Far North - Michael Ridpath [81]
Magnus didn’t answer.
The track became narrow, with a ten foot drop on either side into the rocky waves. A car approached kicking up dust, an old station wagon. Magnus pulled over as close as he could to the side of the track, leaving enough room for the other car to pass.
The car stopped a few feet ahead. It flashed its lights and sounded the horn.
An old man was behind the wheel.
‘Oh, Christ,’ said Magnus in English.
There was really nowhere for Magnus to go, unless he tried to reverse the Range Rover a hundred yards back down the track.
‘Come on, you old git,’ Ingileif said good-naturedly. ‘There’s plenty of room.’
The ‘old git’ edged forward until he pulled parallel with Magnus. Magnus recognized the broad weather-beaten face, the angry blue eyes. The wrinkles were deeper, the grey wiry hair thinner, but it was the same man.
Magnus stared straight ahead.
The man lowered his window. ‘Can’t you pull over further, you selfish bastard!’ he shouted. Then, ‘Magnús?’
Magnus put the car into gear and accelerated along the track, almost driving the large vehicle over the edge.
‘Jesus!’ said Ingileif. ‘Was that him?’
‘Of course it was him,’ said Magnus.
‘And he recognized you?’
‘You heard him say my name.’
The car lurched and skidded through the lava until it hit the main road. Magnus turned to the right up the pass over the mountains.
‘Slow down, Magnús!’ Ingileif said.
Magnus ignored her.
Ingileif stayed quiet as Magnus threw the car around the bends up the hill. But after they had crested the head of the pass, the road on the other side was straighter.
‘What did he do to you, Magnús?’ she asked.
‘I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘But you have to.’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘Yes, you do, Magnús!’ Ingileif said. ‘You have to face up to it some time. You can’t just bury it.’
‘Why not?’ Magnus said. He could feel the anger in his voice. ‘Why the fuck not?’
Ingileif’s eyes widened at Magnus’s tone. But she didn’t back down. Ingileif didn’t do backing down. ‘Because otherwise it will eat away at you for the rest of your life. Just like it has for the last twenty years. You told me it was your father’s murder that bothered you, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?’
Magnus didn’t answer.
‘Isn’t there? Answer me, Magnús.’
‘No.’
‘Answer me.’
‘Ingileif?’
‘Yes?’
‘Shut the fuck up.’
A hundred and seventy kilometres is a long way to drive in silence, even if you are going thirty kilometres an hour over the speed limit.
He turned his motorbike off the little road, on to an even smaller road, not much more than a track with a strip of tarmac at its centre, and stopped to examine his Michelin map. He couldn’t believe how many trees there were in this country, specifically how many apple trees. They were unknown in Iceland. He would have plucked a fruit from the small orchard adjacent to the road, but that would mean taking off his helmet to eat it, and he didn’t want to do that.
He knew exactly where he was. He had spent a couple of hours examining the map at home and checking it against Google Earth, until this small strip of Normandy was etched on his brain. Sure enough, beyond the orchard the road curved to the left. On one side were small fields of pasture, on the other, woodland.
He kicked the motorbike into life and drove it slowly and quietly along the lane. He couldn’t see anyone. That was good. The bike had Dutch number plates, which made him feel conspicuous here in France. They should have thought of that, but as long as no one saw him, it wouldn’t matter.
He counted the telegraph poles running along the side of the road. At the seventh, he stopped and pushed the bike into the woods opposite. He spent a couple of minutes making sure that it was concealed from the road, yet ready for a quick getaway.
He made his way through the trees about twenty metres until he reached the other side. A group of cows were chewing their cud in a small field, their tails swishing away the flies. Beyond the field was the barn.
He moved