The Darkness Knows

25

His name was Ingibergur, known to all as Ingi, and he was the last member of Villi’s circle of friends to have seen him alive. They had become good mates while working together on building sites. It was crazy how busy they were in those days, Ingibergur said, reminiscing. Whole new suburbs of houses, terraces and blocks of flats had appeared in a matter of months. Retail outlets had sprung up everywhere, many of them in vast hangars on the outskirts of the city. The housing developer they worked for hadn’t been able to keep up with all the invitations to tender for new projects, large and small, and was permanently short of labour. He’d been forced to deal with an agency that provided him with foreign workers, and at one point Ingi and Villi’s crew had spoken four different languages, which had led to problems at times. They had been the only ones who spoke Icelandic.

Ingi and Villi were both single, around the same age, and shared an interest in sport. Ingi, who had grown up in one of the more easterly suburbs, supported Fram, the arch-rival of Villi’s team, Valur, and their friendship had got off to an unpromising start when Ingi joined the crew and immediately started bad-mouthing Valur. The team had performed disappointingly the previous summer and had dropped to the first division. But as Fram weren’t on particularly good form either, Villi had no problem answering back. He was forever referring to the history of the clubs and claiming that Valur had a far more impressive record than Fram. Ingi rejected this claim as absurd and started listing examples of Fram’s glorious past. This had caused friction between them at first, but they soon began to see the funny side of their rivalry and discovered a common enemy in the KR club from the west of the city, which they never tired of trashing. Before long, they were going to games together, or to sports bars to watch live match broadcasts and down lager and schnapps until the early hours. That was another thing they had in common: their ability to put away booze.

The alcohol affected them differently, though, making Ingi silent and withdrawn, reluctant to talk to anyone, while Villi, in contrast, became very chatty, overcoming his natural shyness to strike up conversations with other customers in the bar. He knew all the regulars and would greet newcomers like old friends. As the evening wore on Ingi would tag along, silent and unsmiling, not speaking unless directly addressed, and even then not saying much. Once, when someone asked Villi what was up with his companion, he had joked that Ingi was his ‘silent partner’.

One evening late in November, he and Ingi had gone to the sports bar as usual, to watch a Spanish-league game. They had arrived early to secure a good table and had it to themselves until the place began to fill up and they were joined by three other fans. Soon the bar was packed and the game began. It was a lively, entertaining match, which generated a happy buzz in the bar. The two friends got chatting to the men sitting next to them, and all agreed that Barcelona had the edge on Real Madrid.

Once the game was over, people started drinking up and going home — calling out goodbye and thanks to the barman, zipping up their jackets and bracing themselves to face the Arctic conditions outside. The wind had picked up during the evening and was now gusting hard, driving thick curtains of snow across the city. But Villi and Ingi weren’t bothered, since they weren’t going anywhere. Before long they were alone at their table and Ingi had reached the morose stage.

Customers were still drifting off home, and Villi, who had drowned his shyness, started scanning the emptying seats. A handful of women had come to watch the football and a couple were still sitting at the bar. Since they were the same sort of age as the two friends, Villi started giving them the eye and nudging Ingi. But Ingi merely glanced over and shrugged. Just as Villi rose to go and talk to the women, they got up, one kissed the barman goodbye, and they plunged into the storm outside.

Villi went over to the bar anyway to get in another round. As he was waiting, Ingi saw him say hello to a man sitting there and make some remark — about the match, no doubt. The man obviously wasn’t averse to being disturbed and they got into conversation. Ingi, meanwhile, remained at their table, hunched over his beer, darting occasional glances at his friend. Then his attention was caught by three women who tumbled in through the door as if blown in by the wind, dusting off the snow and laughing. He hadn’t seen them there before and they behaved like it was their first time, looking around curiously and making their way over to the bar where they ordered drinks — colourful cocktails rather than beer — before taking a table at the back, as if they wanted to be left in peace. Ingi was no womaniser. He’d once had a girlfriend but she hadn’t stuck around long. He thought about going over and joining them. He had drunk enough by now to get beyond the shy stage, but something still held him back. He didn’t know what to say, and didn’t want to come across like some creep who’d only gone over to bother them.

After a while, having finally thought of something to say, he stood up and went over. But just as he reached their table he lost his nerve, swerved at the last minute and brushed past them. They didn’t give him so much as a glance. Unable to return to his own table for fear of looking like an idiot, he pretended he’d meant to go and sit in the corner, and plonked himself down with his glass, his heart pounding.

Maybe he was drunker than he’d thought. He had no idea how long he sat there, but he vaguely recalled the barman bringing over another two beers for him during that time. When, belatedly, he rose to his feet, swaying, and looked for Villi at the bar, his friend was nowhere to be seen and neither was the man he’d been talking to. Ingi reeled over to the bar and clambered onto a stool, then slumped forward on the counter and fell asleep. He woke to find the barman and another man lifting him up and helping him outside. They were closing. He left the building, still half asleep, and barely even registered the snow as he had the wind behind him all the way home. He could remember next to nothing about his walk.

After finishing his story, Ingibergur stroked his beard, then took another sip of beer.

‘Villi must have thought I’d left,’ he told Konrád.

‘And you never saw him again?’

‘No.’