The Last Refuge (5 page)

The sight of the salmon fighting against the tidal waters was hypnotic. They muscled their way through it effortlessly, their black-speckled flanks pulsing with the vitality of natural athletes. Hojgaard saw my fascination with them and smiled quietly to himself. I guessed it was a reaction he was used to.

‘The cages are thirty metres deep and those furthest from shore are two kilometres out. We want them as close to open water as possible but it would be too risky to put them any further out. You see the cage here?’ Hojgaard pointed at a screen showing the surface section of a cage, waves thundering up and over its curved aluminium edges so that it rocked with the movement. A corrugated standing area on its outer edge bucked like a crazed fairground attraction.

‘The waves are wild like the salmon. Out there they can be six metres high and we cannot take the risk of the cages breaking free. Okay, come. I will get you clothing. You will start loading and stacking the crates.’

The work was hard and laborious but it felt good to use muscles that I hadn’t flexed in a while. A comforting ache soon hummed in my biceps and calves as I strained to find the best technique, matching brain with brawn and enjoying doing so. My fellow workers seemed a friendly enough bunch. They were relaxed and went about their work quietly and seemingly contentedly. Or at least most of them did.

Late that first morning, as I hefted crates that seemed to grow heavier with every one that I stacked, I suddenly felt a rough edge of hard plastic barge into my lower back. I took an involuntary step forward, before turning to see the back of a short, sturdy figure striding away on powerful legs, carrying a loaded crate as if it was made of balsa wood. It wasn’t, though – the ache in my back was testament to that.

He didn’t pause, and I had to think that he hadn’t realized the crate had caught me on the way past. A few minutes later, the same guy was coming back, and I saw that he was as wide as he was tall, a scowl plastered across thickset features. I raised my head in greeting but got only a glare in return, and had to step aside as the now-empty crate was thrust into the space that I’d been occupying.

‘Nice to meet you,’ I called after him.

He stopped in his tracks and slowly turned round. Dark-eyed and dark-haired, he glowered at me under heavy brows. He spat out a sentence in angry Faroese then stood for a moment, seemingly demanding a response. When one didn’t come, since I didn’t understand a word he’d said, he sneered and turned away.

I was left bemused. Maybe something had been lost in translation and he had just been welcoming me to the fish farm, albeit in his own gruff manner. I doubted it though.

Samal sidled up to me, a wary look over his shoulder to make sure that the man had gone.

‘That is Toki Rønne,’ he explained with a shake of his head. ‘He does not like anyone. He is always in a bad mood.’

‘It’s not just me then?’

Samal smiled apologetically. ‘Well, no. Not just you. But it is true he has decided he does not like you.’

‘Great. Why is that?’

The man’s shoulders rose and fell. ‘With Toki, who knows? But he has a friend he wants to work here. He has spoken to Harra Hojgaard many times about it. Now you have a job . . .’

Samal’s voice trailed away but it left little doubt that he thought Toki blamed me for his friend’s lack of employment. I wouldn’t have minded so much if Toki didn’t give the impression that he could easily pick me up and snap me in two.

For a while, he wore a path across the wet factory floor as his crate-hauling duties took him directly past me each and every time. He was careless, or more likely aggressive, with his load, charging past me without any care.

I said nothing. The last thing I needed was unnecessary confrontation or hassle. Not now. This idiot wasn’t going to spoil the good feeling of that first morning. Anything else, I decided, I’d deal with, if and when it happened. As it turned out, he disappeared, either fed up with my refusal to rise to his bait, or simply working elsewhere in the factory. I wasn’t disappointed.

At lunchtime, I took advantage of a day without rain and ventured outside to take another look at my new surroundings. It also meant I avoided any inquisitive questioning from my workmates. A low profile seemed like a good idea.

It was a beautiful day. The breeze was light and fresh and there was even something approaching heat emanating from the sun. Kittiwakes flew overhead, their shrill calls the only sound apart from breaking waves and the bleating of a flock of black-and-white sheep as they defied gravity by scampering across an almost vertical hillside. I picked out a grassy spot facing the beguiling basalt stacks of Risen og Kellengin that rose out of the blue swell and sat to eat the sandwiches I’d brought with me – ham, and a cheese that I’d never tasted before – and to enjoy the view.

I was at the end of the world. A piece of it carved from the dramatic collision of nature.

There was the sound of footsteps from my right and I looked up to see Martin Hojgaard approaching, sandwiches of his own in hand.

‘I can join you?’

I nodded and waved a hand to the grass beside me. ‘Of course.’

Hojgaard took a bite out of a sandwich, his face contorting slightly as he chewed. ‘My wife Silja always puts mustard on them. I don’t really like mustard, but I love my wife so I don’t tell her.’

He nodded in the direction of the stacks. ‘They are interesting, huh?’

‘Yeah. It’s an amazing view.’

Martin nodded. ‘It is easy to forget when you work here every day how special it is. The legend is that the giants in Iceland were jealous of the Faroes and wanted the islands for themselves. So they sent down the giant and the witch who were instructed to take them back with them. They reached the mountain and the giant stayed in the sea while the witch was sent to climb the mountain armed with a heavy rope with which she was to tie the islands together so she could put them onto the giant’s back and he would carry them home. Tying islands is hard work, though, and they toiled through the night and didn’t realize how much time had passed. Of course, even the smallest shaft of sunlight shining on a giant or a witch will turn them to stone. When dawn broke, the sun hit them and they were frozen on the spot. They’ve stood there ever since, staring across the ocean towards Iceland. Now, geologists say that the witch will fall into the sea in the next few decades, brought down by the winter storms. Maybe it will. Who can say for sure? We
are
talking about a witch, after all.’

‘You believe in that?’

Martin didn’t look at me, but grinned as he continued to look out to sea. ‘Why not? It is a poor country that does not have legends. You have come here to live?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I wanted to get out of the city and make a new start somewhere not so cluttered with cars. Somewhere I could see the sky and breathe fresh air.’

‘But you have such places in Scotland, of course. Your Highlands. Islands too. Why not go there?’

Caught out. Nailed in one.

‘I wanted to go further. Get away from Scotland completely.’

‘Did you need to? Not my business, of course.’

‘I . . . I felt as if I needed to.’

‘So you came to somewhere that rains even more than Glasgow. Are you crazy?’

‘I like rain.’

‘That’s lucky for you. You’re
really
going to like it here. But you need somewhere to stay. You cannot live in the Hotel Torshavn. Not on the money we pay.’

‘I’m looking for somewhere.’

‘My wife and I have a spare room. We take in paying guests. If you want it. If you don’t mind children. We have a daughter too.’

‘No, I like children. And yes, that would be great. Thank you.’

‘Okay. You have ten more minutes then back to work. You don’t want to be turned to stone.’

Now I had a job and a place to stay. My new life was taking shape. All I had to do was find a way to put the old one behind me.

Chapter 7

Hojgaard and I drove mostly in silence up a steep road accompanied by the inexorable drizzle, homes of all shapes, sizes and colours on either side.

I’d walked up Dalavegur before. Its steep incline had tested my calves and its spectacular views had tested my cynicism.

To my left there was a striking timber house, tall with dark, herringbone wooden panelling. To my right, a large handsome home on two levels; the upper in dark wood, the lower resplendent in white; the window frames and roof were in ruby red and there was a huge, well-kept garden out in front. Up the hill was a low, pale-blue wooden house with white window frames and a roof of sun-bleached turf. The residents of Torshavn loved colour.

Perhaps it was the product of living in an environment often dressed in shades of grey that drove them to brighten what they could of their surroundings. The houses came in rainbow hues of cheery pastels and vivid primaries. Walls and roofs, when the latter weren’t made of grass, often contrasted but rarely clashed. It reminded me of the houses and restaurants that strung along the harbour-front on Tobermory on the island of Mull. A palette of brilliance that lit up a dreary day and dazzled on a sunny one.

Finally we reached a sturdy, square house built of wooden boards protected by corrugated iron, painted daffodil yellow and topped with a bright red roof. Martin waved a hand in its direction.

‘My home.’

A sheepdog bounded across the neat garden to meet us, its black-and-white coat rippling with the wind and the enthusiasm of its greeting. Its mouth hung open and its tail wagged furiously, but it didn’t let loose a single bark.

‘Hvirla!’ Martin crouched and ruffled the dog’s mane and rubbed its ears. The beast celebrated by whirling on the spot, nose to tail, in delight. ‘In English it means like a cyclone or tornado. It suits him, no?’

The door opened and a woman stepped out, a young girl tucked shyly in at her side, arms around her.

‘This is Silja. My wife. And this . . .’ he strode towards them and plucked the girl from her mother’s waist, ‘. . . is my
prinsessa
, Rannva.’

The girl giggled as she was swung though the air, her blonde hair flying, pretending to try to escape the kisses that her father aimed to plant on her cheek. She failed, and Martin kissed her noisily.

Silja Hojgaard was an attractive, rather weather-beaten woman in her late thirties or early forties, her straw-blonde haired pulled behind her head into an unruly ponytail. She smiled warmly and nodded. ‘Nice to meet you.’

Those turned out to be pretty much the only four words of English she used, apart from
please
and
thank you
, both of which she uttered regularly. Martin later told me that Silja did know more English but lacked the confidence to use it. Rannva was only six and knew no language other than Faroese. She seemed fascinated by and suspicious of my presence in equal measure.

I was shown to a simple room: clean, tidy and all in white but for the dark wooden furniture. From the sole window there was a stunning view back down the hill towards the town centre and the ocean. A cross hung on one wall and a painting of Jesus on another. This was to be my new home and I had the dubious benefit of Christ the redeemer watching over me.

Silja had prepared the table for dinner and Rannva was in the kitchen along with her, occasionally peeping out from behind the door to look at the new guest. Martin sat with me and made small talk about how long he had worked at the fish farm and how he had become foreman. His dedication to his job was total and his eagerness to extol its virtues knew no bounds.

The Hojgaard dining area was bright and cheerful. The window-sill was dotted with indoor plants in colourful pots, the blinds above rolled up as high as possible, to allow the maximum amount of daylight. Three open cupboards hung on the walls, stacked with plates and bowls, jugs and mugs. Lining the table was a vinyl cloth resplendent in swirls and ferns, which would have graced a Scottish kitchen in the 1970s. I didn’t dare to ask whether it was meant to be retro.

If truth be told, and regardless of manners, I’d girded my loins in anticipation of my meal; part fearing, part hoping that it would be the traditional Faroese fare that my trawl through the Internet had led me to expect. I knew about
tvost og spik
, whale meat and blubber. I’d read about the Faroese eating puffins. And wind-dried mutton and fish which hangs outside for weeks on end. My stomach and my curiosity were at war over whether any of this was a good thing.

As it turned out, I needn’t have worried, as Silja served up a delicious plate of white fish and boiled potatoes. It and the company of the Hojgaards were enjoyable. We chatted, Martin occasionally translating for his wife, until the effects of the meal and the day’s work took its toll. I excused myself and made for my room. After pulling the double curtains across as best I could to shut out the never-ending light, I fell into my new bed content, and properly ready for sleep for the first time since I’d arrived in Torshavn.

My eyes broke open and I sat up in bed, drenched in a cold sweat. My breathing was fast, my heart racing. The last thoughts going through my head still lingered, ghostlike. The boy: his screams, his knife wounds, his broken bones. He still stood there on the edge of my nightmare, but was slipping away as consciousness won.

Something moved to my right and my head swung after it, thinking it might somehow be him. Instead, Martin Hojgaard stood by the doorway, staring at me, his mouth open in disbelief. Behind him, I saw Silja retreating, guiding Rannva back to her bedroom with a protecting arm.

Martin said nothing but it was obvious he was angry. I sat still, trying to let my pulse decelerate and regain some control of my breathing. I was aware of sweat slowly trickling down my back.

‘What happened to you?’ Hojgaard’s voice was low and insistent. He closed the door behind him but didn’t step any closer. ‘What made you like this?’

I still didn’t know quite what he was talking about. The rude awakenings and the sweats were something I’d become used to. The nightmares were sometimes remembered, sometimes not, but I suspected they always involved the boy.