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‘Good point,’ says Ási, leaning up against the fridge and moving his match from one corner of his mouth to the other. ‘I think Jónas has something to hide. There’s something strange about that accident. Something about his story that doesn’t fit.’

‘Jónas does have something to hide,’ says John, grabbing hold of the table as the ship pitches. ‘But what it can be I can’t imagine. If this Satan isn’t the saboteur, then who cut the wires up on the roof? Jónas?’

‘I can’t quite see that,’ says Rúnar.

‘Somebody did it,’ says Sæli. ‘Anybody could have cut the wires, but why that person did it is another matter entirely.’

‘Methúsalem maintains that the shipping company’s behind it,’ says Ási. ‘He says the company’s the only party that gains something from the ship being out of touch. While they can’t hear from us, we can’t be protesting.’

‘Speaking of Methúsalem,’ says Rúnar with a look at John, ‘what was he thinking at that meeting earlier?’

‘Dunno,’ mutters John and shakes his head. ‘I knocked on his door just now, but he didn’t answer.’

‘What did he do?’ asks Sæli.

‘He kind of went blank. It was as if he lost all connection to his surroundings.’

‘Maybe somebody cut his wires,’ says Ási with a grin.

‘Then he just went,’ says Rúnar. ‘He just stood up, declared his full support for the captain and left!’

‘There was something weird about it,’ John says. ‘That he should just suddenly stand up and declare his support for the Old Man, after everything that went before. I didn’t find it convincing, to tell you the truth.’

‘It was as if he was drunk,’ Rúnar adds.

‘Yeah, I know,’ says John, looking at Rúnar. ‘That’s exactly what I was thinking – “Is the fucker drunk?”’

‘Was he drunk?’ asks Sæli.

‘No,’ says Rúnar. ‘But, still, there was something not right about him.’

‘Who can a guy trust?’ says Sæli.

Silence.

‘I suggest we put our trust in the Old Man,’ says John with a cough. ‘As things stand now I think that’s the wisest thing for us to do.’

‘But the lay-offs?’ asks Sæli.

‘As I said,’ says John, ‘I think we need to trust the Old Man. I don’t want to take part in any more mutiny, that’s for sure.’

‘You and me both,’ says Rúnar. ‘I agree with John. We drop this foolishness and trust the Old Man.’

‘All right,’ says Sæli with a sniff.

‘Ási?’ says John, looking at the cook.

‘I’ve always trusted Guðmundur,’ says Ási, biting on his match. ‘It’s the shipping company I don’t like.’

‘Then that’s decided,’ says John with a nod. ‘Now we stand by the Old Man and concentrate on getting this ship to harbour in one piece.’

The chief engineer’s words get the agreement of a serious silence.

‘I wish we were already in Suriname,’ says Rúnar.

‘We can agree with that, every one of us,’ says John.

‘I wish we’d never set off on this tour,’ Sæli adds.

Silence.

‘Don’t you remember what he said?’ says Sæli, looking sideways at his companions. ‘The drunk guy in the bar?’

‘The one who was scrounging change?’ asks Ási.

‘Yeah, that one,’ says Sæli, nodding.

‘He didn’t say anything,’ says Rúnar with a scowl. ‘Nothing sensible, at least!’

‘He looked at us and said, “Five dead men”!’ says Sæli, wide eyed. ‘“Five dead men on a ship”, that’s what he said.’

‘Did he?’ says Ási.

‘No,’ says Rúnar with a shake of his head. ‘He said nothing of the sort!’

‘Yes, he did too say that!’ says Sæli, looking at the bosun with tear-filled eyes. ‘And then we saw him again… we drove past him in Mosfellsbær. We should’ve given him a lift or something. Maybe he put a curse on us? Maybe he was a gypsy or something? We should’ve—’

‘Don’t think like that, Sæli, lad,’ says Ási. ‘You never know how things’ll turn out, eh? Broken mirrors and black cats don’t alter the movements of the stars, my boy.’

‘He was just some drunk,’ says Rúnar, clapping Sæli on the back.

‘Maybe.’ Sæli gulps air as if to smother a sob. ‘But if I never see my boy again, I…’

Silence.

From the seamen’s mess comes the sound of the final song on Strange Days, playing low, Jim Morrison singing about the music being over and turning out the lights.

‘Well!’ says Ási, clapping his hands before opening the fridge and taking out ground beef, eggs, butter, milk, tomato puree and a few onions. ‘Now I have to ask you to leave this battleground, because I have to mix up some meatloaf. Able seamen, officers, traitors, liars, saboteurs and stowaways – they all have to eat, my friends!’

Methúsalem is walking up the stairs that lead from E-deck to the bridge. He has black Ray-Ban sunglasses on his face, drops of cold sweat on his forehead and dried toothpaste in the corners of his mouth. His head is full of imaginary applesauce and the applesauce is full of a hot buzzing that overpowers all thought.

His ultra-sensitive fingertips touch the cold railing and his heavy feet step carefully from one step to the next. The first mate is empty and fragile, a floating glass bubble full of darkness, smoke and nausea. His half-open mouth pulls in air like the dirty-air intake of an old engine and his nose is as hot as an exhaust pipe, full of dust, soot and the smell of rust.

Smell of rust! What does rust smell like?

‘Jesus…’

He is never going to drink again, never again.

Never!

Not cognac, at any rate,

‘What a fuck-up,’ Methúsalem tells himself, forcing an uneasy smile on his deathly pale face.

A smile that changes to a grimace as the nausea gushes up in his stomach, like milk on the verge of boiling over.

‘Don’t think about warm milk!’

Methúsalem stretches out a ghostly hand and opens the door to the bridge.

The lock clicks and that metallic click echoes like a shot inside the creaking shell of his head.

‘I wish I was dead,’ he murmurs and closes his eyes behind the lenses.

‘What?’

‘I just said good evening,’ says Methúsalem, taking a deep breath as he straightens his back and walks slowly and confidently into the dim bridge.

‘You’re late,’ says Guðmundur and glances at his watch as he turns around in his chair. ‘You’re very late! It’s four minutes to eleven.’

‘Isn’t Sæli with you?’

‘No. I let him off until three. Why?’

‘Just… nothing.’ Methúsalem gasps as the ship pitches so suddenly that it’s as if the floor had been pulled out from under him.

‘What’s up with you, man?’ Guðmundur says, getting down from the chair. ‘Are you wearing sunglasses in the dark?’

‘Yeah, I…’ Methúsalem cautiously clearing his throat. ‘I’ve got something in my eyes. An infection or something. They feel like they’re full of sand.’

‘So maybe you can’t relieve me?.

‘It’s all right.’ Methúsalem feels his way forwards in the bridge. ‘The sunglasses help, and Rúnar is coming later on, isn’t he?’

‘He’s on at midnight,’ says Guðmundur, surreptitiously studying Methúsalem. ‘Yeah, well, so, I’ll just leave you then, eh?’

‘Yeah, sure, I’m fine,’ says Methúsalem, getting into the captain’s chair. ‘Don’t worry about me.’

‘Right, goodnight then,’ says Guðmundur and opens the door.