The Silence of the Sea (5 page)

‘This is incredible.’ Lára went forward and peered under a cover draped over what appeared to be a table and a set of bench seats lining the bows. ‘Look. We can eat out here.’ She addressed her words to the girls who were gazing around, wide-eyed. Arna seemed as enthusiastic as her mother but Bylgja’s glasses gave her a remote look that was harder for Ægir to fathom. Still, he was used to being unsure what was going on in her head. Her features often wore a stony expression, but for the moment she seemed curious about the amenities on board, which was a good sign. Lára had noticed too and cheerfully began to pull the covers off the furniture. ‘This is going to be great.’

‘I don’t know if that’s a good idea. It’ll be cold once we’re under way and you won’t be doing much sitting or eating outside.’ Thráinn was standing in the doorway of the pilot house. It was admirable how he managed to suppress the irritation in his voice. ‘Better leave them be as it’s a bit tricky to fix the covers so they don’t leak.’

Lára glanced round with a blithe smile. ‘Don’t worry, we’re a hardy lot. I bet it’ll be fun to picnic out here, even if it is chilly.’ She tugged at the cover with renewed vigour and managed to pull it off to reveal a large oval table.

Ægir thought he had better distract Thráinn before the man made some unguarded comment. Lára could be very unforgiving and was quite capable of bearing a grudge for the rest of the trip. ‘I’ll put it back afterwards. The girls can help me.’ The captain’s expression did not change. Ægir looked out over the harbour and beyond to the deep-blue expanse of sea that awaited them. ‘Is that everything, then?’

‘Where are Halli and Loftur? I want to see them.’ Arna addressed this comment to Thráinn. The boys seemed to have vanished.

‘Halli’s down in the engine room getting ready for departure and Loftur’s giving him a hand.’ The captain raised his eyes from Arna to meet Ægir’s gaze. ‘The yacht’s hardly been moved since the trouble began with the owner, so I had them check the engine even more thoroughly than usual. We don’t want to break down in the middle of the ocean now, do we?’ The question did not appear to be rhetorical.

‘No, I don’t suppose we do.’ A gull took flight from the smooth surface of the sea beside the boat, spreading its long wings to soar lazily over the harbour. Ægir realised he was still clutching his incongruous briefcase, which made it look as if he was about to take himself off to his office and stop getting under the professionals’ feet. He was unwilling to put it down, though; the deck was slippery and there was a risk it might slide overboard.

‘By the way,’ said Thráinn, sounding disgruntled, ‘the Internet doesn’t work and neither does the satellite phone. Weren’t you supposed to take care of that? At least, I was told you were here to deal with that sort of thing.’ He glowered at the briefcase as if it were to blame. ‘Not that it’s essential to have it working – but it would be better.’

Ægir took his eyes off the gull, realising to his chagrin that he felt guilty, as if Thráinn were a strict teacher and he had failed to hand in his homework. The briefcase only heightened the impression. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t manage to sort it out. The owner owed the telecom company a fortune and they were reluctant to open a new account for us unless the debt was paid off. They were being completely unreasonable and would probably have backed down in the end, but I didn’t have time to argue. To arrange it for this trip I’d have had to find another service provider and I have to admit that, not knowing the ropes out here, I didn’t have a clue.’

‘You could have asked me. I’d have found out for you.’ Thráinn glared at Ægir, then at the clock. ‘Well, too late to worry about that now. We’ll be off shortly. You’d better find something to hold on to at first. You’ll soon get used to the motion but there’s no point taking a tumble.’ He disappeared into the pilot house.

Ægir hurriedly stowed his briefcase in a safe place amidst the pile of shopping, glad to be rid of it. He rubbed his upper arms: the air was growing colder and his thin jumper provided little warmth. His wife and daughters were sitting on one of the padded benches in the bows. Lára was tentatively stroking Bylgja’s hair as the girl snuggled up to her chest, apparently intent on the other yachts moored in a seemingly endless row along the docks, but since he couldn’t see her face, her eyes might have been closed behind her smeary glasses. He went over to them and when Lára looked up he kissed her on the brow.

‘What do you say, girls? How do you like it?’ He ran his eyes over the sailing boats that Bylgja was studying and couldn’t help marvelling at how much money there was in the world and how unevenly it was distributed. ‘It won’t be like this all the way. We’re heading north, so it may get a bit rough.’

‘This is fantastic.’ Lára shifted Bylgja’s head. As she smiled, tiny wrinkles appeared round her eyes. Ægir found them charming, though to her they were a source of endless grief. She pressed her lips to Bylgja’s head and spoke into her hair. ‘By the time we’re out on the ocean we’ll have developed our sea legs and the motion will seem like fun.’ She gave her a smacking kiss.

Ægir put his arms round Arna and they sat in silence, watching the activity on shore. Halli came out on deck and jumped up onto the docks, where he cast off the moorings before hopping back down. Again, the hull emitted a booming echo. He disappeared below and shortly afterwards the yacht moved off.

She glided smoothly downriver to the sea. In the evening sunlight the city appeared tranquil, the warm pastel hues of the buildings lovelier than ever. ‘Aren’t you excited, little Miss Speccy?’ Ægir took hold of Bylgja’s soft chin and turned her face towards him. She met his gaze with a woebegone look.

‘Who’ll take care of us now, Daddy?’ She pointed to the huge Christ monument which was rapidly receding into the distance.

‘Jesus, of course. He takes care of everyone, doesn’t he? Wherever they are.’

‘He won’t look after us at sea. He only looks after the city.’

Ægir smiled. ‘No, he doesn’t. He protects everyone, no matter where they are.’ Ahead the ocean waited, vast, rough and pitiless. For the first time in his life he wished he was religious, that he believed in something. Who
would
watch over them at sea?

‘Hey, are you okay?’ Lára reached over and squeezed his shoulder. ‘You look so sad.’

He shook off his sense of foreboding, making an effort to appear happy. ‘What? Of course. Everything’s fine.’ She didn’t seem to believe him, but turned back to the view without comment. He tried to snap out of his gloom; it would be absurd not to make the most of this moment. It would be fine. According to the captain, the voyage was about one thousand six hundred nautical miles, so if all went to plan they should reach Iceland in five to six days. The weather forecast wasn’t bad and there was no reason to believe this would be anything other than an enjoyable experience. The time would pass quickly enough. Besides, what could possibly go wrong?

Winter refused to relinquish its grip. Spring kept making fleeting appearances only to vanish again almost immediately, the brief thaws merely serving to kindle false hopes and remind people what they were missing. Thóra shivered as she stood down by the harbour, waiting to meet a representative of the bank’s resolution committee and look around the yacht. Her thin summer coat provided little protection against the north wind, which succeeded now and then, with admirable persistence, in whipping up drops of moisture from the sea, leaving an unpleasant tang of salt on her lips.

‘Oh, why haven’t I been to the hairdresser?’ Thóra’s hair, unusually long for her, kept whipping over her face and plastering itself against the lip-gloss which she now regretted having applied before she got out of the car.

‘How should I know?’ Bella was coping better with the gale than Thóra. No doubt her khaki army jacket was made of thicker fabric than her boss’s coat, and the bulging pockets must have provided good ballast. And her hair was so short that she probably couldn’t mess it up if she tried, even with her hands. Only the enormous baubles dangling from her ears rocked to and fro. ‘When’s this bloke coming, anyway?’

‘Soon.’ It was worse than travelling with her daughter and tiny grandson.
Are we there yet?
She should never have given in to Bella’s nagging. She was still furious with the secretary about the photocopier, and the fact that Bella couldn’t care less only made her angrier. In point of fact, Thóra herself hadn’t given in; it was Bragi who had insisted that Bella should be allowed to tag along to see the yacht. Thóra had consented with bad grace, aware that this was his revenge for the previous month when she had persuaded him to take Bella to the district court. Thóra had been expecting an important client and the only ploy she could think of to remove the secretary from reception was to ask her to assist Bragi with his case. According to him, far from helping she had contented herself with sitting beside him, alternately fixing the judge and the counsel for the prosecution with a menacing glare. In spite of this they had won, and Bragi, in his modesty, put it down to Bella’s presence, saying that from now on he would always take her along as a mascot when there was a lot riding on a case.

‘There’s something spooky about that boat. Did you hear about it?’ Bella spat in the direction of the yacht, much to Thóra’s disgust, but missed her target and the gobbet of saliva floated briefly in the sea before dissolving.

‘What do you mean?’

‘There’s something weird about it. I read it on-line. Apparently you shouldn’t even go on board.’ No doubt Bella was referring to the sensationalist article Thóra had also skimmed over. The report, if you could call it that, had implied that the ship was under a curse, which had supposedly originated when one of the shipbuilders had an accident and bled everywhere. From then on the calamities had multiplied during her construction: a welder had lost a hand, an engineer was severely burned, and other such incidents. Just before the yacht was launched the owner of the shipyard had committed suicide, and as if that wasn’t enough, on her maiden voyage one of the passengers fell overboard and drowned. There were no sources cited, though, and Thóra regarded the accounts as dubious, to say the least. Even if the stories contained a grain of truth, it was clear that they had subsequently taken on a life of their own; and, understandably, they had affected the sales value of the yacht. When the last owner bought her with a loan from the bank that had now repossessed her, the price had been fifty per cent lower than at her launch ten years earlier. By then she had passed through four pairs of hands and as many name changes. The most recent owner, not to be outdone, had rechristened her
Lady K
after his wife, Karítas, which Thóra found a bit naff. She hoped the next purchaser would keep up the tradition and change the name. She didn’t know Karítas personally but the woman was a regular in the gossip columns thanks to her glamorous lifestyle and penchant for designer clothes. Significantly perhaps, as long as all was going well there had been no hint in the Icelandic media of any curse on the yacht; they had simply lavished praise on her magnificence and high price tag.

‘You shouldn’t take any notice of half the stuff you read on-line, Bella. The journalist responsible for that piece was probably just desperate for material because the investigation’s not getting anywhere. He must have googled the yacht and found all sorts of nonsense. Why on earth did you come along if you believe that crap?’

‘Are you kidding? I came
because
of the curse.’ Bella studied the vessel, her face unreadable. Thóra shook her head; there was no end to the girl’s idiosyncrasies.

A small car pulled up nearby. It was dirty and missing a hub cap. Thóra watched it closely, though she did not for a minute expect it to contain the man from the committee. As the driver’s door was flung open, a Coke can tumbled out and was instantly snatched away by the wind. It was still clattering over the tarmac when the driver himself emerged: a smart young man in a suit, who made a startling contrast to the scruffy vehicle. He strolled over to them. ‘Sorry I’m late. Been waiting long?’ Avoiding their eyes, he busied himself with extracting a bunch of keys from his coat pocket.

Thóra’s innate courtesy kicked in: ‘No, not at all. Don’t worry about it.’ What she should have said was that they had nearly died of exposure during the twenty minutes they had been hanging around out here, but it would be better to keep the man sweet. ‘So you’re Fannar?’

The young man nodded. ‘Wow. This boat is something else. Every time I see her I’m struck by how awesome she is.’ He put a hand on the rail of the gangplank, swung athletically onto the steps and gestured to them to follow suit. ‘Come on. See for yourselves.’ His black coat flapped like a cloak.

Bella scowled as only she knew how, obviously unimpressed by such acrobatics. Thóra, on the other hand, copied his move as if there were nothing to it, then picked her way up the steps and down onto the ship’s deck. A heavy thud on the gangplank behind her indicated that Bella was on her way. The deck was larger than Thóra had expected: it occupied two levels, divided by the pilot house. The upper or foredeck extended to the bows, the lower or aft deck to the stern where there were hatches that looked as if they gave access to the sea. In addition to these main decks, there were two smaller platforms on the upper levels, one just large enough to hold a Jacuzzi. The pictures in the papers had failed to do justice to its opulence, and Thóra felt faintly bemused as she surveyed her surroundings. This was a fairy-tale vessel, yet somehow the glitziness didn’t appeal to her. But then she had no experience of yachts in the circles she moved in, so she couldn’t imagine what life on board was like. Her thoughts automatically turned to the missing passengers. Perhaps that was why she wasn’t blown away by the boat like Fannar; in Thóra’s opinion there were plenty of other things in life that fell into the ‘awesome’ category. If anything, she found the surroundings unsettling; a shiny white setting for pain and misery, like an operating theatre. She hadn’t a clue why that image should have sprung to mind. Perhaps it was because of the events she was now trying to piece together.