She nodded and slipped the strap of the rifle over one shoulder. ‘I know about that from Tasiilaq. So are we checking every single house—is that your plan?’
‘Yes, I think it’s the only way.’ Matthew looked around. They could see about thirty big buildings, quite a few of them several storeys high. Most were residential houses of one sort or another, while those along the harbour were mainly warehouses. He pointed to a grey house right in front of them. ‘Let’s start here.’
The house was as damaged on the inside as it was on the outside, possibly more. The ceilings were discoloured and bulging ominously in places. Most of the doors had come off their hinges. Toilet basins and sinks had cracked from frost. Cupboards and furniture were wrecked, as the broken windows had given storms, rain and snow free rein for decades. Old bits of paper were scattered about everywhere. Matthew picked up a 1962 Yellow Pages.
Behind him something heavy was pushed across the floor. ‘This pile of crap is close to collapsing,’ Tupaarnaq panted. ‘Besides, these rooms are too small. I think they must have been offices.’
Matthew nodded. ‘It looks like it.’
‘Let’s try the red house further up,’ she said, and left through the front door.
Matthew followed her down the steps and across the tall, half-withered grass.
The next building was low, but fairly wide, and had an extension in the centre that looked like the main entrance. Every window had been smashed, and the only pieces of glass left in the frame were small, sharp teeth in a black mouth. The roofing felt was sun-bleached and weatherworn. The paint was peeling badly, but still identifiably red. The front door had been kicked in, and it had been a long time since it could shut properly.
‘God almighty,’ Matthew exclaimed. ‘Any idea what this place used to be?’
‘Maybe a club or something?’ Tupaarnaq said, bending over a green velvet sofa whose cushions and upholstery had been ripped up. She nudged a pile of what looked like trash on the floor. ‘Take a look. Someone’s been knitting.’ She looked up at Matthew.
‘This is so weird.’ He saw an old record-player on the floor, along with other broken things. ‘They really did just walk out one day without taking anything.’
Tupaarnaq continued across the room and pressed a few keys on a collapsed piano. ‘This place looks like it could have been a community hall. There’s a stage and everything.’ She turned to Matthew. ‘I don’t think we’ll find your shipping container here.’
He shook his head.
Outside, the sun was approaching the mountains behind the furthest house. They could see approximately two hundred metres across the flat plain.
‘I can see tracks,’ Matthew exclaimed, looking down along a set of rusty metal rail tracks running inland. The tracks ended near some low, rusty wagons that stood close to a long concrete wall, similar to the kind of dam that generates electricity in Norwegian rivers. ‘They have to be the only railway tracks in Greenland, surely?’
‘I wouldn’t know,’ Tupaarnaq said. ‘There are definitely no tracks on the east coast.’ She looked towards the most built-up area. ‘I don’t think we’re going to get back to Nuuk today.’
Matthew followed her gaze.
She looked back at him. ‘It’ll be dark before we’re done searching, and sailing along a coast we don’t know in the dark would be madness.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘Sleep here or on the boat, I guess.’
‘Are there any sleeping bags on the boat, do you think?’
‘No, but we can improvise.’
‘Okay.’ He looked around the abandoned town. Then he took a deep breath and shrugged. ‘Let’s walk down to the harbour and check out the big warehouses before it gets completely dark.’
They zigzagged through the scattered houses across the town on their way back to the harbour. A dozen buildings, all different, lay along the wooden quay, which stretched for over a hundred metres. Some were several storeys high and had windows, while others were entirely enclosed except for large gates at the ends.
While they searched the warehouses one after the other, Matthew’s mind was working overtime. The hours had rushed by so fast that he hadn’t had time to think about consequences or repercussions. He looked at the back of Tupaarnaq’s neck. At the top of her rollneck jumper he could just make out the edge of the dark wilderness underneath her clothes. She had pushed down her hood and her head was exposed. ‘If we find her,’ he said hesitantly. ‘Najak, I mean… Is that when we call the police?’
She turned around and glared so harshly at him that he could practically feel her fingers digging into the sinews along his collarbone.
‘You’re not going to be an idiot again, are you?’
‘No, but I—’
‘What? No matter what we find, you and I are both going straight to jail… Or at least I am.’ She looked down. ‘Join the dots, for fuck’s sake.’
Matthew followed her gaze. In the dirt between them lay a faded green magazine. Indre Missions Tidende, Sunday, 25 September 1983. Issue 130: ‘God is the Power and the Glory’.
‘Besides, there’s no mobile coverage here.’ She kicked the magazine with her boot. ‘Let’s move on.’
Matthew bent down and picked up a sturdy copper hammer from the floor. It was heavy, probably weighing several kilos. He tried to imagine how strong the arms of the man who once wielded it must have been.
The next building they reached was windowless. It was a rectangular warehouse with an arched metal roof. The building was secured with a thick steel chain and a strong, rusty padlock, and they had to smash the door in order to get in. Each blow sounded like an explosion in the deserted town as the iron and corrugated metal slowly gave way and a gap opened up big enough for them to wriggle through.
Once inside, they could smell old oil and salt water. The floor was concrete to begin with, but about two-thirds of the way in it became worn wooden planks.
Matthew looked across the floor. ‘I’m not sure that section is safe to walk on.’
Tupaarnaq switched on the torch on her mobile and pointed it across the floor. ‘Look,’ she whispered.
Matthew had spotted it at the same time, and quickly took out his own mobile and found the torch. At the far end of the room, up against the end wall, was an old, rusty freight container. ‘That could be it.’
She nodded.
Matthew felt a chill go down his spine as he carefully stepped out onto the wooden floor.
When they reached the container, Tupaarnaq put her hand on one of the sturdy handles. She pulled it so hard that her entire body shook. ‘It’s completely rusted in place.’
Matthew put his mobile and the hammer on the floor and tried with both hands, but still the handle didn’t budge. ‘Could you light up the handle for me?’
Tupaarnaq nodded, and Matthew picked up the hammer. He took a step forwards and gave the handle a good whack. ‘My God, it’s heavy,’ he groaned. He swung the hammer again, this time holding it with both hands. The sound hurt their ears, and the echo bounced off the curved steel roof.
‘Do it again,’ Tupaarnaq said, kicking the cross member of the big metal gate. ‘It’ll shift in the end with a bit of luck.’
Matthew swung the hammer with all his strength a third time. When it collided with the handle, it felt like electric shocks were darting through his forearms. The handle of the hammer was two solid iron rods that were bent by the force with which it had been used back in the 1980s. The handle had been welded together with a bracket that ran around the copperhead itself. He struck the lock again. The recoil up through his arms was so severe that he dropped the hammer. He narrowed his eyes and rubbed his neck.