The Day is Dark

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  The woman appeared to have had few friends to whom she sent e-mails, but that might not be the whole story. Thóra personally chose to keep her work e-mail separate from her personal e-mail, other than in exceptional circumstances. She used a different address for the personal mail and it was generally full to the brim with silly pictures, jokes and stories that one was supposed to forward to at least ten others, who doubtless cared as little for such rubbish as Thóra herself did. It could well be that Oddný Hildur had been drowning in e-mails from her friends and acquaintances but that that mailbox was located elsewhere in cyberspace. With things as they were, it would be of little use for Thóra to try to investigate the main e-mail applications in the hope that the geologist had let the computer save her password. It was fairly clear that Oddný Hildur’s friends and relatives were not connected with her disappearance, but it was conceivable that the woman had sent them more comprehensive descriptions of the situation in the camp.

  Suddenly Thóra missed her family terribly. Never before had she been out of touch with her children for so long. She longed to know what they were doing, how Orri’s potty training was going and whether Sóley was practising her violin, which she had recently started learning at her father’s request. Thóra suspected that Hannes would be much less enthusiastic about the idea when the shrill notes started sounding through his house than he had been when he asked Thóra to encourage their daughter to practise. She hoped that everything was going well, and was especially concerned about Gylfi’s relationship with his father. They had probably ended up arguing a bit while Thóra was away. Her little family was fragile and without her it lacked the padding that generally absorbed the worst knocks of daily life. She had to hold on to her chair to prevent herself from running out to the car and rushing over to the house of the woman in the village to phone home. Her hunger must be starting to affect her brain function; it was high time she had something to eat.

  Matthew walked in. ‘How’s it going? I’m absolutely famished, and Bella’s probably finished putting dinner together.’

  ‘Bella? Is she cooking?’ At that news Thóra’s hunger disappeared like dew under the sun. ‘What’s on the menu? Barbecued seal fins and cigarette pudding?’ She turned off the monitor in front of her.

  ‘She didn’t have anything to do so I thought it was the perfect assignment.’ Matthew smiled at her. ‘I would ask you out to eat but it’s probably not that easy to get a table at such short notice at the restaurants round here.’ He wrapped his arms around her shoulders. ‘We’re almost done here. The helicopter’s coming not tomorrow, not the day after, but the day after that, so we actually only have two days left.’

  Thóra smiled back at him. ‘I’ll never talk to you again if the weather prevents it.’ She stood up and stretched. Her vertebrae cracked. ‘The worst thing is that I feel we’re making so little progress. I’m no closer to understanding what happened here, and every new piece of information we discover just complicates things.’

  ‘At least we know how things look now, and Friðrikka says that she’s advanced quite a long way with her assessment of the project. She can’t see anything that would prevent her from finishing before we leave.’ He pointed at a multicoloured organizational chart that had been taped to the wall. ‘You never know, we might just get to the bottom of this when we talk to the employees in Iceland.’

  ‘If they want to talk to us,’ said Thóra. ‘It’s entirely up to them.’ She pulled herself together and pushed aside her pessimism. ‘That would be interesting, actually. I found various things in Oddný Hildur’s e-mail to confirm the harassment that Friðrikka mentioned. Maybe it played some part in this.’

  ‘How?’ asked Matthew. ‘Did Oddný Hildur suffer because of it? Or the drillers?’ His expression was one giant question mark. ‘Do you think that all these people committed suicide?’ Before Thóra could reply he interrupted himself: ‘I wonder if that would be sufficient grounds to absolve Berg of responsibility for what’s happened with the project?’

  ‘No, probably not. It’s up to the contractor to ensure that the atmosphere at the workplace is not harmful to the workers, either mentally or physically. No, I didn’t mean that. These three don’t appear to have been affected by the bullying. Oddný Hildur was concerned about one of the engineers and didn’t mention the drillers in this context, though I think they were more perpetrators than victims.’

  ‘What do you base that on?’

  ‘Nothing special. I scrutinized their computers and got the feeling that they were funny guys, the class clowns. I’m not saying they were the main perpetrators, but I can well imagine that they didn’t hold back, although they might not have realized it was harassment.’ Thóra rubbed her face. ‘Actually, I don’t know what I’m talking about. This probably had nothing to do with harassment. I’m just trying to fit what I came across with what we’re investigating. This was probably an incredibly normal workplace, at least given the circumstances. It makes more sense to focus on the natives’ stories about this place. At least they might shed some light on the question of the insurance, although they hardly explain everything.’

  ‘We’ll try to find the hunter,’ said Matthew. ‘Hopefully the snowmobile can be repaired. If not, then maybe that woman can find someone to take us by dogsled.’

  ‘Or maybe we’ll just wake up with wings and fly there.’ Thóra went to the window and drew the curtain. She didn’t know why she chose to do so – there was nothing but darkness outside. ‘How’s it been going otherwise?’

  Matthew and the doctor had gone through the apartments of all the full-time employees one by one, in the hope of spotting something that hadn’t come to light before. They had originally investigated with torches, before the electricity was restored. ‘We found two strange things,’ replied Matthew. ‘I’ll show them to you on the way over to the cafeteria if you can bear to wait a few minutes before tasting Bella’s delicacies.’

  They put on their jackets and boots and went out into the darkness outside. The cold was refreshing and the air so still that their frozen breath did not rise into the air, but rather hung there before their faces for a moment before evaporating. The sky was bright with stars, so much more numerous and so much brighter than those Thóra was used to that it seemed like Greenland was closer to outer space than to any other earthly country. The Milky Way itself could be seen clearly as it lay in a dense, broad streak across the heavens. Thóra held on to Matthew and let him lead her so that she could stare into the sky. She hoped that if there were life on other planets, it was gentler than what Mother Nature had created on Earth. And not as cold.

  ‘Careful, there’s a platform ahead.’ Matthew slowed his pace and Thóra looked down. They had arrived at one of the green units containing the workers’ apartments. They were built in a straight line, in two sets of four. In front of each was a platform, and they stepped onto the one before them and stood there as Matthew took out a key and stuck it in the lock. He jiggled it for a moment, then opened the door. ‘This is the apartment of one of the drillers, Halldór Grétarsson,’ Matthew said. ‘Be careful not to touch anything.’

  They walked into the tiny vestibule, where they found a small coat rack upon which hung a yellow work coverall with wide reflective stripes and a fleece jacket, side by side. There wasn’t a single down jacket to be seen. On the frame above it lay a helmet that was both scratched and dirty. Next to the vestibule was a small bathroom with a shower. A shelf above the sink held a little electric razor, inexpensive-looking aftershave lotion, a toothbrush, hairbrush, deodorant and several cotton buds. Dental floss trailed from a white plastic box onto the shelf and halfway down to the sink. The apartment had a small kitchen that opened onto a rather austere sitting room with a two-seater sofa that looked extremely uncomfortable, a modern chair, a coffee table with a half-full ashtray and a shelving unit with a television and DVD player.

  There were several books on the shelf above the DVD player and they appeared to Thóra to be all fo
reign crime novels. On one kitchen chair hung a down jacket, so the chances that the man had somehow made it out of the area looked rather slim. Off the sitting room was the bedroom, which was what Matthew had wanted to show her. Everything in there was a mess. There were towels and dirty clothes on the floor, along with a bucket that had been placed at the side of the bed. ‘Well, now,’ said Thóra. ‘Not exactly the tidiest person.’ In the poor man’s defence, he probably hadn’t expected anyone else to come into his apartment.

  ‘But look here,’ said Matthew, pointing at the bed. ‘It looks to me like this might be blood.’

  Thóra drew nearer. Matthew was right: on the pillow she could see what were clearly bloodstains. They weren’t terribly large, but they were obviously more than dots from the man’s last shave. There were four in total they seemed to form a kind of face: two eyes, a nose and a wide smirking mouth. ‘Do you think the man was hit on the head as he slept?’ Thóra bent down to take a better look at the marks. There was something about them that bothered her. ‘Was there something similar in the other man’s room?’

  ‘No,’ said Matthew. ‘There were several small stains on the floor, but nothing like this. Maybe we can get the police to come now.’ He shook his head. ‘It may well be that the other driller killed the man who lived here, got rid of the body and ran off. The blood in the other apartment might have dripped off him after he did the dirty deed.’

  ‘You know what?’ said Thóra, standing up straight. ‘I need to show you something that’s just as frightening as this is.’ She pointed at the bloody pillow. ‘Either I’ve finally gone completely crazy or these stains are exactly the same as those on one of the beds of the first residents of the area that I saw in those old photographs. One of the original inhabitants who was supposed to have died of hunger.’

  Chapter 15

  21 March 2008

  Arnar’s hands trembled. He sat on the bed and stared at the blank wall. It suited him just fine not to have anything else to look at. The uncontrollable movements of his hands bothered him only because the jerking prevented him from emptying his mind, from focusing only on the paint and the rough plaster behind it. As he concentrated on staring at the coarse surface he could push other, more difficult thoughts away. He changed from a man tormented by distress and pain into a body that only performed the most basic of functions. He stared angrily at his fingers, which had shaken more than ever in the cold in Greenland and had deprived him of the peace of mind that he’d desired so much. He had considered asking the doctor for pills that would reduce the trembling, but he couldn’t bring himself to do it. He doubtless needed to go through this, to meet the purifying fire completely exposed and without any assistance from the pharmaceutical industry. And there was no guarantee that he would get anything for it even if he asked.

  It struck him just how unfair all of this was. The town was full of people who could drink without going down the same path as he did whenever he permitted himself to take a sip. Still, he had enough on his shoulders. Poor me, poor me, pour me a drink, he thought. Arnar looked from his trembling hands to the wall again, in the hope of rediscovering his calm place. He had to stop this whining. He had spent enough time in therapy to know he needed to abandon this self-pity and accept responsibility for his own behaviour. Yes, he was unlucky not to be able to resist alcohol, but no one had forced him into it. He raised the glass to his lips himself, knowing that he would be giving up his self-respect and common sense shortly afterwards. He needed to keep this fixed in his mind. He alone could keep the problem in check, lock the addiction behind imaginary bars where it would hiss and growl in his mind but be unable to bite him. He had long ago accepted that he would have to live with the craving; there was no magic solution that would take it away. The trick was just to accept it; not let the mind go to the moment when the first sip would trickle down his throat, bringing the promise that everything would be fine and one more drink wouldn’t do him any harm. The problem wasn’t how he felt when he stopped keeping tabs on his drinking; he would never even consider drinking if he felt that way after the first sip. When he was drunk the short-lived sense of well-being vanished, although he did not feel bad, exactly. He simply went numb, and his existence revolved around ensuring the next drink was within reach. No, it was the first mouthfuls that were dangerous, so dangerously good that he let himself be tempted time and time again, always just as convinced that this time he could put the cork back in after two – at the most three – glasses. Such bottomless stupidity and self-deception. Arnar stared at the paint and forced himself to concentrate on its texture. Maybe he should just commit himself to this place forever. He could sit here on the edge of the bed and look at the wall while his life went on and the years passed by outside. The world would go on turning even if he weren’t around.

  There was a light knock at the door and Arnar was forced to tear his eyes from the wall. He neither stood up nor invited the person standing outside to come in. After a moment the door opened and in peeked a woman he had seen in the corridor the day before. She was on the staff but didn’t need her uniform to distinguish her from the patients. Her expression was too cheerful for her to be in treatment. Arnar looked at her and waited for her to state her business.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked, smiling. Arnar wondered how often she had asked that same question with precisely that expression. He said nothing. ‘We were hoping that you’d feel up to coming to the meeting, but you haven’t come.’ Arnar had no recollection of being told about this meeting. Of course he had little reason to attend; others’ exaggerated tales of their own drinking were not of interest right now. ‘It would do you good to meet other people, plus you also have to take an active role in the programme if you want it to produce results.’

  Arnar turned his back to the wall. ‘What do you think about killing animals?’ he asked.

  ‘Me?’ asked the young woman, as if he could have meant someone else. ‘I don’t find it pleasant to think about, but it’s okay if the animals are meant to be eaten.’

  ‘And people?’ asked Arnar, without changing his expression or his tone of voice. ‘Is that all right?’

  The silence in the doorway suggested that the young woman had never before discussed such a topic, even though she must have heard a thing or two in her career.

  ‘No,’ she finally answered, tentatively. ‘I wouldn’t say that.’

  Arnar looked at her. She was beautiful, but the ridiculous blonde streaks in her long hair, the sunbed tan and the gaudy earrings did little for her. She could have been one of the endless stream of girls like that filling the streets downtown on the weekends, when they strutted around in little groups and hoped to be noticed. No doubt he judged her too harshly; she was unlikely to be a drinker and she might have become that tanned and her hair been bleached by spending a lot of time outdoors. He sensed that she was uncomfortable about the way he was staring at her. ‘Sometimes I think it’s okay.’

  ‘I see.’ The young woman looked a bit queasy. She had come to persuade him to go to a meeting, not to consider moral questions about whether or when a man should kill another. Arnar didn’t know what her job was: nurse, psychologist, therapist or something entirely different. She couldn’t be a doctor, she was too young for that, unless he underestimated her age. With each year that passed it became more difficult for him to guess young people’s ages; he drew further and further away from youth, much to his dismay.

  ‘But do you think there’s good reason to punish those who have murdered someone?’ He could see that she understood none of what he was saying. ‘The damage is already done; what purpose does it serve?’

  The woman looked at the clock and glanced nervously down the corridor. ‘It’s not my department, but I do think people should be punished for the crimes they commit. It doesn’t do any good to act as if nothing happened and not avenge the person who died.’

  ‘Avenge them?’ said Arnar thoughtfully, looking away from the woman. ‘But what if the pers
on who committed murder was in fact avenging another death? Wouldn’t that just be a vicious circle?’ He closed his eyes and wished for the millionth time that he were religious. Then he would find it much easier to separate things into black and white.

  ‘Is there any particular reason you’re thinking about this?’ The smile she had bestowed upon him when she’d first knocked at his door had vanished.

  ‘No.’ Arnar couldn’t put her through a confession of his problems. She probably had enough of her own – like everyone else, in fact. ‘I was just thinking.’

  ‘I would like to suggest that you set up an appointment with the psychiatrist.’ The girl appeared to be having trouble deciding whether she should insist that Arnar attend the meeting or whether his condition and behaviour suggested that it would be better if he were allowed to continue to rest. ‘These kinds of thoughts don’t do any good and I’m sure you’d feel better after speaking to someone. But I’m not the right person.’