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convulsively, and I made an involuntary sound of protest. It had been more shock than pain. Viggo let go of me, and I noticed for the first time the tattoo on the back of his right hand. Thor’s hammer, Mjölnir—not the heavy, stubby version familiar to movie-goers, but the slender Icelandic form, more like a cross than a weapon. I swallowed. I wanted to reach out and touch it.
    “Ah,” Viggo said. “See? I knew you couldn’t have forgotten me.”
    “I just like tattoos,” I said quickly.
    Too quickly. His eyes dimmed with hurt.
    I ached to take the pain away. “I’m sorry. This is all a bit…disorientating. I mean, I’m sorry, I don’t remember you exactly, but you do seem, I don’t know, familiar? Somehow.” I took a deep breath, tried to stop babbling like an idiot. “How did we know each other?” I asked.
    His face cleared. “I drive the riverjet at Hvita River. You came with your department. You’ve forgotten? You must come again.”
    Riverjet? My mind threw up confusing images of fast-moving spray and high stone walls—and yes, Viggo.
    My breath caught. It was no more than a flash—a half-seen smile, a pair of blue eyes that creased at the corners—but it was a memory. I started forward, gripped him by the arm. My heart pounded. “Yes. I remember. At least—” I shook my head. “I need to do it again.”
    His gaze was almost fierce in its intensity. “Then that’s what we will do. I’ll call you, okay?”
    I nodded. “Wait—I don’t have the same number.” My phone hadn’t survived the accident. The ability to withstand falling down a waterfall isn’t in the design specs of most modern gadgets, I’ve found. Or most people, come to that. By the time I’d been in a fit state to think about getting a new phone, it hadn’t seemed worth the bother of getting the number changed to one I’d all but forgotten in any case.
    “You give me your new number, okay? Then I’ll call you.” He held out his mobile, and clumsily, I tapped my number into it. When I handed it back, Viggo held my gaze for a long moment. “It’s good to see you again, Paul. I’ll call you soon. But perhaps we can spend some time together now? Go to a few bars, hear some music?”
    I almost said yes. But he stepped forward again, grasped my arm once more. It was too soon. Too much. Too…everything. “I can’t,” I blurted out, backing off a few paces. “I shouldn’t drink. My head…”
    Viggo’s face fell. “Are you okay?” He stepped forward, reclosing the gap between us, and frowned when I backed off even farther.
    “I’m fine. I just need some space.” I tried to smile, lifted a hand as if to pat his arm. Placate him. But my nerve failed me, and I let it fall back to my side.
    He ceased his pursuit, raising both hands in a conciliatory gesture. “It’s all right. I understand. I’m sorry, Paul. I shouldn’t put pressure on you. I’ll call you. For now—you enjoy the festival, okay?”
    Trying to ignore the kicked-puppy look in his eyes, I nodded and turned on my heel. I walked off blindly until I found a quiet café in which to take shelter. The coffee was awful, explaining the lack of customers, but at least I could sit in the corner and think without being disturbed.
    Why on earth had I panicked and run away from Viggo like that?
    Now he was gone, I wanted him back. But I knew I couldn’t trust my reaction to him. I hadn’t been lying when I’d said I liked tattoos. They seemed to exert a fascination on me I didn’t know how to explain. There had been an incident in London, just before I came back to Iceland—thanks to Gretchen’s ruthless efficiency in waking me up, I’d had some time to kill before my taxi to the airport. Packing had taken me all of twenty minutes, as I hadn’t had a lot of stuff with me.
    Even after brushing my teeth, I’d still been able to taste my sister’s tea, so I decided to kill two birds with one stone and dropped into a coffee shop just down the road