The skipper shot him a patronizing look. He didn’t need torch-light to see how little the man thought of him. Freyr had sat there pale and silent the entire trip, though it had had nothing to do with seasickness. He’d concentrated on listening to his travel companions chatting back and forth, sometimes lowering their voices to say things he didn’t manage to grasp. In this way he’d managed to keep his head together, not fall apart at the thought of what lay ahead. He prayed to the God in whom he didn’t believe that the septic tank would still be disconnected, that the man had gone missing before he’d got it in working order and that the three people from Reykjavík who were here for the same purpose had started on some other project than getting it set up. His child deserved much better. He felt nauseous – but not from seasickness. ‘There’s no electricity here, mate. They’re probably there, even though the house isn’t as lit up as the houses down south.’
‘I understand.’ Freyr was happy that the man seemed to have no idea who he was or what he was doing there. This ensured that the way he acted towards Freyr was motivated by something other than pity, which was fine by him; it meant less risk of him breaking down.
They stepped onto the pier and went ashore. The pier creaked loudly beneath their feet, but only silence and stillness awaited them at the top of the beach. Houses that had once been surrounded by vibrant life now either stood empty or had been converted into summer cottages. Freyr felt as if the buildings were gazing hopefully at them, wondering if the residents had finally returned. He half expected to hear a soft sigh when the houses realized they hadn’t. But of course no such thing happened; there was only the silence, and it was so oddly heavy that none of them wanted to break it. So, saying nothing, they simply set off. For everyone but Freyr, the walk was nothing more than a necessary part of getting to the house; to him, every step was an important stage in an inevitable reckoning with the tragedy he’d caused for those he loved most.
Maybe the alcohol was finally starting to have an effect, or else depression was beginning to grip him, but Freyr felt as if he could hear a whispering in the dead vegetation that bordered the path leading from the pier. Their torch beams cast peculiar shadows, making it look as if something were moving on both sides. The cones of light swung irregularly to and fro, making it difficult for them to focus their eyes on anything. In one place Freyr thought he heard footsteps a few metres away, as if someone were walking beside the path, a silent escort who didn’t want to be seen. He stopped and swung his torch round, pointing it left and right and then at the high, uncultivated ground, but saw nothing. He also tried to shine the light into the wall of vegetation surrounding the path, but saw nothing except darkness between the yellowed stalks.
‘What?’ Dagný had turned and walked back to him as he stood and stared at the light.
‘I thought I heard someone, but I can’t see anything.’ He straightened up.
‘Probably just a fox. There are lots of them here.’ She looked at him as if searching for signs that he’d lost his mind. ‘You can wait here or down at the pier. I’ll come and get you when we know whether your theory is right. It’s not necessary for you to be with us the whole time, and probably not wise.’
‘No, no, I’m fine. Don’t worry.’ Freyr tried to appear confident. Of course he should wait and let them call for him when everything was finished, but he couldn’t. He wanted to witness with his own eyes every step that revealed the whereabouts of his son, rather than sit alone in the darkness, waiting for whatever might come.
‘Okay, then.’ Dagný didn’t sound convinced. ‘You go in front. I don’t want you lagging behind and getting lost. We have enough to worry about as it is.’
Freyr raised no objection to this, since it was simpler and would speed up the process. Nor could he deny that he’d been at the point of pushing the vegetation aside to see what lay beyond it when Dagný had interrupted him. As they trudged onwards in the cold he was careful not to look over his shoulder or aim the torch anywhere but straight ahead, so that Dagný wouldn’t realise that he still felt as if something were following them. He desperately longed to turn around and ask whether she could hear whispering or a crackling in the brush, but was afraid she would send him straight back down to the boat. So he bit his lip and pushed back the desire to flee, despite his body shouting at him to stay alert and run away from this strange threat. When they’d crossed a little stream and come to the house, their destination, Freyr realized that he was drenched with sweat despite the still, cold air.
‘It’s like a graveyard.’ Veigar immediately regretted his choice of words and tried to make up for them. ‘I can’t hear a thing. Not even snoring.’
Dagný frowned and her expression seemed exaggerated in the light from the torch. ‘Are you sure this is the right house?’ She turned to the captain.
‘Yes. Definitely. They brought all this stuff with them on the boat.’ He pointed at a stack of timber and something unrecognisable under a sailcloth. ‘Shouldn’t we just knock?’
They stood silently, side by side, staring at the house. No one responded to the skipper’s suggestion, though it was a sensible one. Freyr took this to mean that he wasn’t the only one to feel something odd was going on; the sounds had disappeared as they stepped off the path but that didn’t change the fact that there was still something unpleasant in the air. Even the house, which was in every way a charming old-fashioned Icelandic wooden house, seemed oppressive to him as it stood there silently, daring them to knock on the door. The torch beams managed to illuminate only a portion of the gable facing them, and the long wall, which should have been visible, receded into the darkness. It was Dagný who cut to the chase. ‘Veigar, come with me. You two wait here while we go and see whether these people are all right.’
‘Suits me.’ The captain gave Freyr a hearty clap on the shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind having to wait outside. ‘We’ll just wait quietly out here, eh?’
Freyr staggered a little – the old man hadn’t spared his strength, perhaps intentionally. Freyr had no business in the house; the septic tank was outdoors and maybe already down in the ground. He might even be standing on it. The thought caused him to take two instinctive steps sideways, but when he aimed the dull beam of his torch at the ground there was nothing to see but a thin layer of snow. He wondered whether he should walk around the house but couldn’t bring himself to do it; it would be better if Dagný and Veigar were there. A loud knocking broke the silence and hung in the air. ‘Is anyone home?’ Veigar’s voice resounded and Freyr thought it impossible that anyone could sleep through such noise. The knocking began again and Veigar called out: ‘This is the police. We’re coming in.’ The screech of the doorknob was piercing, but it wasn’t followed by a creak suggesting the door was being opened. Dagný and Veigar then came round the corner and said they were going to check whether the back door was unlocked. Otherwise they would have to break in.
Freyr and the skipper followed them automatically, keeping far enough back to give no impression of wanting to go in with them, but close enough to see what was happening. Dagný and Veigar stepped up onto an old porch that was in a rather sad state of repair and went straight to work, knocking hard on the door and calling out to those who were supposed to be inside. ‘Of course they might be down at the doctor’s house,’ the captain shouted to Veigar just as the old, stocky police officer was about to throw himself against the door, shoulder first. ‘I remember now that I let them have the keys so they could move there if they encountered any… inconvenience.’