Blood Floe by Christoffer Petersen

Author:Christoffer Petersen [Petersen, Christoffer]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Aarluuk Press for Arctic Noir, Action Thrillers and Greenland Crime
Published: 2018-05-29T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 13

Maratse clumped down the stairs, glancing at Therese asleep on the sofa, one long freckled leg curled over the sleeping bag, as he walked to the kitchen. He decided on fresh coffee, and held a jug beneath the tap. The water limped up the pipes and the electric pump juddered with little or no resistance.

“I told you, I emptied the tank,” Therese called from the living room. She appeared at the kitchen door in her pants and bra, forcing Maratse to look away.

“I’ll get more water,” he said, and brushed past her.

Therese stopped him with her arm. Her skin seemed to glow and Maratse could feel the heat from her body through his t-shirt as she pressed in close to him. “What did you find when you searched Dieter?”

“Nothing.”

“I’m not so sure,” Therese said. She shifted position and brushed her hand across the wispy black hairs of Maratse’s oriental beard. “I told you I liked this style, didn’t I?”

“Iiji.”

“Then why don’t we find out how much? What do you say?”

Maratse took Therese’s hand and peeled it from his cheek. He looked into her green eyes, spared a glance at the blush of freckles across her cheeks, her nose, her lips, and said, “I didn’t find anything.” Maratse let go of Therese’s hand and walked into the living room.

“Where are you going?”

“To fill the tank with water.” He pulled on his overalls, boots, and hat, and stepped outside.

Inussuk had a water tank with a pump in a small insulated wooden building behind the store. It was blue, just like all the utility buildings in Greenland. Hospitals were yellow, stores and schools painted a dark red, police houses were green. Maratse collected two twenty litre plastic jerry cans from beneath the deck of his house, and carried them to the water tank. His boots slid over the finger-thick rime of spillage ice on the metal grate beneath the tap. Maratse unscrewed the cap of the jerry can, lined up the mouth with the spigot, and pushed the button to pump the water; he repositioned the can, and waited for it to fill. Buuti surprised him with a pinch to his waist.

“You’re up early,” he said, as he switched cans, and capped the first one.

“Karl has caught a whale,” she said. The light of the water station danced in her eyes, and she pressed a set of keys into Maratse’s hand. “He wants you to bring the snowscooter.”

“Iiji.”

“But not the woman,” Buuti said. “He thinks she is a journalist.”

“He’s probably right,” Maratse said, and tucked the keys into his pocket. “Her father owns a media company.”

“I’m not ashamed,” Buuti said.

“Of what?”

“Hunting whales. But they don’t understand, do they?”

Maratse screwed the cap onto the second jerry can and straightened his back.

“Europeans?”

“Non-Arctic people.”

“I think there is a big distance between them and their meat.” He shrugged, and said, “I’ll fill the tank and then go and get Karl.”

“Qujanaq,” Buuti said. “We have narwhal for Christmas.” Buuti smiled, wriggled her shoulders within her jacket and walked back to her house.

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