‘It makes you wonder what they want from us,’ Gréta whispered in the darkness.

Stella gazed at the sky, and the green and pink lights that danced, jerking and swaying, unlike any she had seen before. It was as if the whole sky had been electrified by the gentle interplay of the lights, which seemed to exude an energy that she could feel rush across her skin.

‘Are they really that wonderful?’ she said. ‘Or is it just the pills that are making them look so beautiful?’

‘Does it matter?’ Gréta asked, and Stella felt her warm hand on her cheek. ‘Isn’t all that matters what we sense here and now?’

Stella turned her head and met Greta’s heavy lips with her own – a searing kiss that sent sparks of desire through her whole body. And while she had taken herself by surprise, ignoring good sense and under the influence of the lights, she knew this was where she ought to be.

59

The doors to the balcony stood open and through the stillness Gunnar could hear the pulsing bass notes from the bars on Laugavegur. This was the heartbeat of the night, which would end with shouts, shrieks and song out on the street, just before the tourists appeared, pulling their suitcases, which would rattle through the ice up the slope towards the waiting airport buses. He was the last Icelander left in the apartment block; every other flat was now rented out to tourists. He had been offered ridiculous 144money for this tiny place, but this was where he wanted to be. From the window he could see the district where all the ministries were clustered, less than a three-minute jog away, making it the perfect place if one of them needed him.

Íris had called; she was on her way to a night out with some of her friends, and he expected that she would go back to her place afterwards, so he decided to use the evening to look more closely at the emails that Úrsúla had received. He shook a protein drink hard and sat down with it at the coffee table, then began to line up Fossi’s emails in front of him. He put them in the order in which they had arrived, both those that had been sent to the minister and those he had received after he had succumbed to the temptation to try and talk some sense into this idiot. It wasn’t exactly his job to check the contents of the abusive emails that came to the minister, so he ignored all but the ones that came from Fossi. It was up to the chief of police’s department to assess whether the more lukewarm hate-merchants, who felt a need to write to the minister and tell her how to do her job, dress or behave, posed any real threat. But there was something about these messages from Fossi, their virulence and hatred, that he couldn’t leave alone.

The contents of the emails varied little between the first and the last. The sentences were short and angry, and Gunnar had the feeling that they had been written in a rush. There had been no softening in the tone either, although that first one had easily been the most revolting, describing how ‘bitches who stick their noses where they’re not wanted’ would be rewarded with torture. The latest had come from Fossi last night; he offered to think again about raping Úrsúla if only she would resign from her post as minister. Aside from the language and the violent imagery, the contents of the messages revolved around his desire for Úrsúla to keep clear of something that was not her affair, and to step down. If she didn’t do that, then she’d be abused and raped.