Black Ice Read Online Free Page B

offering  her  everything from  money  to marriage by coffee-break on the first morning. She stood up to it pretty well. But by mid-afternoon, standing here on the cliff-top at  Thingvellir, she  was almost  getting  a  heat  rash  from  the non-stop  battery of leers.
    'Make your decision  now,'  said  one smoothie, 'and  put  the rest of us out of our  misery.'
    To their surprise, she thought about  it for a minute, then she agreed.  'I choose Sam.'
    She hit me with a smile that almost  knocked  me off the cliff, and continued: 'Now, gentlemen, perhaps I can ask you to look at Almannagja, which means All Men's Chasm, which is where the. common people  used  to gather in the days  of the ancient assemblies  .. .'
    I didn't believe her, of course. Not then. I didn't even believe her that  night  when she came along  to my room.
    I took a bit of convincing, believe me.
    Solrun. Does it ring a bell? One or two, Mr Batty, one or two.
    Solrun was Iceland. The  wild strangeness of the place burned in her. Fire and ice. Ice and fire. That's what made her what she was - ice-hot.
     

7
     
     
    Next time you're young, rich and  fashionable and  in Iceland, get a flat in Vesturbrun. That's where all the rest of them live. So, naturally enough, that's  where  Solrun  had  her  flat:  six floors  up in a tower  block which  hummed with  discreet  heat and  silent  lifts.
    In Britain we think light is simply something you switch on.
    There they play around with it. In her flat, blinds and screens and clever shades sliced up the light and kept it under control. With  all  that  natural wood,  bamboo  and  cane  you could've staged  The Mikado without changing a thing. It was low-level, which is to say that  most of the social life was conducted on the floor: the cushions  didn't have chairs  beneath them,  and  the two sofas were no higher  than  a London  pavement.
    'And   have   you   been  faithful   to  me?'  I  demanded,  not altogether seriously.
    When   she   answered  we   both   burst   out   laughing. I'd forgotten  the way  Icelanders say  the word  for Yes on the in breath - and  the way Solrun  liked to string  them  together.
    'Yow yow yow yow yow yow,' she went, like a clockwork cat that needs winding  up. It took us over the two-year gap without embarrassment.
    We hadn't stayed  long up at Thingvellir. Just long enough for me to suck in some of the magic of the place, and to see again how the pearly light swirled around  the plain, as real to the eye as the water in the lake. Back home, Solrun  had vanished  to the sound  of splashing taps  and  re-emerged  about  five seconds later,  damp, pink, fresh and snug inside her silk robe liberally decorated with scarlet lips.  From somewhere she'd  also produced two small,  strong and  bitter  coffees.
    We were both past the pleasure-shock of seeing each  other again- and the discovery  that all the old feelings were warming up again. It's always nice to know you weren't mistaken. We talked  the old nonsense  we always did,  but I couldn't help but notice the black scimitars of strain beneath her eyes. Her usual playfulness kept failing as a strange unease broke in. Inevitably it reminded me of why Batty  had sent  me.
    'They say at the office that you wish to interview me for one of your wicked London  scandal papers?'
    'That's right.'
    'That is terrible.' She  giggled  and  clasped  the front  of the robe together  to fake respectability. 'Do you think  I am scandalous?'
    'I was hoping  you might  remind  me.'
    She  laughed   again,  a  brittle  tinkle  of sound   that  died  too soon. She slipped  down on to one of her squashy cushions and curled  up in a way that exposed  her legs to potential frostbite.
    Or,  with any luck, guest bite.
    'They tell me you're going to be a star.' I was perched  on the edge of the sofa, by her right