Why Did You Lie? (2 page)

Now Helgi leans closer to the window and stares out. The noise inside the helicopter has been deafening since the rotors started up in Reykjavík and the ear protectors on the bulky helmet do little to muffle it. He suspects the helmet would be as good as useless in an accident, too; the impact of a fall would be far too great. He fiddles with it in a vain attempt to reduce the din. Perhaps the purpose of the ear protectors is not to keep noise to a minimum but to enable crew and passengers to communicate. Not that there has been much attempt at that so far. The four passengers can hear the pilots exchanging the odd word but none of them have joined in. Helgi hopes they will all feel chattier once they land, but he isn’t really that bothered; it’ll be such a mind-blowing experience to find themselves on a small rock in the middle of the vast ocean that there will be no need for small talk about the weather.

There’s a crackling sound inside his helmet, followed by a faint, tinny voice: ‘If you want to take some aerial shots, you’d better get ready.’

Helgi mumbles something that neither he nor the others can hear. He feels self-conscious about his voice carrying over the intercom to everyone on board. He’s already had to speak once, just after take-off. The pilot had offered to fly over Skerjafjördur, on Reykjavík’s south coast, so Helgi could photograph a police operation that was under way there. Helgi had wanted to decline the offer and ask the man to keep going but he hadn’t dared; it would have sounded like ingratitude. The coastguard had already been incredibly accommodating to him. In the end he took a few shots of the flashing lights through the window while the pilot tilted the helicopter for him, and now he’s stuck with a bunch of more or less useless aerial photos that he intends to discreetly delete at the first opportunity.

Helgi fumbles for the heavy case on the floor, wishing he hadn’t put the camera away earlier. Every time he leans forward the seat strap tugs at his shoulder, as if to warn him that it’s safer not to move around. Meanwhile his brain is telling him that if the helicopter goes down, the strap will offer no more protection than the helmet. Yet despite his doubts about the strap’s efficacy, he misses the security it offers when the co-pilot clambers back to him, undoes it, hooks him onto a life-line, then opens the door. With unsteady legs he props himself against the doorframe, aiming the camera with trembling hands while trying to hide his fear from the watchful eyes of his fellow passengers. He is profoundly grateful that he didn’t have to take pictures through an open door over land. At least he can kid himself that it might be possible to survive a fall into the sea.

Helgi feels a rush of vertigo and at first even drawing breath is an effort. The knowledge that he can’t fall out is no help. Looking down at the choppy surface far below, he experiences a hypnotic urge to undo the life-line and let himself fall. The sea would welcome him. But he’s not going to give in to it. The blast of the wind and sting of salt on his lips are an unpleasant reminder of what would actually await him – brutal cold, followed by certain death. Helgi gulps and closes his eyes briefly. All he wants is to beg the co-pilot to close the door so he can be back safely in his seat.

He’ll just have to tough it out. If he shows any sign of weakness, there’s a risk they’ll send him straight home with the helicopter. Maybe his fear will get the better of him and he won’t have the courage to make the descent. But if he chickens out now, he’s convinced there will be no second chance. It’s now or never. Resolute, he releases his hold on the doorframe and raises his camera. Viewed through the lens, the things that so frightened him a moment earlier are tamed somehow, converted into the subject of a picture he must capture. His hands recover their strength and the solid bulk of the camera is steady in his grip. Now he can see only what he chooses to frame.

His anxiety forgotten, Helgi deftly focuses on the pillars of rock that appear to be rushing towards him, as if they can’t wait for him to arrive. He takes several shots of all four, then zooms in until the tallest stack fills the viewfinder.

‘Have you noticed that there are four? Not three.’

The words wrench Helgi back into a world of noise and peril; he clings to the doorframe and nods at the man who is smiling at him from the pilot’s seat.

‘Someone couldn’t count.’

Helgi smiles awkwardly, then returns to his task.

How could they have been christened Thrídrangar, ‘the Three Stacks’, these four claws of rock thrusting up from the waves? Perhaps only three were visible from the Westman Islands or south coast, yet at some point people must have realised their mistake because each stack has its own name: Kúludrangur, Thúfudrangur, Klofadrangur and Stóridrangur. There’s no mistaking Stóridrangur, ‘the Big Stack’, but Helgi hasn’t a clue which of the others is which.

Stóridrangur rears out of the sea, sheer on all sides, like a slightly lopsided pillar. Helgi wonders how it has managed to withstand the relentless battering of the waves down the ages, not to mention past earthquakes. The rock it’s composed of must be incredibly hard – unless the part now visible is the remains of a much larger, more substantial island that the elements have whittled down to its present size and will in the fullness of time utterly destroy.

‘I can fly around the rocks and over the lighthouse, if you like. We’re in no big hurry.’ Again the pilot has turned to see Helgi’s reaction, having clearly given up hope of persuading any of the passengers to use the intercom.

Helgi nods again, then concentrates once more on the subject matter. The soft light is perfect; the sea a greeny-blue, decorated with white surf around the feet of the stacks. The surface resembles a velvet cloth with lace at the edges, though nothing could be further from the truth. The lighthouse, which has brought them to these parts, was built there to prevent these rocks from costing seafarers their lives in storms and darkness. It beggars belief that they ever managed to construct the building on top of Stóridrangur. From what Helgi has read about it, work began around the outbreak of the Second World War. There were no helicopters in those days, so all the building materials and workforce had to be transported to the islet by sea, then hauled up the forty-metre-high precipice. Helgi wonders, not for the first time, whether men were made of sterner stuff in those days. Maybe modern men are equally capable of such feats but are simply never called upon to prove it. Up ahead he can see a chain hanging down the rock face. Only under extreme duress could he be persuaded to climb up the cliff with only that for support.

Just when he’s thinking that he’s got enough good shots to make this whole extraordinary journey worthwhile, the pilot’s voice blares again in his helmet. ‘Are you sure there’s space for all four of you down there? There’s not much standing room.’ Helgi doesn’t react but concentrates on his photography. He hears mumbling from the other passengers.

The helicopter is hovering over the lighthouse now and there’s no denying that it was a reasonable question. Apart from the little tower and the square helipad, built much later, Stóridrangur consists of nothing but sheer drops. On either side of the manmade structures the rock juts out, steep, jagged and apparently inaccessible. The photos Helgi had found online were only a pale reflection of the reality. Yet again, the real world has trumped the two-dimensional hands down, leaving him feeling hopelessly discouraged. How is he to capture this heart-stopping grandeur? To cause people’s jaws to drop as his is doing now? He turns the camera slightly to compensate for the tilting of the helicopter and snaps away. He has in the past lost heart in the face of smaller challenges than the one confronting him now, but this time he resolves to push away his fears and let himself by guided by his photographer’s instincts. If he messes up, that’s tough; he’ll still be in possession of a photo series that few others could boast of. The coastguard rarely allows photographers along on trips like this, and who could afford to hire a private helicopter for the purpose? He’d been so astonished when his request was granted that he’d stared, stunned, at the receiver long after the person at the other end had hung up. Things never usually go his way, so this is great news. As long as the pictures turn out well.

The helicopter is hovering over the islet, obscuring their view of the landing pad directly beneath them. The only window of the small white building below has been blocked up, so it looks as if it is staring at them with a blind eye.

‘Welcome to Thrídrangar lighthouse.’ The pilots look round, grinning as if at some private joke. Then, catching each other’s eye, they fiddle with various controls on the instrument panel. They almost seem to be suppressing laughter at the thought of the conditions awaiting their passengers. And maybe they’re right; the other four stare down intently at this extraordinary place which is to be their home for the next twenty-four hours, and none of them appears to relish the thought of leaving the helicopter. Especially not given that the only available route is straight down. Helgi takes a few shots of the lighthouse but the helicopter is wobbling more than before and he finds it hard to keep the subject steady in the viewfinder.

‘We’re ready to deploy the winch, so you’d better finish up and return to your seat.’ The pilot sounds more authoritative than before. Helgi takes two more pictures, aware, without bothering to check, that he’s botched them, then squeezes back into his seat and only then does he unclip himself from the life-line. In its place he fastens the seat strap.

The co-pilot clambers back to them, closes the door and starts busying himself with winch, cables and strops. He slaps the knee of the passenger nearest the door and gets the man to stand up while he fastens the equipment around him. They talk together while the pilot jerks hard on all the ropes of the harness to test them. Then they take up position by the door, which the co-pilot reopens without batting an eyelid. The passenger takes a small, involuntary step backwards and the other man explains what to do with a good deal of gesturing. The next thing they know, the man is sitting in the doorway, his legs dangling. The others avoid looking at each other but all three press themselves instinctively as far back in their seats as they can. Soon it’ll be their turn.

The other man goes next, then the woman. Helgi admires the way she copes with her nerves, which are betrayed by the trembling of her slim hands and her pale, hollow-eyed profile. He gives in to the temptation to take some pictures of her preparations and regrets not having done the same for the men. It would have been amusing to compare their reactions. They had puffed out their chests and held their heads high, filling their lungs with air and their minds with imaginary courage. Their playacting didn’t end until they began their descent and the last that could be seen of them was a terrified scarlet face and bulging eyes. The woman’s expression shows a healthy respect for her fear coupled with a stoical calm that he wishes he himself possessed. Especially as he’s next.

Once the strop and cable have been winched up again, the pilot beckons him over and Helgi stands up, knees trembling. Like a condemned man on his way to the scaffold, he allows the other man to truss him in ropes and push his legs into the strop, then flinches as he checks his handiwork. He is overwhelmed by a familiar sense of shame at being fat as the man touches his body, and wonders if the equipment is calibrated for a lighter weight than his. What if he plummets out of control because he’s too heavy? But he says nothing, reluctant to discuss his weight with a stranger, and positions himself like the others in the opening, legs dangling above the pillar of rock. Craning forwards, he looks down at the faces of the other three on the helipad. They gaze up at him, waving cheerily as if to beckon him and let him know that the descent is not as bad as expected. They survived it and he will too. Like passengers climbing off a rollercoaster and waving to the next in line.

Then of course the rollercoaster flies off the rails on a sharp bend because one of the passengers is too heavy.

Helgi lets go and starts his descent. He feels the wind rushing up his body and the line seems terribly thin and inadequate. The only thought in his head is whether he’s far enough down to survive a fall, when quite suddenly he feels a hard bump and a jerk that runs up his spine like a pianist running his fingers over the keys. He straightens up, grins at the other three and hurriedly undoes the clips on his harness so he won’t be dragged back into the air. The worst moment is when he has released all bar one and knows that if he’s pulled upwards now, the fastening is bound to give halfway. But at last he’s free and watches the empty harness jerking back up to the helicopter.

The noise of the rotors is too loud for conversation, so they all stand staring upwards. No one wants to be on the receiving end of the next consignment to be lowered. From what Helgi could gather before they boarded, the plan is to renew the lighthouse radio transmitter, replace a broken solar panel and touch up the exterior paintwork. They’re also going to measure the area around the helipad and gauge the potential for enlarging and strengthening it to make it fit for purpose again. How this is to be done without loss of life is a mystery to Helgi. The platform is built on a foundation of stone and in order to assess the terrain around it, someone will have to climb down and cling by his toes if he is to find a foothold on the sharp, wind-eroded snags. Helgi hopes fervently that no one will ask him to help.

Together they labour to free each consignment as it is lowered, then push it aside so it won’t get in the way of the next. Helgi can no longer feel his arms by the time the co-pilot finally winches down to signal that the drop is complete. He is nonchalant on the descent, smiling and waving at them. His breeziness in no way abates once he has landed.

‘That’s the lot, then!’ the man bellows and Helgi can’t help wondering if he ever accidentally yells at his wife like that at the end of a day’s work. ‘You’re all sorted, aren’t you?’ Helgi nods, awkwardly, and the others follow suit. ‘The forecast’s good so we assume we’ll be picking you up tomorrow evening unless we hear from you first. You’ve got double rations, so if you think you’ll need to spend another night, just let us know. Be careful and, you know, try not to get agoraphobia.’ The man grins, revealing teeth as white as his helmet. ‘And no going for an early-morning jog. It could end nastily.’ Still smiling, he signals to the pilot to winch him up and shortly afterwards pops his head out to wave goodbye. The door closes, the helicopter tilts slightly, then describes a swift arc away from them. As it recedes into the distance, the thunder of the rotors fades until finally they can no longer hear it.