She noticed the television in one corner. Gréta had just appeared on the screen. The news had begun so Stella went closer so she could hear. The volume was set so low that she could hear no more than a murmur over the loud chatter of the teenagers on the far side of the waiting room and the hiss of the automatic doors that endlessly opened and closed as people came in and went out.

She stood beside a blue-haired woman and peered at the screen. The woman was obviously trying to make out the content of the news programme, but Stella simply stared at Gréta, who appeared between news items, looking the viewer in the eye as she said something that Stella couldn’t hear. Gréta’s hair looked fantastic. She had been to the hairdresser and completely changed her look. Now her hair was short one side and almost down to her shoulder the other. It suited her.

Stella wouldn’t have objected to sitting right now at Gréta’s kitchen breakfast bar, knocking back French paté and beer, or any of the foreign delicacies that seemed to accumulate in Gréta’s kitchen cupboards. She also wouldn’t have minded another faceful of Gréta’s tits. A jolt of excitement passed through her at the memory, although she knew the pills were what had made the experience so powerful. This wave of contentment was just fake. There was no magic there, just ordinary chemistry. 180

77

The last few days had been lost in the fog of forgetfulness, which to Pétur meant there had been enough to drink. He’d managed to wangle his way into this lovely house with Eddi, who had forgiven him; they had agreed that something neither of them could properly remember simply couldn’t have happened. Eddi had wheedled his way into the terraced house where this woman lived, and there had been a stocked bar and a full fridge when they arrived. The woman was lonely and afraid, so for her it was a comfort to hear them singing when she emerged from her doped sleep. Eddi crawled into bed with her now and again, while Pétur lay in a hot bath and recited verses to himself. He wasn’t sure how long they had been there, but everything that could be drunk had been finished and the fridge was empty, and now he was sitting, watching TV, absently munching on chocolate biscuits, long past their sell-by date, that he had found at the back of the cupboard.

His heart leaped as Úrsúla appeared on the screen wearing some kind of outdoor suit and with a huge helmet under one arm. There was a helicopter in the background and some smiling men wearing the same sort of overalls. He stared at her and felt the gnawing guilt creep up his throat like bile. He had completely forgotten his responsibility, his battle with the Devil, and judging by the look in Úrsúla’s eyes, she had to be completely within his power. Her eyes were dull, tired and sad. The eyes never lie; even when the body is a slave and the soul in chains, the eyes always tell the true tale. It was obvious that the Devil had enslaved her soul.