Read Online The Last Refuge by Craig Robertson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Craig Robertson
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‘Most people look at a cage of salmon and see thousands of them swimming there. They think they all look the same and certainly couldn’t pick one out from the shoal. They can’t see that they have different spots and individual ways.’
‘It would probably need someone who knew the fish to point it out to the others.’
He held my gaze long enough that I knew he’d made a decision. ‘If they can’t see it then it’s not my place to inform them.’
Barthel raised his glass to me again. ‘Here’s to lives saved.’
Chapter 12
It was a few weeks before I felt the need to seek the haven of Cafe Natur again. I’d settled into a restless routine of minimal sleep then long days at Risen og Kellengin; stacking, cleaning, filleting, rinsing, icing, lifting, shifting. I’d even spent uncomfortable hours out on the skirts of the salmon cages, rising and falling with the irresistible swell, and hanging on for dear life when the waves threw themselves at me, seemingly determined to finish me off.
I lived with the fact that Tummas knew about my past, relaxing a little more with each day that passed without the sanctity of my secret being breached. It wasn’t mentioned the couple of times I saw him on the streets of Torshavn, polite nods being exchanged instead.
In the warehouse, I largely kept to my own company, for fear of too many questions. The one other worker who I could not seem to avoid was my nemesis, the squat and ever-glaring lump of bad temper that was Toki. We seemed to get paired together regularly and never once did he speak to me in English. I’d learned from the others that he knew the language well enough, but he never deigned to use any of it on me. When he spoke at all it was in guttural stabs of Faroese followed by expletives of disgust at my ignorance for not understanding. In my mind, there was a fish hook with Toki’s name on it, with its point and barb driven through his lip and the scruffy moustache that adorned it. In reality I ignored him and didn’t rise to his taunts.
I knew that the lack of sleep was affecting me. I was grouchy, lethargic and lacking in energy. The black circles under my eyes were as much testament to my sleeplessness as the strange, displaced feeling that was becoming familiar to me. The only answer that I was sure I could rely on, other than awaiting the arrival of autumn, was alcohol. I could drink myself into either sleep or oblivion. I wasn’t too fussed which.
The walk down the hill towards town took me about fifteen minutes, time enough to practise my few newly acquired words of Faroese in my head. Time enough to consider the pros and cons of continuing to keep myself separate from the community. Time enough to gather a thirst.
Oli, the barman from my previous visit, was not on duty, but a girl in her early twenties expertly poured me a pint of Gull and equally knowledgably realized that I hadn’t come for a conversation. I poured myself into the same seat I had taken up before, the wall protecting my back from sharpshooters and well-wishers alike.
It was just after nine and the place was busy for a school night. Groups of friends made the pub ring with chatter and laughter, beer flowed freely and the rain washed the windows to make everyone all the more glad that they were inside.
I’d bought a Lee Child thriller from the English section of the bookshop in the SMS shopping centre, just ten minutes’ walk away, and was working my way through it. Reading a book wasn’t the way I’d have spent time in a pub back home, but then I was a long way from there. I read and I refilled my glass. Twice.
Then, from the corner of my consciousness, I heard the chair opposite me scrape back on the floor. I looked up to see a pretty face smiling back at me under a quiff of dark hair and a hat. It was the girl who had slapped her friend.
She let loose a string of melodic Faroese that inevitably meant absolutely nothing to me. Neither beer , please nor thank you seemed
‘It would probably need someone who knew the fish to point it out to the others.’
He held my gaze long enough that I knew he’d made a decision. ‘If they can’t see it then it’s not my place to inform them.’
Barthel raised his glass to me again. ‘Here’s to lives saved.’
Chapter 12
It was a few weeks before I felt the need to seek the haven of Cafe Natur again. I’d settled into a restless routine of minimal sleep then long days at Risen og Kellengin; stacking, cleaning, filleting, rinsing, icing, lifting, shifting. I’d even spent uncomfortable hours out on the skirts of the salmon cages, rising and falling with the irresistible swell, and hanging on for dear life when the waves threw themselves at me, seemingly determined to finish me off.
I lived with the fact that Tummas knew about my past, relaxing a little more with each day that passed without the sanctity of my secret being breached. It wasn’t mentioned the couple of times I saw him on the streets of Torshavn, polite nods being exchanged instead.
In the warehouse, I largely kept to my own company, for fear of too many questions. The one other worker who I could not seem to avoid was my nemesis, the squat and ever-glaring lump of bad temper that was Toki. We seemed to get paired together regularly and never once did he speak to me in English. I’d learned from the others that he knew the language well enough, but he never deigned to use any of it on me. When he spoke at all it was in guttural stabs of Faroese followed by expletives of disgust at my ignorance for not understanding. In my mind, there was a fish hook with Toki’s name on it, with its point and barb driven through his lip and the scruffy moustache that adorned it. In reality I ignored him and didn’t rise to his taunts.
I knew that the lack of sleep was affecting me. I was grouchy, lethargic and lacking in energy. The black circles under my eyes were as much testament to my sleeplessness as the strange, displaced feeling that was becoming familiar to me. The only answer that I was sure I could rely on, other than awaiting the arrival of autumn, was alcohol. I could drink myself into either sleep or oblivion. I wasn’t too fussed which.
The walk down the hill towards town took me about fifteen minutes, time enough to practise my few newly acquired words of Faroese in my head. Time enough to consider the pros and cons of continuing to keep myself separate from the community. Time enough to gather a thirst.
Oli, the barman from my previous visit, was not on duty, but a girl in her early twenties expertly poured me a pint of Gull and equally knowledgably realized that I hadn’t come for a conversation. I poured myself into the same seat I had taken up before, the wall protecting my back from sharpshooters and well-wishers alike.
It was just after nine and the place was busy for a school night. Groups of friends made the pub ring with chatter and laughter, beer flowed freely and the rain washed the windows to make everyone all the more glad that they were inside.
I’d bought a Lee Child thriller from the English section of the bookshop in the SMS shopping centre, just ten minutes’ walk away, and was working my way through it. Reading a book wasn’t the way I’d have spent time in a pub back home, but then I was a long way from there. I read and I refilled my glass. Twice.
Then, from the corner of my consciousness, I heard the chair opposite me scrape back on the floor. I looked up to see a pretty face smiling back at me under a quiff of dark hair and a hat. It was the girl who had slapped her friend.
She let loose a string of melodic Faroese that inevitably meant absolutely nothing to me. Neither beer , please nor thank you seemed
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