Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - The Silence of the Sea

A few photos featured Karítas either alone or with her husband in more informal surroundings. What they all had in common was that they were carefully posed to show off her figure to the best advantage. She never had a hair out of place or appeared in casual clothes. Even stranger was the fact that although it was clear from the background to many of the pictures that Karítas had travelled all over the world, the photographer apparently had no interest in anything but people. People, people, people and more people.

Just as Thóra was about to give up, she came across a picture of Karítas getting dressed with the help of a young woman who was carefully zipping the evening gown up her employer’s long, slender back. Only part of her face was visible but there was no mistaking the fact that the girl looked as if she wished she were elsewhere. The caption read: ‘Late for the charity ball in Vienna – Aldís saves the day!’ Her second name was missing but at least Thóra now knew what the girl looked like. Perhaps her full name would emerge if she checked through the rest of the photos. The prospect wasn’t exactly tempting; she’d had quite enough of this display of narcissism, so she picked up the phone and put a call through to Bella. As an Internet addict, the secretary should be grateful for the assignment. Before raising the subject, Thóra asked about the Lego set but learnt that some bastard had jumped in at the last minute and massively outbid Bella.

‘Oh, dear. Better luck next time.’ Thóra hoped this was what Bella wanted to hear. All she got back was a grunt that was impossible to interpret. Thóra received the same reaction to her request that Bella trawl through Karítas’s Facebook page. When she hung up, Thóra still wasn’t sure whether the secretary had agreed to the task, but then that was par for the course.

The photo of Karítas dressing with Aldís’s assistance was still up on her screen when Thóra turned back. She stared at it, sighing in exasperation and slowly shaking her head over the whole affair. Although she might have been reading too much into what she had seen and heard, she had come to the conclusion that Karítas was a nasty, social-climbing snob. She had risen from rags to unimaginable riches and handled the transition badly – unless she had always been a bit of a bitch, which was certainly the impression Bella gave. On closer inspection, Thóra found the expression of the girl who was taking care not to pinch her employer’s skin in the zip even more informative. At first glance her face betrayed irritation and suppressed anger at having to fuss over this spoilt princess. When Thóra zoomed in on the image, however, she saw something more telling: Aldís’s expression revealed not just anger but hatred.

Visibility in the depths was minimal. The beam of Ægir’s diving torch swung around wildly as he juggled it in his inexpert hands. The constant motion of the surrounding water seemed menacing, as if anything could happen. His one experience of sea diving had had nothing in common with this sense of infinite vastness; on that occasion he had felt fine and succeeded for the most part in forgetting the fragility of his existence. But now his heart was hammering in his chest and he had to focus on every breath he took, on remembering to inhale sufficient air through the mouthpiece and telling himself that everything would be fine as long as he kept his head. But he couldn’t make himself relax. With every loud breath, impregnated with the taste of plastic, he grew increasingly panicky.

He hoped the sight of the surface just above his head would have a calming effect, but the light aroused in him an uncontrollable desire to breathe through his nose. He looked down again so quickly that he felt the bones of his neck creak in the numbing cold. The sound was muffled, and seemed to travel through the water at a snail’s pace. Why hurry? No one was listening. The yacht too emitted a constant creaking, perhaps caused by tension in the aluminium, and this was even less likely to soothe Ægir’s taut nerves. What if there was a problem with the ship’s hull? Would they insist that he went down again with tools to repair the damage? He pushed away this thought by squeezing his eyes shut and inhaling three times. As the air bubbles rose past his ears he envied them for being on their way to the surface. Then he opened his eyes wide and steeled himself. The sooner he set to work, the sooner he would escape this hell.

He tightened his grip on the torch, doing his best to hold the beam steady. Once he had got the knack, he swept the light back and forth in search of the container that must be somewhere nearby. Thráinn had not wanted to lower him too close in case his equipment snagged on it or was damaged. Mindful of the captain’s words, Ægir wondered what would happen if the air cylinder caught on the container when he swam closer to investigate. Would he be able to free himself? It was one thing to don the gear with help on deck; another to remove it underwater in a frenzy.

The beam landed on the floating container and Ægir kicked himself cautiously forwards using his fins. He did what he could to illuminate the entire structure but the water was cloudy and his torch inadequate for the task. Although he reminded himself that everything appeared much larger through his diving mask, it was nevertheless clear that he had underestimated the size of the container from on deck. The captain had known what he was talking about; there was every danger that the massive steel crate would smash the propeller or rudder if it collided with them. The container was leaning against the ship, as if hooked onto it by the corner. One of the double doors at the end had opened and was hanging down, while the other still appeared to be tightly shut. Doubtless that was why the thing hadn’t sunk; air must be trapped in the corner on which they had been expending most of their energy. And when he saw the structure from the side, it was easy to see why they hadn’t been able to push it away; while they had been shoving against the part that was visible from above, the lower edge of the same side had been wedged against the hull.

Even from this new perspective, he found it hard to judge whether it would be safe to set the yacht in motion again with the wreckage still clinging to her side; he would have to consider the bigger picture. Although he himself would not like to be dragged over the rough steel surface of this huge contraption with nothing but his flimsy wetsuit for protection, he thought the ship would probably not sustain too much damage from metal grinding against metal. So as long as it didn’t hit the propeller or rudder, they might be able to risk sailing full steam ahead.

He was moving his legs with slow deliberation, yet found himself approaching the container much faster than he liked. Suddenly he had to free one of his hands from the torch to stop himself hitting the side. His palm made contact with icy steel while his legs kicked frantically against the current. The open door stirred beside him as if in a gentle breeze. Shining his light into the black opening, he glimpsed brown cardboard boxes, still marked for the recipient with white sticky labels that were beginning to peel off. Ægir shifted his hand to get a better grip. Foolish though it was, he was afraid of being sucked into the container, afraid of perishing inside it with the goods that would never now reach their intended destination. He jerked the line round his waist to reassure himself that it still connected him to the world of the living. It was still securely fixed, but this did nothing to raise his spirits; the line would be of little use if he became trapped down here.

Still, he was not here to investigate the contents of the container or to let his imagination run away with him; he was meant to be inspecting the hull for holes and searching for a way to detach this vast piece of flotsam – a feat even the powerful current had been unable to achieve. He felt like an ant faced with moving a mountain.