The Day Is Dark

The phones are dead as well, which means the dish they’re connected to is probably also buggered. Bad weather might have damaged both of them, even though they were probably set up to withstand quite a lot.’

The door of the drillers’ office was decorated with a printed-out photo of a fiery red Formula One car. One corner of it was torn and the paper was starting to turn yellow. Two dark stains had appeared on it from the Blu- Tack used to stick it up. Above it was a plate with the names of the two men, Halldor Gretarsson and Bjarki Eliasson. There was something strange about seeing their names there and knowing that things had probably ended badly for them. Thora and Matthew went into the office, which was quite large and held two desks. The walls were covered with printed-out jokes and photographs of the two drillers grinning at the camera. As Thora sat down at one of the computers the thought crept into her mind that the men weren’t laughing now, wherever they were. She booted up the computer.

Chapter 8

20 March 2008

Arnar Johannesson bowed his head, and his neck cracked. He was starting to feel a bit better. The clearer the image had become in his mind, the worse he had felt. It suddenly occurred to him that he could put an end to this misery once and for all. It wasn’t the first time he’d had the idea, but it had become clear to him that he lacked the courage to do so, even though he knew that his reward would be eternal atonement. It was probably fear of failure that stopped him; the idea of waking up at the hospital paralysed or with brain damage was so unbearable that even the hell that was his life was better. He didn’t always feel this bad. He knew the discomfort would pass; the inevitable result of falling, of giving in to the temptation of alcohol that seduced him, promised to alleviate his suffering and dispel the unpleasant thoughts that plagued him. It wouldn’t really matter. The pain was still there, as well as the terrible thoughts, and now self-loathing had been added to the mix. He had given in like a miserable wretch, and for a while he had rejoiced in being a loser.

He stood up and pulled the belt of his bathrobe tighter. He had lost a lot of weight on this days-long binge and he felt like a weakling. All his effort in recent months, weightlifting and running, had come to nothing. Why wasn’t it as difficult to get out of shape as into it? He had put a lot of energy into looking good and being in good condition, and it was no walk in the park. That was probably the greatest indicator of the influence of this disease that he had inherited from his mother. When he drank, he became completely apathetic about the things that mattered to him; the only thing that mattered was the next drink – maintaining the high and ensuring that it never diminished. It had been incredibly easy for him to take the first step in the Twelve-Step Programme: ‘We admitted we were powerless over alcohol – that our lives had become unmanageable.’ The second step had proven much more difficult. He could thank his lucky stars for having been helped into treatment this time, before he did more damage to himself than excessive weight loss. Usually when he succumbed to temptation, more and more time would pass until he got back on the right track. It had actually been a good long time since he had last stumbled; he had been dry for four hundred and eighty-three days before letting himself be tempted again.

He vaguely recalled having rung the Alcoholics Anonymous emergency helpline, but he had no idea what had inspired him to do so. He had been a slave to alcohol since he took his first sip as a teenager, and could only ever recall flashes of what happened while he drank – and those scraps of memory generally caused him hellish torment. What little he remembered was always utterly humiliating. He tried to forget about why he might have called and content himself with being grateful that he had. Who knew where he would have been at this moment if he had never made the call – and he didn’t want to know. Every drink pushed him further and further into a dark corner of society, and the space between drinks had been reduced to almost nothing by the time he picked up the phone. He looked around the Spartan room. He had sworn never to have to visit such a room again, but that vow had been washed away with his first sip of beer, along with his self-respect. There was nothing else to do but renew the vow. One day at a time, go to the meetings, listen to the others and eventually open up. However, he would not, for the time being, speak up. Right now his self-esteem was too low for that. The last thing he wanted was to start bawling like a little girl in front of others who were in the same boat. That would be just ridiculous. He could not feel sorry for himself; he had managed to make a mess of things entirely unaided. He had held his life in his own two hands, but instead of nurturing it he’d decided to squeeze his fists and crush it. He would settle for listening to stories of families falling apart, missed opportunities and junkies’ hard-luck stories.

Arnar was dying for one sweet little drink. Just one glass. One fucking glass. This was costing him enough as it was and one glass now and then could hardly make a difference. What a fucking idiot he was, calling AA. If he’d skipped it, he’d be sinking a cool one right now. Detox and rehab were maybe not the way to go. There were probably other types of treatment, aimed at teaching compulsives like him how to get to grips with drinking less. It wasn’t the first glass that caused the problem, but the many more that inevitably followed. As this thought subsided, he recalled what had inspired him to pick up the phone. He had done something unforgivable. His business with the AA people had not been a cry for help, but rather a chance to talk to someone about the interpretation of Steps 8 and 9: ‘Made a list of all persons we had harmed, and became willing to make amends to them all… Made direct amends to such people whenever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.’ Too late. It was far too late for that. A chill crept through his heart and it seemed as if the blood in his veins had thickened. He waited until it was totally frozen and he felt like he had when he was in Greenland. Then he left his room to join the meeting, with its flickering promise of redemption.

Thora had been at the computer for hours and felt no closer to discovering anything. Like any other IT system, it was characterized by numerous files that were impossible for strangers to figure out; it didn’t help that most of them existed in many different versions. So she had called on Eyjolfur to help get her going, and he had willingly granted her a little insight into how the system was arranged. It was broadly divided into four areas: photographs, journals – which everyone was required to keep – records related to the project, and finally employees’ personal documents.

Thora decided to start with the journals, which were most likely to contain decipherable information. She thought it best to wait with the project and work files, as well as the personal documents. Eyjolfur had told her the latter category had caused system problems, since the music and video files the staff liked to download took up so much disk space. Out of curiosity Thora opened one folder entitled ‘Doddi’ and in return got a dauntingly long list of files of various kinds. Before he left her, Eyjolfur informed her that the staff had been discouraged from saving non-essential files onto the hard drives of their computers. They wouldn’t make a backup of all the files from each machine – only from the central server.

Thora pored over the files, promptly copied what she considered important and sent it to the printer that Eyjolfur said was located in the corridor. He promised to make sure that no one took the pages, and even regularly brought her the printouts. After rushing through the journals, she nosed around a bit in the other categories and found a file or two that also appeared meaningful, so she would have something to show Matthew when he came back. He had gone to inspect the offices for traces of blood, leaving her alone in the drillers’ room. ‘I found one office that I’m almost sure is the one in the video. When you look at it closely you can tell someone has tried to clean up after an absolute bloodbath. There are splotches on the folders and signs that the walls and floor have been wiped down with a rag or something. Obviously I don’t have any ultraviolet equipment to illuminate biological material, but I don’t think there’s any doubt what the stains are. There’s a video camera on the desk, still connected to the computer. I didn’t dare mess with the camera, but it’s fairly obvious that it’s the one that took the video.’

‘What does this mean?’ Thora stretched her back out. She’d been sitting bent over for too long.

‘I don’t quite understand it, but I’ve locked the room and we’ll simply leave it to the police to investigate as they see fit. We are neither equipped to conduct a police investigation, nor is it our responsibility. They’ve simply got to come out here. We can’t solve a case like this, so we should simply focus on the aspects of it that affect the progress and survival of the project. As soon as we get in touch with the police I’ll demand that they send a team here.’ Matthew looked at the screen in front of Thora. ‘But how’s it been going for you?’

‘I don’t quite get all of this but I think I’ve found some documents that could make a difference,’ said Thora, proudly tapping the small stack of papers on the table. ‘To go over all the files with a magnifying glass would take