Úrsúla took the sheet of paper with the following week’s schedule on it, staring at it as she pretended to read while she swallowed her disappointment. The feeling that she had become some kind of pawn in a system that chugged along according to its own rules had become overwhelming.

93

Pétur had the feeling that he was being watched, and that it had been going on for a while. He walked at his habitual pace along Laugavegur and didn’t need to turn round to know that the car slowly driving behind was shadowing him. He acted as if he’d noticed nothing and carried on until he was right by the underpass that led to the steps up to Grettisgata. This was the classic way of shaking the cops off, as they could rarely be bothered to continue the chase on foot. But it could hardly be the cops after him now; they had only just let him out, with a stern warning that he ought 211to keep out of trouble. He turned and saw that the car that had followed him was a large, black, gleaming 4x4. The windows were tinted, but the moment the car stopped beside him, the driver’s window hissed down and the face of the Devil himself appeared.

‘Jump in and we’ll have a quick chat, Pétur,’ he said.

But Pétur didn’t stand still long enough even to refuse; he had already taken to his heels, through the underpass and up the steps. He hurried straight across the car park and over Grettisgata, into the playground outside the nursery, through the gardens and up onto Njálsgata before he dared look back. The Devil hadn’t followed him. He would hardly leave that beautiful shiny car in the middle of Laugavegur. Pétur’s heart hammered and he panted with exertion. It had been a long time since he had looked into the Devil’s eyes. The last time he had escaped he had sworn that he would never again let himself be caught in his clutches. But now the Devil was on his tail, and that had to mean he knew Pétur’s message had reached Úrsúla, that he knew he had warned her about him, that he had told the truth. Now the Devil knew everything. Pétur felt the fear take hold of him. The Devil’s voice had been friendly enough as he had invited him into the car, but he wasn’t going to let that fool him, knowing what the man was capable of.

In the old days the police boys had sometimes been downright offensive, especially the young ones, giving them an earful and calling them a waste of space. But it was worst when the Devil was on duty. He was the meanest of all of them, and quick to use his fists. That night he had lost his temper with Ari, who had dropped a tab of acid, was disobedient and smelled pretty foul because he had been sick down his front. When the Devil had punched him to force him into the cell with Pétur, Ari had spat at him and called him by his right name: Devil. He had spat a second time, this time right in the face of the Devil, who reacted furiously. Pétur never knew if it was the spit or the fact that Ari had known his true name that turned him into such a personification of fury, 212but he didn’t stop punching and kicking, even when Pétur tried to put himself between them, receiving such a heavy punch on the jaw that he had been thrown back against the wall and knocked unconscious. He had come to his senses again to see the Devil with his boot on Ari’s throat. There was no life in his face, as if he had already forsaken himself and left behind that vomit-smelling, blue-faced bag of blood that didn’t move, but lay on the floor of the cell, groaning at intervals. As Pétur sat up, he was aware of a lad of a part-time policeman hauling the Devil out of the cell.