‘Sure, I was with him. We took a trip to Hauffen.’
‘The distillery?’
‘That’s right. He’s buying spirits. We sampled one or two, but you know Kare - he drinks less than a monk during Lent.’
‘Is he still there?’
I left him chatting with them in the cellars. You should head over. Do you know where Hauffen is?’
Lund did. The little distillery produced an excellent aquavit reserved for the Norwegian market. It was on a low plateau to the south, about ten minutes away on foot. She could be there in two minutes by car, if she took the inland road. But somehow the thought of a short walk appealed to her. Besides, she’d sat in the jeep long enough already. ‘I’ll walk,’ she said.
‘In this weather?’ Åke pulled a face. ‘Well, it’s up to you. Don’t blame me if you get webbed feet.’
‘Better than putting down roots.’ She stood up. ‘See you later. I’ll bring him back here.’
Outside she pulled up her jacket collar, walked down to the beach and set off. On good days the distillery was clearly visible. Right now, it was just a faint grey outline through the slanting rain.
As she left the Fiskehuset behind her, she gazed out to sea. She must have been mistaken earlier. She’d thought the stony beach seemed longer than usual, but now it looked the same. No…it might be a bit smaller.
She shrugged and carried on.
When she arrived at the distillery, soaking wet, there was no one in the foyer. On the far side a wooden door stood open. Light shone up from the cellars. She went straight down the stairs. There she found two men, leaning against the barrels, chatting, each with a glass in his hand. They were the two brothers who owned the distillery - friendly old men with weatherbeaten faces. Kare was nowhere to be seen.
‘Sorry,’ said one. ‘You’ve just missed him. He left a few minutes ago.’
‘Did he come on foot?’ she asked. Maybe she could catch up with him.
‘In the van. He bought a few bottles. Too many to carry.’
‘Was he going back to the restaurant?’
‘That’s where he said he was heading.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Hey, hang on a minute. You can’t visit a distillery and leave before you’ve had a drink.’
‘It’s very kind of you, but—’
‘He’s right, you know,’ his brother said eagerly.
‘I—’
‘Come on, you’ll catch your death out there. Let’s get a drop of something warm inside you first.’
‘OK’ she said. Just one.
The brothers grinned triumphantly. The war of attrition had been won.
Shetland Islands, Great Britain
The helicopter was preparing to land. Johanson looked out of the window. They’d just flown over the cliffs, following the coastline in the direction of the little landing-field where Karen Weaver would be waiting. Towards the east of the island the cliffs sloped downwards to end in a sweeping bay. From there the landscape was flat. An endless succession of sand and pebble beaches separated the water from barren moorland and long rolling hills with roads etched between them like scars.
The helipad, which was rather a grand term for the rough circle of gravel surrounded by grey-green moorland, belonged to a marine research station whose crooked, windswept huts housed half a dozen scientists. A narrow road led down from the hills and stopped at a jetty. Johanson couldn’t see any boats. Two jeeps and a rusty VW bus were parked next to the buildings. Weaver was working on an article on seals, which was why she’d chosen the spot. She lived in one of the huts, accompanied the scientists on their expeditions and joined in on their research dives.
A final gust shook the Bell 430, then the skids touched down. The helicopter landed with a jolt.
‘Well, that wasn’t too bad, was it?’ said the pilot.
Johanson saw a small figure standing at the edge of the landing field, her hair blowing in the wind. Karen Weaver, he guessed. A few metres away from her, a motorbike was propped up on its stand. He stretched, then slid Whitman’s poetry back into his bag and picked up his coat. ‘It would have been fun to do a few more laps,’ he said, ‘but I’d have to keep the lady waiting.
Can you come back for me tomorrow around lunchtime? Twelve o’clock, let’s say.’
‘No problem.’
He waited for the door to slide open, then clambered down the ladder. He was pleased to be back on firm ground. The pilot had to head off again, but turbulent conditions were clearly part of the job. He’d take a short break, then carry on to Lerwick for fuel. Johanson swung his bag over his shoulder. His coat billowed in the wind and flapped around his legs, but at least it wasn’t raining. Karen Weaver came to meet him. It was strange, but with every step her size diminished. By the time she was standing in front of him, he guessed she was barely five foot five. She was nicely compact. Her jeans were stretched over muscular legs, and her strong shoulders stood out beneath her leather jacket. As far as Johanson could tell, she wasn’t wearing makeup. Her skin glowed with a natural tan and freckles were scattered over her forehead and wide cheekbones. The wind tugged at a cascade of auburn curls. She eyed him inquisitively. ‘Sigur Johanson,’ she announced. ‘How was your flight?’
‘Wretched. Thankfully I had Walt Whitman to reassure me.’ He glanced back at the helicopter.
She smiled. ‘Shall we go for some food?’
‘Sure. Where?’
She nodded in the direction of the motorbike.
‘We could drive into town. If you managed the flying, you won’t mind the Harley. It’d be quicker to eat at the station, though - if corned beef and pea soup don’t put you off.’
Johanson noticed that her eyes were an unusually brilliant blue. ‘Why not?’ he said. ‘Where are all your scientists? Out sailing?’
‘No, it’s too rough. They headed into town for supplies. They don’t mind me doing what I like here, including helping myself to their tins. That’s about the extent of my cooking.’
Johanson followed her over the gravel towards the station. The buildings didn’t look quite as flimsy from this angle as they had from above. ‘Where are the boats?’ he asked.
‘We don’t like leaving them out.’ She pointed to the building closest to the water. ‘The bay isn’t very sheltered, so once we’ve finished we lug them back to that hut by the sea.’
The sea…
Where was it?
Johanson did a double-take and stopped. A few seconds earlier breakers had been crashing up the beach, but now there was nothing but mud and rocks. Within the last minute the tide had receded, leaving the seabed exposed.
It was impossible for the tide to turn so quickly. The water had retreated by hundreds of metres.
Weaver turned. ‘What’s wrong?’
He shook his head. He could hear noise. At first he thought it was an aeroplane swooping towards the shore. But it didn’t sound like an aeroplane, more like a roll of thunder, only thunder rose and fell, and this noise just kept…
Suddenly he knew what it was.
Weaver had followed his gaze. ‘What the hell—’
Johanson saw the horizon darken. ‘To the helicopter,’ he yelled.
Weaver seemed rooted to the spot. Then she darted forwards. Together they ran towards the helicopter. Through the bubble of the cockpit Johanson saw the pilot checking the instruments. It was a moment before he noticed the figures dashing towards him. He stopped what he was doing. Johanson signalled for him to let down the ladder. He knew the pilot couldn’t see what was approaching from the water, since the helicopter was facing inland.
The man frowned, then nodded. With a hiss the door slid open and the ladder was lowered.
The thundering drew closer. Now it sounded as though the whole world was in motion, rushing towards the beach.
Which was exactly what was happening, thought Johanson.
Wrong place, wrong time.
Torn between terror and fascination, he paused at the foo
t of the ladder and watched as the sea returned, flooding over the muddy plain.
‘Johanson!’
He pulled himself together and hurried up the steps, Weaver at his heels. He saw the confusion in the pilot’s eyes and shouted, ‘Start her up. Hurry.’
‘What’s that noise? What’s going on?’
‘Just get this thing in the air.’
‘I’m not a magician, you know! What the hell’s going on? Where am I supposed to go?’
‘Anywhere. So long as it’s up.’
The rotors rattled into action. The Bell wobbled and took off, climbing one metre, two. Then the pilot’s curiosity conquered his fear, and he swung the helicopter through 180 degrees so that they were looking at the sea. ‘Holy shit,’ he gasped.
‘Look!’ Weaver was pointing towards the huts. ‘Over there.’
Someone had come out of the main building and was running towards them. A man in jeans and a T-shirt. Weaver stared at him in horror. ‘We’ve got to go down. Oh, God! I swear I didn’t know Steven was here - I thought they’d all—’
Johanson shook his head. ‘He won’t make it.’
‘We can’t leave him here.’
‘Look outside, for Christ’s sake, he’s not going to make it. If we go down none of us will.’
Weaver headed for the door as the pilot steered sideways over the strip of sand towards the man. The helicopter twisted, buffeted by strong blasts and for a moment they lost sight of the man, then they were almost above him.
‘We’ve got to go down!’ shouted Weaver.
‘No,’ said Johanson.
She didn’t hear him. Even the sound of the rotors was lost in the thunder of the wave. Johanson knew it was too late to save the man now, but precious moments had been wasted, and he wasn’t sure that they could get away themselves. He forced himself to look away from the running scientist and focus ahead.
The wave must have been thirty metres tall, a vertical wall of dark water. It was still several hundred metres from shore, but it was coming towards them at the speed of an express train. They had just seconds to get clear. The pilot made one last attempt to get closer to the fleeing man. Maybe he was hoping that the guy could leap through the open door or clutch on to one of the skids like a movie stunt—
The scientist stumbled, and fell.
Darkness descended in front of them. There was no sign of the sky through the cockpit screen, just the wall of water. It filled their view, surging forwards at incredible speed. They’d missed their chance. There was nowhere for them to go. Flying upwards, they’d be caught in the middle of the gigantic wave. By flying inland, they could buy themselves time, but the wave would still catch them. The tsunami was faster and, besides, they were facing the wrong way. The pilot couldn’t turn the helicopter now.
Johanson’s mind disengaged, and he wondered how he could bear to look at the vertical front of water without going mad. Then reality caught up with him. The pilot took the only viable option and sent the helicopter shooting backwards and up. The nose of the Bell sank down. For a second the ground was visible through the cockpit, but they didn’t sink towards it; they were flying up and backwards, away from the wave that was racing into shore. The Bell roared as though its gearbox was about to explode. Johanson would never have thought that a helicopter was capable of a manoeuvre like that. Maybe the pilot had never believed it either. But it worked.
The breaking wave hit the beach, and collapsed. Mountains of spray shot up towards the Bell as it continued its lunatic flight. The tsunami bellowed and screeched. The next minute a tremendous jolt shook the aircraft and Johanson was slammed against the side, right next to the open door. Water slapped into his face. His head banged backwards, and red flashes passed before his eyes. His fingers clutched a strut, and tightened. Pain surged through him. He could no longer tell whether the booming was coming from the wave or his head; whether they were going up or down. His only thought was that the wave had finally done for them and they were about to be dashed to pieces. He waited for the end.
Then his vision cleared. The cabin was full of spray. Scraps of grey cloud flashed over the helicopter.
They’d made it. Instead of crashing into the tsunami, they’d scraped over its crest.
The helicopter carried on climbing and banked, so they could see the coast beneath them. But it was gone. Down below a fearsome tide, which showed no sign of slowing, surged forwards and swallowed the land. The station, the vehicles and the scientist had vanished. To their right, glittering fountains of spray exploded in the distance, shooting over the cliffs, rising straight into the sky, as though they were trying to meld with the clouds.
Weaver had been catapulted over the seats when the torrent had hit the helicopter. Now she scrambled up and stared out. ‘Oh, God,’ she mumbled.
The pilot’s face was ashen, his jaws clenched.
But they’d made it.
They chased the wave. The mass of water was surging over the land faster than they could follow. A hill came into view and the water shot over it, the tide of foam spilling into the moorland, barely losing speed. The terrain was so flat that the water’s incursion would continue for kilometres. Johanson saw a host of white specks moving in a field, and realised they were sheep. Then they were gone too.
It would have destroyed a seaside town, he thought.
Wrong. Practically every town on the North Sea coast was now being destroyed. From wherever it had started, the tsunami was radiating outwards. That was what impulse waves did. The destructive force would sweep towards Norway, Holland, Germany, Scotland and Iceland. Suddenly the nature of the catastrophe struck him like a blow. He doubled up, as though red-hot metal had been thrust against his belly.
Lund was in Sveggesundet.
Sveggesundet, Norway
The Hauffen brothers were nothing if not entertaining, thought Lund. Heaven knows, they’d tried everything to persuade her to stay. They were even prepared to claim that they’d make better lovers than Kare Sverdrup - at which point they nudged each other and gave knowing winks. In the end Lund had to drink another round before they agreed to let her go.
She looked at her watch. If she left now, she’d get to the Fiskehuset bang on time.
The old men insisted on farewell hugs. She was the right woman for Kare, they assured her, a real woman who didn’t turn up her nose at a proper glass of aquavit. Then they bombarded her with tips, jokes and compliments, until at last one of the brothers escorted her out of the cellars and back up the stairs. He opened the door, saw the sheet of driving rain, and immediately decided she couldn’t go out without an umbrella. She did her best to convince him that she could manage without but to no avail. The old man went in search of an umbrella, then the goodbye-ritual began again. Finally she escaped the brothers’ solicitudes and set off through the rain.
Things were looking lively, she thought. The sky was even darker than it had been before, and the wind was blowing more fiercely. She speeded up.
A soft beep sounded from somewhere. She stood still. It was her mobile. He must be calling! How long had it been ringing? She unzipped her jacket and pulled it out hurriedly, expecting to hear Kare.
‘Tina?’
‘Sigur, nice of you to call. I was—’
‘Where’ve you been, for God’s sake? I’ve been trying to get hold of you.’
‘I’m sorry, I was—’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Sveggesundet,’ she faltered. There was static on the line and a loud drone in the background was forcing him to shout, but there was something in his voice that she’d never heard before. It scared her. ‘I’m just walking along the beach. The weather’s foul, but you know me, I—’
‘Get out of there!’
‘What?’
‘Get out as quickly as you can!’
‘Sigur! Are you mad?’
‘Do it now. Right away.’ He carried on talking, breathlessly. The words washed over her like rain. The crackling and rustling dist
orted his voice, so at first she thought she’d misheard him. Then she grasped what he was saying, and her legs turned to jelly.
‘I don’t know where the epicentre is,’ his voice sputtered. ‘The wave must be taking longer to get to you. Either way, you’re running out of time. For God’s sake, go! Get out while you can!’
She stared out to sea. The gale was ruffling the water with fluffy white surf.
‘Tina?’ Johanson shouted.
‘I…OK.’ She sucked in her breath, filling her lungs with air.
She threw down the umbrella and started to run.
Through the rain she could see the lights of the restaurant, warm and inviting. Kare, she thought. We’ll take your car or mine. The jeep was parked five hundred metres from the restaurant, but Kare had some spaces right next to the Fiskehuset where he usually left his car. She carried on running. Rain splashed into her eyes and she remembered that the car would be parked on the far side of the building, hidden from view.
Amid the howling of the wind and the roaring of the waves there was another noise, a loud, slurping sound.
Without stopping she glanced round.
Something unbelievable was happening. Lund froze, watching the sea disappear, as though a plug had been pulled out. An expanse of dark, uneven seabed emerged, stretching far into the distance.
Then she heard rumbling.
She blinked and reached up again to wipe the rain from her eyes. Far away on the horizon, something long and immense took shape. At first she thought it was a dark bank of cloud. But then it surged forward, and she saw that it formed a perfect line.
She took a step backwards and she started to run again.
Without a car she’d be lost, there was no doubt about it. The only higher ground was on the other side of town, towards the mainland. She breathed evenly and deeply, trying to push down the panic that was welling inside her. Adrenaline shot into her muscles - she had the strength to run for ever, but that wouldn’t help her. The wave was much faster.
The path forked in front of her. To the left it led to the restaurant, and to the right was a shortcut up the bank towards the car park where she’d left Johanson’s jeep. If she ran there now, she’d make it to the car park; then straight up the road, towards the hill, as fast as the jeep would take her. But she couldn’t leave Kare. The old men in the distillery had said he was heading back to the restaurant and that meant he was there, waiting for her. He didn’t deserve to be left alone. She didn’t deserve to be alone any longer.