Fall Hard (16 page)

‘Loth am I in nowise,

Though in features loathly,

Helm-capt head in pardon

From high king to take.

Who can boast that ever

Better gift he won him,

From a lordly sovereign’s

Noble-minded son?’

“Or, to paraphrase,” I added, “
I might be an ugly bastard, but I’m the wiliest ugly bastard you’ll ever meet
.” I leaned back in my chair, my hands behind my head.

Alex shook his head. There was an odd quality to his smile, and his eyes seemed unusually open and vulnerable as he looked at me. It was almost as if he were seeing me for the first time. “You really admire this guy, don’t you?”

“I’m not sure admire is the right word,” I protested, sitting forward again. The spell seemed to be broken as Alex gave me a sceptical look. “Well, maybe it is,” I admitted. “He may have had his faults—in fact, some of them are pretty repellent—but at least he wasn’t ashamed to admit to them.” I raised an eyebrow. “How many men do you know who’d be willing to write a poem in old age about how they can’t get it up anymore?”

I got a smile for that. “No Viking Viagra then, huh? I guess there’s more than one reason to be glad we live in modern times. Not that I’m talking personally, you understand.”

“’Course not. Wouldn’t dream of thinking it.” I stretched my legs out in front of me, leaning back in my chair.

Alex twisted in his seat until he was facing full into the sun, his eyes squinted almost shut as he gazed out over the sparkling waters of the fjord. Seabirds called as they swooped lazily overhead. “Now this is more like summer.”

I watched him for a moment. He looked relaxed, almost happy, apart from the tension about his eyes. But surely that was just the sun. “You ought to watch out, weather like this. You’ll burn. Or freckle.” He certainly wouldn’t get a warm, golden tan like Viggo.

“Not a chance. I’m wearing factor fifty, baby. Nothing’s getting past this. Shall we make a move, though? If you’re finished.”

We ambled back down Brakarbraut. A few people—tourists, by the look of their bright waterproofs and conspicuous cameras—were sitting at picnic tables outside the Settlement Centre museum, enjoying the sunshine.

Alex cocked his head as he looked at me. “I’m guessing you weren’t planning on a visit to the museum, right? I shouldn’t think there’s anything in there you don’t already know.” He sounded a bit regretful.

I shrugged. “I don’t mind, if you fancy taking a look at it.” I was enjoying Alex’s company far more than I’d thought I would. If it hadn’t been for Viggo, I found myself thinking, maybe I’d have even been tempted to take all Alex’s flirting seriously.

I quashed the thought, uncomfortable. “Come on, I think you get tickets in the gift shop.”

The exhibit on Egil’s saga was downstairs in the basement. It felt like we were descending into the underworld; the place was dimly lit in warm tones, as if by fire and candle light. The room was a wood-lined labyrinth, and many of the exhibits were of rough-cut wood themselves, their harsh lines evocative of the lives of the early Viking settlers.

We’d been issued with audioguides when we paid our money, the better to enjoy the experience in splendid isolation. I might as well have let Alex go in alone. Still, it was only supposed to take half an hour. How boring could it be?

Not at all, as it turned out. I’d have preferred the tedium.

Chapter Fourteen

The first exhibit we came to was a life-size mock-up of Egil’s grandfather, Kveldulfr, in full berserker gear—complete with a wolf’s head worn as a hood, the jaw bones and fangs clearly showing through the mangy fur. There was a primitive savagery about it, and a dusty, musty smell. I swallowed, faintly nauseous, and strode on, leaving Alex behind. A wooden statue of Egil as a stocky, square-featured young boy—surely the three-year-old poet and defiant party-goer, not yet the six-year-old killer—seemed to mock me for my modern frailty.

Hopelessly out of sync now with the audioguide, I blundered on through the darkened maze. My heart was pounding. I couldn’t account for my visceral reaction to the exhibit, and I didn’t want to try. By some chance, it seemed we were alone down here. Where were all the tourists? Just one slow-moving family, solemnly listening to their audioguides, then walking on as one, would have grounded me, made me feel more secure. But there was no one.

Then I came to the Nidstöng, the scorn-stick. It was another grotesque exhibit, a representation of a half-rotted horse’s head, set upon a stick carved with runes. Again, there was the smell of must, of closed rooms and things long dead. I stood paralysed, lines from the saga running through my mind.

Egil took a horse’s head and fixed it on a pole. After that, in solemn form of curse, he thus spake: “Here set I up a curse-pole, and this curse I turn on King Eric and Queen Gunnhilda.”

I’d seen something like this before. But not here. And it had been different; the head had been a skull, its bones shining whitely in the grey light that came through our window…

Our window. There had been a horse’s skull in our flat. Mine and Sven’s.

I stumbled out of the exhibition, tearing off the headphones. I didn’t know if Alex saw me leave, and I didn’t care.

When Alex emerged half an hour later, blinking as his eyes adjusted to the still-bright sunlight, he found me sitting at one of the tables outside the museum. Relaxing in the sunshine with a cup of coffee, the picture only slightly marred by the way I’d spilled half of it into the saucer on the way to my seat.

“That was pretty cool,” he said, pulling up a chair. “I guess you’d seen it all before, though.”

God, if only he knew. “Yes. All pretty basic stuff, really. I didn’t think you’d mind if I headed out.” I rose, leaving my cup of coffee unfinished. I didn’t think my hand would still shake if I lifted the cup, but it had gone cold in any case. “We ought to be heading back.”

“Okay, you’re the boss.” Alex pushed his chair back in, unused, and followed me as I strode off towards the car, ignoring the protests from my leg.

I took the shorter route back to Reykjavik, via the tunnel at Akranes under the mouth of Hvalfjördur, instead of the older route around its coast I’d used on the way. I imagine Alex found my company about as interesting as the scenery. The couple of times he tried to start a conversation, I just muttered something noncommittal and let the subject die. All I could think of was the unseeing eyes of that decayed head on the Nidstöng. I knew just how it felt, I found myself thinking and suppressed a shudder.

When we emerged from the tunnel back into the light, now turned greyish as the skies had clouded over once more, I roused myself to make more of an effort. “I suppose the Native Americans had similar rituals,” I began, realising only after I’d said it how abrupt it must sound. “Cursing their enemies, I mean. You must know all about that.”

“Uh, yeah.” Alex rubbed the back of his neck. “You know what? I’m kinda on vacation here, so how about we drop the shop talk?” He grinned so suddenly it seemed false, somehow. But maybe that was just the effect of having to keep my attention on the road. “Hey, is it true they still believe in fairies here? Tink and her pals, I mean. I’m pretty sure they believe in our kind.” His tone had turned teasing. Conspiratorial. I wasn’t sure I liked it.

“It depends who you talk to. Have you heard the story about a road being diverted a few years ago so as not to disturb a rock that was home to the hidden folk? That really happened.” I managed a weak smile. “I think Mags would like to believe in them.”

“She’s great, isn’t she? Really made me feel welcome when I got here.”

“How did you get to meet her, anyway? I didn’t think she had anything to do with the summer courses.”

“Oh, you know. I was just hanging around the institute, and we got talking. Hey, have you tried the nightlife in Reykjavik? I heard it can be pretty lively.”

“Not really. Not at all, to tell you the truth, but I’ve only been here a few days.” Actually, I realised as I said it, I’d been here over a week—nearly two. But I’d never been much of one for the alcohol-fuelled emptiness of the clubbing scene.

Apparently Alex was made of sterner—or shallower—stuff. “Maybe we should check it out together sometime,” he suggested.

“Maybe.” I switched on the radio and turned up the volume. The sounds of Ras-2 filled the car, unknown local bands and global hits interspersed with excited commentary and adverts in Icelandic. If Alex was annoyed I’d effectively cut off conversation for the rest of the drive, he didn’t say anything.

When I parked the car back at the institute, Alex turned to me as he unbuckled his seat belt. “Thanks, Paul. I had a great time. So I was thinking, it’s Friday night, maybe we could go check out some bars or something?”

Hadn’t he had enough of my company for one day? “Thanks, but I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

Instead of being put off, he shifted closer to me. I felt trapped inside the car, unable to free myself without coming across like some repressed Victorian spinster with the vapours. “I really did have a good time today,” he said. “You know, you’re really something when you get going on your subject. I kinda wish I was one of your students. Then again, maybe not.” He gave a crooked smile, then leaned over and kissed me.

For a moment I was paralysed. This was wrong, all wrong. Grabbing back control, I pushed him away roughly. “What the hell?”

Alex’s eyes were wide, his lips still parted. “Uh. Shit. Sorry. I guess I kinda got the wrong impression.”

“Yes. I guess you kinda did.” My heart was pounding.

“I thought… It doesn’t matter. Sorry.” He shrank back, looking utterly stricken, and I felt a pang of guilt. Although I didn’t see how I could have done anything different.

I took a deep breath. “Look, Alex, I’m… Well, I’m seeing someone.”

“Oh. Okay.” There was an odd tone to his voice that I couldn’t quite identify. “Back in England, right? Don’t you find it kinda hard, being so far apart?”

“No. I mean, it’s someone here. In Iceland.”

“Damn, you move fast!” His laugh sounded forced. “When did you meet this guy? It is a guy, right?”

“Yes… He’s someone I knew before,” I said, then wished I hadn’t.

Alex’s eyes seemed to sharpen. “You remember him?”

“Not really. A bit.” Why did he have to make things so complicated? “I saw him at Pride—I mean, he saw me, and he said hello. That’s all.”

Alex was frowning. “So…you knew him before the accident, or you were seeing him before?”

Was it really any of his business? I bit back my first, annoyed retort. “I knew Viggo before, yes, but we were just friends. I was with someone else then. The one who died, remember?”

Alex flinched. “Yeah. I remember,” he snapped, his voice rough. Then he seemed to catch himself. “So, uh, Viggo. He’s a local?”

“Yes.” God, how abrupt did I have to be to make him drop it?

“What’s he do?”

“Does it matter?”

“What, is it some big secret?” He was smiling, a tense, forced rictus. As if it were a joke. It wasn’t a joke.

“His name’s Viggo Gudrunarson. He drives the riverjet at Hvita. And works in a bar. Happy? Look, I’ve got to go.” Christ, take the bloody hint, all right?

Finally, he did, opening the car door and sliding out. He hesitated for a moment, looking as though he was about to say something, then shook his head almost imperceptibly. He shut the door quietly and walked off without looking back at me. God, it was a relief to be left on my own.
I love to see you go, but I hate to watch you leave.
The thought brought a bitter smile to my face.
 
I’d been planning to pop back into the institute, sort out my desk, maybe bring home some files. But I couldn’t face it now.

I started up the car again and drove off, heading for the storage facility. If there really had been a horse’s skull in our flat, it would be there, wouldn’t it? Sven’s mother would hardly have taken it back to America with her. Somewhere, in that jumble of boxes, should be the proof I wasn’t just imagining things.

Unless of course it had simply been thrown in a dustbin. But would the students who packed up our stuff have taken that decision upon themselves? Of course, there was a fair chance Mags would know if there had been anything so grotesque amongst our belongings. I could phone and ask her—but I didn’t want to.

If it really was all a product of my fevered imagination, fired by the macabre exhibits at the Settlement Centre, she’d probably think I was losing what remained of my mind. No, I thought as I parked the car. Better to look through the boxes here. Even if it took me all night.

Buoyed by my own decisiveness, I got out of the car and went inside, finding my way back to my storage unit with little difficulty. At least my short-term memory hadn’t failed me. I stood for a moment at the door of the container, staring at the unsorted mass of boxes; then I resolutely picked one and opened it up. More clothes, so I put it by the door to take home with me. The next was a jumble of paperwork. I hesitated—if I hadn’t needed it for the last eight months, surely I never would? It didn’t look like anything relevant to my work, just bills and correspondence. But there might be something important in there. Grudgingly, I shoved it over by the first box.