Where the Shadows Lie (Fire and Ice)

mother, of course. She had succeeded very well.
    It was a girl who pulled him out of it, Erin. Her patience, her determination, her love, that made him realize not that he was destroying himself – he knew that already, that was the point after all – but that he didn’t want to destroy himself.
    After college she had gone her way, teaching in inner-city schools in Chicago, and he had gone his. He owed her a lot.
    But now he wanted to drink to his mother. He raised his beer glass. ‘To Margrét,’ he said.
    ‘Who’s Margrét?’ said a tall man in a black leather jacket, on the stool next to him.
    ‘Margrét’s my mother.’
    ‘That’s nice,’ said the man, with a slur. He raised his beer. ‘To Margrét.’ He put down his glass. He nodded towards the beer in front of Magnus. ‘Bad day?’
    Magnus nodded. ‘You could say that.’
    ‘You know they say that drink doesn’t solve anything?’ the man said.
    Magnus nodded.
    ‘That’s balls.’ The man laughed and raised his glass.
    Magnus noticed for the first time that chess sets were glued upside-down to the ceiling. Huh. That was kind of cool.
    He looked around the bar. The patrons were all ages and sizes. They carried on a desultory conversation interrupted with bursts of chuckles and wry laughter. Many were unsteady on their feet and inaccurate with their gestures and back-slapping. At one end of the bar two college-age American girls were perched on stools, entertaining a succession of loquacious Icelanders. At the other end a thin man with grey hair sticking out under a flat cap suddenly burst into a rendition of a tune from Porgy and Bess in a mellifluous baritone. ‘Summertime – and the livin’ is ea-easy …’
    Good singers, these Icelanders.
    Another beer. Another chaser. The anger dissipated. He began to relax. He struck up conversations with the men on either side. With the American girls, although he put on a heavy Icelandic accent for their benefit. He thought that was pretty funny. In fact, he thought he was pretty funny. He played a game of chess and lost.
    Another beer. Another chaser. Two chasers. How many chasers did that make? How many beers? No idea.
    Eventually it was time to go home. Magnus lifted himself off his stool and bade an emotional goodbye to his new buddies. The room lurched wildly. The guy with the flat cap briefly became two guys with flat caps, before resolving himself into a single individual again.
    Boy, was Magnus drunk. Drunker than he had been for a long time. But it felt good.
    He strode out of the bar and straightened up in the cold night air. It was way past midnight. The sky was clear, stars twinkled icily above him. A three-quarter moon was reflected in the bay below. He took a deep breath.
    He liked Reykjavík. It was an innocent little town, and he was glad of that. He would do his part to keep it that way.
    He was proud to be one of Reykjavík’s finest.
    There was no one on the streets. The contrast between a Sunday and a Saturday night in Reykjavík was marked. But as he headed up the hill towards home, Magnus spotted a cluster of three men in an alley. The tableau was so familiar.
    Drugs.
    Magnus scowled. Low-lifes in Toytown.
    He would sort them out. ‘Hey!’ he shouted, and headed down the alley. ‘Hey! What are you doing?’
    The guy selling the drugs was small and dark, possibly not even Icelandic. The guy doing the buying, was taller, wiry, with a woolly hat. He had a friend, a great big Nordic block with short blonde hair and a tiny little blonde beard. Bigger even than Magnus, and showing off bulging biceps under a black T-shirt on this cold night.
    ‘What has it got to do with you?’ said the drug pusher. He said it in English, because Magnus had hailed him in English.
    ‘Give that to me,’ said Magnus, holding out his hand and swaying. ‘I’m a cop.’
    ‘Piss off,’ said the pusher.
    Magnus lunged at him. The guy ducked and struck him in the chest. But there was no power in it and Magnus laid him out with a single blow to the jaw. The Nordic hulk grabbed Magnus and tried to drag him down to the floor, but Magnus shook him off. For a few moments the adrenaline overcame the alcohol, and Magnus landed two good blows, before getting an arm lock on the big guy. ‘You’re under arrest!’ he shouted, still in English.
    The pusher was on the ground, moaning. The thin guy with the woolly hat started running.
    ‘Get the hell off me,’ growled the hulk in Icelandic.
    He swung