Jakob woke when his empty glass fell to the floor, but it was something else that had caused him to drop it in the first place. He coughed hard, inhaled deeply through his nose into his lungs, and felt the cold air clear the sleep from his thoughts.
The chair squeaked feebly beneath him. He straightened his stiff back and extended his legs along the floor until they were so taut that they started to quiver. Slowly he reached for the knife on the armrest, but his fingers found only wood. He fumbled along the armrest and continued down to the floor. Nothing.
The darkness moved and Jakob froze.
‘Can’t you find your knife, Dane?’
Jakob recognised the Faroese accent immediately, and heard contempt and hatred drip from every syllable.
‘I decided I’d better look after it for you. A little Dane like you can’t handle a big knife like that.’
Jakob sat up straighter in his chair and stared blindly about the room.
‘What’s that?’ the man from the Faroe Islands said. ‘You can’t see me? Let me help you.’
Jakob jumped when the man turned on the lights. The muscles in his arms and legs contracted.
‘There! Better now?’
Jakob rubbed his eyes.
‘You’re very quiet, Dane.’
The voice now came from behind him. Jakob turned around in the armchair and saw the red-faced man standing by the door to the bedroom. He was leaning against the doorframe, and had folded his arms across his chest, which was covered by a thick, patterned jumper in shades of white and brown. In one hand he held the chef’s knife, with the edge pointing away from him.
‘What are you doing here?’ Jakob demanded, slowly getting up from the armchair.
The Faroese dropped his arms by his sides, while the knife rotated once in his hand, so its edge was now pointing downwards. His thumb seemed to caress the top of the handle.
The man’s ginger hair flowed like his beard. His face was freckled. His shoulders broad. His arms seemed as strong as ship’s timber. Jakob didn’t doubt for one second that the man was stronger than him.
‘Yes—what am I doing here?’ The Faroese took a couple of calm but carefully measured steps forward. His eyes were locked on Jakob’s.
‘I imagine your friends sent you?’
‘Friends?’ The man looked at him with scorn. ‘I’ve no friends here.’
‘You’re right about that,’ Jakob said. ‘You’re just as finished as I am, given how much you know.’
The man let out two short laughs, which sounded more like grunts. ‘This concrete village doesn’t scare me.’ He shook his head. ‘And neither does a Danish lawyer whose balls have yet to drop, or a Greenlander whose balls never will.’
Jakob heaved a deep sigh. ‘Just tell me where you’re keeping Najak, and I’ll forget about everything else.’
‘You just don’t get it, do you? Your job was to keep your mouth shut and close the case. The girl is already dead. But there are three more girls, remember?’ He looked around the room. ‘Where have you hidden the films? I’ll find them sooner or later. If you tell me now, I’ll let you die quickly.’
‘You don’t want a child’s blood on your hands,’ Jakob said hoarsely.
‘All blood tastes the same, you pathetic little Dane.’
Jakob’s eyes scanned the room frantically. There was no escape. He took a step back towards the upended coffee table, and then another one, all the while keeping his eyes pinned on the Faroese, although without looking him directly in the eyes. When his foot touched the edge of the grey rug, he spun around and in the same movement snatched two big rocks from the floor, and then stood up again. The rocks, the size of a man’s fist, now weighed heavily in his hands. His fingers clutched their rough surface and found a grip in the small hollows.
‘What’s this?’ the Faroese said. ‘You want to play with rocks now?’ He pointed to the wound on Jakob’s forehead. ‘I thought you’d had enough of that.’
Jakob’s arms were slightly bent. Ready to attack. ‘Go back to your masters and tell them that I’m not one of their dogs.’
The man from the Faroe Islands grunted angrily. ‘I have no masters, Dane. Don’t you get it?’
‘Just piss off home to your masters,’ Jakob hissed, and bashed the two rocks together in front of his chest. ‘You’re nothing but a miserable lackey.’
The red-bearded man’s eyes burned with rage. ‘I’m from the Faroe Islands,’ he shouted, taking two long strides towards Jakob, brandishing the knife. ‘I’m my own master.’
Jakob took his movement as an attack, and lunged at the man. He swung his right arm, but the Faroese had stopped. Jakob’s hand with the heavy rock continued through the air, pulling him with it and exposing him to his opponent. He only had time to make a half-turn with his head before a hard blow collided with his temple.
52
Jakob’s head was pounding so fiercely that he could barely open his eyes. The light from the ceiling lamp cut him like the repeated slashing of a sharp blade. Mixed with the pain and the metallic taste that filled him to bursting, the light triggered a wave of choking nausea in him. He felt the air going in and out in gusts between his lips. He tried to swallow the viscous lumps of saliva in his throat. He gulped again. Pressed his lips together until they grew white.
He opened his eyes a little. Two narrow slits. Pupils sweeping across the floor. He recognised the floorboards. The grey rug. The furniture. One side of his face lay flat against the floor. It was one with the floor. His body felt heavy. As if it was stuck to the floor. Everything was spinning. His nausea surged and he had to tighten his throat and hold his breath in order not to give in to it.
Not far from his face, he could see a hand. It was alive. Or it seemed alive. It reacted when he thought. The fingers twitched. Not much, but enough. His eyes closed. His gaze contracted behind his eyelids into two black points surrounded by burning red. Then he looked again. Shifted his focus. In little gusts. Like his breathing. Blood was growing from the floor close to the hand. Behind the blood lay an ulo. Its blade was stained with dried and fresh blood. The handle was completely dark.
His thoughts were alive.
He could see and feel.
He was able to breathe.
His gaze followed the floor. Past the hand, the ulo and the blood. Until it reached the body. The body, which lay so far from his face that it couldn’t be his. His concentration failed him. His gaze zoomed helplessly in and out as he attempted to focus. The blood. The pale body. The red hair. The beard. The bloody lumps along the white skin.
He tried to work out if he was still in one piece. It felt like it. Stuck but intact.
The sound of something living pierced his thoughts. Footsteps. Shoes moving across the floor not far from him.
His gaze searched the floorboards again until it found the shoes and the two legs moving them around. He looked up. Two hands drying themselves on one of his tea towels. The face. The dark eyes.
FOSSILISED LIFE
53
Matthew briefly considered going home and changing his clothes, but decided against it. Instead he walked straight from Radiofjeldet and down to Block 2. As he walked, he texted Tupaarnaq about Else and Arnaq. She replied straightaway that it was probably better to have a sister than a father, given that fathers were invariably idiots.
A few minutes later Matthew had reached the address Ivalo had given him. The long building was almost as derelict as Block 17, but it was constructed differently: each front door here opened out onto a shared gallery that ran the full length of the block.