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o’clock and he had a shift that started at midday. The first couple of weeks had flashed past. The persistent feeling of discomfort had weakened; he had kept it at bay by concentrating on revising for his final exams and working long hours, taking every extra shift that was offered. The claustrophobia normally made an appearance towards evening when he lay alone in bed, gazing out of the skylight into the darkness. All the same, he preferred to look out through the glass, rather than at a bare ceiling.
    Sometimes the days with bad weather were overwhelming, especially when it snowed heavily. He hadn’t even got round to organisingan internet connection, as much by intention as for any other reason. He could check his email at work and appreciated being able to come home in the evening – yes, home, almost a new concept – and find himself in peace and quiet with little contact with the world outside. He could cook himself something delicious to eat. In one week, Ari Thór had almost become a regular customer of the local fishmonger, whose delightful shop by the town square always seemed to be filled with fresh fish. Ari Thór had tried the familiar haddock, which his mother had always cooked on Mondays, and the more savoury halibut. But his favourite so far had been freshly caught trout. He seasoned it ever sparingly, wrapped it in foil and baked it in the oven, just long enough for it to fall off the bone without losing any of its flavour.
    After his meal he would immerse himself in his textbooks and other books he’d chosen for pleasure. That first week he had gone to the library during his coffee break, borrowing a handful of books that he had always meant to read but had never had the time to; it was these that he picked up when the textbooks became heavy going.
    He had also borrowed a few classical music CDs, listening to these when he wasn’t reading or working, sometimes simply sitting in the darkness in the living room, thinking about Kristín, his late parents, how alone he felt. One evening he had spent listening to the radio, a live broadcast of a concert by the Icelandic Symphony Orchestra – a name which never failed to conjure up memories of his mother, who had died in a road accident when he was a child. She had been a violinist in the orchestra.
    He tried to avoid watching television as much as possible; occasionally catching the news. As far as he could make out, Reykjavík was descending into chaos after the crash of the big banks, with impassioned anti-government protests that seemed to become louder by the day.
    After every shift he made a point of choosing a roundabout route home, passing along the shore, where he would stand for a while.There was something about being by the sea that was calming, helping him feel at ease in this distant and isolated town. Watching the often turbulent waves he was almost able to imagine that he was standing by the shore in Reykjavík. The sea had also been within walking distance from his flat on Öldugata. And at night, thinking of the sea helped him avoid the suffocating feeling of claustrophobia that he would sometimes feel engulfing him.
    He liked his work well enough. The police station occasionally seemed to be more of a canteen than a workplace, almost a social centre. There were regular visitors who stopped off for a coffee – some of them several times a week – to chat about this and that; the crash, the protests and the government were the main subjects for debate, and then there was the weather. There had been a noticeable increase in traffic in the police station’s coffee corner during the first few days after his arrival, as everyone wanted the opportunity to take a look at the new boy from down south.
    One day, over coffee at the station, Tómas had mentioned that Ari Thór had qualified with a degree in theology.
    ‘No, that’s not quite right,’ Ari Thór was quick to correct him.
    ‘But you studied theology, didn’t you?’
    ‘Yes,’