Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - The Day Is Dark

There was a knock at the door and in peeked the young policeman who had stayed with them during the night. ‘You can get ready to go. We estimate the helicopter will be ready to take off in just over half an hour.’

They didn’t need to be told twice, and within the promised half hour they were all hurrying out to the helicopter. Their bags had been brought out and when Thóra’s suitcase was thrown in rather roughly she suddenly felt overwhelmed by the longing to go home. She accepted Matthew’s help in getting into the helicopter and in a few moments they were all in their seats with their belts fastened. However, they had to sit that way for some time. ‘Don’t tell me something’s come up,’ muttered Eyjólfur, craning to look out of the window in the hope of seeing some activity. ‘If this helicopter doesn’t take off soon, I’ll go mad.’

He’d barely got the words out before the reason for the delay became clear. It wasn’t because the bodies of Oddný Hildur or the drillers were being sent on the same flight; instead two policemen appeared in the cafeteria doorway, half dragging between them Naruana, the son of the hunter Igimaq. The man was in handcuffs and walked with his head bent, hiding his face. The chief investigator took his shoulders and directed him towards the helicopter, while his partner followed close on their heels. The two helicopter pilots ran to assist them, then got on board, put on their headphones and started going over their instruments while the policemen tried with some difficulty to strap the prisoner into his seat. Thóra and the others bore silent witness to the young man’s unhappiness and desperation. They either had to shut their eyes or witness the man’s hopeless attempts to escape, his crazed, bloodshot eyes and swollen face as he fought against the police tooth and nail. Then he collapsed without warning and surrendered control to them. The policemen exchanged cautious glances as they put the seatbelt around Naruana’s waist.

Thóra took Friðrikka’s gloved hand in hers as she stared at the back view of the man who had probably killed her friend. She leaned in close to Friðrikka and whispered in her ear so the others couldn’t hear: ‘Don’t think about it. You’ll be home soon, with your cat in your arms.’ Friðrikka nodded vigorously and seemed to accept this. Thóra released her hands and hoped that they would reach their destination without World War Three breaking out on board the helicopter.

The propeller blades started rotating and after that no one spoke. Thóra watched Naruana in between looking out of the window at the harsh white landscape. She noticed that he turned his head several times to look out, and couldn’t help but wonder what was going through his mind. Perhaps he knew he wouldn’t see his home again for a very long time and wished to fix in his mind how the cliff belts highest up on the mountains tore through the snowy wastes, and how the endless ice cap reflected the light of the sun, which was still low in the sky.

The helicopter landed in Kulusuk. Thóra and her colleagues were greatly disappointed to discover no plane from the Icelandic airline waiting for them on the runway. They would have to wait at the airport or go to the hotel. They left the helicopter wearily and waited as the police took Naruana off. Then they followed the trio in the direction of the terminal. As before, the chief investigator steered the young man, who seemed to have given up any attempt to escape. He walked alongside the officers without protest, although his steps were heavy. In the doorway of the terminal he suddenly turned around and looked back at them all. Friðrikka stopped abruptly, causing Bella to run into her.

‘I didn’t kill anyone.’ You didn’t need to speak much Danish to understand Naruana’s words. ‘I didn’t kill anyone,’ he repeated, before being pulled roughly inside. The group remained standing outside, silently. Thóra didn’t understand what the man hoped to achieve by telling them this; maybe he thought the group would get the authorities to release him. However, none of them wished to involve themselves in the man’s case, even if they had been in any position to do so.

‘What’s wrong with him?’ scowled Eyjólfur. ‘Does he expect us to feel sorry for him?’

‘I have to admit that I do now. This is a tragedy, no matter how you look at it. Maybe he thought he was pleasing the spirits that everyone fears so much.’ Thóra entered the terminal without waiting for a response from Eyjólfur or Friðrikka, who might have taken this to mean that Thóra was insulting the memory of her dead friend. A police officer approached her as she entered and said they should sit down and wait for a moment while he checked on their flight home. They sat in a row in the plastic seats fastened to the wall of the little waiting room. The police walked off with Naruana, who did not look around, but stared fixedly down at his feet.

‘That’s the worst duty free shop I’ve ever seen.’ Bella pointed at the corner of the hall where the different types of alcohol, countable on the fingers of one hand, and cartons of four different types of cigarettes were arranged on the shelves. ‘And I thought the duty free shop in Reykjavík was a joke.’ Her comment lightened the rather oppressive atmosphere.

‘Wouldn’t it be a good idea to have a drink?’ Alvar stood up and walked to the window where American chocolate and Greenlandic artworks were for sale. He cheerfully ordered a beer from a young Greenlandic girl and looked over at the group in the hope that others would follow his example. They did not respond. Alvar seemed slightly disgruntled as he paid; he walked back to his seat with the green Tuborg can in his hand and took a swig before sitting down. Thóra predicted that he would make another trip to the window in the blink of an eye. Her prediction was correct. In no mood for watching this idiot pickle himself again, she took out her mobile and called her son. He answered happily and informed her that all was quiet on the home front. Of course his dad was driving him crazy with his endless questions about what he was going to do after graduation, but since Gylfi still had two whole years of school to go after this one, he found the question more than premature. When you’re eighteen years old every year is like an entire lifetime. Otherwise everything was going fine except that, as a conscientious older brother, he felt that Sóley hadn’t been encouraged enough to practise her violin. He didn’t mind putting up with the screeching, and felt bad if she didn’t keep it up. According to him it was his dad’s new wife that had hampered Sóley’s musical development, since she couldn’t bear to be inside the house when the girl played. Thóra would have to deal with that when she came home. When Gylfi had sufficiently aired his concern for his sister’s music lessons he quickly switched to the proposed trip to Spain and described in a long speech how important it was that they planned their trip early. From what Thóra could gather from this monologue, he and Sigga were missing the boat and the gates to the wide world outside Iceland were about to close for good. Thóra stuck to her guns and said that she would discuss this with him calmly when she came home.

She hung up but didn’t have time to put away her mobile before it rang again immediately. She didn’t recognize the number, but it seemed familiar. She hoped it wasn’t the music school calling to complain about Sóley’s performance, but it turned out to be Arnar Jóhannesson, calling from Vogur. Thóra stood and moved over to one of the furthest corners of the hall so that she could speak to him in private.

‘I was told you were trying to reach me.’ Arnar’s speech was sad and slow; he sounded like a man who had suffered a shock but who would come to accept it. ‘I’m not exactly sure who you are or why you want to talk to me, but…’ He tailed off.