go home to his family, thought Ari Thór, with some surprise, as he made his way out to the street and headed home.
19
SIGLUFJÖRDUR. SUNDAY, 9TH JANUARY 2009, EARLY HOURS
Ari Thór woke with a start, drenched with sweat and wondering where he was. Feeling like a prisoner in his own body, he struggled for breath. He sat up and peered around him, snatching short, sharp breaths and trying to drag them deep into his lungs. He glanced wildly around, sure that the walls were closing in on him; he longed to shout out loud, but knew that would be pointless. It was the same crushing feeling that had overwhelmed him at the police station on Christmas Eve. Pulling himself to his feet, he stared out of the window into the ink-black night. A glance at his watch, glowing faintly in the darkness, told him it was the middle of the night, and he could see that it had started to snow. He was in in his bedroom in Siglufjördur, he remembered. Reaching for the window, he opened it and breathed in a deep lungful of fresh air, clean and ice cold, but he continued to shake, his thoughts tumbling around his head. He had to lose this feeling of being overpowered, out of control. He looked over to his bed, the sheets tangled and damp. It was unlikely he was going to get any more sleep. Maybe he needed to get out – out of the house and into the night. As soon as the thought entered his head, he dismissed it. That wouldn’t be enough. No peace of mind would be found standing in the street with his eyes on the heavens, the snow filling his mind – knowing that every flake that fell increased the likelihood of his being snowbound in this strange place. A prisoner.
The floorboards downstairs creaked.
Suddenly he understood why he had woken so abruptly.
There was someone in the house.
He wasn’t alone.
His heart pumped a deafening beat. His fear confused him; he knew he had to think fast, had to stop thinking about the snow that had been stifling him a moment before. But he was unable to move.
He shook his head, and crept as silently as he could into the passage to the stairs, still aware of movement down below, faint sounds that indicated that whoever was there was not keen to attract attention.
Now more alert, Ari Thór swore silently.
Why the hell hadn’t he locked the door?
I shouldn’t have listened to Tómas.
He made his way down the stairs in as few steps as he could manage, aware that loose boards in some of them would creak, but unable to remember which ones they were.
He hesitated before going round the corner steps and down into the hallway. He felt more secure a little higher up. He had the advantage. He knew that the intruder was there – he could take him by surprise. But equally, he wanted to stay on the bend, remaining stock still. Trying to clear the haze from his mind.
In spite of all his training, he was still frightened.
He had no idea who he might meet, one person or several? A drunk looking for a night’s shelter, a housebreaker, or someone who meant to do him harm?
He shivered at the thought of someone creeping about the house in the darkness.
Hell!
The lights were all off; only the glimmer from a street light outside, shining through the little window at the end of the passage, allowed him to see anything at all. The living-room door was shut, and as he knew the curtains were drawn, it had to be completely dark in there. The hallway led to the living room and from there Ari Thór could reach the kitchen, beyond which was a small office. The unwelcome guest might be in any of those rooms. Time to do or die.
He opened the living-room door as quietly as he could manage. As old as the house, the door was solid, its surface painted white and decorated with fretwork patterns. It must have been years since its hinges had last seen a drop of oil.
He looked into the blackness and listened intently, but not a sound was to be heard. He waited, his hand on the doorknob, patient, waiting and alert to any changes in
19
SIGLUFJÖRDUR. SUNDAY, 9TH JANUARY 2009, EARLY HOURS
Ari Thór woke with a start, drenched with sweat and wondering where he was. Feeling like a prisoner in his own body, he struggled for breath. He sat up and peered around him, snatching short, sharp breaths and trying to drag them deep into his lungs. He glanced wildly around, sure that the walls were closing in on him; he longed to shout out loud, but knew that would be pointless. It was the same crushing feeling that had overwhelmed him at the police station on Christmas Eve. Pulling himself to his feet, he stared out of the window into the ink-black night. A glance at his watch, glowing faintly in the darkness, told him it was the middle of the night, and he could see that it had started to snow. He was in in his bedroom in Siglufjördur, he remembered. Reaching for the window, he opened it and breathed in a deep lungful of fresh air, clean and ice cold, but he continued to shake, his thoughts tumbling around his head. He had to lose this feeling of being overpowered, out of control. He looked over to his bed, the sheets tangled and damp. It was unlikely he was going to get any more sleep. Maybe he needed to get out – out of the house and into the night. As soon as the thought entered his head, he dismissed it. That wouldn’t be enough. No peace of mind would be found standing in the street with his eyes on the heavens, the snow filling his mind – knowing that every flake that fell increased the likelihood of his being snowbound in this strange place. A prisoner.
The floorboards downstairs creaked.
Suddenly he understood why he had woken so abruptly.
There was someone in the house.
He wasn’t alone.
His heart pumped a deafening beat. His fear confused him; he knew he had to think fast, had to stop thinking about the snow that had been stifling him a moment before. But he was unable to move.
He shook his head, and crept as silently as he could into the passage to the stairs, still aware of movement down below, faint sounds that indicated that whoever was there was not keen to attract attention.
Now more alert, Ari Thór swore silently.
Why the hell hadn’t he locked the door?
I shouldn’t have listened to Tómas.
He made his way down the stairs in as few steps as he could manage, aware that loose boards in some of them would creak, but unable to remember which ones they were.
He hesitated before going round the corner steps and down into the hallway. He felt more secure a little higher up. He had the advantage. He knew that the intruder was there – he could take him by surprise. But equally, he wanted to stay on the bend, remaining stock still. Trying to clear the haze from his mind.
In spite of all his training, he was still frightened.
He had no idea who he might meet, one person or several? A drunk looking for a night’s shelter, a housebreaker, or someone who meant to do him harm?
He shivered at the thought of someone creeping about the house in the darkness.
Hell!
The lights were all off; only the glimmer from a street light outside, shining through the little window at the end of the passage, allowed him to see anything at all. The living-room door was shut, and as he knew the curtains were drawn, it had to be completely dark in there. The hallway led to the living room and from there Ari Thór could reach the kitchen, beyond which was a small office. The unwelcome guest might be in any of those rooms. Time to do or die.
He opened the living-room door as quietly as he could manage. As old as the house, the door was solid, its surface painted white and decorated with fretwork patterns. It must have been years since its hinges had last seen a drop of oil.
He looked into the blackness and listened intently, but not a sound was to be heard. He waited, his hand on the doorknob, patient, waiting and alert to any changes in
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