He was startled from his reflections by the doorbell ringing. He jumped to his feet. It had to be someone looking for him, as his parents never had visitors.
‘I’ll get it,’ he yelled down the corridor. But he was too late, as he heard his father opening the front door.
He went quickly to the bathroom, ran a comb through his hair and splashed on a little aftershave, in case it happened to be Júlía dropping by. With his mind so clear, he was sure he would be able to dazzle her with all kinds of ideas. He loved it when she looked at him with adoration as he told her about something he had discovered on the internet, such as the work of Ocean Cleanup founder, Boyan Slat, or Deepika Kurup’s water-cleaning bottle, which had made it possible for people in developing countries to have clean water to drink. They both liked hearing about initiatives by young people that made the world a better place, and they agreed that it would be so much better when their generation took over running things. Their parents’ generation had done nothing but screw the world up.
He took two strides down the steps but then came to a halt in the middle of the stairs. It wasn’t Júlía, but a man with a shiny bald head who followed his father inside.
‘We can go to my office,’ he heard his father say as he pointed to the door to his room.
The blood froze in Anton’s veins, and in a flash the clarity he had experienced since activating the bomb turned to fog and confusion. His body felt heavy; the same feeling he got when he received a low mark in an exam or lost at cards with the boys, but magnified a thousand times. The thought that he might be found out before the bomb went off had never entered his head, but now that possibility was staring him in the face. Accompanying the bald guy into his father’s office was a police officer with a tool belt and a hissing radio.
74
The sobs had come to an end but the tears hadn’t; they poured down María’s cheeks all the way to Thingvellir. She had stopped at the filling station on Ártúnsbrekka, filled the car’s tank, thrown a few snacks into a bag and paid with notes from the wad Agla had given her. Even in the shop the tears had continued to flow freely from her eyes, as if her body had finally given up all resistance, allowing the sorrow and fear free rein.
She took the Nesjavellir road up to Thingvellir lake, even though she had never wanted to go that way when she and Maggi had been together – she had found it easier to take the straighter Mosfellsheiði route. Now she drove cautiously through the Hengill area, terrified of coming off the road, as her tears occasionally obscured her vision.
She felt a lump in her throat as she turned down the track at Grafningur and headed towards the summer house. She had always loved coming here, and it was among the few material things she had missed after the divorce. But as Maggi had inherited the place from his parents, naturally, he still owned it.
She parked the car behind the boathouse so it couldn’t be seen from the road, deciding there was no point in attracting too much attention.
There was a scent of budding birch in the air. The water lapped at the shore as if it didn’t have a care in the world, and the lively birdsong around the summer house sparked a glow of joy in her heart that ended the flow of tears but immediately made her feel guilty. Somehow it seemed wrong to let herself feel any happiness on the day Marteinn had died.
Maggi had never been one to change old habits; the key was in its usual place, under the flower pot by the door. María went inside. A respectable stack of firewood by the stove indicated that it hadn’t been long since Maggi had been here, and she knew she needn’t worry about him taking her by surprise. He never went to the summer house except at weekends, Christmas, and for the summer holiday he always took in July.
When she had unpacked her snacks – a two-litre bottle of Coke, two prawn sandwiches and a bag of chocolate raisins – and put them in the kitchen, she sat down and felt the quiet surround her. There was nothing to be heard but birdsong, and there was nothing to disturb her. After everything she had been through she finally had peace to think.
75
The smell the cleaners had left behind was so strong that Agla started by going into each room and opening the windows. Elvar had done well, preparing the house as she had asked. Most of the furniture was new, and Agla was relieved that there was now little in the house that would remind her of Sonja. Everything they had chosen together had gone to a charity, and Elvar had also rearranged the furniture so that it felt to her like a different house. She opened the sliding door in the living room and looked out over the garden, which wore its light-green spring colours. She would have to get a gardener in; the hedges were starting to run wild and there was moss on the patio.
‘You’re not serious?’ Elísa said, wandering through the house in a daze and repeatedly asking if this was some kind of joke. ‘It’s a well cool house. Are you really going to let me live here?’
‘Yes,’ Agla said. ‘I bought it for … well, a woman. And I’ve no desire to use the place myself.’
‘Bad memories?’ Elísa asked, in clear concern.
Agla felt her throat constrict, so she nodded and turned away. Coming in here had affected her more than she wanted to admit, even to herself.
‘Surely you just need to make some newer and better memories to go with the house?’ said Elísa.
Agla’s heart leaped as she wrapped her arms around her from behind and squeezed.
‘What are you doing?’ She tried to shake Elísa off; she wasn’t ready for this. A strong combination of emotions welled up inside her – the image of Sonja and some kind of feeling of responsibility towards Elísa. ‘That’s not what I had in mind for the house,’ she whispered. ‘You don’t owe me anything and don’t have to do anything for me in return.’
‘You think I’m doing this for you?’ Elísa tugged at the front of Agla’s jacket, pulling her close and kissing her hard on the mouth. ‘Come on, Agla. It’s three hours until we have to be back at Vernd, and we’re alone here. All alone, at last, with a bed and a whole house to ourselves. Come on!’
Elísa’s eagerness, her smile and the hands that snaked inside Agla’s clothes broke through the barriers Agla had swiftly erected as she stood alone by the road outside the Hólmsheiði prison. She felt the blood burning through her veins in a wonderful mixture of tenderness and passion, and she let Elísa lead her to the bedroom.
She had thought that Sonja had been her only opportunity in life to experience such emotions; an opportunity she had lost. But now she was here with this young woman she hardly knew at all, the blood rushing through her, her body alight with desire. She let go of the fear that this desire would turn against her, the fear of opening her heart only for it to be broken again; the fear that this time she wouldn’t survive the heartbreak.
Elísa pulled her down onto the bed.
‘Kiss me,’ she said. ‘Kiss me.’
Agla unbuttoned Elísa’s shirt and unclipped her bra.
‘I’ll kiss you,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll kiss every part of you.’
76
The man had introduced himself as a detective, but Ingimar had immediately forgotten his name and couldn’t surreptitiously check the man’s card, as he had just placed it in the desk drawer.
‘Is it right that you went to the office of The Squirrel website yesterday?’ the detective asked as Ingimar gestured for him and his uniformed colleague to take a seat.
‘Yes,’ he replied. There was no point denying it. It was true, and, anyway, they would hardly be asking if they didn’t know the answer already. He took a seat himself, drew it up to the desk and rested his elbows on it, hands clasped together as if he were a receptionist waiting for a customer to announce their reason for calling. This was one thing he had learned from the shipping company owner he had worked for in the old days; the old man had always done this when someone wanted to discuss their pay. It was a fixed position, hands locked together with no chance of fidgeting or fiddling, and leaning forwards over the desk in a firm stance; nothing defensive.
The last thing he needed now was to appear to be fighting a rearguard action.
‘And could you tell me what took you there?’ said the detective.
‘Yes. It may sound silly, but the way they have been writing about me has been upsetting,’ Ingimar said. ‘So I decided to go there and talk to someone.’
‘Someone? You mean Marteinn Árnason?’
‘Yes. Marteinn, or María, who owns the thing.’ Under circumstances such as these, Ingimar knew he had to take care to tread a fine line: telling the truth as far as was possible, and if he couldn’t stick to facts, talking around the subject rather than lying outright. It was always surprising how many people sensed instinctively when they were being told a lie. ‘I was hoping to persuade them to tone down the rubbish they’ve been publishing. It’s not comfortable to be the subject of this kind of coverage. Not that many people pay attention to that kind of journalism,’ he said, drawing invisible quote marks in the air around the word ‘journalism’.
‘But you had already spoken to María before you went to The Squirrel yesterday. Isn’t that right?’
Ingimar felt something harden deep in his gut, but he nodded as if nothing was wrong.
‘Yes. I went to her home first to try to speak to her and ask her to stop the witch-hunt that The Squirrel has been running, but I didn’t have any success. I know it doesn’t sound pleasant, but these people are completely nuts. I don’t know which of them is worse, María or Marteinn. Anyway, can I ask what this is all about?’
The question wasn’t because he didn’t already know, but to reaffirm his innocence.
The detective studied his notebook.
‘María claims that you broke in to her apartment yesterday morning. What do you have to say to that?’
‘Broke in? That’s rich,’ he said, feigning astonishment. ‘If that’s what this is all about, then there’s a simple enough explanation. When I got to her place, the door was wide open. I called out and took a couple of steps inside, and found she wasn’t there. When she did show up she was pretty out of it, and looked rough, the poor thing. I have to say that calling this a break-in is – what shall I say? – exaggerating the couple of steps I took into her flat. I wouldn’t have thought that would be a police matter.’
The policeman jotted something in his notebook with a bored expression on his face. His shoulders slumped and, judging by the dark rings under his eyes, Ingimar guessed that the man hadn’t slept much recently.
‘When you arrived at The Squirrel’s office, was Marteinn alone?’
‘Yes, he was there on his own. I tried to have a conversation with him, but I quickly saw that he was in no mental condition for anything like that.’
The detective looked up from his notebook and met Ingimar’s gaze; his sleepy eyes were suddenly wide awake. ‘What kind of mental condition would you say he was in, then?’
‘He was agitated and seemed to believe that I had been sent by them. I don’t know who they are supposed to be or what he was thinking. I didn’t stay long as I could see it was pointless talking to him.’
‘Did you feel that Marteinn’s condition was such that he might have required medical attention?’
‘Yes,’ Ingimar replied.
‘And did you call a doctor or other assistance?’
‘No, I didn’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Well, with respect, I had the feeling that he was like that all the time. You only need to read the articles he writes. Judging by what he has been writing about me recently, his hold on reality is pretty tenuous. Has something happened to him?’
‘It has,’ the police officer replied. ‘He was found dead this morning at The Squirrel’s office. You appear to be the last person to have seen him alive.’
Ingimar dropped his head and stared down at his desk for a while.
‘I should have called a doctor,’ he said quietly, before looking up.
The policeman shrugged wearily and stood up.
‘We’ll be in touch if there’s anything else.’
Ingimar went with them to the door, nodding to each of them as they went out onto the steps. He had almost pushed the door closed when the tired-looking detective pushed it open again.
‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Could you have touched Marteinn in any way when you met yesterday?’
‘Touched him?’ Ingimar thought for a moment and was about to say no, when he remembered his hand on Marteinn’s head, the reassurance that his touch had given this troubled man, the finger that had wiped a tear from his cheek. ‘I may have … well, patted his head,’ he said.
‘You patted his head?’
‘Yes, if I can put it like that. He was sitting down, and I may have given him a friendly pat on the head.’
Ingimar could hear how strange this must sound, in spite of it being largely the truth.
‘Hmm,’ the detective nodded, a curious expression on his face. Ingimar could see that the tired eyes were again wide awake.
77
Agla had never much enjoyed helicopter flights. While the boys at the bank had always found them hugely exciting, the aircraft’s gentle movements normally left her nauseous. However, as the helicopter’s altitude dropped over Thingvellir National Park, and they flew along the ravine in the summer brightness, Agla had to admit that it was a magnificent sight.
Pierre, the bank director, revelled in every second. ‘It’s so beautiful!’ he called out.
Agla smiled. She didn’t like to speak through the headset, aware of hearing her own voice, and reluctant to risk being misunderstood, so she smiled and gave the occasional thumbs-up to demonstrate how much she agreed with the banker. After a circuit around Thingvellir, the helicopter swept out over the lake, where the pilot took them lower and angled the machine over the islands so they could have a better view of them. Pierre was so absorbed by the sight that his exclamations were coming in French. Agla just raised her thumb again and smiled. The smile was a real one and she was genuinely happy; so happy that she could almost burst. She felt that a decade had fallen off her that day, and her heart was still tender. She and Elísa had sat over the evening meal at Vernd and grinned at each other foolishly. Agla had found it difficult to part from her afterwards, but she had to spend time with the banker before getting back to Vernd for eleven.
The helicopter came to land on a flat-topped peak, the name of which escaped Agla, but which provided a fantastic view over the Hengill region. The co-pilot left the helicopter first with a small table and a generous hamper. Once the rotor blades had come to a halt and the passengers had stepped out, he opened the hamper on the table so they could enjoy the delicacies Elvar had provided for them. Agla felt a pang as the pilot poured champagne into the glasses. This was a particularly good champagne that Agla had always made sure she had a stock of for special occasions. Now she clinked glasses with Pierre, lifted the glass to her lips and only pretended to drink. She didn’t dare take even a sip. She had promised herself that she would follow the probation conditions to the letter and take no risks, especially now. It wasn’t worth being locked up at Hólmsheiði again while Elísa was still free, just for a few mouthfuls of champagne – never mind how good it might be.
They strolled around the edge of the flat mountain top with their champagne flutes and looked down over the valley below, where little pockets of mist had collected in the cool evening air. Agla took the opportunity to pour a little from her glass occasionally onto the ground, while Pierre systematically emptied his own glass, and, with the bottle in her hand, Agla made sure he was kept refilled.
‘Such hospitality!’ he said contentedly.
‘I’m delighted that you’re satisfied,’ Agla said, filling his glass one more time. ‘Tomorrow you get a chance to bag a salmon. A gillie will collect you from the hotel and he’ll cook for you at the lodge and keep you company.’
‘And you? I don’t get the pleasure of your company while we fish for salmon?’
Agla had no inclination to expl
ain to the man what it meant to be out on probation. He could Google her and would find out that she had been in prison; but it seemed he hadn’t done that, so she would simply rearrange facts into a more palatable form.
‘I’m pretty tightly booked but I plan to drop by and cast a line with you during the day.’
That meant that she would leave at seven in the morning, the earliest she was allowed out of Vernd. She would walk the riverbanks above Borgarfjörður with him in rubber waders until the afternoon, and be back at Vernd before six for the evening meal. As with helicopter flights, she failed to see the fascination men had for fishing salmon. She enjoyed salmon for a meal, but preferred to buy it in a shop.
‘You mentioned Meteorite,’ Pierre said, turning to her with eyes that were remarkably clear considering how much champagne he had drunk. ‘What is it you want to discuss?’
Agla coughed. It was time to get serious. She raised her glass and clinked it against his.
‘I’m hoping that you’re open to a proposal; it’s a little business venture that could be good for both of us.’
78
Anton woke after a restless night with his determination renewed. He had passed through doubt, fear, hopelessness and then finally returned to optimism, coming to the conclusion that anything worthwhile in life involved taking a risk. That was how it had been with Júlía. He had taken a colossal risk by asking her to go out with him. She could have said no, which would have hurt; and she could also have said no, laughed and told everyone, which would have left him a social outcast. But she had said yes, and their time together had been completely worth the risk, although when he had stood in the school dining hall with his palms sweating, trying to summon the courage to approach her for the third day in a row, he couldn’t have known that. It would be the same with the bomb. He was frightened now, and the visit from the police had magnified the risks, but once the bomb had gone off, it would all be worthwhile and the world would never be the same again.
Cage Page 18
