’s head with mashed swede like in the old days when the boys used to cruise around the block with their girlfriends and drop into the bus station for its speciality dish. The schnapps worked its magic too. Tryggvi fairly knocked it back, one shot after another, and his tongue began to loosen. Slowly but surely Erlendur manipulated the conversation back to what had happened when Tryggvi had been at university and some of his fellow students had wanted to conduct an unusual experiment.

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’ Erlendur asked once they had got chatting.

  ‘I thought I could be a vicar,’ Tryggvi said, waving his hand to indicate that food would not agree with him. He seized the bottle instead and took a long swig, then wiped his lips on his sleeve. ‘But theology was boring,’ he continued. ‘So I tried medicine. Most of my friends went in for that. I . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I haven’t seen them for years,’ Tryggvi said. ‘I expect they’re all doctors by now. Specialists in this and that. Rich and fat.’

  ‘Was it their idea?’

  Tryggvi gave Erlendur a look as if he was getting ahead of himself. This was his story and if Erlendur didn’t like it he could always leave.

  ‘I still don’t know why you’re digging this up,’ he said.

  Erlendur sighed heavily.

  ‘It may be relevant to a case I’m investigating, that’s all I can really say.’

  Tryggvi shrugged.

  ‘As you like.’

  He took another swig from the bottle. Erlendur waited patiently.

  ‘I heard it was you who asked them to do it,’ he said finally.

  ‘That’s a bloody lie,’ Tryggvi said. ‘I didn’t ask for any of it. They approached me. It was them who came to me.’

  Erlendur was silent.

  ‘I should never have listened to that prick,’ Tryggvi said.

  ‘What prick?’

  ‘My cousin. Stupid bloody prick!’

  Another silence fell but Erlendur did not dare to break it. He didn’t want to drop any hints but hoped that the tramp would feel an urge to tell his story, to open up about what had happened, even if only to a stranger at the Central Bus Station.

  ‘Aren’t you cold?’ Tryggvi asked, pulling his jacket more tightly around himself.

  ‘No, it’s not cold in here.’

  ‘I’m always cold.’

  ‘What about your cousin?’

  ‘I don’t really remember much about it,’ Tryggvi said.

  Looking at him, Erlendur had the feeling that, on the contrary, he remembered every last detail of what had happened.

  ‘It was some crazy idea we had during a piss-up that went too far. They needed a guinea pig. “Let’s use the theology student,” they said. “Let’s send him to hell.” You see, one of them was . . . he was my cousin, a rich bugger with some stupid bloody fixation with death. I was a bit that way myself and he knew it. He knew it so he paid me what was a whole month’s wages back then. And there was a girl in the group too who I . . . who I was a little in love with. Maybe I did it for her. I can’t say I didn’t. They were senior to me; my cousin was in his final year and so was she. The girl.’

  18

  Tryggvi had downed half the bottle and was staring blearily out at the bus stands. His account was meandering and repetitive and stra
ngely convoluted, and sometimes he stopped and sat in silence for a long time. But Erlendur didn’t dare to interrupt him. Then he lowered his head and stared down at the table as if he were alone in the world, alone with his thoughts, alone in life. Erlendur sensed that Tryggvi had spoken little of these events since they occurred and that they involved various unresolved issues that he had never managed to shake off, that had continued to haunt him ever since.

  It had been his cousin’s idea. His cousin had been in his final year of medicine and was intending to go on to do postgraduate study in the States in the autumn. He worked in what used to be known as the City Hospital, was top of his year, the life and soul of the party, played the guitar, told amusing stories, organised weekend trips to the mountains. He was at the centre of everything, his self-confidence was unshakeable; he was energetic, domineering and determined. Once, bumping into Tryggvi at a family get-together, he asked him if he had read about the French medical students who had recently conducted an interesting, but of course totally illegal, experiment.

  ‘What experiment?’ Tryggvi asked. He was his cousin’s opposite in every way: shy and retiring, and liked to keep himself to himself. He never spoke up in company, refused to go on trips to the mountains with the rowdy medical students and was already beginning to have problems with alcohol.

  ‘It was unbelievable,’ his cousin said. ‘They induced a cardiac arrest in one of their fellow students and kept him dead for three minutes until they resuscitated him. The justice system hasn’t a clue what to do with them. They killed him, but they didn’t, if you see what I mean.’

  Tryggvi’s cousin seemed obsessed with this piece of news. For weeks afterwards he talked of nothing but the French medical students, followed their trial in the news, and started whispering to Tryggvi that he would be interested in doing something similar. He had been contemplating the idea for ages and now this news had brought his enthusiasm to a pitch he couldn’t control.

  ‘You studied theology, you must at least be curious,’ he said one day when they were sitting in the medical faculty cafeteria.

  ‘I’m not letting anyone kill me,’ Tryggvi said. ‘Find someone else.’