Black Skies

4

He had stalked the bastard for several months before finally taking action. Had stood outside and spied on the dump in Grettisgata, whatever the weather, at all hours of the day and night, taking care to remain at a discreet distance and keep a low profile. It was risky to loiter too long in the same place in case he attracted the attention of passers-by or residents. They might call the police and that was the last thing he wanted. It would not be the first time he had been in trouble with the law.

The houses in this neighbourhood were all much of a muchness. Here and there new houses had sprung up, built according to the prevailing fashion at the time, while others blended in better with the original appearance of the street: humble, low-rise, wooden buildings, clad in corrugated iron, and standing one or two storeys high, on raised concrete basements. Some had been lovingly restored, others neglected and allowed to go to seed, like the dump where the old man lived. The roof was in a dilapidated state, there were no gutters on the side facing the street, the light blue colour the house had originally been painted was almost worn away and large patches of rust marred the roof and walls. As far as he could tell, the floor above the basement was unoccupied; there were curtains drawn across all the windows and he had never seen anyone set foot inside.

The years had not been kind to the old man; he must be well into his seventies by now, stiff-legged and stooped, with grey hair straggling from under his woollen hat, an old anorak, and an air of threadbare neglect. There was little about him to remind one of the past. His routine was more or less fixed: every other day he went to the old swimming pool early in the morning, so early that he sometimes had to wait for it to open. It was possible that he had been awake all night, because he would go straight home afterwards and not stir again until evening, when he would re-emerge to visit the local shop and buy milk, bread and a few other groceries. Occasionally he would drop by the off-licence. He never spoke to anyone on these journeys, never greeted anyone and only ever stopped briefly, just long enough to do what was strictly necessary before continuing on his way. He never received any visitors either, except the postman now and then. His evenings were spent at home, apart from two occasions when he had walked down to the sea by the coast road, continuing along the shore as far as the fishing docks, then home again through the western part of town and the old Thingholt district.

On the second occasion it had started to rain in the middle of his walk and the old man had crept under cover of darkness into the garden of a two-storey period house, where he had peered through the ground-floor windows at the family with several children who lived there. For more than an hour he had lurked behind a clump of trees in the cold rain, at a safe distance from the house, watching the family get ready for bed. Long after all the lights had been turned out, he stole over to the window of one of the children’s rooms and gazed inside for a long time before resuming his journey home to Grettisgata.

All that night, ignoring the lashing rain, he himself had stood outside, his eyes fixed on the basement door of the house on Grettisgata, feeling as if he had to stand guard over all Reykjavík’s innocent little children.