‘It. . I. . suppose they’re right.’
‘They don’t want any expense either,’ said the owner with a shrug. ‘He made that quite clear. I offered to help out but he wouldn’t hear of it.’
‘No, right,’ said Ezra, struggling for something to say.
‘Neither of them was a family man,’ added the owner, ‘which is a small mercy.’
Ezra was at a loss. It was slowly sinking in that Jakob might still be alive. Under normal circumstances he would have raised the alarm, hurriedly moved him to a warmer place and tended to him until the doctor arrived. It was his duty to save a life, whoever was involved. He knew that.
But this was Jakob.
If there was one person in the world he truly hated it was this man. Ezra wasn’t sure how he would have answered if someone had asked him yesterday whether he would be prepared to save Jakob’s life. Now the power to do so lay in his hands. His conscience urged him to report what he had seen and seek help for Jakob that instant. He almost expected him to rise up from the filleting board. But the minutes passed. He said nothing, did nothing. He made no attempt to help the man lying there at death’s door.
‘Hell and damnation,’ repeated the boat owner. ‘You could knock up a simple coffin for Jakob, couldn’t you? You can use some of the timber over at the new building. Try and do a decent job, mate.’
Ezra nodded.
‘Then wait for the Djúpivogur lot to arrive. The uncle didn’t want any fuss. He’s going to transport the coffin by sea. Said it wouldn’t do for me to attend the funeral. They’re a rum lot. I’ll go anyway, of course. You knew him quite well, didn’t you?’
‘Er. . quite,’ stammered Ezra. ‘We worked together on the Sigurlína for several seasons.’
‘Of course you did,’ exclaimed the owner. ‘Silly me. He had a fine wife in Matthildur. Such a shame that.’
‘Yes.’
The idea crystallised when Ezra heard the owner utter Matthildur’s name. He would just delay alerting people. He wanted to take a better look at Jakob first. Then he would ask him. If Jakob refused to tell, he could refuse to help him. Or at least threaten to leave him to his fate.
The owner took his leave and Ezra stood rooted to the spot, watching him disappear through the door. It was several minutes before he turned back to Jakob. Going over to the filleting table, he scrutinised him minutely. No sign of movement. Ezra crouched over him for a long time. Had he been wrong? Hadn’t he seen Jakob’s lips move after all?
Ezra had begun to believe it was all a strange trick of the eyes when Jakob’s lips quivered again. He seemed to be trying to speak, but the movement was almost imperceptible.
Ezra bent close, putting his ear to Jakob’s mouth. He could hear very faint breathing now. And every time Jakob exhaled it was like a prayer for help. .
Help.
Help.
49
Ezra raised his head in consternation. The man’s resilience was incredible. He had lived through shipwreck and raging seas, the transfer to the ice house, and, despite being battered and wounded, had managed to survive a freezing night.
‘Jakob?’ he whispered, glancing nervously at the door. ‘Jakob!’ he repeated more loudly. ‘Jakob?’
One eye opened a slit. The other was covered by the clot of blood from the wound to his head.
‘Do you know where you are?’
Ezra put his ear back to the other man’s lips.
‘. . Help. .’ he heard Jakob breathe.
It was not his imagination. Jakob was alive.
‘Can you hear me?’ Ezra asked but received no response. He pressed his mouth to Jakob’s ear and repeated the question.
The eye opened slightly wider.
‘I’ll help you, Jakob,’ whispered Ezra in his ear. ‘I’ll get you out of here, fetch a doctor, bring you a blanket. I’ll do all that, Jakob.’
The slit narrowed.
‘Jakob!’ Ezra hissed.
The slit opened again.
‘I’ll save you, Jakob, if you tell me where Matthildur is. If you tell me what you did with her.’
Jakob’s lips moved and Ezra moved his ear closer.
‘. . co. . ld.’
‘I’ll save you right now if you tell me. What did you do with Matthildur?’
The eye opened wider and Ezra thought Jakob was looking at him. His skin was blue with cold, his lips dark. The teeth protruded from beneath his upper lip. His hair still had lumps of sea ice in it, and there was more on his thick, black woollen jumper and oilskin trousers. But his eye was half open and Ezra thought he saw his pupil quiver.
‘Where’s Matthildur?’
‘. . col. .’
‘I know you can hear me. Tell me where Matthildur is and I’ll help you.’
‘C. . can. .’
‘You can’t? You can’t tell me where she is? Is that what you’re trying to say?’
The eye closed again. The lips had stopped moving. Ezra thought he had given up the ghost. For a minute he dithered. Was it too late? Should he run for help? Should he do everything in his power to save this man? Jakob had killed his beloved. He had choked the life out of Matthildur and hidden her body. What mercy did he deserve?
Ezra’s old hatred for Jakob, unleashed now from its bonds, began to course through his body, bringing a hectic flush to his face. He saw Matthildur in Jakob’s hands, saw her fighting for her life, slowly suffocating, her eyes pleading for mercy. Jakob had shown none. He’d had no pity.
Ezra stood there and contemplated Jakob on the filleting table.
Then he went out to fetch the materials for the coffin.
Having locked the ice house, he took a wheelbarrow and set off to get the timber. He did not meet or speak to anyone on the way. Following the boat owner’s advice, he found some nails on the site of the new fish-processing building, then marched home to fetch his own hammer and saw. As he knocked the coffin together in front of the ice house he tried not to let his thoughts stray to Jakob by concentrating on Matthildur instead, on the times they had shared. On the life together that might have been. He often daydreamed about their future, how it might have turned out if only she had been allowed to live. Perhaps they would have had a family by now, children to say goodbye to in the morning and come home to in the evening, to read to, tell stories to. Jakob had destroyed all that when he strangled Matthildur with his bare hands.
Ezra laid out the planks lengthwise, nailed them to crosspieces, and soon had a rough-and-ready box. The weather was still bitterly cold and snowy, and only the odd passer-by stopped to ask for news. Ezra told them that Jakob’s body was going to Djúpivogur, while the Grindavík man would be taken home to the south.
Jakob had few friends in the village. Only one man came expressly to pay his respects. His name was Lárus and he approached Ezra from behind, almost giving him a heart attack as he materialised without warning through the veil of snow.
‘I hear they’re taking him to Djúpivogur today,’ Lárus said. He was a short man in his early fifties, who used to sail out to the fishing grounds with Jakob. His face was deeply furrowed, his teeth stained yellow from tar, and his shoulders rounded by hard labour. Ezra had met him about the village and knew his life had not been easy.
‘That’s right,’ Ezra replied, stopping to stretch, the hammer still in his hand.
‘And you’re making his coffin?’
‘Yup.’
‘I just wanted to see him one last time,’ said Lárus, nodding at the door of the ice house.
Ezra hesitated. ‘He’s a bit of a mess,’ he said, groping for excuses. ‘Doesn’t look too good.’