Far North - Michael Ridpath [142]
Ísak was quick and surprisingly strong. As Björn fell backwards and hit the ground the blade of the knife penetrated his coat, his fleece, his shirt and his skin, and lodged between his ribs.
Björn felt the blow, but no pain. He reached up and grabbed Ísak around the throat. Ísak’s eyes opened in surprise. He tried to wriggle free, but Björn would not let go. The two men rolled down the slope, Björn’s fingers clamped to the student’s throat. They came to a halt against a rock, Björn on top.
He increased the pressure. Ísak made choking noises as he gasped for breath. Björn’s vision began to go. He forced himself to focus on Ísak, to keep those fingers tight just for a few seconds longer. But he could feel the strength flowing from his body, from his arms.
Ísak saw it too. He bucked and Björn’s fingers came loose, another buck and Björn was tossed sideways. He lay panting on his back in the moss. Beside him Ísak gulped for breath in great choking spasms. But with each second that passed, Ísak was getting stronger and Björn weaker.
Björn glanced downwards at the handle of the knife protruding from his chest. Strangely, it still didn’t hurt.
Ísak bent over him and yanked it out.
Björn yelled. That hurt. That hurt like hell. But the yell was little more than a croak.
He tried to pull himself to his feet. He couldn’t do it.
He moved his lips, tried to force air through his vocal cords. ‘Come here, you bastard!’ But it was just a whisper.
Sindri wished they would offer him a cigarette. It would be easier to zone out with a cigarette. There was a red no-smoking sign on the wall of the interview room, but there was also a cigarette butt in a white plastic cup on the window sill. The bastards could give him a cigarette if they wanted to. But he wasn’t going to ask.
Since they had brought him in, he hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t asked for a lawyer, he didn’t need anyone to tell him not to say anything. It wasn’t long now, only a few hours, and then he could talk. But it should be easy to keep quiet until then.
The black one was talking now. The bald one was staring at him. He tried not to focus on what she was saying, but couldn’t avoid hearing the words ‘Ingólfur Arnarson’. If they were smart, they would have figured out who that was by now. If Sindri had been smart, he would have chosen an irrelevant codename. The others thought the whole notion of a codename was ridiculous, but it had turned out to be a good idea. He wondered how the police had got hold of the name. Someone wrote it down somewhere, perhaps? Or they were overheard.
Sindri knew he was going to jail. But the more he thought about it, the more he grew to like the idea. Litla Hraun could hardly be worse than his squat. There would be company, they would probably allow him to write, and he would be famous. Finally people would notice him.
That morning, despite the hangover, he had posted his manifesto on his blog. It had come out surprisingly well. It was both a call to arms and the distillation of ten years of his ideas. And once he went on trial, people would read it all over the world.
He had been bitterly disappointed at the Icesave meeting the day before. That was why he had got so drunk. It was clear that Ísak was right, the Icelandic people were just too nice, too polite to take to the streets to fight. At least Ingileif had listened to him. She was gorgeous. And smart. He had really thought he was going to get lucky there, but it had turned out that it was his mind she was impressed with, not his body. Perhaps, in time. When she heard about his trial on national TV.
That was one problem with prison. No sex. Who was he kidding? It was at least a year since he had last had sex. And he used to find it so easy.
Maybe Ingileif?
No. He would have to reconcile himself to several years in jail. But he would be a hero to some people. And over time the number of people who believed in his cause would grow,