Reykjavik Nights Page 13

  ‘Who the hell’s that?’ he said a moment later, slowing down.

  Erlendur looked up from the paper and saw a man lying in the gutter – a man wearing a green anorak.

  ‘Is it Hannibal?’

  ‘So you’ve already come across the poor sod,’ said Sigurgeir.

  ‘I’ve run into him a couple of times.’

  They parked, stepped out of the car and went over to him. It was indeed Hannibal and he was in a bad state, with blood on his face from a cut to the head. Presumably he had either had a bad fall or been beaten up.

  ‘Hannibal!’ Sigurgeir poked him with his boot.

  Erlendur knelt down beside the man and took his hand. It felt like ice. He tried to rouse him and heard him emit a low groan.

  ‘Shouldn’t we call an ambulance?’ he asked.

  ‘No need for that, is there?’ said Sigurgeir. ‘You’re all right, aren’t you, Hannibal?’

  Hannibal opened his eyes and looked at Erlendur.

  ‘Is it you?’ he asked.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Have they gone?’ Hannibal groaned again.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Those bloody hooligans.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘They went for me.’ Hannibal managed to ease himself into a sitting position against a lamppost with Erlendur’s help. ‘Three of them. Bloody hooligans!’

  ‘Who were they?’

  ‘How should I know? Never seen them before.’

  ‘You’re absolutely fine, aren’t you, old boy?’ interrupted Sigurgeir. ‘You can walk, can’t you?’

  ‘I’m OK,’ said Hannibal, gritting his teeth at the pain in his side. The cut, which was superficial, had stopped bleeding.

  ‘Think you might have broken some ribs?’ asked Erlendur.

  ‘They kept kicking me in the side,’ Hannibal said. ‘Hit me over the head as well. But I’ll be all right. It’s not the first time I’ve been set on by thugs.’

  ‘Can you stand?’ asked Erlendur.

  ‘Just leave me be, I’ll sort myself out. I don’t need any help. Least of all from the likes of you.’

  This last comment was accompanied by a dirty look at Sigurgeir, who stood there smiling as if untouched by Hannibal’s misfortunes.

  ‘You should come with us,’ said Erlendur. ‘We’d better take you to Casualty – get you seen to.’

  ‘I’m not going to any hospital. There’s no need. I’m all right.’

  ‘There’s no way we’re going to stink out the car with this sorry wretch,’ said Sigurgeir. ‘You heard what he said – he’s absolutely fine.’

  ‘The least we can do is give him a cell down at the station to recover in.’ Erlendur helped Hannibal to his feet. ‘So we can keep an eye on him, call a doctor if necessary.’

  ‘I’m not going to the station,’ said Hannibal, leaning against the lamppost.

  ‘You heard him,’ said Sigurgeir. ‘If he’s capable of arguing, there can’t be much wrong with him.’

  ‘Don’t you call me a sorry wretch,’ Hannibal snapped. He moved so quickly, despite his weakened condition, that Sigurgeir had no chance to dodge the punch aimed at his jaw.

  ‘Think you can hit me, you son of a bitch?’ Sigurgeir exclaimed, clutching his face. He was about to retaliate when Erlendur seized his arm.

  ‘You don’t want to do that.’

  Sigurgeir gaped at him.

  ‘Let me go,’ he ordered.

  ‘Only if you leave him alone.’

  Sigurgeir’s gaze swivelled between Erlendur and Hannibal; then abruptly his anger seemed to subside. Erlendur released him.

  ‘I could bring charges against him for striking a police officer,’ said Sigurgeir.

  ‘What would that achieve?’ asked Erlendur. ‘You’re coming with us,’ he said to Hannibal, and helped him to the patrol car. Sigurgeir watched them, in two minds about what to do, then got behind the wheel. Having gently guided Hannibal into the back seat, Erlendur joined his colleague in the front.

  ‘He can recover in one of the cells,’ Erlendur said again.

  ‘You leave me alone, boy!’ said Hannibal angrily. ‘Stop interfering.’

  He tried to get out of the car again but Erlendur prevented him and eventually succeeded in calming him down.

  ‘You’re coming with us,’ he insisted. ‘Those wounds need attention.’

  ‘Why the do-gooder all of a sudden?’ asked Sigurgeir, annoyed. ‘Why don’t you just invite him home with you?’

  Hannibal made no further objections, but emitted a low moan as Sigurgeir started the car with a jerk and drove at breakneck speed back to the station on Hverfisgata. All the cells were empty. Erlendur installed Hannibal in one of them, and the tramp lay down on the bed. Since Hannibal flatly refused all offers to take him to the City Hospital, Erlendur phoned a doctor who came over, examined him and tended to his injuries. In his opinion there were no broken ribs but he left Hannibal some strong painkillers.

  Not long after the doctor’s departure, Erlendur’s shift ended and he experienced the customary relief at laying aside the cap, baton and belt, and dressing in his ordinary clothes again. He had never really been comfortable in his uniform and always felt a bit of an idiot strutting around town in his full regalia.

  He went to Hannibal’s cell, drew back the hatch and saw that the tramp was lying on his back, staring blankly at the ceiling. He opened the door and went inside.

  ‘How are you?’

  Hannibal did not answer. He gave off his usual stench: a pungent mixture of urine and other filth.

  ‘I probably don’t need to remind you to take the painkillers the doctor left,’ Erlendur said, noticing the pills lying untouched on the table beside the bed.

  Hannibal did not react.

  ‘Of course, they’ll chuck you out after midday,’ Erlendur went on. ‘But I asked them to give you some lunch first.’

  Hannibal continued to contemplate the ceiling.

  ‘Do you really have no idea who attacked you?’

  Still no response.

  ‘We can try to track them down. You can press charges. You’re not completely without rights, whatever you may think. You can always turn to us if you need to.’

  At this the other man shook his head.

  ‘Well, I must be off,’ said Erlendur. ‘Take care. Hope you feel better soon.’

  He was about to step out into the corridor again when Hannibal cleared his throat.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’

  ‘Doing what?’ Erlendur paused in the doorway.

  ‘Why are you helping me? What do you want from me?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Then why won’t you leave me alone?’

  ‘I could do.’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘All right,’ said Erlendur. ‘I’ll remember that in future.’

  ‘Yes, you remember that. You needn’t bother about me.’

  ‘All right then.’

  Hannibal did not look at him, but Erlendur could sense the rage seething inside him. Perhaps it was a fresh, hot anger, flaring up now because he had been attacked and left lying in the gutter. Or because he had been brought to this cell against his will, even if it was for his own good. Or because Sigurgeir had called him a sorry wretch. But Erlendur guessed that it was a cold fury that had long lain dormant in Hannibal, fuelled by a life of hardship.

  ‘What happened to you?’ the tramp asked suddenly.

  ‘Nothing’s happened to me,’ said Erlendur.

  ‘Then what are you trying to make up for?’

  ‘I have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Yes. What are you on about?’

  ‘I’m talking about you,’ said Hannibal.

  ‘You don’t know the first thing about me,’ said Erlendur. ‘So how can you be talking about me?’

  ‘When did you screw up?’ asked Hannibal, sitting up with an effort.

  ‘What do you
mean?’

  ‘What are you trying to compensate for with all your do-gooding?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Erlendur.

  ‘Come on, what are you trying to make amends for? That’s why you’re helping me, isn’t it? To atone for your sins? Is that it? Am I your penance?’

  Glaring at Erlendur, who was standing in the doorway, Hannibal suddenly began to shout.

  ‘Why are you doing this? Am I supposed to give you some kind of absolution?’

  ‘You –’

  ‘Tell me about it!’

  Erlendur was completely wrong-footed.

  ‘Is that why you can’t leave me alone?’ yelled Hannibal hoarsely, beside himself now with rage. ‘Well, you needn’t feel sorry for me. I don’t need your pity. It’s no use to me. You can go to hell, you and all your bloody family! I don’t need anyone’s pity. No one’s! Just you remember that!’

  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.’

  30

  The woman who had gone missing from Thórskaffi was called Oddný. She was thirty-four at the time. She was born in Reykjavík and had been brought up in the old Thingholt district. After finishing secondary school she had moved on to college but quit after a couple of years and took a job instead. Before becoming an estate agent she had worked in a variety of places, including the supermarket on Hafnarstræti where she met her future husband. He was studying business at the university but had taken a summer job there. They got married but didn’t have any children. After graduating he had been offered a position at the People’s Bank and later at a pension fund, and with their combined salaries they had been able to scrape together the money to build their own house in Fossvogur. They had moved in three years before Oddný vanished.

  ‘They both worked very hard, no question’ said the woman with a smile. ‘Pity they never had children. She wanted them so badly. Often talked about it. From what she said I gather they’d been for all kinds of tests but, well, I don’t know if I should be gossiping about this…’

  ‘What?’ asked Erlendur.

  ‘It’s just that she once hinted that the problem lay with him. At least that’s what she said. I don’t know if it’s true.’

  Erlendur nodded. Behind the woman hung a large poster of central London and three clocks showing the time in Moscow, Paris and New York respectively. The woman worked for a large travel agency and sold tours all over the world. She had known Oddný from way back and later worked with her at the estate agency, but had been offered better pay and conditions in the travel business.