The Day is Dark (22 page)

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.

Chapter 17

21 March 2008

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.

Arnar pulled the bedclothes down over his toes. His room was cold, since he’d left the window wide open to make sure that he wouldn’t wake with a headache, as he’d done the day before. Greenland came to mind, cold and lonely, just like him. His robe hung on a hook on the wall at the end of his bed and he considered putting it on to make himself warmer beneath the covers. He decided not to, since it was unbearable enough having to put it on and take it off, day in day out, without doing so at night as well. He had had a wonderful duvet in Greenland, which he had splurged on after his first work tour. The quilt he’d received from Berg Technology had been similar to the one he lay under now, filled with polyester or some other artificial material that crumpled stiffly over him with each movement. He hoped no one would take the duvet before he could make arrangements to send for his belongings. If someone broke into his place there wasn’t anything else to steal, except perhaps the old laptop he’d used mainly to watch movies. He couldn’t imagine anyone would want that old piece of junk, but one never knew. What had disappeared from the camp hadn’t exactly all been important or valuable. He’d lost a pair of snow boots, and a hat that he couldn’t imagine a thief would be able to resell. He had owned the boots for many years, and the only reason he hadn’t thrown them away was that he felt it was useful to have a worn-out pair of boots for walking between the buildings at the work camp. When they were stolen, he thought at first that it was yet another practical joke played by his co-workers at his expense and thus didn’t ask around for them until it became clear that that was not the case. Thieves who found a reason to steal worn-out old moon boots and a matching hat were just as likely to nab a laptop. And the bedspread. It was also possible that his co-workers had taken it and damaged it, just to make life miserable for him. That would have been typical.

He found it unpleasant to let his mind wander to his old workplace, even though he’d managed to avoid thinking about what caused him the most pain. It was bad enough to be reminded of the endless teasing that had got worse and worse the longer it went on. At the recollection of it he felt a stabbing pain in his chest, and a familiar ache as though they actually had punched him. The only difference was that if he had been subjected to physical violence the pain would have disappeared long ago, along with the bruises. Worst of all, he could neither discuss this in the group nor with the psychiatrist or therapist. It would probably ease his mind to speak to a professional, but it might not and it wasn’t worth the risk. He wanted people to like him, but that wouldn’t happen if he told the whole story as it had really occurred. They would think him an idiot who deserved everything he got. The staff had already started regarding him askance, clearly sensing that something more than his alcoholism was troubling him. It had been a mistake to speak to the girl the night before, about good and evil. She had probably told his therapist about their conversation. At least his sponsor had paid Arnar more attention today than on previous days and had called in on him repeatedly to find out how he was doing.

For example, the therapist had asked Arnar why he never called his friends or relatives. The man apparently kept tabs on him, because when Arnar lied that he’d made several phone calls that morning, the man shook his head and said that that wasn’t strictly true, was it; he knew Arnar hadn’t called anyone since he had been admitted, when he’d asked to be allowed to call his employer to inform them that he was in rehab. Arnar dropped the subject, finding it easier than telling the truth – that he had no one to call. His mother was dead, and his relationship with his father so fragile that it would certainly be shattered if he called him – again – from Vogur. His two brothers had had more than enough of him and the same went for the small group of people he had once considered his friends. If he wanted to have a comforting phone conversation with someone he would have to call the Red Cross helpline, and he hadn’t sunk that low yet. Tomorrow he would go and ask if he could have some money from the pocket of the jacket he’d been made to leave behind along with his other belongings on admission. Then he would call directory enquiries and ask for some random addresses and phone numbers. If he were lucky this would get noticed and they would think he was calling someone close to him. Maybe then they would look at him like any other patient.

Arnar heard footsteps out in the corridor. This was either the night guard on his rounds or someone on the day shift just starting work. He didn’t know which would be worse, that the night was young or the morning close at hand; he didn’t like either option. He determined to try to sleep. To stop thinking about what was past, since it meant little when all was said and done. He could change none of it. It was equally useless to wonder about the future, since it wasn’t in his hands. The moment was the only thing that he could control; try to rest, and not worry about everything under the sun. Arnar squeezed his eyes shut again and started counting in his head. It didn’t have the intended effect. One – lost employee; two – also lost; three – dead. One – lost employee; two – also lost; three – dead. One – lost employee; two – also lost; three – dead. He wanted a drink desperately, despite having resolved to stop. Surprisingly enough, it wasn’t the effect of being drunk that tugged at him; instead he missed the dreamless sleep, the ability to drink away his consciousness and turn off his brain, allowing it to rest. Even his bad conscience could not hold out against the alcohol. It always won.

Friðrikka had been bursting into tears at regular intervals, and her puffy face glistened with tears and mucus. Thóra took care not to reveal how little she wanted to look at this but tried to stay cheerful and comfort her. She was unused to soothing the tears of grown-ups and didn’t know where to begin. In the end she just sighed and laid her hand gently on Friðrikka’s shoulder. The men, who had been standing around awkwardly, seemed relieved. They had all looked to Thóra in unison in the hope that she would do something. Although no one said a word it was clear that she had to take care of this, as the only other woman there besides Friðrikka and Bella. ‘It’ll be all right.’ Thóra couldn’t think of anything better to say. ‘We’ll let the police know, and now they’ll have to come.’

‘There’s red wine on my socks,’ snivelled the geologist, starting to pull off the offending items. ‘It looks like blood.’ She wasn’t the only one; she’d dropped two bottles of the stuff on the ground and they’d all stepped in it as they rushed to get to her.

‘What were you doing inside the freezer?’ It was perhaps better to speak normally to the woman rather than encourage more tears by being overly compassionate. ‘Surely you didn’t find the bottles of wine in there?’

‘What?’ Friðrikka looked up and stared dully at Thóra. She was holding one of her socks. Suddenly she seemed to pull herself together. She spoke slowly, and once or twice a hiccup interrupted what she was saying. ‘The wine is stored in the cook’s office and I went there first. I only found three bottles and I thought that wouldn’t be enough, so I decided to check and see whether there was any brennivín.’ Out of the corner of her eye Thóra noticed Matthew shudder. ‘They served some at the Midwinter Feast when I was here and it didn’t get finished, and it occurred to me that it had probably also been served the previous February and there might be some left over. It was stored in the freezer last year, so I went in there.’ The walk-in freezer was rather large. There were shelves along the walls and although several of them were empty some of them still held packaged meat, frozen bread and bags of vegetables. The freezer had a heavy steel door that now stood halfway open, allowing air to stream into the kitchen in cold gusts. A red alarm light spun in circles on the wall to warn that the door was open.