The Day Is Dark

don’t have a blog.’

‘Okay. It just crossed my mind. Blogs can be pretty cool. Some of Berg Technology’s employees kept them, with news from the work site and personal stuff. I helped to set some of them up. Bjarki and Dori’s was fucking genius. Homemade videos and stuff like that that’s really funny if you know them.’ He stopped, recalling that the men were probably dead, and hurriedly gave them the website address.

‘Tell Matthew where I am when he comes down.’ Thora took her glass and gave Eyjolfur a parting pat on the shoulder. Fri?rikka stood awkwardly at the bar, obviously debating whether to stay or go, then as Thora left the bar she decided to sit in her newly vacated chair.

The computer in the lobby was old and the connection slow, but Thora managed to get into her e-mail and send Gylfi a message saying that she hoped to be home soon. She didn’t mention the body or the bones, though it probably wouldn’t have hurt to do so. After sending the message she tried to get onto the drillers’ blog. Despite the wavering and flickering on the screen at every touch of the mouse Thora became completely absorbed in the site, until Matthew laid his hand on her shoulder and asked how it was going. She could smell his aftershave, with an undertone of soap, and longed to go back with him to their room. But first she had to show him what she’d found on the blog.

Unfortunately, it couldn’t wait.

Chapter 25

22 March 2008

The fourth step would be difficult this time. In his previous attempts to dry out Arnar had found this stage on his road to recovery fairly easy. But now things were different. ‘We made a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves,’ the step stated. Now he had to account for a far more serious issue than having defaulted on debts, disappointed his parents, betrayed his friends and colleagues and let his addiction negatively affect his work. To whom could he entrust this? God? Arnar was not convinced He existed. Yet he had accepted that there was some power that was superior to him, since it was impossible for him to become healthy again without believing that. Suddenly the thought struck him that perhaps there was no benevolent God in the universe, only evil. If so, Arnar had joined forces with the Devil and could have no hope of salvation, either in this life or in whatever might come after death.

He had once slaved his way through Dante’s Divine Comedy. Although he hadn’t understood the work thoroughly – or its strange title – it had had a great effect on him. Many of the poet’s images of life after death were still embedded in his mind; for example, the fate of false prophets. They had offended God by pretending to be able to foresee the future and their heads were turned in reverse; in addition to this they wept so much that they were blinded by their own tears. Arnar had admittedly never been guilty of that, but he felt he knew exactly where he would end up in Dante’s Hell. Until now he had thought it certain that he would be placed deep in the Seventh Circle of Hell, reserved for those guilty of sodomy; there he would wander a burning desert, trying unsuccessfully to protect himself from fire that rained from the sky. Now he realised he would end up even lower: in the Ninth Circle. This place was intended for those who had betrayed those closest to them. Arnar could not recall precisely how this circle was organised but he did remember that the souls there were trapped in a frozen lake; how much of their bodies was free of the ice depended upon whom they had betrayed.

As a mortal sinner he therefore had only two choices: fire or ice. At a glance he would prefer fire; though he trembled at the thought of either eternal cold or a sea of flames, at least in the latter he wouldn’t be as lonely as he’d be in the frozen lake, where no one could speak and the souls could only gaze helplessly at the other wretches stuck in the gleaming ice. Comedy was a strange name for a poem that was mostly so devoid of joy. Moreover, Arnar had trouble tallying this description of hell with Jesus’ having sacrificed himself on the cross for the sins of mankind. If Dante’s description had any truth to it, it would mean Christ’s sacrificial death had been for nothing. Perhaps the poet had felt like Arnar when he wrote the poem, certain that the sun would never rise again.

No, Arnar could think of no one to whom he could entrust this. In terms of who would be chosen to help him through the steps, it changed nothing. He detested himself when he thought about this, and he couldn’t bear the thought of seeing that same disgust kindled in the eyes of someone else. He had painted himself into a corner; if he did not account for himself he would be unable to free himself from the claws of Bacchus. The memory of what he had done would eat at him from within and tear down his flimsy defences against his addiction. There were two choices remaining to him, both of them bad: to come clean and reap contempt and condemnation, or to go grovelling back to alcohol like a dog in the dirt. Whichever he chose, the reckoning or the bottle, it was clear he had many more sleepless nights to come. Once again the best solution seemed to be to kill himself, like a man. This gave him a third choice of location in Dante’s Hell: in the middle of the Seventh Circle, where he would become a thorn bush fed upon by Harpies, winged beings with the heads of maidens.

Arnar laughed out loud in his dark, lonely room. What was wrong with him? Did he really think that he would gain peace of mind by contemplating an old poem; free himself from guilt over his treachery and lust for revenge? He emitted a dry and mirthless laugh, turned on his side and adjusted his pillow. How far could one go in the name of revenge? Were there any unwritten rules or ethical guidelines he had missed finding out about? Hardly. Right now he could think of two proverbs in connection with revenge. One was in line with what he had done – an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth – but the other was entirely the opposite; to turn the other cheek. The former had its origin in mankind’s first attempts to codify laws in writing, with the Hammurabi Code, while the latter was from the New Testament. Nearly 2,000 years separated these two approaches and another 2,000 had passed without any new options being provided. It must be high time to invent a new phrase. It was hard to tell how it would be worded, but Arnar suspected that his actions would nonetheless have contravened it.

Maybe everything had worked out and there would be no repercussions. The men had not necessarily met their maker. They’d always had options, though Arnar couldn’t see what they might have been. Unless God had intervened. Arnar relaxed a little. If God existed, saving the men was in His hands. Just as Arnar could have shown them mercy but chose not to do so. In that case, how could the Lord of Hosts judge him for exactly the same thing? Maybe there had been mitigating circumstances – what if he had been hurt by the men’s insults and bullying and therefore couldn’t help himself? Weren’t people sometimes acquitted because they rebelled against their persecutors? He needed to keep firmly in mind how his life had been ruined and make sure to emphasize that. Maybe then people would show him understanding and judge him leniently, even come to the conclusion that they would have done exactly the same in his shoes. Maybe. Maybe not. The words of the reader at the AA meeting earlier that evening echoed in his mind. You have no hope of recovery while you carry around your old sins. They will burden you with constant guilt and eventually you will give in to the cunning prompting of your addiction to have a drink. Account for yourself with full sincerity and you will feel how your burdens become lighter and life becomes simpler and more manageable. But your sincerity and honesty must be one hundred per cent. Not ninety-nine. One hundred per cent. Otherwise, this only works for short periods of time.

Arnar knew that the man was right. One hundred per cent, not ninety-nine. So there was nothing he could do. In fact, he was in the same boat as Bjarki and Dori. God had to come to his rescue. That is, if God existed and wasn’t too busy. The night would be long, just like other nights in the future.

Outside snowflakes fell lightly to the ground as if they didn’t really feel like doing so. Was it snowing in Greenland now? If so, wouldn’t Bjarki and Dori’s bodies soon be entirely buried? Hopefully gone forever, but at least until the spring. What would happen then? How would Arnar feel if a child came across their remains? He had to do something. But it could wait. Maybe until spring. Then he would have time to adapt his story to gain a little sympathy.

‘Can you believe this?’ Thora leaned back in her chair. ‘And then they put it on the Internet like it’s just another silly film.’

Matthew didn’t appear as shocked as she was. ‘Maybe it wasn’t as nasty as it looked. What led up to it? Sometimes the build-up reveals more than the event itself. And what happened afterwards?’

Thora frowned at him. ‘How can anything that was done either before or after make this any better?’ She reached for the mouse and replayed the video. As they watched the scene a third time, Thora felt as if she were