Strange Shores

48

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.

‘Hell and damnation,’ repeated the boat owner. ‘You could knock up a simple coffin for Jakob, couldn’t you? You can use some of the timber over at the new building. Try and do a decent job, mate.’

Ezra nodded.

‘Then wait for the Djúpivogur lot to arrive. The uncle didn’t want any fuss. He’s going to transport the coffin by sea. Said it wouldn’t do for me to attend the funeral. They’re a rum lot. I’ll go anyway, of course. You knew him quite well, didn’t you?’

‘Er. . quite,’ stammered Ezra. ‘We worked together on the Sigurlína for several seasons.’

‘Of course you did,’ exclaimed the owner. ‘Silly me. He had a fine wife in Matthildur. Such a shame that.’

‘Yes.’

The idea crystallised when Ezra heard the owner utter Matthildur’s name. He would just delay alerting people. He wanted to take a better look at Jakob first. Then he would ask him. If Jakob refused to tell, he could refuse to help him. Or at least threaten to leave him to his fate.

The owner took his leave and Ezra stood rooted to the spot, watching him disappear through the door. It was several minutes before he turned back to Jakob. Going over to the filleting table, he scrutinised him minutely. No sign of movement. Ezra crouched over him for a long time. Had he been wrong? Hadn’t he seen Jakob’s lips move after all?

Ezra had begun to believe it was all a strange trick of the eyes when Jakob’s lips quivered again. He seemed to be trying to speak, but the movement was almost imperceptible.

Ezra bent close, putting his ear to Jakob’s mouth. He could hear very faint breathing now. And every time Jakob exhaled it was like a prayer for help. .

Help.

Help.