Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - The Day Is Dark

‘The sensors are located between the towers, and they’re turned on from the office building. It’s rather complicated, meaning no one can do it by accident. The equipment is under the steps.’ Eyjólfur looked at Friðrikka. ‘Did you turn on the system?’

‘No, of course not.’ Friðrikka seemed even more alarmed. ‘I hadn’t even remembered it.’ Their old mutual animosity was stirring again. ‘And are you going to say next that I set off the floodlights? I was sitting here, in case you’ve forgotten. Just like you.’

Matthew interrupted. ‘None of us did this.’ He turned back to the window. ‘Probably some animal wandered through the sensor beam and ran off when the lights went on.’ He looked around at everyone. ‘Did anyone mess with the equipment at the office building?’ No one spoke up. Matthew looked out one last time and stared at the lifeless environment until the floodlights suddenly flicked off, leaving him looking only at his own reflection in dark glass. ‘It must have been caused by a power outage. It was probably on the whole time but someone connected the electricity this evening, which brought power back to the system.’

Everyone was happy with this conjecture. This was one of those moments when it was good to have some sort of explanation, however unlikely. The healing power of words destroyed doubt, and everyone contributed by murmuring ‘of course’ and ‘that must be it’.

They sat down again shamefacedly and tried to revive the cheerful mood that had developed earlier. The bottles were quick to empty and it wasn’t long before Alvar started fidgeting in his seat. Friðrikka, who also appeared to want more, stood and announced that she was going to check whether the wine kept there for celebrations was still in its place. ‘Was there any alcohol left after the Midwinter Feast, Eyjólfur?’

‘No idea. I wasn’t here.’

At that Friðrikka left, and Thóra drank the remainder of the Opal from her glass. She wasn’t sure that she’d want any more when Friðrikka returned; the alcohol would just make her sleepier. It looked as if Matthew was in the same state, but all the others appeared to have been refreshed by the drinks; the frown had even vanished from Bella’s face, though she was still several glasses away from smiling. So fatigue was probably the reason why Thóra and Matthew were the last to react when Friðrikka’s screams carried into the lounge.

Arnar’s hands had stopped trembling, but instead of relief, he only felt regret. That in itself didn’t really matter; he didn’t expect to feel better any time soon, and the regret wasn’t the worst of it. What bothered him was that he didn’t know what he regretted, what he was missing. It wasn’t the trembling of his fingers, but something else, something he could not grasp. There was enough to choose from: mistakes from the past that he would never have the chance to mend; money that was gone and the debts it had left behind; friendships that would never be revived. No one thing stood out.

He had started from a dreamless sleep from which he felt he had derived no rest, because he was just as exhausted as when he had laid his head on the pillow. It was possible that he’d only slept for a short time; he had lost his watch and since he wasn’t allowed a mobile phone in therapy he couldn’t use that to see how much time had passed. It was pitch-black outside, but that meant nothing; the sun didn’t come up until around nine in the morning at this time of year. He could always wander into the hallway and ask the night guard what time it was, but he didn’t feel like it, knowing that if he got out of bed it would be even harder to get back to sleep. He tried in vain to think of something positive. All that came to mind other than the hopelessness of his life was the empty bed facing him. It had previously contained his roommate, an alcoholic who had suffered arrhythmia and been taken to hospital. The man had snored terribly and would occasionally talk in his sleep. This should have made it easier to sleep soundly without him, but that wasn’t the case. In fact, Arnar wouldn’t have long to wait before another person took the man’s place; in fact, it was a little strange that the gap had not been filled the next day. Arnar suspected it was because of his sexual orientation, which he had admitted to the group early on, during his second day of therapy. He had decided to come out with it immediately to prevent the men from talking to him about ‘chicks’ and picking up women. The story had spread like wildfire throughout the treatment centre. He couldn’t care less; everyone here shared a problem with alcohol, first and foremost, and no doubt welcomed having something else to talk about. By revealing this information he also ensured himself a certain privacy, because it meant the men generally avoided him; but on the flip side, the women, who were in the minority, paid him more attention than before. Arnar didn’t believe that the men avoided him because of any antipathy toward homosexuals; they simply had enough to contend with, without complicating life by spending time with a fellow addict who might also be eyeing them up. As it happened, Arnar had no interest in anyone at the centre, either as a sexual partner or as a friend; it would be a long time before his desire for sex or companionship reawakened. Luckily, others couldn’t possibly know that.

Maybe his former roommate, the old snorer, had invented his heart ailment for fear that Arnar might try to take him by force in his sleep. Arnar smiled for the first time since being admitted. The man was in his sixties and slept wearing his false teeth, that produced a wet clack at the start and end of every snore. Arnar would never have dreamed of it.

His smile vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. He didn’t deserve to regain his happiness, any more than anyone else who had selfishly and stupidly extinguished the light in the eyes of a fellow human being. He recalled the words of a woman he had sat next to at lunch. This young woman had sat hunched over her plate, looking completely broken. Under normal circumstances she would probably have been good-looking, but now she resembled a zombie. She had nodded at Arnar when she sat down next to him but hadn’t followed it up with any polite chatter. After picking at her food for a long time without taking so much as a single bite, the woman had suddenly turned to Arnar and told him that pasta had always been her favourite food. She said it mechanically, as if reading from a sheet of paper. When she opened her mouth, a sore on her upper lip tore open. A thick, dark red bead of blood formed in one corner of her mouth and fell to the brown plate, whence it ran slowly down into her pile of tortellini. The woman did nothing to try to stop the bleeding and instead continued to talk, announcing to Arnar that she would never again have a favourite food nor take pleasure in anything whatsoever. She would never smile again. Then she picked up her plate in her frail-looking hands and left without saying goodbye. Arnar didn’t need to be psychic to notice the pale mark on the ring finger of her left hand. It was easy to imagine what had happened. More often than not, the patients who had it toughest at Vogur Hospital were young women who had lost the love of their husband or children on their way to the bottom. He lost his own appetite at the thought of children sitting with their father at the supper table, wondering why their mother couldn’t be like other mothers. It was a blessing that he himself had no offspring to offend with his drinking.

He turned onto his side and wished he could have brought his iPod. Music usually helped when he wanted to focus on something other than his own wretchedness. He had to content himself with thinking about which songs he would play if he had access to it. After putting together a list in his mind he let the songs play from memory, and although he didn’t get the lyrics right he managed to stick to the melody in more or less most of them. When he was halfway through the fifth song he realized that the singers were all rather gloomy and perfect for kindling the self-pity that simmered inside him as it had done before. He abandoned his interior playlist. Why couldn’t they watch TV here? That was good sleeping medicine, given how boring it had been the few times he’d watched it. Even the snorer was better than nothing; Arnar could look at him and try to imagine that he was watching a live feed from some reality series. That was far better than wondering what had caused the sadness that engulfed him.