Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - The Silence of the Sea

‘But he got away in time?’ Thóra prayed that the woman would agree. She really wouldn’t be able to cope if any doubts were raised about his honesty at this stage. Nor would his parents.

‘Yes, I think so. Luckily. They didn’t make any rash decisions and lived within their means, unlike many in his position. The only nonsense I heard about from Lára was the life insurance policy he took out.’

‘She mentioned that, did she?’ Thóra sat up.

‘Yes – that was several years ago. He was still working for the bank at the time and one of the things his friends were bragging about was the size of their life insurance policies. Can you imagine anything so ridiculous?’

Thóra couldn’t. She couldn’t picture herself boasting about anything like that to Bragi. Or Bella, for that matter. But this was good news. ‘So he took out the high insurance policy to save face among his colleagues?’

‘Yes. But then he could afford to. He’d have a fortune after his death.’

Lára looked terribly small, lying face down in a black puddle on the cold steel deck. A trail of blood led back to the bridge. From the instant he had caught sight of her to the moment he discovered that she was breathing, albeit fitfully, Ægir’s world had lost its soundtrack. All noise was muted as if he were underwater; he could see Thráinn and Halli opening their mouths but he could neither tell nor did he care what they were shouting. All he could think of was how to get the blood back inside Lára. He crawled on all fours, trying to scoop it up, only to watch it trickle away with the violent rolling of the ship. ‘Hit him.’ The words sounded so remote that they might have come from beyond the grave; there was no way of knowing who was speaking. ‘Hit him!’ Ignoring the voice, Ægir continued trying to sweep the blood towards him with his hands. The words did not concern him; he had a job to do. Only when a hand grabbed his shoulder and dragged him roughly to a kneeling position did he come round and it was as if the volume had suddenly been turned up again. At least enough for him to hear when a flattened palm smacked against his cheek with full force.

‘Get out of the fucking way! You’re in the way. Either get a grip on yourself or move back.’ Halli shoved him violently aside. Ægir fell over, then propped himself up on one elbow and sat groggily on the deck with his legs sprawled out in front of him. Halli pushed his face so close that his features were a blur, though Ægir could see enough to register the man’s anger. Halli seized him by the shoulders and shook him. ‘I said pull yourself together.’

‘That’s enough. Give me a hand.’ Thráinn’s voice was not only weary but defeated, and it was that which finally shocked Ægir back to his senses. ‘Leave him alone and grab hold here.’

Taking a gasping breath, Ægir shifted until he could see what they were up to. For an instant he wanted to yell that they mustn’t tread in the blood – Lára needed it. Then the moment passed. Instead he concentrated on breathing, but the sounds and effort involved were more like gulping down water than inhaling oxygen. He stared at the black patches on the knees of the men’s jeans, then looked down at himself and saw that his own clothes were soaked in blood. ‘Oh, God. Oh, my God.’

‘Shut up.’ As Halli turned away from Lára to shout at him, Ægir saw what they were doing. They had rolled her over on her back and the captain was pressing down with both hands on her abdomen, with what looked like the full weight of his body. His hands were dark and still more blood welled up between his splayed fingers. Ægir felt faint but this time his collapse was not as total. He had to pull himself together. Halli turned straight back to Lára and Thráinn, blocking Ægir’s view. Not that he wanted to watch; the sight that met his gaze was so terrible that it hurt. It felt as if he were being torn apart; the longing to watch was equalled only by the desire to close his eyes and pretend this wasn’t happening.

Thráinn looked up from Lára for a moment. ‘Are you all right?’ Ægir wanted to answer in the affirmative but an unrecognisable rattle emerged from his throat. ‘For God’s sake, pull yourself together, man.’ Thráinn sounded furious and Ægir was filled with shame. He was failing his critically injured wife. ‘You go to the girls, we need to be here. They’re probably still on the bridge.’

Ægir staggered to his feet, slipped in the viscous blood and almost fell on top of the two men as they bent over his wife. He knew it was urgent that he go to his daughters but he couldn’t prevent himself from lingering briefly. Carefully keeping his balance, he craned over the men to catch a glimpse of Lára’s face. It was turned towards him but her half-open eyes did not seek out his. She looked grey rather than white, and a red bubble formed on her lips with every shallow breath; swelled, then burst, swelled, then burst. Ægir made a desperate effort to hold back his tears but one splashed onto Lára’s rounded cheek and ran down to mingle with the blood. Her eyes closed and he tore himself away before he broke down completely. For the girls’ sake, he couldn’t allow himself that. Two strides and Lára was out of sight.

His legs felt as heavy as lead, every step a dragging effort, as he approached the door to the pilot house. A succession of horrifying images ran though his mind: Arna and Bylgja lying on the floor in shiny pools of blood. In his vision the pools were identical; his daughters twins to the last. Nausea mingled with the agony in Ægir’s chest until he thought he might suffer a heart attack. If something had happened to the girls as well, he would welcome the chance to die.

But it hadn’t, and the tightness in his chest abated, giving way to a dizzying rush of relief.

Arna and Bylgja were standing huddled at the back of the room, their eyes huge with incomprehension and stark terror. They did not run into his arms as he’d expected, and as he longed for them to. He ached with the desire to hug them tight and bury his face in their soft hair, if only for an instant. To hide from what was happening, from what he simply couldn’t bear. Closing the door softly behind him, he made a superhuman effort to stay calm. ‘Are you all right, girls?’ His voice sounded absurdly normal, as if they had fallen over while playing in the garden. Their eyes stretched even wider and he realised the effect his appearance must be having on them. ‘Thráinn and Halli are helping Mummy. It’ll be all right.’ It was the most terrible lie he had ever told them. ‘Are you injured?’

They shook their heads simultaneously, with a slight lessening of tension. ‘Where’s Mummy? Why isn’t she with you?’ Arna spoke as if she had hiccups, the tears not far away.

‘Mummy hurt herself and Halli and Thráinn are helping her.’ A bleak future stretched out before him. A future without Lára. He was assailed by ridiculous concerns; who would do the girls’ hair, or help them choose what to wear for birthday parties? It was almost impossible to assume a normal, reassuring manner. ‘But it’ll be all right. As long as you’re safe, everything will be all right.’ As he walked over to them, he realised they had not once looked up at his face; their eyes were fixed on his blood-soaked clothes.

‘Why did Mummy have a gun, Daddy?’ Bylgja began to weep. The tears were not accompanied by sobs but slid down her face in two rivers of silent grief and fear.

‘In case a bad man came, darling. The gun was for protection. To protect you and Mummy.’ He had reached them now and crouched down to their level. Unable to bear the bewilderment in their eyes, he struggled to make himself meet their gaze rather than hiding from it; they did not deserve to be let down like that. ‘What happened? Did you see what happened?’