With nobody else in the house, cooking was too much trouble. She toyed with the idea of a takeaway, but felt slightly revolted by the idea of the stodgy pizza that was all Hvalvík could offer.
She placed four sandwiches on a plate and opened the fridge to search for mustard. Right at the back, a half-full bottle stared at her. It called suddenly, sweetly, insistently, telling her that one glass would be fine, that she could handle a small one.
Gunna quickly picked up the mustard jar and shoved the door closed, but the image of the cognac bottle remained with her as she ate at the table while the TV news reported four people escaping from a house fire in Akureyri.
She ignored the whisper from the fridge when the next item appeared. This time the chairman of a union commented that housing conditions for overseas workers employed to build a power plant in the east of Iceland were far below standards required and the work camp would have to be shut down if things did not improve. The camera swung and she recognized the young man she had interviewed at Spearpoint’s offices, now sporting a goatee and almost invisible frameless glasses. She turned the sound up quickly as the banner at the bottom of the screen read ‘Jón Oddur Finnbogason, Spearpoint’.
‘. . really can’t comment on these allegations,’ blustered the pale young man with the fringe of ginger beard.
‘But surely you must have checked the accommodation that these people were going to be living in before they arrived?’ a reporter asked.
‘Of course. Everything was vetted at the project’s preparation stage. We carried out extensive checks.’
‘And did you do this personally?’
‘We have representatives on the ground who do this kind of work on the company’s behalf and this was entrusted to them. As far as I’m aware, this was all done satisfactorily.’
‘But your company didn’t send anyone personally?’
There was silence for a moment. ‘No. As I have already said, we have representatives who-’
‘Jón Oddur Finnbogason of Spearpoint.’ The reporter had cut the young man off in mid-sentence as the camera tracked to a huddle of sorry-looking sheds crowded between the half-built steel skeleton of a hangar and a gaggle of trucks. A second later the picture flashed back to the studio.
‘And now, a light aircraft made an emergency landing this afternoon at Bíldudalur. There were no injuries, but the aircraft has been badly damaged. Investigators are already on the scene and the airstrip at Bíldudalur is closed until flights hopefully resume tomorrow. .’
She quickly muted the sound as the phone rang beside her. ‘Gunnhildur.’
‘Ah, good evening. Gunna?’ a gruff voice asked.
‘That’s me.’
‘Er. Hi. It’s Steini.’
‘Steini? Sorry. .’
‘Steini the diver.’
‘Ah, right. Hi. Anything else about that car in the dock at Sandeyri?’
She heard him muffle a cough. ‘Well, no. Actually. . No, nothing new there. I was, er, wondering if you’d like to meet up for a drink or even a meal or something?’
Gunna sat in surprised silence for a moment. ‘That’s good of you to ask, Steini, but. .’
She thought for a moment. Steini and Raggi had been good friends and she was suddenly terrified of reopening old wounds.
‘What did you have in mind?’ she asked finally.
‘If you’re not busy this evening, there’s a place in Grindavík called the Salt House that does a fine seafood buffet on a Thursday evening.’
Gunna felt an unaccustomed fluttering in her stomach, chuckled and quickly stopped herself.
‘Old ladies like me don’t get that many invitations,’ she said. ‘See you there in an hour?’
She snapped off the TV and marched to the kitchen with her plate and mug. She placed the crockery in the sink with the rest of it. Alone in the flat, she hadn’t bothered loading the dishwasher all week. The cognac bottle in the fridge whispered its sweet promises through the door, but now she dismissed them sternly. Gunna breathed deep, and made for the shower.
Saturday, 13 September
It was already a hot day and the marchers had gradually discarded more and more clothing as the sun rose higher in the summer sky. With bare arms, midriffs and legs displayed everywhere, Skúli felt uncomfortably overdressed in heavy jeans and an anorak.
Anticipation had been building up for days as the march drifted slowly out of Reykjavík and gathered way, straggling past the last of the houses and shops and on to the open road. Under a glaring sun in an azure sky, the marchers sang and chanted while around them the bilberry-covered tundra gradually gave way to black rock and lingering pools of still water.
By the time it reached the top of the first pass on the way to Hvalvík, the march had doubled in size as brightly dressed people joined in handfuls and carloads, swelling the procession to a respectable band. As it approached the outskirts of Hvalvík, TV news stations began estimating the size of the march in thousands and also reported that several groups of activists arriving from Britain, Germany and Scandinavia had been detained at Keflavík airport.