Fall Hard (24 page)

She nodded, gave a tight little smile and scurried off.

I walked slowly down to the cafeteria. Not slowly enough, because just as I got there, Alex emerged. He stopped dead when he saw me. “Paul.”

“Have you had me chipped?” I hadn’t been ready to see him quite so soon.

Alex frowned. “What?”

“You were wrong about Viggo,” I said, stepping up closer to him. “Sven’s death was just an accident.”

“He told you that? Gudrunarson?”

“No. I remembered.”

He made a jerky, aborted movement. “How?”

I was already getting tired of rehashing the story, and I hadn’t even spoken to Gretchen yet. Maybe I should just post it up on Facebook and have done with it. “I went to Gullfoss. It brought things back.”

“You remember everything? Tell me.” His eyes were dark, and he stepped towards me, made a motion as if to grab hold of me before thinking better of it. Something clicked.

I thought about Sven, his energy, his fierce enthusiasm for anything that interested him—it was all or nothing for Sven. I could see him now at Borg á Mýrum, his eyes bright and his gestures animated as he argued some point or other, with me playing devil’s advocate for the sheer joy of watching him. Finally, finally I felt the twist of regret, of grief I’d been missing all this time.

And then I remembered he’d wanted me to die with him. Had turned a medieval curse on Viggo and perhaps even planned to kill him. Or why else would Sven have lured him out to Gullfoss? I swallowed, suddenly nauseous. Alex didn’t know any of this, I reminded myself. He only knew Sven as he’d used to be.

“You loved him, didn’t you?” I whispered.

Alex’s eyes closed for a moment. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Since the day I first met him. He was just so…shit, so focussed, you know? It didn’t happen often, but hell, it was really something, to have that aimed at you.” He half laughed. It was a bitter sound. “I guess you’d know all about that, wouldn’t you? I wanted to kill you when I heard he’d died.” He wrapped his arms around himself. “That last time he came back to the States, he was all kinds of nervy. Off. He told me work was going fine, the book was going fine, so I figured you’d been jerking him around.”

“I wasn’t.” My tone was too sharp, so I rushed on. “The book wasn’t fine. I found it the other night on a USB stick. It was…” I shook my head. “His theories didn’t make sense. I think he was getting confused between his life and Egil’s.”

“So what happened up at Gullfoss?”

I took a deep breath. “Sven and I met there. You were right about him not being himself. He accused me of cheating on him with Viggo—which, just to reiterate, I wasn’t—and then he hit me. I lost my temper, said a few things I’m not proud of, and he…flipped. He grabbed hold of me, and somehow we tumbled over the edge. It was an accident,” I added, although I was certain it hadn’t been. But what good would it do to tell him that? I shrugged wearily. “He fell into the water. I didn’t.”

“What about Gudrunarson?”

“What about him? It was nothing to do with him. I told you, I wasn’t cheating on Sven.” Sweat prickled at my back as I forced my stance to stay relaxed.

Alex frowned, stepping forward until he was uncomfortably close. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?”

“You don’t know,” I said, suddenly tired of it all. “You just have to decide if you trust me.”

Alex stared at me for a long moment. Then he leaned back against the wall and buried his face in his hands. “Shit, I don’t know. You mess with my head, you know that? That face…”

“I’m not Sven. I’m nothing like him, you know that.”

“Maybe.” He let his hands fall, and I was about to speak again when his gaze darted over my shoulder. “Oh. Hi, Mags.”

I turned to see she’d caught up with us at last. “Are we all going for coffee, then?” she asked with brittle brightness.

“No, I, uh…” Alex rubbed the back of his neck. “I gotta go. I’ll see you around.” He took a couple of paces, then turned. “Hey, Paul, I guess your leg’s doing better today.”

I stared at him. “What?”

He gestured. “No stick.”

Alex was right, I realised with a jolt to my chest. I hadn’t even remembered I’d left it at Viggo’s.

“Oh, I’m so pleased you’re feeling better.” Mags—caring, motherly, determinedly oblivious Mags—smiled at me, and by the time I’d recovered from the distraction, Alex was gone.

I sighed. “God, I need that coffee.”

After I’d given Mags the edited version of the story and assured her, only partly mendaciously, I was okay about it, I finally got to sit back down at my desk and pick up my notes. I’d need to get some actual work done soon; students would be arriving before I knew it. I’d have to leave Egil to his own devices then, at least at the start. The course I was going to be giving covered all the main sagas and their various heroes. Some—most of them, even—far more traditionally heroic than Egil had been.

For a moment it occurred to me to wonder just what the hell I saw in this bad-tempered, bloodthirsty Viking. Which I supposed was the whole point of my research. The nature of a hero. Oh, I was looking at the other players in his story too, and his brother Thorolfr in particular. But the main focus, as always, was Egil himself. He was such a fascinating mix of the heroic and the less admirable.

Egil wasn’t perfect—far from it. He didn’t always do the right thing, and he often acted in haste, carried away by his emotions, not cool logic. But he had his softer, lyrical side too, and when he loved, he loved deeply.

Just like the rest of us, I supposed.

My phone rang.

“Hey,” Viggo said, his voice warm and mellow.

“Hey to you too. Break between trips?” God, it was a relief to talk without having to
say
anything.

I could have sworn I heard Viggo’s smile down the line. “I have half an hour until the next one. Is everything okay? You’re okay?”

“No problems,” I said, smiling back. “I spoke to Alex. Told him it was an accident. I’m fine.”

And perhaps it wasn’t quite true, not yet. But thinking of Viggo, of his voice as he played the guitar and his dingy yet welcoming flat with the hideous throw on the sofa and Loki in his basket, I thought I would be fine.

In the end.

Epilogue

Six months later, I was back at Keflavik airport, a light dusting of snow rapidly melting into the shoulders of my padded jacket in the warm indoor air. Icelandic winters aren’t generally as Arctic as most people imagine, but this year’s weather seemed to be making a special effort to live up to expectations. At this time of the morning it was pitch dark outside, of course—in winter, the sun in Iceland bears an uncanny resemblance to some of the more die-hard patrons of Reykjavik’s bars. It wouldn’t manage to drag itself blearily above the horizon until getting on for noon and would slump back down, exhausted by its efforts, a mere four hours later.

The short days took some getting used to, and winter must have been a dreary time in the days before electricity. But in the run up to a modern Christmas, the lights of Reykjavik shone brightly. The airport was a cheerful place too. On December 23
^rd
, everyone seemed to be travelling hopefully, laden with gifts for long-missed family and friends.

My hands were empty. I wasn’t here to travel.

Gretchen gave a big smile when she spotted me and hurried over as fast as her luggage would let her. “Paul!”

“Hi, Scratch.” I hugged her tight. She seemed smaller than I remembered, a fragile creature cocooned in the thick woollen sweater I’d bought her. She smelled of home and Christmas. God, it was good to see her. I stepped back and tried to turn the soppy grin on my face into something more teasing. “Did you bring the entire contents of your flat?”

“Arse. I’ve been reading up on Icelandic Christmases. Thought I’d better bring plenty of shoes for the Yule Lads to leave my presents in.”

“They only leave presents for good little girls, you know. Bad ones get potatoes. Still, you could always open your own chip shop. Come on, give me one of those bags.”

“Are you sure you—hang on, where’s your stick?” Gretchen frowned.

“I haven’t been using it much lately. My leg’s a lot better these days.” I grabbed her cabin bag and slung it over my shoulder, leaving her to negotiate the wheeled case. “Was the journey okay?”

“Yeah, fine. Boring. So when do I get to meet Viggo?”

“In about thirty seconds. He stayed with the car so he could park a bit nearer.” I led the way outside to where the Mitsubishi waited, headlights blazing. “I’ll put the bags in. You just get in,” I shouted over the wind, opening the passenger door for her.

When I climbed into the backseat, Gretchen was shivering and blowing on her hands in a probably vain attempt to warm them. “It’s bloody freezing here!”

“Have you introduced yourself to Viggo?”

“Nope. For all he knows, I’m just some mad Englishwoman who gets into cars with people she doesn’t know. Hi, Viggo, I’m Gretchen.” She extended one reddened hand, and he shook it with a teasing smile.

“It’s good to meet you. But I don’t know what you mean about the weather. This is quite a warm day for Iceland.” Deadpan, Viggo put the car in gear and pulled out.

“You mean it gets colder?” Gretchen’s voice was so full of dismay, I laughed.

“Ignore him, he’s just winding you up. And if he tries to tell you it’s an Icelandic tradition to roll naked in the snow on Christmas morning, don’t listen to him.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I might be persuaded on that one, if Viggo goes first.” She gave him a look I found faintly alarming.

“What about Sunil?” Sunil was Gretchen’s boyfriend. He’d been invited too, but getting time off for Christmas wasn’t so easy for hospital paediatricians. Or possibly the thought of flying to another country to spend ten days with people he’d never met was just a little too daunting, as far as first experiences of meeting the family went.

“I can roll around naked with Sunil any day.” She gave me an evil grin over her shoulder.

I shuddered. “
Way
too much information. How’s he keeping, anyway? Things still going okay with you two?”

“Fine.” That was all she’d ever say about her relationship on the phone, too. I’d have to dig for more information later. “He bought me a gorgeous jacket for Christmas—it’s in my case.”

“That’s good,” Viggo said, his eyes still on the road. “You need to wear something new on Christmas Day so the Yule Cat won’t eat you.”

“Iceland,” I commented wryly. “Possibly the only country in the world whose folklore includes monsters sponsored by the clothing industry.”

“Well, if the Yule Cat comes after me, I can always throw a potato at it.” Gretchen mock-glared at me over the back of the seat. “Apparently I’m going to have plenty of those.”

We chatted on as we drove through brightly lit, snow-spangled streets to my—our—flat on the outskirts of Reykjavik. We’d be spending tomorrow with Mags, who was looking forward to seeing Gretchen again, under happier circumstances this time. Mags had declined our invitation for Christmas Day, explaining pinkly she had a prior engagement with a divorced grandfather of three, who lectured in English in the university. Since then, she’d stoically endured a lot of teasing about her “young man”. Especially when a new troll had appeared on her desk, apparently a gift from the man himself.

We pulled up outside the flat, the advent candles in the window a beacon of hope and welcome. Even the skies were brightening now as the hungover sun finally yawned and rose for the day. Bracing ourselves, we made the quick dash between car and front door.

Loki had been waiting impatiently for our return; we were greeted by the excited skittering of his claws on the floor tiles and a tail that wouldn’t stop wagging.

“Oh, he’s gorgeous!” Gretchen crouched to pet him. “Such a beautiful coat.”

“I think your sister likes the dog better than she likes me,” Viggo said, making a sad face.

I laughed. “That’s just as well. I wasn’t planning to share you with her, anyway.”

Gretchen looked up archly. “Typical. He was just like that when we were kids too. Never gave me any of his sweets.”

As Viggo, Loki padding at his heels, made light work of her luggage, Gretchen stood in the doorway and looked down over Reykjavik to the bay beyond. “It’s so pretty here in the snow. I’m starting to see why you like it so much.” She leaned in to whisper in my ear. “And it’s pretty obvious why you like Viggo so much. He’s great—I love his sense of humour.”

I nodded, more pleased than I’d have admitted that she approved of him. “It’s supposed to clear up later on. So you might get to see the Northern Lights tonight, if we’re lucky.” I’d never tire of watching them with Viggo. How magical must they have appeared to the early Viking settlers?

Gretchen wrapped her arms around herself and shivered in exaggerated fashion. “Maybe I’ll have warmed up by then. Come on, let’s go inside.”

I followed her in, took her jacket and deposited her on the sofa, leaving her with Loki and a promise of warm drinks. Viggo was already in the kitchen, starting the coffee machine going. Having hung up our coats, I put the kettle on—Gretchen would want tea. As I slipped my arms around his waist, he smiled over his shoulder at me. I nuzzled into his neck, breathing in his warm, spicy scent mingled with the rich pick-me-up aroma of Italian coffee beans. “She likes you,” I whispered. “I hope it’s mutual.”