Why Did You Lie? (41 page)

Helgi fishes his phone out of his anorak pocket and sees that it has switched itself off. ‘Oh, I didn’t realise.’

‘Never mind. Listen to me. There’s no reason to think anything bad’s going to happen to you.’

‘No. I didn’t think there was.’ Helgi tries in vain to keep his voice equally level. He licks his lips, his eyes wandering around the interior of the lighthouse without fixing on anything. He finds the other man’s calm manner provoking.

‘There’s a man with you called Ívar. We’ve been told to pass on a message from the police that you’re to stay as far away from him as possible while you’re waiting to be evacuated. We’re not talking about a long time because they’re getting the helicopter ready now. We’ll be with you as soon as it’s light enough to operate the winch.’

Helgi can’t stop himself from staring at Ívar. The man is frowning, apparently aware that they’re talking about him, though he can hardly guess what’s being said.

‘Excuse me? You do realise where we are?’

‘Yes. I know.’ The voice on the phone is still irritatingly composed. Helgi has begun to suspect that it’s a computer.

‘Then you’ll realise there’s nowhere for us to go. It’s not as if we’re each sitting here in our own private corner, if you see what I mean.’

‘I’m well aware of the fact. Nevertheless you’re to keep as far away from him as possible. For example, you two could climb out onto the crag if he follows you outside, or wait on the helipad if he can be persuaded to sit tight in the lighthouse.’

‘Why should we?’ Helgi’s eyes are fixed on Ívar, who is looking back with a puzzled expression. Helgi forces himself to smile at him but can tell he’s not very successful.

‘The man is believed to be dangerous. A police officer is being sent out with the chopper, to be lowered after our man. You and Heida are to keep your distance while Ívar is arrested and try not to draw attention to yourselves. I repeat that you’re to retreat to a safe distance.’

Suddenly Helgi feels overwhelmed with exhaustion. He hasn’t slept for twenty-four hours and is in no fit state to get into a fight or resort to any complicated measures. He knows it’s vital to fob Ívar off with a convincing lie once the phone call is over, but he can’t for the life of him come up with anything plausible. He wants to burst out laughing at the absurdity of the situation. ‘Thank you. We’ll be packed and ready.’ He says goodbye, hangs up and forces out another smile.

‘What was that all about?’ The glow of the torch casts a strange shadow on Ívar’s face. His cheekbones are thrown into relief and dark semi-circles spread under his eyes like grotesquely distorted bags.

‘They just wanted to let us know that they’re getting ready.’ Helgi can see that Ívar has worked out there’s more to it. ‘They’re having problems with the winch and told us not to stand underneath while they’re lowering their man. And they’re worried about us because of the long delay.’ He falls silent, congratulating himself on having come up with this lie.

‘What was that stuff about having nowhere to go? And why’s she behaving like she’s off her rocker?’

Although Helgi doesn’t have eyes in the back of his head, he senses that Heida is close to breaking point. He wishes he could lean back and wedge her into the corner to prevent her from putting them into even more danger. It’s vital that Ívar should believe him. ‘I wanted to know how far we should be from the helipad while they were winching down. Heida’s in a state because she misunderstood the guy and thought they were postponing again.’ It’s tempting to turn and say: ‘Right, Heida?’ But Helgi doesn’t trust her to play along.

‘Why didn’t they ring me? I’m the contact.’ Ívar sounds as if he’s been badly let down.

‘I don’t know. Perhaps they couldn’t connect because your phone was inside your sleeping bag.’ Helgi swallows.

‘Bullshit.’

‘I don’t know. I’m only trying to answer your question.’

‘I can’t stay here!’ Heida shrieks this so loudly that the new radio transmitter resounds. To sit here any longer would be to invite disaster. Assessing the situation, Helgi decides that it would be impossible for him and Heida to go outside and leave Ívar in the lighthouse. He’d be stepping on their heels like a street hustler. There’s only one course of action.

‘Come on, Ívar. Let’s shift the stones off the gear outside and get everything ready. That’s what they asked us to do. Heida needs to be alone.’

‘She needs tranquillisers, that’s what she needs. Women are such fucking idiots.’

‘You bastard.’ Heida’s voice rises to a shriek again and Helgi hastily drags Ívar outside with him. He closes the door behind them but, alas, there’s no way of locking the lighthouse, so there’s nothing to stop Heida from following them.

The cold saltiness of the air is strangely invigorating. Now all Helgi need do is spin out the preparations for as long as possible. The chopper should be there in less than an hour, but even so it seems like an eternity to wait and the thought of it saps his energy again. Suddenly the cold filling his lungs has a soporific effect and the taste of salt makes him want to retch.

He mustn’t fail now.

‘There’s something going on. You can’t fool me.’ Ívar is standing beside him, zipping his anorak up to the neck. He pulls his hood over his head but Helgi hasn’t the energy to copy him, in spite of the biting breeze.

‘I’m not trying to fool you. Come on, let’s get cracking.’ Helgi’s voice is threadbare with tiredness now, which has the effect of making him sound sincere. At least Ívar seems to think so because he hesitates, and Helgi seizes the opportunity to pick his way round the corner to where their gear is piled in the narrow gap between crag and lighthouse. It means turning his back on Ívar but it can’t be helped. If he shuffled along in reverse, keeping his eye on the other man, that would give the game away immediately. ‘We need to shift this stuff onto the helipad. All the loose items are already packed in the boxes.’ He doesn’t know how he’s supposed to achieve this; he barely has the strength to lift a matchbox right now.

The door creaks as Heida comes out, and as his eyes meet Ívar’s Helgi is unable to disguise his fear any longer. Now Ívar knows for sure that something is wrong. He reaches quickly into the box that he has dragged out of the pile and whips out an object that flashes in the faint moonlight. Helgi can no longer think straight; all that occurs to him is to shut the door on Heida; make sure she doesn’t witness what is about to happen or put herself in danger.

‘Get inside. Don’t open up until I tell you. Hold the door shut.’ He shoves her back into the lighthouse, reaches for the door and slams it. Then he turns to confront Ívar and what is to come. Despite his overwhelming fatigue, he is looking forward to this. It’s nearly over. It’s all got to end, one way or another.

The heavy throbbing of the engine is a joy to the ears. Helgi is lying on his back on the rocky ground, his shoulders propped on the bottom step of the lighthouse. Above him is the small whitewashed tower with its red lantern casing, like a wedding cake plonked down incongruously in the middle of the ocean. His eyes close again and he hopes this is the image he will take with him into eternity. His throat rattles as he makes one final attempt to coax Heida outside. So far his feeble cries have had no effect and the closer the helicopter approaches, the less likely it is that she’ll be able to hear him. The sensation of cold seems to have gone; one minute he thought he was dying, the next he couldn’t feel anything. He doesn’t need a doctor to tell him what this means. Heida will have to come out and help him staunch the bleeding. He can’t wait for the chopper.

‘Heida!’ Helgi coughs and tastes iron. ‘Heida!’ He makes a desperate attempt to crane his neck to see the door and almost weeps when it moves. Only a tiny crack at first, but then Heida’s head appears. He realises that she has caught sight of his outstretched hand, which looks ready to grasp at whatever might fall from the sky. But his strength is waning and his head falls back on the hard step. Yet he can’t feel any pain.

He hears her gasp, then footsteps, and when Helgi opens his eyes again she is kneeling over him, gazing into his face. ‘Oh, God!’ She breaks down in tears. ‘What can I do? Please don’t die.’

Helgi coughs again and she flinches away. Blood must have come out of his mouth because Heida is trembling like a leaf and glancing around frantically, up into the air and out to sea. ‘Has Ívar gone?’

Helgi replies to the tremulous question with a weak nod.

‘I knew I should have opened at once to find out if it was you groaning out here. But I didn’t dare. What was I supposed to do if it had been …?’

Helgi doesn’t have the energy to answer this; he senses he had better not waste words.

‘Even when I looked out now I wasn’t sure. I had a crazy idea that Ívar might have put on your clothes to confuse me. But then I recognised your hair and saw you were bigger than Ívar. Oh, God, oh, God.’

Helgi is having trouble keeping his eyes open. More than anything he longs to close them and go to sleep. Just for a little while. Before his lids droop he sees again the words written in marker pen on the wall.
Stefán Egill Fridriksson 1985.
With all the strength he has left he gasps: ‘Did you hear what Ívar said?’ Of course the shouting and sounds of the struggle must have carried to her on the wind but he doubted she could have heard the actual words. That was what mattered.

‘No. I had my hands over my ears, I was so terrified. I closed my eyes and tried to think about my little girl. I thought I’d never see her again.’ Heida’s nose is running and she sniffs. ‘When I listened I heard such horrible yelling and screaming that I put my hands over my ears again. But I heard enough to realise that one of you was injured, maybe even dead, and the other had fallen off the cliff.’

The noise had been anything but pleasant: Ívar had uttered a bloodcurdling scream as he plummeted, howling so the rock echoed every time he crashed into a sharp jutting stone. If Helgi had been able to he would have covered his own ears. He closes his eyes. He wants to sleep. Just for a moment.

The racket of the rotor blades draws closer and he senses that Heida is smiling, although she’s still in shock and must be as weak with exhaustion as him. ‘What will the men in the chopper think of me when they hear I did nothing to help you?’

Helgi tries to groan out a few words, though he has resolved to spare his energy. It’s not her fault. Quite the opposite. ‘You did nothing wrong. Everything’s OK.’ Opening his eyes, he peers up at the lighthouse, as if expecting to see a figure standing on the little gallery, waiting to accompany him. Perhaps the apparition he thought he’d seen in the fog: the harbinger of doom. But there’s nobody there; he’s not being pursued by any mysterious shadows, only a growing lassitude. He must close his eyes. ‘Did you hear what Ívar said? Any of it?’

‘No. I heard nothing.’ She bends over him, stroking his forehead gently. ‘It doesn’t matter. You can tell the police yourself. The chopper’s coming. Everything’s going to be OK.’ Heida looks skywards and sees the helicopter approaching, shining and beautiful in the pale morning light. Helgi’s eyes close and he feels her warm hand stroking his face. Then she whips back her hand and he wonders if it’s because she can’t bear to touch him.

‘Helgi,’ Heida whispers, as if she thinks he’s asleep and doesn’t want to wake him. He can’t move, though he wants to. Finally he summons the tiny amount of strength he has left and fumbles for the knife sticking out of his side. He hears her cry as he gropes with his fingers at the bloodstain surrounding the blade. His anorak is already soaked through. He feels blood welling up the handle from the wound.

‘Oh, no! Oh, no! Oh, no!’ Heida’s cries do nothing to help. ‘What should I do? What should I do?’ The events of the last twenty-four hours seem to have addled her brain. ‘Should I pull it out?’

Helgi tries to protest but can’t utter a word. The knife is at least blocking the wound; it’ll open if she pulls it out. Then he hears a sucking sound, feels a tremendous pressure in his side and his mouth gapes in a silent scream. He opens his eyes wide and stares into Heida’s face. She looks bewildered; Ívar’s bloody knife is in her hand. Helgi’s head falls sideways and he sees blood pouring from the wound, shiny red and viscous. With a desperate effort he manages to turn his head back and look up; he doesn’t want to see what’s happening. The rock mustn’t drink his lifeblood.

As his lids droop once more he sees Heida open her mouth and lean backwards. Knife in hand, she shrieks as loudly as she can in a desperate attempt to be heard above the thunder of the helicopter.

He sees two faces staring down at them from under white helmets. One of the men seems to be speaking to them and Helgi smiles at the idea that he should think they can hear. Then the long-desired sleep overwhelms him.

Chapter 35

31 January 2014

The vending machine refuses to accept the fifty-krónur piece. Whatever Nína tries – force, cajoling, indifference – nothing works. She could kick the machine or shake it, but she’s not
that
angry. Besides, there are too many people around in visiting hours and she doesn’t want to attract any attention. She feels conspicuous enough as it is, dolled up in a red dress and high heels in honour of the occasion. It had seemed wrong to turn up looking as if she were going straight home after this visit to flop on the sofa and watch a film. But the only dresses she owns remind her of cocktails and dancing. The red one seemed the least inappropriate; it’s not low cut, at any rate, and almost covers her knees. Even so, Thröstur’s sister couldn’t hide her disapproval when they ran into one another earlier; she herself had been wearing a grey suit that might have been designed with a deathbed in mind.

Instead of beating up the vending machine, Nína sits down on a bench and watches time passing on the clock on the wall. Thröstur’s father and sister asked to be alone with him for an hour – their last hour with him in this world. She is intending to give herself slightly longer. The doctor who’s going to switch off his life support is not due until eight, so she will have plenty of time to cry her eyes out at Thröstur’s bedside. She suggested the hour herself, because she doesn’t want it to happen during daylight. She feels the process should be as much like going to sleep as possible. That way she can convince herself that Thröstur is following his dreams into an everlasting night, rather than being obliterated like a text being deleted. The doctor wasn’t particularly pleased at having to do it in the evening but was too kind to object.