Authors: Arnaldur Indridason

Hypothermia (17 page)

BOOK: Hypothermia

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‘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 strangely 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.’

‘There is no one else,’ his cousin said. ‘You’re the perfect person. You’re young and strong. There’s no heart disease of any kind in our family. Dagmar’s going to be in on it, and Baddi, another guy I know who’s studying medicine. I’ve talked to them already. It’s watertight. Nothing can happen. I mean, you’ve often wondered about it – you know, life after death.’

Tryggvi knew who Dagmar was. He had noticed her as soon as he started medicine.

‘Dagmar?’ he said.

‘Yes,’ his cousin answered, ‘and she’s no fool.’

Tryggvi knew that. She was his cousin’s friend and had once talked to him, at the first and only medical faculty party he had attended. She knew they were cousins. He had met her several times since and they had chatted. He thought she was lovely but he didn’t have the courage to take the next step.

‘Does she want to be in on this?’ he asked in surprise.

‘Of course,’ his cousin said.

Tryggvi shook his head.

‘And naturally I’ll pay you,’ his cousin added.

In the end Tryggvi gave in. He didn’t know exactly why he let them persuade him. He was always broke, he yearned to be with Dagmar. His cousin was extremely overbearing and moreover he had reawakened Tryggvi’s fascination with life after death. He knew about Tryggvi’s interest from when they were younger and used to discuss the existence of God, heaven and hell. They both came from deeply religious families who used to pack them off to Sunday school, were regular churchgoers and did good works in the parish. But the cousins were not particularly devout themselves when they grew up and began to have their doubts about various aspects of doctrine, such as the resurrection and eternal life and the existence of heaven. Tryggvi thought his decision to embark on a theology degree had stemmed from this. From his doubts, combined with the urgent questions that had pursued him all his life: what if? What if God existed? What if eternal life was true?

‘We’ve discussed it so often,’ his cousin said.

‘It’s one thing to talk about it . . .’

‘We’ve got this one minute. You’ll have one minute to go over to the other side.’

‘But I . . .’

‘You went into theology in search of answers to these questions,’ his cousin pointed out.

‘What about you?’ Tryggvi asked. ‘What do you want to prove by this?’

His cousin smiled.

‘Nothing ever happens around here and no one ever does anything,’ he said. ‘At least, not like this. It would be exciting to test those stories about the bright light and the tunnel, because we can do it without taking too great a risk. We can do it.’

‘Why don’t you do it yourself? Why don’t we put
you
to sleep?’

‘Because we need a good doctor and with all due respect, coz, I’m a better doctor than you are.’

BOOK: Hypothermia

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