Christoffer Petersen

Chapter 3

Nuuk, Present Day

Retired police constable David Maratse opened the door to the balcony and stepped outside. He leaned against the railings and stared across the fjord towards the centre of Nuuk, Greenland’s capital city, population 15,000 and counting. Maratse straightened and tucked his hands into his pockets, plucking at an empty shell .22 bullet casing in one of them, a twist of fishing line in the other. He turned as Sergeant Petra Jensen called to him from the kitchen.

“Piitalaat,” he said, smiling as she joined him on the balcony.

Petra turned into the wind blowing off the fjord, tucked a length of hair behind her ear, then reached her hand out to press it against Maratse’s cheek. She slid her fingers through his wispy beard and sighed. “Are you going to be all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“I know. But what are you going to do today?”

“I’ll think of something.”

“It might make it easier for me if I knew what.”

“Piitalaat.” Maratse took Petra’s hand and pressed it to her lips. “I’m okay.”

“You say that,” she said, pulling her hand free, before leaning in close, nuzzling nose against his neck, “but I worry about you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“Ever since we moved from Inussuk…”

“I said I would come with you.”

“Yes, I know, but…”

“I’m where I want to be,” he said. “Here. With you.” Petra lifted her head and Maratse smiled. “It’s the only place I want to be.”

“You’re sure?”

“Iiji, you know I am.”

Petra tucked her head back into the curve of Maratse’s neck. “I want to believe that…”

“It’s true.”

“And I know it. But we’re in the city.”

“Iiji?”

“But you don’t do cities.”

“I’ll find a way.” Maratse turned to kiss Petra’s forehead. “You have to go to work.”

“Atii is picking me up.”

“She’ll be here soon.”

“I know.” Petra pulled away, slowly. She smiled as she plucked at Maratse’s jacket. “You could always give this a wash. That would keep you busy for at least a week.”

“Go,” Maratse said.

Petra rubbed a fish scale from her fingers. “A month.”

“Atii’s here,” Maratse said, pointing at the police patrol car pulling into the car park below Petra’s apartment. “You’ll be late.”

“Never.” Petra kissed Maratse’s cheek, brushed her hand once more across his cheek, then peeled away from the railings and into the apartment. “Call me if you get bored.”

Maratse waved. He watched her leave, then leaned over the railing to wave again as Petra stepped out of the apartment building and jogged over to the patrol car. Dust pillowed away from the tyres as Constable Atii Napa accelerated out of the parking lot. Maratse turned back to the fjord, caught the shadow of a sea eagle, and stared up to watch it soar across the sun.

“Hmm,” he said, as a second eagle joined the first. Ravens croaked from the roof of the next apartment building, gathering in conspiratorial twos and threes, stalking the edges, flapping, cawing, and crowing. Maratse turned back to the eagles, content to watch them for a little while, for want of anything better to do in the city.

To be continued…

Copyright © Christoffer Petersen, 2021.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

“A hero?”

“Aap.”

Iisaaq turned away, leaving Gabin deep in thought as he chatted with Kaasi. The two Greenlanders poked at the fibreglass patch, pressing the tips of rough fingers into the weave at the edges before tugging them free. Gabin left them to it and walked down to the water’s edge.

A hero.

The thought had never occurred to him, nor did he feel particularly heroic about what he had done. The oft used remark that one man’s terrorist is another man’s freedom fighter played through his mind as he crouched beside a lump of ice stranded on the beach. Beside it, just a little further from the water, was an oval depression like a crater the depth of his thumb. Small pebble-sized lumps of ice spotted with black sand sat in the middle of the depression. Gabin followed a series of what he thought looked like footprints for a few long strides along the beach, putting all thoughts of heroism aside.

But you can’t forget. Can you, Gabin?

He tried. He focused on the footprints, nodding to himself and exclaiming as soon as he realised the prints were what remained once the sun had melted stranded lumps of ice.

You planned the attack.

It was true, but there were more prints further along the beach. He should investigate them, prove his theory, empty his mind of all else.

But the explosion…

Several of them.

Gabin blinked at the ice prints but saw instead the flames licking at the black smoke pouring out of the stairwell leading to the lower decks of the ship. They had used limpet mines on Gabin’s suggestion, easily procured from the military. Despite the secrecy, sourcing the means to complete the mission had been easy. They could have asked for anything and they would have got it. But the team agreed that the limpet mine placed against the hull would be more than adequate to sink the ship and send a message, without blowing the ship into pieces.

There was no need for anyone to die.

But they did.

One death more than was necessary. One mine more than they needed.

“If they had just evacuated,” Gabin said, forcing the words through gritted teeth. “After the first explosion.”

But you used two mines, Gabin.

“Oui, to make sure the operation was a success.”

And was it?

Gabin ignored the question in his mind and followed the prints along the beach. The grass above the beach rustled in the wind, turning his head, and he froze at the sight of Biibi crouching in the grass, her bottom tucked against her heels, her eyes fixed on Gabin.

Gabin waved, calling for Biibi to walk with him.

She shook her head, slowly, lips pressed closed to seal her mouth.

Gabin took a step and Biibi followed, crouching then walking, pacing him from above as he walked along the sand below.

She’s stalking me, he thought. Hunting – something I need to get used to.

Wherever he went, for however long he lived, Gabin knew they would be hunting him. But none had ever gotten as close as Biibi.

“Not yet, at least,” he said, stretching his legs into the curve of the beach, searching for more ice prints.

And the girl followed.

To be continued…

Copyright © Christoffer Petersen, 2021.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

“Go on,” Gabin said, flicking his foot at the puppy. “Get away.”

The puppy let go of the blanket and shrank away from the bed, tail low, head low, eyes fixed on Gabin. Gabin blinked. He took a second look at the puppy – all black, but for two beige spots above its eyes. Even with its eyes closed the spots would give the impression that it was wide awake, alert, always watching.

“That’s a good trick.”

Gabin sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. The puppy scampered out of the house. Gabin rubbed his eyes and followed.

The sun continued to describe its slow arc across the polar sky, burning the western edge of the mountain curling around the island settlement of Illorsuit. Gabin turned towards it, pausing to wave at the puppy as it slunk beneath the deck of Iisaaq’s house – all four eyes watching. Gabin closed the door behind him and walked parallel to the beach, picking his way along the hard-packed path, nodding at two elderly Greenlandic men chatting on a nearby bench, then sidestepping out of the way of three children tumbling down the path towards him. Gabin followed the path of least resistance to the beach, slowing as he approached a middle-aged man working on his fibreglass dinghy.

“Kaasi,” the man said, as he greeted Gabin. Kaasi’s hand was dry with a firm grip. Together with the look Kaasi gave him, Gabin had the impression the greeting was genuine. “You’re him?” Kaasi said, frowning as he struggled with the unfamiliar English words.

“I’m a friend of Iisaaq’s.”

“Aap.” Kaasi let go of Gabin’s hand, then pointed at the peninsula across the fjord to the west. The sun lit the granite with a red glow. Kaasi said something in Greenlandic, followed by, “You’re him. Man from the south?”

Gabin tensed, as he wondered where this was going. He glanced at the knife tucked into Kaasi’s belt, the hammer resting on the upturned hull of his dinghy. NAME followed Gabin’s gaze then caught his eye and laughed.

“Everything is good. No problem.” He took Gabin’s hand and pumped it a second time, more enthusiastically than the first. “No problem. You’re him. A good man. You’re welcome.”

“Thank you,” Gabin said. His brow creased as he let go of Kaasi’s hand. “Do you need any help?”

“Suna?”

“With your boat.” Gabin pointed, gestured at the hammer. “Can I help you?”

“Sure.”

Kaasi rattled through a description of what he was working on, losing Gabin in a flurry of Greenlandic, pausing to smile, and nudging Gabin’s arm as he pointed and then tapped the hull. Gabin laughed at Kaasi’s enthusiasm, noting the man’s small frame, skin stretched tight over his bones, the subtle bulge of his biceps as the arms of his t-shirt slid up and over them as he worked. Kaasi crouched to lift the gunwale and together they turned the dinghy.

Gabin looked up as Iisaaq wandered down the path to join them on the beach. He shook hands with Kaasi, and then lit a cigarette, standing to one side as Kaasi inspected the patch he had applied to the hull.

“Can’t sleep?” Iisaaq said.

Gabin shrugged, and said, “I tried.” He dipped his head towards Kaasi before asking Iisaaq, “What have you told people about me?”

“Nothing much.”

“No?”

Iisaaq’s lips creased into a smile as he said, “I told them you were a hero.”

To be continued…

Copyright © Christoffer Petersen, 2021.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

She had her mother’s eyes.

Naqiit stepped out of the shadow of the house. She teased Biibi’s hair into long strands, weaving them into a plait as she stared across the sparsely grassed path to Gabin’s window. Where Biibi’s eyes were wild with the uncertainty of youth, the energy in Naqiit’s eyes was raw, possessing something greater than could be confined by the kitchen or Iisaaq’s patriarchal assertiveness. Gabin’s breath caught in his throat and he swallowed. He let the thin curtain fall across the window and retreated from Naqiit’s look.

“Careful, Gabin,” he said.

Dust cascaded off the curtain, sparkling in the summer light as it drifted above him. He lay back on the bed, closed his eyes, picturing his journey north in clandestine snapshots taken from the shadows. His escape had included more luck than planning, as people who thought they knew what he had done aided him with knowing looks and heartfelt handshakes. He took the slips of paper they pressed into his palms – a name on one of them, a phone number on another. The network of dockworkers’ pubs and captains’ bars ensured a friendly reception along the coast, as he worked his way on tiny trawlers and rusting crab boats until landing a berth on a blue water container ship. Gabin’s first deep sleep during his escape had been hidden in the bowels of a great ship, lulled to sleep by the penetrating thrum of the engines, and the soporific and slightly nauseous diesel veil seeping into the cabins.

It had been dark in the cabin, and he had wrapped the shadows around him.

The further Gabin travelled from the scene of his crime…

Action, he thought. Not crime. It was sanctioned.

…the more suspicious the captains became. Word from the south travelled fast, faster still in the nautical world. Gabin worked on his accent, twisting his softer inflections into a more guttural English, more north than south. He rarely spoke, took his meals in silence, leaving one ship in the dead of night to stowaway on another, revealing himself to the captain along with a thick wad of cash in exchange for passage without questions.

The cash got him as far as Greenland and into a trawler bound for the rich waters of Uummannaq Fjord.

And back into the light.

He felt naked in the light.

He heard the chatter of Illorsuit’s residents as they passed his window, voices rising and falling, laughing as they passed his house. The walls of the house creaked in the late afternoon, sighing into the evening as the sun circled around the back of the mountain, never setting, but throwing the settlement into a shadow with a crisp twist of wind creeping off the sun, blowing dust and sand into the houses, picking at the flakes of paint on the walls until they resisted, floating down like fake sycamore leaves in a land without trees.

Gabin turned on his side at the sound of more scuffles across the wooden floor. In her haste to leave Biibi had left the door open. Gabin opened his eyes and stared into the big brown eyes of a puppy as it froze, teeth clenched on a corner of the blanket at the end of the bed.

To be continued…

Copyright © Christoffer Petersen, 2021.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Chapter 2

Gabin carried the bucket of clay and water into Sakka’s bedroom, pressing it into the corner of the room before lying down in the dead Greenlander’s bed. He closed his eyes and chewed over the last words Iisaaq had said before giving Gabin some space.

I know what you did.

Iisaaq obviously knew enough not to press Gabin. But the question of how much he knew. That was the problem. What Gabin did made the news across the world, even as far as a tiny settlement with less than one hundred inhabitants six hundred kilometres above the Arctic Circle.

“I should have gone to the jungle,” Gabin whispered.

He sighed, felt the rough weave of the blanket covering Sakka’s bed, and considered what he knew of Iisaaq, if only to determine how he should proceed.

So far, the Greenlander had gone out of his way to collect Gabin from the mainland. The captain of the trawler who picked Gabin up from the container ship in Ilulissat said he would make a call. Iisaaq was the man he called. Gabin was used to influential people having a hold over him, but the tables had turned. Now, in the far north, it was a simple Greenlander, with little influence beyond the settlement in which he lived, who had power over Gabin. The power of life and death.

Yes, he thought. There are some who would see me killed me for what I have done.

But not the Greenlander. That thought didn’t materialise. For whatever reason, Gabin’s actions were not seen as criminal in Illorsuit. Far from it, according to Iisaaq’s manner, his generosity, and his hints that Gabin might be here for a long period of time, perhaps the rest of his life.

Do I really want to live here for the rest of my life?

Gabin opened his eyes at the sound of feet scuffing across the sandy floorboards. Biibi froze as he looked at her. Water slopped from the dirty plastic bowl she carried in her hands, agitated by small clumps of ice bobbing on the surface.

“It’s okay,” Gabin said. The bed creaked as he sat up. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Biibi shuffled to the corner of the room. Her hair caught in the rough weave of her t-shirt on her shoulders as she twisted her head to look at Gabin. She stopped at the bucket, tipped the water from her container into it, and then fled from the room. Gabin pulled back the thin curtains to watch her scarper home across the packed dirt path. Biibi dumped the container on the ground in front of the house, scattering loose puppies, before scurrying up the steps to the front door. She paused at the railing, looking back at the house, catching Gabin’s eye.

Gabin struggled to remember ever feeling so far from the city, from the modern world and all its conveniences, than in that moment, caught in the crosshairs of an eight-year-old Greenlandic girl, her long black hair streaming in the wind, and her wild eyes fixed on his.

To be continued…

Copyright © Christoffer Petersen, 2021.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Biibi darted from her brother’s shadow, thrusting her arms across Naqiit’s lap as she clung to her leg, head below the table, bobbing up and down to peek at Gabin. Kuua slid onto the empty chair and reached for the glass of juice, draining it, and wiping his mouth before looking from Gabin to his father.

“I put the bag in the hall.”

“Thank you,” Gabin said.

“It was heavy.”

“It’s the clay.”

Iisaaq said something to Biibi, nibbling at her ribs with his fingers until she pulled away from her mother. “I told her to get a bucket,” he said. “The air is very dry here. Clay will turn to brick and dust before you know it. Biibi will get you a bucket of water. She’ll keep it full.”

“I can do that,” Gabin said, as Biibi darted out of the kitchen.

Iisaaq reached for his coffee, and said, “Biibi will do it.” He finished his coffee and stood up, leaning over the table to kiss Naqiit’s cheek, before tugging a crumpled packet of cigarettes from his pocket. “I need a smoke,” he said, nodding for Gabin to follow him.

Naqiit watched them leave, then spoke to Kuua. Her soft words followed Gabin and Iisaaq into the hall and out of the house as soon as they pulled their shoes on. Iisaaq tapped two cigarettes out of the packet and they smoked as they walked back down to the beach.

“The house on the corner,” he said, pointing with the tip of his cigarette. “Uularikka lives there. She mends clothes. All the women can, but Uularikka is the best. You can pay her in fish.”

Gabin laughed. “I haven’t got any fish.”

“I will teach you to catch more than you need.”

They stopped at the beach. Iisaaq rested against the gunwale of his dinghy, puffing smoke from the cigarette clamped between his lips as he slid his hands into his pockets. Gabin stood beside him, nodding when Iisaaq pointed to Biibi as she filled a bucket with lumps of brash ice from the fjord.

“That’s less than half a bucket, when it melts,” Iisaaq said, as Biibi struggled up the beach, too busy to look at her father or to sneak another peek at Gabin. “She’ll have to go many times.” He called out to his daughter, laughing at her reply.

“What did she say?”

“That she was too busy to talk.”

Gabin watched Biibi drag the bucket along the path and then finished his cigarette.

“You’ve been very generous, Iisaaq,” he said. “But you haven’t asked me any questions.”

“I don’t need to.”

“No?” The pebbles beneath Gabin’s feet crunched as he turned to look at out at the fjord. “Where I come from… Well, let’s just say people would have a lot of questions, and they wouldn’t be so helpful as you.”

“Don’t think about it.”

“But I do.” Gabin caught Iisaaq’s eye. “And I appreciate your help.”

Iisaaq plucked the cigarette from his lips and flicked the butt onto the beach. “I know you do. And I know you’ll do what you can to help me in return.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Iisaaq lifted his chin and looked Gabin in the eye. “Because I know what you did.”

To be continued…

Copyright © Christoffer Petersen, 2021.

This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.