Fall Hard (17 page)

The next contained more paperbacks. They could stay; I’d hardly scratched the surface of the previous stock I’d taken back. I reclosed the box carefully and put it to one side. The following box held various kitchen implements, half of which I was sure must have either belonged to Sven or been unjustly liberated from the flat we’d rented. At least, I couldn’t conceive of myself ever having gone out and bought a pasta machine. Or an avocado slicer. It took me several minutes to work out what that one was, and could you even get avocadoes in Iceland? Surely the price would be so high you might as well eat out and save yourself the effort?

I was wasting my time here. Well, maybe not completely—it was a job that had to be done, unless I was planning to keep this storage container indefinitely. It struck me, then, I didn’t know who was paying for it. If it was the institute, fine—but if it was Mags, I should clear it out as soon as possible. I’d have to ask her tomorrow, I thought, opening up another box. This one felt light, almost empty—

I froze.

I’d found it. White bone gleamed eerily in the harsh artificial light.

Chapter Fifteen

It was real. I hadn’t imagined it. There was a horse’s skull lying in the box, on top of an unevenly folded woollen blanket. My first instinct was to recoil. I didn’t want to touch it. Telling myself not to be so bloody squeamish, I watched my hands, feeling as if they belonged to someone else, as they lifted the macabre thing out of the box. It felt dry, almost chalky, and there was an odd, dusty smell to it.

Memory hit me.

My voice.
“What the hell is that thing doing here?”

A short laugh. Had it sounded forced? I couldn’t tell.
“Why, does it bother you? I was planning on photographing it for the book.”
An American accent, its tones warm and smooth, causing a painful tug in my belly.

I’d picked it up. Turned it around in my hands, and put it down again. Wrong.

How did I know it had been wrong?

Because the next time I’d seen it, it had been facing the other way again.

I dropped the skull back into the box and backed away a step, breathing hard. That had been Sven. I’d finally remembered him—his voice, at any rate. I hadn’t seen his face.

Why could I still not see his face? Or work out how that brief snippet of memory had made me feel? It hurt—but it pulled at me too. Made me want to see more, hear more, even though I knew I’d regret it. And how did I know, just
know
that there was something—for want of a better word—
evil
about that skull? I realised I was scrubbing my hands on my trousers. I shouldn’t have touched the thing.

I shouldn’t have come. I left the boxes where they lay and stumbled outside, wishing I hadn’t left my stick in the car.

Once I was out in the fresh, salt-laden air, of course, I felt like an idiot. God, how old was I to be creeped out by the insides of a common farm animal? Why
shouldn’t
Sven have wanted a picture of a horse’s skull for his book? He could have a whole bloody skeletal menagerie if he wanted. It didn’t mean he was, what? Turning curses on people? Did I honestly think that was what Sven had been up to? I was being ridiculous, giving the wretched thing far more importance than it deserved. Who the hell would he want to curse, anyway? A colleague who took his parking space at the power plant?

Shaking my head at myself, I went back inside. I grabbed the box of clothes, stacked the box of paperwork awkwardly on top and took them out to my car.

I left the skull where it lay.

By the time I’d driven back to my flat, my pulse had stopped racing. I dumped the boxes none too gently in a corner and stood in the middle of the living room, unable to settle.

I wanted to see Viggo—but it was Friday; he’d be working.

Then again, what was to stop me popping into Mistilteinn for a drink? I opened up my laptop and found the café’s location easily enough—predictably, right in the centre of town, not far from the main shopping area. Out of curiosity, I clicked on a couple of reviews. They were mainly positive, which reassured me Viggo wasn’t working in a complete dive, and one of them mentioned the “occasional live music” as a plus.

Reykjavik nightlife doesn’t start very early. Just as well, as I was in desperate need of a shower after a day walking in the sunshine and an hour or so rooting through dusty boxes. After I’d washed off the grime, I shaved and put on a clean shirt. Trousers or jeans? I didn’t want to look like I was trying too hard.

Jeans, then. As I belted them, I realised I hadn’t eaten since Borgarnes. Still, I’d probably be able to get something in Mistilteinn. I grabbed my jacket, checked I had plenty of cash in my wallet—drinks in Iceland aren’t cheap—and walked out to the car.

The streets of Reykjavik were fairly quiet at this in-between time of the night. The teenagers were probably all still at home, getting tanked up on spirits at their parents’ expense. I parked down by the harbour and limped up Laugavegur, then along a side street. I’d done a bit more walking today than I ought to have, and leaving my stick in the car had probably been ill-advised.

I shook my head at myself ruefully. Not trying too hard? Yeah, right.

Much like Kveldulfr and Skallagrim, the cafés of Reykjavik 101 take on a darker, wilder character in the evening, turning themselves into nightclubs full of young people in search of a dance, a drink and a fuck, and not necessarily in that order. It was only half past nine, and Mistilteinn was still quiet—I doubted it would get really busy much before midnight. At this hour, the transformation had barely started; the atmosphere was halfway between seedy café and pub.

But I didn’t give a damn what the place was like, because Viggo was behind the bar. He spotted me immediately, and his face lit up. Perching myself on one of the stools at the bar felt far like coming home after a hard day. A pretty blond girl with a ring in her lip managed to beat him over to ask, in Icelandic, what I wanted, but Viggo put a hand on her arm and muttered something in her multiply pierced ear. She smiled knowingly and headed off to rearrange some glasses at the opposite end of the bar.

“Paul. It’s good to see you,” Viggo said, leaning over the bar so close to me I could have leaned in and kissed him. “What can I get you?”

“Coffee? And can I buy you a drink too?”

“Of course.” God, it was good to see his smile.

I noticed he only poured himself a Coke. “No drinking on duty?” I asked when he came back with my coffee.

“I don’t like to drink too much. If I start now, I don’t stop until we close.” His smile turned crooked, as well it might. I’d seen from the website the place stayed open until four a.m.

“Sensible man,” I said and took a sip of coffee. It was strong and just bitter enough.

I’d had no intention of staying until Viggo finished work, but somehow I just never left the place. I got talking to a Spanish couple who were in Reykjavik for a long weekend, then a group of locals roped me into a surreal discussion on the comparative merits of various English football teams. It was fun in a way things hadn’t been since my accident. I hadn’t realised how withdrawn I’d become, with the uncertainty of a lost year hanging over me all the time. Nobody here, save for Viggo, knew about my damaged memory or even my leg. It was liberating.

Later on, when it got crowded, hot and humid and so noisy you could barely hear yourself shout into the ear of the person next to you, I simply sat and enjoyed the atmosphere. It probably helped that I’d decided to throw caution to the winds and downed a couple of beers.

“You may have to help me get home,” I yelled a warning to Viggo as he served up the second. “I haven’t drunk in months.” I still hadn’t eaten either, I recalled. But it was probably too late to ask for food now, and I wasn’t feeling all that hungry.

He smiled. “Don’t worry. I’ll look after you.”

A short while later, Viggo disappeared into a back room. He came out holding his guitar. The drinkers sitting at a table in one corner cheerfully made way for him, and several people called loudly for quiet as he sat on the edge of the table and tuned up. There was no microphone, but gradually the hush spread, and Viggo began to play.

He sang several songs, all in English. They seemed folksy and vaguely familiar but weren’t well known to me. Perhaps they were Irish too. Then he started to sing in Icelandic. The tune was strongly rhythmical, a little mournful, and people began to sing along.

I’d heard this song before. Was it the melody from my dream? Images tumbled into my head, making me dizzy. Or was it just the beer? No, I’d heard this before—what’s more, I’d heard Viggo sing it before. I was sure of it. Here. In my mind, it was colder, quieter, and Viggo wore a woollen sweater. A couple walked past me, their thick coats carrying the sharp smell of snow mingled with cigarette smoke.

I blinked, and they were gone, replaced by sweaty clubbers in thin summer clothing.

The blond girl behind the bar was talking to me, I realised. “Are you okay?” she asked with the sort of emphasis you use when you’re repeating yourself. “You look strange, like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I’m fine,” I assured her hurriedly. “What is this song?”

She smiled, the ring in her lip looking odd against her teeth. “’Krummavisur’. It’s an old song, about a raven. He is looking for food in the snow, and when he goes to a house, the dog chases him away. The land is very cold, only white, and he must sleep under a rock.”

Of course. I knew it well. I’d just…forgotten. “Thanks,” I said. She smiled and moved away to serve someone.

“That was fantastic,” I said to Viggo when he finally put away his guitar and came back to join me at the bar. His face was shining, his hair a little sweaty.

“You liked it?”

“Of course I did.” Should I tell him about the memory? No, I decided, more on gut feeling than on any logic. “Tell you what, why don’t we have a beer to celebrate?”

“Okay.” He served us up an ice-cold Thule each. It was the first alcoholic drink I’d seen him have tonight.

“This had better be my last,” I said, raising my bottle, condensation running down the side and onto my hand. “Or you’ll be carrying me home.”

Viggo grinned. “I can do that. It’s not long now,” he added, gesturing at the window. I saw to my surprise that although the sun hadn’t yet risen, the skies were getting lighter in preparation for dawn.

Odd, that. Wasn’t the night supposed to be darkest just before the dawn? I looked at my watch. “God, I can’t believe I’ve been here all night. I’d better call a taxi.” I’d have to pick my car up later in the weekend and hope I hadn’t been ticketed in the meantime.

Viggo leaned close. “I’ll take you home,” he said, his voice a low rumble.

“Whose home?”

“Yours. Or mine. I don’t mind.”

I was embarrassingly unsteady when I finally got to my feet. I’d thought Viggo would have to stay and clean up after the night, but he was energetically shooed away by the smiling blonde girl. She shouted something in Icelandic after us as we left. I’d have asked Viggo what it was, but as the last thing I’d heard her say to Viggo had been, “Go! Go screw your boyfriend!” I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

“Am I your boyfriend?” I asked as we wandered down Laugavegur. Viggo had his arm around me; I wasn’t sure if it was affection or just concern—probably well-founded—I might not stay upright without it.

“I don’t know. Am I your boyfriend?”

This struck me as very, very funny, and I laughed aloud. Viggo laughed too and squeezed me tighter.

When we reached his Land Rover, parked on a side street a short distance away, he poured me into the passenger seat and buckled me in. I’d been gradually sobering up in the cooler air outside, and, feeling that was probably a good thing, I wound down the passenger window halfway. “God, I must be the cheapest date ever,” I muttered, shaking my head. “Drunk on three beers.”

“It’s okay. You’re a friendly drunk.” Viggo took his hand off the gear stick to pat my knee.

“What kind of a drunk are you?” I asked idly.

“I don’t get drunk.” Something about his tone made me glance up at his face, but whatever expression was on it vanished, washed away by one of his ready smiles. “Where do you want me to take you?”

I grinned. “There’s an obvious answer to that.” I leaned back in the passenger seat and closed my eyes, but a wave of vertigo made me open them again. “Your flat is nearer. Let’s go there.”

Viggo nodded and put the Land Rover in gear.

I was asleep when we arrived there, jolting awake as Viggo pulled on the handbrake. I looked through the window and blinked, wondering why there was no snow on the ground. Then I remembered it was summer now.

“Okay?” Viggo asked.

“Fine.” I opened the door and stepped down from the Land Rover. The early morning air was chilly, and I shivered. A warm arm slid around my waist. I leaned into Viggo’s solid form, feeling half-asleep still, light-headed from the unaccustomed alcohol and lack of food and sleep.

I wondered what I’d done with my stick, then recalled I’d left it back in my car, down by the harbour.

Good.

“Coffee?” Viggo asked as he steered me to his door.