Authors: Yrsa Sigurdardottir
Adolf turned onto his side and his stomach
churned. Without opening his eyes, he knew what he would see in his bed. The
odour that filled his nostrils was a blend of perfume and sour alcohol. The
turbulence in his stomach grew but he fought against it, breathing through his
mouth so that he wouldn’t throw up. When the discomfort had almost passed
he wished he had just puked over the woman in his bed, whose name he
couldn’t remember for the life of him, and thus ensured that he would
never see or hear from her again. He looked at her and tried to recall what he
had found attractive. It wasn’t her nose, which from close up
he
could see was completely covered with blackheads. Her
thick black mascara had run, making it look as if he’d woken up next to
Alice Cooper. Adolf considered pulling the covers down carefully to look at the
rest of her naked, because it was still possible she had a great body. The
shape under the duvet didn’t seem to suggest she was very fat, rather the
opposite: she seemed to be very thin. It actually didn’t matter whether
she was fat or thin, though - it had been a stupid mistake to bring her home.
It had never been more important that he kept himself to himself. He screwed
his eyes shut, full of self-loathing. Why couldn’t he ever stick to the
plan? Have two beers,
then
stop. Go home.
Alone.
The girl shifted in her sleep, and Adolf held
his breath in case she woke up. He needed a little more time to compose himself
before talking to this bird he could barely remember. What did she do, how old
was she? He wasn’t too bothered about what she was called - he never
remembered people’s names. People rarely had conversations in which their
names played any real part, as he knew from long experience. On the other hand,
he had to prepare himself for the unwanted affection she might show him, and at
the same time work out how to get rid of her without hurting or insulting her.
As it was Sunday it was ludicrous for him to pretend that he needed to go to
work, so he was in trouble. He wondered what time it was. Was she likely to
wake up soon? He tried to look at his alarm clock on the bedside table, but had
to lift his head to see over the girl. He took care not to make the bed springs
squeak. It was only ten thirty. He breathed a little easier. He couldn’t
really remember when they had got
home,
let alone what
time they had fallen asleep. The smell in the room suggested that it
hadn’t been all that long since they’d finished. He also felt sure
that he’d kept drinking late into the night.
Why the hell hadn’t he taken his
lawyer’s advice? What was so hard about staying away from girls for a few
months? The time would pass quickly, and it wasn’t as if he would
actually miss them. Surprisingly, he was even getting bored with how easy it was
to get them. All he needed to do was go to a club, sit down at the bar and
pretend to be lost in thought. Within minutes some
drunk
girl would appear next to him and start chattering away. It wasn’t
exciting any more, if it ever had been. It was about as challenging as fishing
with a dragnet at a fish farm. The psychologist they’d forced him to see
said that he was one of those men a particular type of woman found attractive,
and with that came a great deal of responsibility. Oh, sure. Why should he have
to shoulder the blame? They could do
that
themselves.
It wasn’t his fault he sent out some sort of involuntary primal signal
that charmed the opposite sex.
Anyway, clearly the worst case scenario was
that more women would start to press charges, or even just blog about him. Even
so, he couldn’t resist temptation. He had to get a grip on himself. The
money was within reach, so close he could hear it rustling. If he could just
think of that and let it suffice whenever his longing for women crashed over
him.
He would have little use for money if he was
found guilty. And how would he get women then? Waste all his money on
prostitutes? He was flooded with self-loathing again, and his headache
intensified. He let out a moan, and to his horror the wretched girl’s
eyelids flickered. Adolf held his breath and waited. She didn’t wake up,
and he relaxed slightly - but not for long, as suddenly her eyes opened and she
stared straight ahead, still woozy with sleep. He watched her eyes dart around
as she tried to figure out where she was. Finally they came to rest on him, and
her face broke into a wide smile as she pulled herself out from under the
duvet.
‘Good morning,’ she
said,
her voice slightly hoarse.
‘Good morning,’ he replied.
‘How do you feel?’ He tried not to let his voice betray the fact
that he couldn’t care less.
‘I’ve felt better,’ she
admitted. ‘Do you have any Coke?’ She gave him a look that was
doubtless meant to be seductive, but which stirred no feelings in him bar
irritation. He might have found it cute if she’d looked better, but the
smudged make-up and lack-of-sleep-face didn’t do much for her. Maybe she
was good-looking under normal circumstances; for her sake, he hoped so.
‘Absolutely,’ he said as he half
raised himself off the bed. He swept his feet over the edge but had to wait for
the dizziness to pass before standing up. He must stop drinking. Or at
least cut down. He stood up and had to wait another moment before he could walk
steadily into the kitchen. He knew without looking that the girl was staring at
his naked body, and it aroused him despite how poorly he felt. On his way
through the room he looked around for a cigarette and spotted a half-crumpled
pack on the coffee table, next to an overflowing ashtray. As he fished a bent
cigarette from the packet he made a mental note to buy a bigger ashtray. His
lighter lay in a dried-up pool of red wine on the table. After several attempts
he finally conjured a flame from it and lit his cigarette. He inhaled hard and
let smoke leak from his mouth without exhaling. Now all he needed was a Coke,
and things would start looking up. He went into the kitchen with the burning
cigarette in his mouth and pulled open the refrigerator. Coke was one
thing that he always made sure he had, in bottles of all different sizes. He
took the top off a two- litre bottle and gulped down the cold soda, which would
help to settle his upset stomach.
As the refrigerator door swung shut he
noticed a note that he’d stuck there a long time ago but hadn’t
remembered to throw away when it no longer served its purpose. Alda —
6:00 Weds. Adolf tore it off, crumpled it and threw the ball of paper in the
direction of the open rubbish bin, where it hit the rim and rolled back across
the floor. It stopped at his feet and rocked there for a moment. Adolf looked
down at it for a second then kicked it, sending it skimming across the floor
into a corner. It was best to forget everything about that woman, as soon as
possible. He had seen to it that she would leave him in peace from now on.
Adolf turned away from the ball of paper and
focused his mind on the present. He couldn’t remember whether
they’d used any contraception, and considering the fog that surrounded
his memories of last night, he doubted it. He would have to take his own
precautions. It was bad enough paying child support for one love-brat. They
were pretty hefty, those payments. He reached into the kitchen cabinet for a
glass. None of his glasses were the same; he’d collected them from here
and there. He rummaged around until he found what he was looking for: a thick
dark blue tumbler, almost opaque. Next he pulled out a drawer and grabbed an
envelope from inside. From the envelope he took six little white tablets which
he ground with a spoon on a cracked saucer. Four was probably enough, but he
felt more confident using six as he would be in no position to make sure that
the girl took the second dose, which was recommended for twenty-four hours
later. He stirred the powder into the Coke and looked down into the glass,
happy with the result. Only a tiny bit was left floating on top. He fished out
the white speck with his index finger and licked it off. It could hardly do him
any harm. Adolf picked up the envelope to close it, and felt it before he stuck
it back in the drawer, discovering much to his sorrow that there were only two
tablets left. He would have to get more, right away.
Adolf screwed the plastic cap shut on the
Coke and held the bottle in one hand. Then he lifted the glass and tilted it as
if he were toasting an invisible friend, before turning back into the bedroom.
On his way in he wondered how best to get rid of the girl without any
repercussions. The morning- after contraceptives in the glass would only win
half the battle; he would also have to throw up a blockade against their
getting to know each other any better. He didn’t have much time to think
things over, so he decided to use an old excuse that had served him well. He
would say that he was getting over a difficult break-up and that he
couldn’t commit to anything right now. He would conclude by asking her
whether he could phone her after he’d sorted his head out, since he felt
there was something really special about her. She would swallow this hook, line
and sinker — everyone wanted to be special. If she only knew how incredibly
average she was. By tonight he wouldn’t even remember the colour of her
hair. He stubbed out his cigarette in the overflowing ashtray, which pushed two
other stubs onto the table. Christ. Maybe he could trick her into helping him
clean up, or even better: get her to clean up without him having to help at
all.
‘Coke,’ he said, waving the glass
to and fro. He stood in the doorway and leaned against the doorpost.
‘Would you like a drink?’
The girl looked up and licked her dry lips.
‘Oh, yes please.’
She smiled and sat up, making the bedcover
fall from her breasts. She did nothing to try to cover them. Adolf smiled back.
Nor was there any reason to hide such beautiful breasts. He sat on the edge of
the bed next to her and handed her the glass. She took big gulps as if her life
depended on it and Adolf watched her chest rise and fall. She removed the glass
from her mouth and took a deep breath. ‘God, I’m so
hungover.’ She handed him the nearly empty glass. ‘You want
some?’
He took the glass but did not drink.
Instead he placed it and the Coke bottle on the bedside table and moved closer
to the girl. Now it would be fun to find out what she was like in bed - he
recalled so little about last night. Afterwards he could give her the speech
about how emotionally handicapped he was at the moment. He was, after all,
wasting his last tablets on her. A little smile crept over his lips. The story
wasn’t exactly a lie. He was emotionally damaged. His dealings with
that bitch Alda proved it. A nasty giggle slipped out and he saw from the
girl’s expression that she wasn’t completely sure what to do. How
ridiculous. As if this girl had any choice. No meant
no
- he was completely prepared to accept that. The trick was to suppress the no
before it emerged, prevent it from being said. He kissed the helpless girl on
the forehead and placed his hand lightly over her mouth.
Sunday 15 July
2007
‘Do you know anything about the
volcano?’ Thóra asked as they walked out of their hotel into the
warm air.
‘No,’ replied Bella. ‘Nothing
except that it erupted.’
‘Yes, as usually happens with
volcanoes,’ said Thóra, wondering why she had thought it was
worthwhile to bring her secretary. ‘Well, you’ll learn more about
it later. The man we’re going to meet knows everything about it, Markus
says.’
‘Can’t
wait,’ drawled Bella, pulling a pack of cigarettes from her jacket
pocket.
Thóra paid no heed and kept walking as
the secretary stopped to light up. Bella didn’t hurry to catch up after
her cigarette was lit, so they walked the rest of the distance to the
harbour-master’s office a few paces apart. Thóra used the time to
think about what she wanted to get from this Kjartan Helgason. Apparently he
had been out at sea a great deal in his day, and Markus considered him to be among
those best informed about the eruption and the rescue work following it, and
had said that as Kjartan had been a friend of his father, it should be easy to
get him to open up. Thóra had little hope that much would come out of
this interview, but she and Bella would at least know a bit more about the
eruption afterwards. Maybe he would even have some thoughts about
who
the men in the basement might be, and could point
Thóra in the right direction. She was well aware that the police were
working day and night to find out precisely the same thing, and that they had
connections out in the world with which Thóra could scarcely compete,
despite her owning the whole series of Our Century books. On the other hand, it
was clear to her that identifying the bodies would speed, up the investigation
significantly, as well as providing clues as to who they might have had
dealings with and what they had been doing in the Islands. How people live
influences how they die.
Kjartan welcomed them on the steps outside
the harbourmaster’s office, where he was having a cigarette with
another, younger man. He introduced himself when Thóra arrived and shook
her hand firmly. The top bone of his right index finger was missing, and his
palm was rough. He appeared to be approaching retirement age: a few dark hairs
could still be seen on his otherwise white head. He limped slightly as he
showed them in, and told them unexpectedly that he still hadn’t recovered
after being struck by a boom nearly twenty years ago.