‘No, I… don’t know.’ Jónas sighs and takes a sip of his coffee, which has grown cold in the mug. The remark about the broomstick is so old and meaningless that Jónas doesn’t hear it any more.
‘The winter darkness is getting to him,’ says Stoker, grinning evilly. ‘Darkness, depression… madness! The dark power overcomes even—’
‘No,’ says Rúnar, giving Stoker an extra-dirty look while he puts a slice of bread and liverwurst on his plate. ‘It’s probably some problem that’s affecting the family.’
‘The family… problem?’ Jónas repeats, blinking bloodshot eyes that are rolling like marbles in their sockets between his purple eyelids and the dark blue circles under them.
‘Yeah,’ says Sæli, shrugging. ‘Your brother-in-law still hasn’t shown his face.’
‘Ha… really? I’d forgotten…’
‘Haven’t you gone to check on him?’ says Rúnar.
‘No… I…’ murmurs Jónas, who seems totally confused, as if he understands neither heaven nor earth at the same time as he’s lost somewhere between these two worlds.
‘I thought you’d keep an eye on the guy!’ says Rúnar with a shake of his head.
‘You’re the bosun,’ says Jónas, slumping down in his seat as if paralysed.
‘He’s your brother-in-law,’ says Rúnar.
‘He was all busted up, man,’ says Sæli, taking a doughnut.
‘Busted up?’ Jónas says, blinking hard.
‘Yeah, he was rear-ended,’ says Rúnar, pouring himself and Sæli more coffee. ‘His car was off the road and half in a ditch.’
‘But Kalli doesn’t have a car.’ Jónas straightens his back.
‘No, not any more,’ Rúnar says with a grin.
‘We have to check on the guy,’ says Sæli, looking at Jónas and then at Rúnar, who nods.
‘I don’t know what car he can have been driving,’ says Jónas, getting more confused with every passing minute. ‘But he doesn’t own a car… not himself… I think.’
‘Well, of course he owns a car!’ Rúnar laughs coldly into the ghostly face of the second mate. ‘Otherwise you’d have had to take him with you in your goddamn Jeep, no?’
‘He didn’t ask me for a lift,’ mutters Jónas, staring down into his coffee mug and turning it round with trembling fingers.
‘Goddamn Jeep… goddamn Jeep!’ says Stoker, grinning. ‘Like in the movie Christine… The car was possessed, but in the book it was driven by a ghost. The ghost of a former owner who ’ ’
‘Shut up!’ Rúnar barks at Stoker, waving his fist.
‘Take it easy,’ whines Stoker, wiping the devilish smile off his face and shrinking in his seat. Usually he keeps in the background in the presence of the bosun, who doesn’t hesitate to beat him like a cur.
‘Shall we go check the guy out?’ asks Sæli, clapping the bosun on the back.
‘Yeah,’ says Rúnar, swallowing the rest of his coffee. Then he points an accusing finger at Jónas. ‘And you’re coming with us!’
‘Yes, but… I…’ Jónas seems to have no idea what they’re talking about, or what he’s saying himself, for that matter.
‘No buts!’ say Rúnar forcefully.
The old tape recorder gives a click as the cassette comes to an end, stops, and starts turning counterclockwise. More ‘Strange Days’.
Up on D-deck Rúnar opens the door onto the landing behind the wheelhouse. Wind and rain slam into the three men. They look out on dark clouds, iron-grey waves the size of mountains and a churning wake that stretches into the turbulent darkness like a river of boiling milk.
‘Christ, but it’s black!’ Rúnar screams into the wind as he tries to control the heavy door.
‘Shut the door, man!’ shouts Jónas, who seems to have come back to life and shields his eyes from the pounding rain.
‘We won’t be working outside much today!’ Sæli says loudly, poking his head out the doorway.
‘Nope!’ Rúnar answers with a laugh and shuts out the wind and rain again. ‘And me with plans to scrape away rust and spot-paint the railings on the way south.’
‘It’s not worth the trouble, fixing this godless tub,’ Jónas says, shuddering from the cold rain that’s running down his bony face and under the collar of his shirt. ‘It’s nothing but a tin can with a wheel and an engine that’s tossed around by wind and weather.’
‘What do you mean?’ Rúnar says with steel in his voice. He walks right up to Jónas, who avoids the bosun’s sharp gaze and retreats until his back hits the fire extinguisher on the wall.
‘You’re talking just like that fucking Stoker!’ says Sæli, throwing his hands up. ‘What sane sailor would talk such crap?’
‘Good question,’ says Rúnar, waving his fist in the second mate’s face.
‘What’s your problem?’ asks Jónas, who takes to rubbing his hands together like an old man. ‘I was just saying. Didn’t mean anything by it. I take it back, okay?’
‘Do you know something I’m not supposed to know?’ Rúnar says, poking Jónas in the chest.
‘No,’ replies Jónas, his eyes desperate as he faces the bosun. ‘Such as what? Nobody tells me anything!’
‘Maybe,’ mutters Rúnar, taking two steps back.
‘Do you know something?’ Jónas asks in confusion.
‘About what?’ Rúnar asks him back.
‘I don’t know,’ Jónas says with a shrug. ‘About the ship, I suppose. Or the company. Maybe they’ll cancel the contract?’
‘You’re not as dumb as you look,’ says Rúnar darkly. ‘But if they give up the ship, then we’re let go too. Right?’
‘I don’t know.’ Jónas sighs.
‘No, you don’t know anything in your born-again head!’ says Rúnar, shaking his own head. ‘Have you lost both your mind and your faith?’
‘So, shall I knock?’ asks Sæli, clearing his throat loudly to break up the argument. He hesitates in front of the cabin door of the deckhand, holding up his fist as if to knock.
‘Yeah, knock,’ Rúnar replies, snuffling rainwater up his nose and turning his back on the second mate.
‘Heathen,’ murmurs Jónas and brushes imaginary dust off his shirtsleeves.
Sæli knocks but nobody comes to the door.
‘Try the doorknob,’ the bosun orders.
‘It’s open.’ Sæli pushes it into the darkened cabin that exhales hot, smelly air into the faces of the three men. ‘Hello! Is anyone in there?’
‘Come on – get in there, lad!’ Rúnar pushes Sæli, who stumbles ahead of him into the cabin. The bosun turns on the light and stands blinking while they get used to it.
‘What the hell!’ he says when he sees what condition the deckhand is in.
Jón Karl is lying naked on the floor by the bed, pale, cut, scratched and covered with palm-sized bruises. He is gaping like a fish and the whites of his eyes stare up at the ceiling.
‘Is he dead?’ whispers Sæli.
‘I certainly hope not,’ says Rúnar with a deep sigh. ‘Come on, let’s get him into the bed.’
Rúnar lifts Jón Karl’s shoulders and Sæli grabs his legs. Then they take hold of his body with all their strength but only just manage to lift him off the floor.
‘Jónas!’
Little by little they lose their grip on the naked body; the damp flesh slips from their hands and Jón Karl’s head slams against the floor. Cuts open and blood runs out.
‘Jónas! For Christ’s fucking sake!’
Rúnar, crimson with fury, clenches his sinewy fists as he screams at the second mate, who is standing by the bathroom door as if turned to stone and staring at the man lying naked on the floor of the cabin.
‘Are you going to give a hand here?’
This isn’t his brother-in-law. Where’s Kalli? What’s going on? Has Jónas gone mad or…?