Free Cold Comfort by Quentin Bates Page A

sweetheart. What should I guess?”
    “Didn’t Sigrún tell you? She’s moving to Norway and she said we could look after Krummi.”
    Gunna sighed.
    “All right, young lady,” she said, trying to sound stern. “But you’ll have to look after him. And I still think Krummi’s a ridiculous name for a rabbit.”
    J ÓN LAY IN the dark, unable to sleep. The sofa wasn’t as comfortable as it had looked, but it was better than sleeping in the workshop. That afternoon he’d toyed with the idea of splashing petrol over the house and putting a match to it before handing the keys over to the bank’s representative, a silver-haired man in a long overcoat who had seemed genuinely sorry to be doing his job.
    The sofa belonged to Jón’s younger half-brother Samúel, a secondary school teacher in his twenties who lived alone during the week but at weekends shared the flat with a boyfriend, another teacher who arrived joyfully every Friday evening from his weekday job in a flyblown town a couple of hours east of Reykjavík.
    Jón and Sammi were too far apart in age to have spent much of their youth together. Sammi was the late and accidental result of their mother’s second marriage, and had been pampered in ways that had made Jón furious with envy over the toys and treats he had never enjoyed. Sammi had made it plain enough that the sofa was Jón’s during the week, but when the boyfriend turned up on a Friday evening, the two of them preferred to have some privacy. The trouble was, Jón didn’t have anywhere else to go.
    He tried to blot out the murmurs of conversation and the muffled laughter coming through the thin wall of the flat’s only bedroom, and concentrated instead on the faces of people he held grudges against. First was that bastard at the bank, the one who had encouraged him to borrow so much. It wasn’t even as if the personal financial adviser was someone with experience; just a lad with a stupid haircut and a pink shirt who had done a week’s personal banking course.
    Second was the bastard who owned all those flats. It had been a big job and just what a small company keen to make a name with the quality of its workmanship needed. It had meant working evenings and weekends, as well as calling in a few favours and bringing in some mates from the trade as sub-subcontractors. But it had been worth it, and Jón had proudly handed over a completed set of kitchens and bathrooms a week ahead of schedule in time for the flats’ buyers to move in before winter.
    Unfortunately Ingi Lárusson’s company had gone into receivership a few weeks later. No money was available and Jón could only become one of a great many creditors. When he finally spoke to Ingi, he understood that the developer had defaulted and they were all in the same boat. Everyone down the line had been out of pocket, with Jón’s mates who had done some of the work also cursing him.
    A couple of hours on Sammi’s computer told him who the real bastard was, and he couldn’t find it in his heart to blame Ingi Lár when Bjartmar Arnarson’s development company had failed to honour its debts.
    He tried to go to sleep, but whispers and muffled giggling continued to seep through the wall. Eventually he wrapped the pillow around his head to blot it out.

Monday 15th
    “N INETY - SIX.”
    Diddi took a number and waited. He used to enjoy going to the bank when he was a boy, depositing half of his week’s money every payday and watching the total add up to a tidy sum. These days a visit to the bank was a different affair, the savings book long since emptied, and this was a shame, as Diddi still liked the place. The lights were bright and friendly, the ladies behind the counters smiled and there was always unobtrusive music that didn’t hurt his head like the music his neighbours played.
    “Ninety-seven.”
    Diddi looked at his ticket again, even though he knew his number was ninety-nine. Three of the cashiers’ desks were open, so that meant only