Strange Shores (25 page)

Ezra locked up the ice house and was plodding home against the wind along Strandgata when a man raced past him, yelling that a boat had gone down on the other side of the fjord. ‘They reckon it’s the
Sigurlína
!’ He vanished into the falling snow. Ezra didn’t know where the man could be heading and wondered if he should run after him. Then he lowered his head into the storm again and continued on his way. When he got home he took off his outer clothes, which were plastered with snow, and hung them up to dry. He put the coffee pot on the range. It would take time to warm up the house and restore the feeling to his limbs. Sitting by the stove, he began to cram dried fish into his mouth, his thoughts dwelling on the wrecked boat and the fate of her crew. If what he had heard was right and the
Sigurlína
had gone down, had they lost their lives? Was Jakob dead?

He had finished the
hardfiskur
and was just beginning to thaw out when he heard a loud banging on the door. When he opened it, a boy called Valdi who worked with him stepped inside, caked with snow. Ezra forced the door shut behind him.

‘You have to open up the ice house,’ the boy told him. ‘They want to put the bodies in there.’

‘The bodies?’

‘Both men from the
Sigurlína
are goners,’ Valdi said. ‘Drowned.’

‘Jakob’s dead?’

‘Him and Óskar. The engine cut out. There was nothing they could do. Or that’s what I heard.’

Ezra clambered back into his coat, thick gloves and hat as Valdi repeated what little he knew. Later Ezra extracted the whole story from two eyewitnesses who were waiting with the bodies. They had been driving over the ridge from Eskifjördur with a couple of other men when they spotted a light at sea beyond the Hólmaborgir cliffs, at a spot called Skeleyri. In difficulties themselves, they had been about to turn back but guessed immediately that the light meant a boat was dangerously close to land. The men made their way as near as they could to the shore and through the swirling veils of white glimpsed a boat drifting directly towards the rocks by Skeleyri. They could make out two figures on board, who looked as if they were frozen, drenched and fighting for their lives. Then the boat appeared to lose power – at least they could hear no sound of an engine – but by then the screaming of the wind was so deafening they could hardly hear their own voices calling. The boat moved swiftly but inexorably towards land until it crashed into the cliffs and though the men had a rope which they tried in vain to throw to the sailors, it was impossible to get near enough as the cliffs were taking a pounding from tremendous gusts of wind and massive breakers. All at once, the boat, which had begun to break up on the rocks, was snatched away by a wave, raised on high, turned over and flung back at the cliffs where it was broken to matchwood before their eyes. The two men were thrown into the water, hurled against the rocks, then vanished in the retreating wave. A long interval passed before they saw a limp body cast up, first onto the wreckage and then onto the rocks. They reached it by tying the rope round one of their party, who inched his way down, seized hold of the lifeless man and hauled him back up to his companions. He had been so badly battered that there was hardly a bone left unbroken in his body. They judged him to be dead. After this they shouted at length to the other man but received no answer. There was no way he could survive long in a sea that cold. The wreckage of the fishing boat was strewn over the surface. The minutes passed and, wet and shivering themselves now, they had given up all hope of finding the other sailor when one of them noticed a shape at the bottom of the cliffs. The man was lying prone, his face covered in blood and a large gash in his head.

By the time Ezra reached the ice house quite a crowd had gathered, though they could hardly stand upright in the wind. A nervous young locum from Reykjavík had already signed death certificates for both men. The four witnesses had taken the bodies straight to his house and, once he had heard their account, the matter had seemed simple. The owner of the
Sigurlína
had ordered that the bodies should be kept in the old ice house until the dead men’s next of kin could be informed. Jakob was known to have relatives in Djúpivogur, but his companion, Óskar, came from the other side of the country, from the village of Grindavík in the south-west. He had been an itinerant fisherman, working the seasons in various parts of the country, including Eskifjördur, where he had only recently been taken on. The owner had no idea who to contact.

Ezra immediately set about arranging a place for the bodies. He erected trestles, laid a couple of old filleting boards across them, and had the dead men placed there side by side. They felt like blocks of ice. One man’s face was masked in blood: it appeared to be Jakob.

The crowd soon dispersed, leaving Ezra alone in the now quiet building. It was nearly midnight. He was tired and chilled to the bone after a long day. Should he keep vigil over the bodies, he wondered, or go home and try to sleep? It had not yet sunk in that Jakob was dead. That the man he hated with such passion, the man he had so often plotted vengeance against, was no longer alive. He didn’t know what Jakob’s death would mean for him or for Matthildur’s fate. But one thing was certain: there would be no question of recovering her body now. Slowly the full implications became clear as Ezra stood over the bloodied corpse on the filleting board. He might as well abandon all hope of ever finding her.

‘Hell,’ he whispered.

The storm had lost some of its force but the wind was still raging around the building, whining in the roof and making the rafters creak. The naked light bulb swung on its wire.

‘Hell,’ Ezra whispered again. ‘I should have killed you myself.’

He decided to go home, persuading himself it was not for him to keep vigil: one of the men he didn’t know from Adam; the other he had loathed more than words could express.

When he returned to work early next morning after a short, restless night, he was shocked to see that Jakob had rolled off the filleting board and onto the floor. Ezra hurried over, sat him up and with considerable difficulty hauled him back onto the board. He simply couldn’t understand how he could have fallen off. As he lifted Jakob back up his head banged on the board and Ezra thought the body emitted a faint moan. He examined the other fisherman and tried to move his leg, but the limb was stiff and unyielding: rigor mortis had taken hold of his entire body. He had the feeling Jakob should be equally rigid but he was not. Although he was very cold, there was no sign of stiffness.

Again he thought he heard a faint moan from Jakob. Startled, he put it down at first to the wind. Stooping over the man’s body, he tried in vain to detect any sign of breathing, then pressed an ear to his chest but could hear no heartbeat.

Straightening up again, Ezra stared at the body.

He thought he saw the face twitch. One eye was closed by a clot of blood, and Jakob’s hair was sticky with it. He also had an open wound on his cheek and a deep gash on his chin. Ezra guessed he had sustained these injuries when he was beaten against the rocks at Hólmaborgir.

He must have been mistaken about the movement. But he wasn’t certain.

Ezra was turning away when he glimpsed it again – the slightest twitch around the mouth. This time there was no doubt. As he concentrated on Jakob’s face he clearly saw his lips move.

It looked as if Jakob was breathing.

The door opened.

Ezra’s heart missed a beat: he thought he would die of fright.

The
Sigurlína
’s owner came in out of the storm and looked Ezra up and down.

‘Hell and damnation,’ he said, stamping his feet to shake the snow from his galoshes.

EZRA ROSE FROM
his chair: the memory was too much. Unable to sit still any longer, he began to pace around the kitchen. As he listened to his tale, Erlendur noticed that the old man was finding it increasingly difficult to describe events so vivid in his mind’s eye that they might have taken place yesterday. The pauses between his words became prolonged, his voice gruffer. He wrung his hands and avoided Erlendur’s gaze. Erlendur pitied him, as he did all those who could not escape their fates.

‘Would you like me to make some coffee?’ Erlendur asked, standing up too. ‘It looks as if you could do with a cup.’

Ezra was in another world. He didn’t respond until Erlendur had asked him twice. Finally he paused his pacing.

‘What was that?’

‘Coffee?’ asked Erlendur again. ‘Should I make us a cup?’

‘You have some,’ Ezra said. ‘Go ahead. Help yourself.’

He retreated back into his own world, where it was still the frozen, stormy depths of winter. Erlendur had no wish to hurry him. He knew the story would emerge eventually but he had an ever stronger sense of what it cost Ezra to tell it. He had never spoken of these events and wanted to give a conscientious account. It was plain from the way he spoke that far from trying to wipe it from his mind he remembered everything in minute detail. It was too early to judge if he felt unburdened, but Erlendur knew from long experience that the time would come when he did.

Neither man spoke while Erlendur made a strong brew and hunted out some reasonably clean mugs. He handed one to Ezra who took a cautious sip of the scalding black liquid.

‘I can see it’s not easy,’ Erlendur said.

‘It’s not a pretty story.’

‘I realise that.’

Ezra hesitated. ‘Did I show you a picture of Matthildur?’

‘No, I’d remember if you had.’

‘Would you like to see one?’

‘That would be –’

‘It’s in my bedroom,’ said Ezra. ‘Just a minute.’

While he was gone, Erlendur stepped over to the window that faced onto the moor. The ground was completely white. From this angle he couldn’t see up the valley to Bakkasel, and he was just craning his neck to catch a glimpse of the old farmhouse when Ezra returned.

‘She gave me this,’ he said. ‘It’s the only one I’ve got.’

He handed the photo reverently to Erlendur, as if it were a priceless treasure. Erlendur took it carefully. It was very creased, having once been folded in the middle, and appeared to be half of a larger picture which had been cut in two.

‘It was taken here in Eskifjördur,’ Ezra said, ‘one summer. A photographer came through the village and gave them the photo. Matthildur cut it in half. Jakob was next to her. It was taken outside their house.’

Erlendur looked at the image. Matthildur was standing in front of her home, eyes screwed up against the sun; a lovely smile; dark, shoulder-length hair; arms by her sides; head slightly tilted; her face wearing a friendly but determined expression. Her shadow fell on the door behind her.

‘We hadn’t started seeing each other then,’ said Ezra. ‘That didn’t happen until a year later. But I’d already begun to have feelings for her.’

‘What did you say to the boat owner when he came into the ice house?’ asked Erlendur, passing the picture back.

‘I don’t know why I lied,’ said Ezra. ‘I hadn’t even planned what I was going to do, but after the first lie, the rest came easily. At first all I wanted was to force Jakob to tell me about Matthildur – if he really was alive, that is. I wanted to take advantage of his predicament to make him tell me how he’d disposed of her. But later . . .’

‘The desire for revenge got the better of you?’ Erlendur suggested.

Ezra’s eyes dwelt on the photo.

‘I wanted justice,’ he said.

The boat owner, a man in his late seventies, was well kitted out in a thick winter coat, scarf and woollen hat. He lingered by the door as if he did not wish for any closer contact with death. He had lost not only two of his men but his boat, and the personal cost was obvious from his demeanour. Ezra knew him to be a decent fellow. After all, he had worked for him not so long ago, and had nothing but good to say of him. The man owned two other, much larger vessels with bigger crews, and would hang about on the docks if his vessels were out in dirty weather, waiting for their safe return. He had been at sea himself for many years and his luck had for the most part held – he had only once before lost a man overboard, during the herring season. The man had drowned.

‘They’re in good hands, Ezra,’ he said.

‘There’s nothing more anyone can do for them now,’ Ezra replied, trying to pretend all was well. He was still so stunned at seeing Jakob’s lips move that he could scarcely control his features and voice. He tried to appear as relaxed as he could but felt beads of sweat pricking his scalp.

‘I still haven’t got hold of the Grindavík lot,’ the owner said, averting his eyes from the bodies. ‘I don’t know much about the lad. Jakob’s easier. His parents in Reykjavík are both dead and he had no brothers or sisters. His mother’s brother from over Djúpivogur way asked me to have a coffin knocked up for him. He’s going to pick up the body later today. They want to get the funeral over with as quickly as possible. He says there’s no reason to delay, which is fair enough, I suppose. They’re going to dig the grave this morning before the ground freezes any harder.’

‘It . . . I . . . suppose they’re right.’

‘They don’t want any expense either,’ said the owner with a shrug. ‘He made that quite clear. I offered to help out but he wouldn’t hear of it.’

‘No, right,’ said Ezra, struggling for something to say.

‘Neither of them was a family man,’ added the owner, ‘which is a small mercy.’

Ezra was at a loss. It was slowly sinking in that Jakob might still be alive. Under normal circumstances he would have raised the alarm, hurriedly moved him to a warmer place and tended to him until the doctor arrived. It was his duty to save a life, whoever was involved. He knew that.

But this was Jakob.

If there was one person in the world he truly hated it was this man. Ezra wasn’t sure how he would have answered if someone had asked him yesterday whether he would be prepared to save Jakob’s life. Now the power to do so lay in his hands. His conscience urged him to report what he had seen and seek help for Jakob that instant. He almost expected him to rise up from the filleting board. But the minutes passed. He said nothing, did nothing. He made no attempt to help the man lying there at death’s door.