Reykjavik Nights

9

Erlendur stood at the Grensásvegur — Miklabraut junction, directing traffic round a three-car pile-up. Two police vehicles and two ambulances had been called to the scene, along with a fire engine to cut an injured driver from the wreckage. An estate car had cannoned into the back of another, smaller vehicle, forcing it through a red light and into the box junction where a van had smacked into its side. The van had been travelling fairly fast, so the car had rebounded into Grensásvegur, where it rolled over. The impact had hurled the driver of the van through the windscreen and he was now lying in his own blood on the tarmac. The driver of the car that had rolled over was still trapped under the steering wheel. Meanwhile, the man who had originally caused the accident was sitting in one of the police vehicles, suspected of driving under the influence. He was bleeding from a gash on his head. His wife too was clearly the worse for wear. Gardar said she was something of a madam: his efforts to prevent her walking away from the scene had resulted in an angry altercation. Blood was trickling from her forehead onto the mink coat draped around her, and she was swaying slightly in her high heels. Finally Gardar persuaded her to accompany him back to where her husband was sitting, shoulders bowed, in police custody.

It was just after midnight on Friday and there was still a fair amount of traffic on the city’s main artery. Erlendur’s position in the middle of the busy junction was not immediately life threatening, but there was always an element of unpredictability at this hour. Their very first job that evening had been to pull over a drunk driver on Skúlagata after they noticed him changing lanes at breakneck speed. Despite being almost incoherent when they helped him out of the car, he had insisted that he was stone-cold sober, then had passed out en route for a blood test.

The three wrecked vehicles were towed away. Once the ambulances and fire engine had departed as well, they were able to reopen the junction to traffic. Then, as they were driving away, a call came in about a fight at Rödull on Nóatún. A drunk man had attacked a bartender, then started terrorising the other customers before being overpowered by two bouncers, who were now waiting for the police.

When they reached the club, they found a long queue.

‘Fancy-dress, is it?’ someone called out as they elbowed their way through the throng. They were met by a doorman who showed them through to the kitchen where the troublemaker was lying face down on the floor, restrained by two burly men, while the other staff bustled around them.

‘I’ll kill you!’ the man blustered. ‘I’ll kill you, you fucking pigs.’

The head bouncer launched into an explanation of what had happened. Refused a tab at the bar, the man had completely lost it and slashed the bartender in the face with a broken glass. The victim had been driven straight to Casualty, spouting blood. The bouncers had recognised the perpetrator as an occasional customer, known for his obnoxious behaviour. They’d thrown him out a couple of times when women had complained about him, but they didn’t know his name.

‘He’s one of those dickheads who walks in here and thinks he owns the place,’ said the head doorman. ‘It’ll be good to get rid of the prick. He’s barred from now on.’

Marteinn clicked a pair of handcuffs onto the man’s wrists and, with Erlendur’s help, hauled him to his feet.

‘I’m going to sue those bastards for assault!’ the man stormed. His stretch on the kitchen floor had only made him feel more aggrieved. ‘They attacked me. Dragged me in here. Threw me on the floor. I’m going to sue them.’

‘It’s touch and go whether they’ll be able to save Kiddi’s eye — he’s our bartender,’ the bouncer told them. ‘He’ll definitely want to press charges against this tosser.’

Accompanied by a tirade of abuse, they escorted the man outside, through the crowd to the police car. A few of the people in the queue tried to interfere, mouthing off about stupid pigs and police oppression. Inured to such insults, they paid no attention.

Afterwards they took a coffee break at the station. The shift had been no better or worse than usual so far. Car crashes, drunk drivers, bar brawls — it was all part of the job, like the insults of the onlookers.

Much to Erlendur’s irritation, Gardar and Marteinn had spent most of the night arguing about the British rock group Slade. They had heard on the news that there was a chance the band might perform live at the Laugardalshöll concert hall that autumn. Gardar was desperate for tickets. Earlier that summer Procol Harum, one of Marteinn’s favourite groups, had played at the University Cinema. He had attended the first of their three gigs and was so blown away that he had been lost for words. He had been humming ‘A Whiter Shade of Pale’ almost non-stop ever since. But his enthusiasm had fallen on deaf ears, so now when Gardar started going on about Slade, Marteinn was inclined to be scathing.

‘Of course, Slade’s by far and away the coolest band around,’ said Gardar, biting into a kleina, or doughnut twist.

‘Glam-rock rubbish,’ sneered Marteinn. ‘They won’t last — you won’t even remember their name in a few years. Why don’t you listen to Procol Harum or something halfway decent like the Stones? They’re a serious band. I bet they’ll still be rocking when they’re fifty!’

‘Nah, Slade’s the business, man.’

‘Isn’t Pelican doing the same kind of thing?’ asked Erlendur, who took little interest in the music scene but recalled seeing an article in the paper.

‘Well, of course, they’re way cooler,’ said Marteinn. ‘“Jenny Darling” is pure genius.’

They ended their shift down by the harbour, not far from the slipway, where a man had fallen in the sea. He had been saved in the nick of time by a passer-by who had jumped in after him, and he had now been taken to hospital. His rescuer made light of his own condition as he sat in the police van, soaked to the skin, wrapped in a couple of blankets. He was able to give a clear account of the incident and was far more concerned for the man he had fished out of the harbour than for himself.

‘What’ll happen to him?’ he asked.

‘I expect they’ll send him home after a check-up,’ said Erlendur.

‘He’s in a bad way.’

‘Don’t worry, they’ll take a look at him.’

‘No, I mean mentally. They’d better keep an eye on him.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘He didn’t fall.’

‘Oh?’

‘No, it wasn’t like that. He did it on purpose. He jumped.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sure! He was fighting me the whole time, begging me to let him go. Pleading with me to leave him to die.’