Reykjavik Nights

29

Hannibal fell back on the bed with a grimace, clutched his side and groaned. Erlendur hesitated a moment before closing the door. He left it unlocked. He had no idea what had just happened, but he thought he had better respect the man’s wishes and leave him alone. He walked away down the corridor, shaken by the tramp’s sudden violent rage. Hannibal’s words about penance and absolution rang in his ears as he left the station and he was barely aware of his surroundings until an officer caught up with him. By then Erlendur had already covered quite a distance.

‘That alky wants a word with you,’ the policeman said, panting.

‘Alky?’

‘That tramp you put in the cells. He wants to talk to you.’

‘Oh?’

‘Yes, he’s calling for you. He was out in the corridor raising hell, demanding to see you. He stinks.’

‘Tell him I’ve left.’

‘He was very insistent,’ said the officer. ‘He wants to talk to you. Won’t let it drop.’

Erlendur wavered. He had no desire to see Hannibal in that mood.

‘He threatened us. We had to lock him in.’

‘You mustn’t do that,’ said Erlendur. ‘He’s not under arrest. He was beaten up. He’s free to go whenever he likes.’

‘Well, he’s not leaving till he’s spoken to you.’

Erlendur shook his head.

‘Right then,’ said the policeman. ‘We’ll kick him out.’

‘Don’t do that — he needs a chance to recover.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake, why don’t you just talk to him and calm him down, then everyone’ll be happy. Wouldn’t that be simplest?’

A few minutes later Erlendur went back into the cell. Hannibal was sitting, head bowed, on the bed, but as soon as he saw Erlendur he stood and, surprisingly, ran a hand through his hair in a futile attempt to smarten himself up. Erlendur sensed it was an old habit, a relic of his past life that lingered on with peculiar obstinacy. That world may have been irretrievably lost to him but the action was ingrained, a remnant of the self-respect he had once possessed. It sat oddly with his condition now. His green anorak, filthy from living rough, torn from beatings like the one last night, looked as if it was grafted to his flesh. It was cinched round the waist by a black leather belt, and a woollen hat poked out of one pocket. Around his neck Hannibal had knotted a thin, green scarf, and on his lower half he wore baggy, black trousers. His feet were clad in thick galoshes, minus their laces, with woollen socks peeping over the top. His trouser legs were tucked into the socks, which were secured with tough elastic bands. Under the grime his face had a corpse-like pallor and was criss-crossed with wrinkles, a testament to his daily battle for survival, waged in the darkest corners of the city. If his eyes had ever shone with joy, it had long since been extinguished. They were hard and grey as weathered stone.

‘Thank you for coming back,’ he began.

‘What do you want from me?’ asked Erlendur.

‘I wanted to apologise for the way I spoke to you. It was uncalled for, and it matters a lot to me that you know I didn’t mean anything by it. I hope you’ll accept my apology and forgive my outburst.’

‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ said Erlendur. ‘We don’t know each other. You can say what you like to me. I don’t care.’

‘All the same, I’d be grateful,’ said Hannibal. ‘You’ve been kind to me and I had no business attacking you like that. I know... I know you mean well and I should respect that. I suppose I’m a bit touchy about people meddling. Can’t stand it when they try to push me about.’

‘I wouldn’t dream of pushing you about.’

‘No, I know that.’

‘Have you encountered them before?’ asked Erlendur.

‘Who?’

‘The men who beat you up.’

‘No, not them. Others, though.’

‘So you don’t know who they were?’

‘No.’

‘Or what sort of age?’

‘Young. They were young. And they were wearing good shoes. I noticed that when they started kicking me. Sometimes these boys... boys like them try to get a rise out of me. Usually I ignore them but every now and then I’m stupid enough to fly off the handle and almost always come off worst.’

He sat down on the bed again with a stifled moan, pressing a hand to his ribs.

‘They won’t finish me off. Any more than the bastards who tried to set fire to my cellar.’

‘What do you mean? Did someone start a fire?’

‘Frímann blames me — he won’t listen. But it wasn’t me, I swear.’

‘Do you know who it was?’

‘I have my suspicions,’ said Hannibal. ‘Anyhow, I’d better take those pills.’ He reached out for the painkillers. ‘You’re not from Reykjavík, are you?’

‘Why do you say that?’

‘You from the country?’

‘I moved here when I was twelve,’ said Erlendur.

‘Where are you from?’

‘The East Fjords. Eskifjördur.’

‘Went there once. Beautiful place. How do you like Reykjavík?’

‘It’s not too bad.’

‘Like that, is it?’ said Hannibal. ‘Why did you move?’

‘I came here with my parents.’

‘I was born here in the city,’ said Hannibal. ‘In Laugarnes. Lived here all my life, wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.’

‘In spite of everything.’

‘I’ve no one to blame but myself,’ said Hannibal. ‘You do what you can with the hand you’re dealt, and I’ll be the first to admit I’ve ballsed up.’

‘What did you mean before, about penance?’ asked Erlendur.

‘That was just nonsense. I come out with a load of crap sometimes. Don’t take any notice.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’d rather not go into it, if you don’t mind.’

‘Do you feel you haven’t done enough penance yourself?’ asked Erlendur.

‘I said I’d rather not talk about it.’

‘Is this some kind of punishment? This life on the streets?’

Hannibal would not answer, so Erlendur abandoned the subject.

‘You’re a bit of an outsider yourself,’ the tramp said after a lengthy pause.

‘I wouldn’t say that.’

‘Is that why you feel sorry for me?’

‘I just don’t want you to die of exposure.’

‘Why should you care?’

‘Why shouldn’t I care?’

‘No one else gives a toss if I live or die, so I don’t see why you should. Why did your family move to town? Did something happen?’

‘My parents wanted to move to the city.’

‘Why?’

‘Various reasons.’

‘Don’t you want to tell me?’

‘I don’t see that it has anything to do with you.’

‘No, of course not,’ said Hannibal in a quieter voice, suddenly ashamed. ‘Sorry. It’s none of my business. I’m a nosy bastard, I’m afraid. Terribly nosy. Always have been. Don’t know where it comes from. Just a habit. A bad habit.’

He ran a hand over his hair again, tidying non-existent locks. He had lost his vehemence and sat now without speaking, eyes fixed on the cell wall, as if it were one of the walls he had erected around his own life, which had confined him in a self-imposed prison for longer than he cared to remember.

‘Doesn’t matter if I live or die,’ he said absently, almost whispering now.

‘What did you say?’

‘I’d probably end it all if I wasn’t such a coward.’

‘End what?’

‘This misery,’ Hannibal whispered, gazing unseeing at the wall. ‘This god-awful misery.’