She took the spray cans and the painting mask and stuffed them into her backpack along with the goggles. Before climbing down from the roof she double-checked that she’d left no empty cans behind. She slid down the fire escape ladder in the back and turned up the volume again. It was calm and slow, the bass steady and comforting, telling her that nobody was around, nobody was watching. She ran silently through empty yards, vaulted over the fences in her path. The beat became faster the closer she got to the Hverfisgata Road and the stressed rhythm hinted that the police might not be far down the street. She weaved through alleys and backyards alongside Hverfisgata’s busy road. The evening traffic had barely started to trickle downtown. Sudden breaks and booming bass lines told her if someone was about to cross her path or about to look out of their window, and she reacted instinctively, ducking into cover and waiting for the threat to pass. She could never be absolutely sure that she had not been seen, and often it was hard to read the music, but after endless practice it had become almost second nature, a part of her natural reflex. She let go and let the music speak to her subconscious.
The closer she got to Hlemmur the more uneasy the music grew. Patrol automobiles were lined up in front of the police station, which was fused with the central station like a tumour grown outside a body. The beat was thick and murky, the music absolutely deafening. She turned down the volume so it was barely audible, pulled her hoodie up and tried not to think about what would happen if she was stopped for a random search.
The central station was home for those who had nowhere else to go. Hobos, junkies, a few blendingar. She made sure not to glance towards them as she felt them notice her walking past. As if they resented her for not sitting with them in the gutter. Policemen stood by the ticket booth and gates, docile but formidable. She tried to keep a low profile, but without it being suspicious. Just as would be expected from a blendingur like her.
She took the train to Starholt. Most working people had got home by now and the nightlife didn’t pick up until after midnight, so the train was relatively empty. The city lights took on a blurred halo in the grimy windows.
* * *
No one greeted her when she came home. She missed Mæja. What was she thinking, leaving the cat with Sæmundur? He could barely take care of himself, let alone a cat. She was unsure what her intention had been, exactly. She’d wanted him to feel guilt or remorse, or anything at all, there at the end. But he had been simply too numb and now her little cat was probably starved to death underneath worm-eaten manuscripts and dirty socks. One more thing she tried not to think about.
Her studio flat was a bedroom, kitchen, working area and living room simultaneously. The sink was filled with paintbrushes and squeezed paint tubes were found on almost every surface. Half-completed paintings were scattered around in stacks leaning against the walls. The air smelled of paint, oil, acrylics and spray mixed in with a faint, sour reek of delýsíð. It was probably good that she was rid of Mæja. The cat would have been long dead from all the toxic chemicals in the air.
Garún took off her large headphones and removed the audioskull from the backpack. Sæmundur had summoned the noisefiend himself and bound it into the skull when she’d started to tag small, powerful delýsíð staves here and there. Wires stuck out of the bare headphones, an old operator’s headset she had converted. She had always meant to make a casing from wood or brass, but had never got around to it. The headphones were plugged into the forehead of the audioskull. The skull had a blue shade to it, covered in runes and esoteric symbols coloured a dark red. It was both illegal and dangerous to summon demons, but Sæmundur never cared about risks. She’d got a used portable transistor radio cheap and had been listening to it on the go, carrying it around in her backpack. That’s what had given him the idea. Transmundane beings were incredibly dangerous even when bound in bone, and Garún had absolutely lost it when he gave her the skull. Still, she had used it.
She took off the black clothes and emptied her backpack. She hid the clothes, along with the backpack and audioskull, under a loose board in the closet. Inside there was a hidden compartment where she put the nearly empty delýsíð spray cans. She was practically out, and she needed more. She’d gone tagging a bit too frequently these last weeks, excited for the upcoming protest they had planned. She would have to get more. The bright and unnatural colours had stained her fingers. She turned on the shower and washed her hands with strong and coarse soap before stepping in. The water smelled faintly of sulphur, a familiar and soothing feeling.
After the shower she dried off with a towel and wrapped it around her head to dry her shoulder-length hair. She
