Cage

by Lilja Sigurdardóttir

  ‘I’m not here to talk about us,’ Agla said firmly, cutting her off midsentence. Instead of being soft, as she had expected to be, she found that inside she was as hard as stone. She was here for one reason and in truth there was nothing else she wanted from Sonja. ‘I want to buy Elísa’s freedom from you and your people.’

  Sonja stared thoughtfully at her for a while.

  ‘I understand,’ she said. ‘That’s who you went to visit in prison yesterday?’

  Agla nodded.

  ‘Tell me how much you want for her,’ she said.

  Sonja sat up sharply, and as she did so, the hardness returned to her eyes.

  ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard from Elísa, but the truth is that her situation is mainly of her own making,’ she said. ‘And I doubt that you can save her from it.’

  ‘I doubt it as well,’ Agla said. ‘But I intend to try. I want you to let her go, and for all the people under your control – which I understand is practically the whole of Reykjavík’s drug trade – to put her off limits, so that she can’t buy dope anywhere.’

  ‘You’re massively overestimating my influence,’ Sonja said, and looked searchingly at Agla for a moment. ‘Are you in love with her?’

  Agla swallowed and shrugged. The last thing she wanted was to share confidences with Sonja.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said.

  ‘I see.’ Sonja’s eyes were still fixed on her, but her expression had become gentler. ‘It’s the least I can do for you,’ she said. ‘I’ll pass the word around that Elísa is a grass. That’s the best way to make sure nobody will have anything to do with her.’ Sonja stood up and slipped into her coat. ‘I’m relieved that you’ve found someone to love. I was hoping that you weren’t still alone.’

  97

  The squawks of the seagulls drowned out her scream. As she had left the coffee house she’d signalled to Alex to keep his distance, and had then marched down to the quayside, where she stood and yelled with all her breath into the harbour. The tension that had been brewing inside her since Húni Thór had arrived, saying that he was taking the store, seemed to have boiled over as she sat opposite Agla in the coffee shop.

  To begin with she had been relaxed and at ease, but there was something about Agla’s movements that put her on edge, the way she laid a hand on her knee; without wanting to, Sonja recalled those fingers inside her, and her body responded with a racing heartbeat and a flush of heat.

  Agla had changed. She came across as uncannily cold, which was a surprise as while she had always been stiff, she’d never been icy. Sonja had always sensed that there was some kind of inner turmoil Agla was constantly fighting to conquer. But now that was gone. There was no longer any tension between them. Maybe that was no surprise, now that Agla knew all about her. Anyone who knew who she was, who genuinely knew what she did, could only have one feeling towards her: fear.

  Now, standing on the quayside and yelling, she was swamped by a wave of regret, but she didn’t know if it was the pain of lost love that she should have experienced all those years ago when she left Agla and which had now returned with a vengeance, or if she was standing on the quayside mourning for herself, for the Sonja she had once been; the person she could have been.

  ‘Now then, that’s enough,’ Alex said, taking hold of her shoulders, turning her around and leading her back up the dock and towards the town. Sonja dried her face with her sleeve and sniffed. Screaming had left her half choked with sobs.

  ‘We might need to organise an escape route,’ she said. ‘If I don’t find out how Húni Thór is going to bring the goods in, then I can’t stop him, and once he has a large-scale transport route, then I’m no longer needed. And you know what Sebastian does with people who are surplus to requirements.’

  ‘We’ll draw up an escape plan,’ he said. ‘The question is, does Tómas come with us or not?’

  Sonja gasped. She would either have to leave Tómas with his father, which was a risk, or take him with her on the run, which itself was extremely high risk. It was a position she had not expected to be in, at least not with this suddenness.

  ‘Shh,’ Alex said, opening the car door and guiding her to a seat. ‘You’ll find someone who knows something. And Sponge is running around asking questions. He has a way of persuading people to tell him what they know.’

  His tone was soothing and relaxing, as it always was when she lost her temper. It didn’t happen often, but when it did, she could trust Alex to remain calm.

  ‘And if I don’t find anyone who knows anything, and Húni Thór manages to ship in one go as much as it takes me months to send using mules? That means he has the whole thing in his hands. Fucking, fucking, fuck.’

  ‘Take one hour at a time,’ Alex said. ‘One at a time.’ He started the car and pulled away. ‘Now we need to go to Tómas’s friend’s place and pick up the backpack he forgot there. He called me and asked me to collect it; but I reckon there’ll be fewer questions if his mother knocks and asks for it, rather than a foreign bodyguard.’

  Sonja knew that Alex had been relieved to be asked to run this errand, and that he was aware that having something other than her own problems to think about would calm her down.

  ‘Which friend?’

  ‘The one who was on the football course with him last summer. The one who lives by the lake on Tjarnargata.’

  ‘Anton.’

  ‘That’s him. Anton.’

  98

  ‘Let’s order the five-course menu,’ Anton said, smiling as Júlía’s eyes opened wide at the sight of the prices. She frowned as if to indicate that it was far too expensive. ‘Anything you want,’ he added. ‘Money’s no object.’

  They had ordered Coke, and the waiter had brought fresh-baked bread and some green-brown paste made from olives that Júlía eagerly spread on her slice. This had to be the kind of thing she was used to at home. He had often been offered some strange spicy jams and chutneys in her house.

  ‘You’re sure?’ she whispered. ‘All this is three or four trips to the movies for us.’

  Anton laughed. The evening had begun just as he had wanted it to. Júlía was almost shy of the smart, formal atmosphere and had undoubtedly never seen such expensive food before in her life. She wore a dress Anton hadn’t seen before, which shimmered blue-green. He wore a shirt, with a tie that his father had knotted for him and a jacket that he had taken off and hung on the back of his chair, because he was hot and didn’t want to be embarrassingly red in the face. The low-key sound of a piano tinkled in the background, there were real flowers on the table and candles flickering inside little lanterns. His father had chosen the perfect place for them.

  The waiter returned and asked if they were ready to order. He was young, which Anton found a little disconcerting as it was obvious that he saw them as a pair of kids; Anton was concerned they wouldn’t get the same level of service as the other guests. He would have preferred an older man or woman with a less casual manner; someone who showed more respect.

  ‘Is there any pork in the paté?’ Júlía asked, pointing to an item on the five-course menu, the reindeer paté.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ the waiter said. ‘I’ll check with the chef. Do you have an allergy?’

  ‘No,’ Júlía said apologetically. ‘I just don’t want to eat pork.’

  The waiter left and was soon back at their table.

  ‘There’s no pork in the paté, just a little lard.’

  Júlía looked at Anton questioningly.

  ‘Lard is pork fat,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no taste to it,’ the waiter explained. ‘There’s just the taste of reindeer, and the lard is used because reindeer meat is so lean…’ he continued, apparently ready with a lecture on making paté, but Anton felt a surge of irritation and lifted a finger to stop him.

  ‘She’s a Muslim and doesn’t eat anything containing pork,’ he said. Then realised that he had maybe said that a little too bluntly, as Júlía sank down in her chair. She always felt unc
omfortable under such circumstances, and of all nights, this was not the one for her to have to listen to any kind of crap.

  ‘We’d like to order from the five-course menu, and would appreciate it if the chef can provide something to replace the paté,’ he said. ‘Something that doesn’t contain pork.’

  99

  Ingimar spent a long time under the shower, the hot water softening his skin before he shaved. His bristles were so tough that it made a difference if he allowed himself the time to have a good soak first. Normally, if he was at home in the evening, he would put on comfortable trousers and a T-shirt, but today he took his best suit from the wardrobe and selected a good shirt to go with it. He decided against a tie, leaving the shirt open at the neck, and then splashed himself liberally with aftershave. It stung, but the sting was refreshing. He brushed his teeth and patted down his hair as he inspected himself in the mirror.

  Helping Anton prepare for the birthday meal with Júlía had put him in the mood. Everything he had explained to him about how he should groom himself and treat the lady had triggered his own desire to be somewhere with a drink in one hand and a beautiful woman on his arm. There was no point letting Agla destroy his zest for life.

  His phone pinged and he swore as he read the message. His date had pulled out; something unexpected had come up at the last moment. The truth of it probably was that she had looked him up in the National Registry or somewhere to check on his age. That was one of the problems with Tinder, his usual charm didn’t come across. He suddenly recalled another girl. He scrolled though his contacts, looking for her number. He had hung on to it even though he rarely liked to sleep with the same woman twice. This one was rather special though. She was young, gorgeous and had a daddy complex that left her with a weakness for older men. He punched in a message and had a reply within seconds: Go fuck yourself Ingimar.

  ‘You look smart,’ Rebekka said as he came down the stairs. ‘Where are you off to?’

  Ingimar went over to her and kissed her forehead. The wind had been taken out of his sails, and the moment he saw Rebekka all the energy drained from him, and he realised that he couldn’t be bothered to go to some bar to pick up a woman.

  ‘Nowhere. I’m staying here with you.’

  Rebekka seemed to be taken by surprise. They had not touched for a long time and any kind of tenderness between them was a rarity. But she was quick to sidestep it.

  ‘Isn’t that jacket getting too small for you?’ she said, and he waited for the expected insult. ‘You great lummock.’

  He tried to pull the jacket closed over his midriff, but couldn’t. In any case, he always left the jacket open, so nobody would see that it didn’t make any difference that it couldn’t be buttoned up.

  ‘We’re neither of us at our best,’ he said, and Rebekka looked nonplussed, before turning away, topping up her glass and taking another mouthful.

  ‘Not me, at any rate,’ she said, stretching with theatrical exaggeration. She wore creased pyjamas, no make-up and her hair was in disarray. ‘It’s a while since I was at my best,’ she said and sat on a chair at the kitchen table.

  ‘Would you like something to eat?’ Ingimar asked. ‘A couple of fried eggs or some toast?’

  ‘Don’t act as if you give a shit whether I eat anything or not. That kind of pretend concern gets on my tits.’

  Ingimar sat opposite her at the table. He knew he could break down her defences by coming closer, by massaging her shoulders, whispering something to her to tell her that he still loved her, holding her close and stroking her hair. Then she would become docile; she’d spread her legs and would cry as she came, but in the morning she would start looking through his phone, asking what the hell he was doing on Tinder, scream and argue, swallow more pills and then settle back into a daze; and he couldn’t be bothered with that either. He was worn out, tired of everything.

  ‘It’s not a pretence,’ he said. ‘I’m thinking of Anton. I’d prefer it if he doesn’t have to bury his mother before he’s out of his teens.’

  ‘Oh, shut your face,’ Rebekka retorted, then stood up and stormed out of the kitchen.

  He was about to follow and shout something up the stairs at her, when a ring at the doorbell stopped him in his tracks.

  100

  Anton’s arm rested around Júlía’s shoulders as they strolled away from the restaurant. The air was cool, but without a breath of wind, and the slopes of Mount Esja across the bay glowed pink in the bright evening light.

  ‘Where are we going?’ she asked, and Anton smiled.

  ‘We’ll walk a little way further, then uphill and then I have something to show you. Are you cold?’ he asked and he straightened her scarf, taking care not to pull her shining black hair. The meal at the restaurant had been a success in spite of their initial awkwardness, and the waiter had done everything he could for them. Although he had been a little too cheerful for Anton’s liking, it was obvious that Júlía had enjoyed his funny asides, and the icing on the cake had been when he brought their dessert with sparkling candles, and sang ‘Happy Birthday’ for her, solo and slightly off-key. This was turning into what it was supposed be: the best evening of their lives.

  They just needed to turn the next corner and the explosion site would be in front of them. Anton had to stop himself hurrying ahead and pulling her along with him. He had waited so long for this.

  ‘Look at all the police cars down there,’ he said when they turned the corner. ‘They’ve been there since this morning.’

  ‘I know,’ Júlía said. ‘Radio Edda was blown up.’

  ‘Now they won’t be able to keep on damaging the community by preaching hate against immigrants,’ Anton said, reaching into his pocket and handing Júlía the envelope. He could see that she wasn’t joining the dots, and her expression was even more perplexed as she tore it open. He had printed the day’s best news image from the internet on the front of the card. It showed the scorched building and the Radio Edda sign, with its Iceland for Icelanders slogan, broken on the pavement.

  ‘There you are,’ he said. ‘That’s your birthday present.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Júlía still didn’t seem to be making the connection, so he smiled and explained it for her.

  ‘I blew up Radio Edda. For you.’

  To begin with Júlía laughed, and then shook her head.

  ‘Tell me you’re joking,’ she said. ‘This is a joke, isn’t it? You’d never do anything like this?’

  ‘Now they’ve learned their lesson,’ Anton said. ‘The rest of the media will think twice before they start spouting hatred against Muslims and all that prejudice.’

  Júlía took a couple of steps back, collided with a lamp post, stumbled and then sat down on the stone kerb that separated the car park from the pavement. He was about to sit down next to her when she put out a hand to stop him.

  ‘Now you’re going to have to tell me that this is some disgustingly unfunny joke,’ she said. ‘Before I start to cry, Anton.’

  She stared down at the shattered and scorched building, her face expressionless, as if carved in stone. This wasn’t the reaction that Anton had expected. He had expected disbelief, but not on this scale.

  ‘We’ve talked about this so many times,’ he said. ‘That crowd from Radio Edda are the ones who make it so difficult for people like you and your family to live here. We’ve been through this so often, Júlía. The situation gets worse all the time – they even haul out lawyers and university professors to say that Muslims are dangerous. They’re trying to brainwash people into hating you.’

  ‘Was it really you who planted the bomb in the radio station?’

  Now the tears were flowing down Júlía’s cheeks.

  Anton melted inside, stepped towards her, spreading his arms wide, ready to wrap them around her. But Júlía swatted away his outstretched hands and quickly scrambled to her feet.

  ‘I thought you were the best boy in the world, and my parents are always saying how lucky I am to ha
ve met such a good boy, who’s so different to all the other Icelandic guys. But there’s a murderer inside you!’

  Anton went towards her, his thoughts in turmoil. This wasn’t the way it had been supposed to be.

  ‘I’m no murderer, Júlía. I would never kill anyone. I made sure to set it off when there was nobody there.’

  ‘There was someone there,’ Júlía snapped back. ‘Someone was injured. They said on the news that someone’s in hospital! You’re an idiot, Anton! You’re the biggest idiot I’ve ever met!’

  ‘But you told me yourself that something needed to be done about all this,’ he said, conscious that all the sincerity had gone from his voice. He was shocked at the news that there had been someone in the building. Now he was confused, and all his convictions, which had sounded so logical and reasonable, had been dashed. ‘I told your father that I would look after you,’ he said. ‘And this will change society and make it better. For you.’

  ‘Don’t you dare say that you did this for me or my dad. When Dad says you should look after me, he means keeping other boys away!’ Now Júlía’s voice had risen to a yell, with all the power her lungs could put into it. ‘Why do you think we came here from Syria? To be somewhere people argue normally or go downtown with a placard if they’re pissed off about something. We fled Syria to escape from people like you. To get away from bombs.’

  101

  ‘Come in,’ Anton’s father said. ‘Anton’s out so I’ll have a look in his room. Do you remember what the backpack looks like?’ he asked, his foot on the first step of the stairs.

  ‘It’s black, with a Puma logo, as far as I remember,’ Sonja said, looking around.

  It was a beautiful house, with an old-fashioned interior, panelling halfway up each wall and white window frames. She heard Anton’s father upstairs in the bedroom and took a couple of steps into the living room, looking around her. The furniture was all antique, beautifully made and polished, and family photographs stood on the mantelpiece. She moved closer to the row of pictures and peered at one of them. In it a young man in a traditional woollen sweater stood on a quay, a big ship behind him. She recognised the look of the man, but decided she had to be wrong. Glancing over the other pictures, she noticed another that attracted her attention: a family sitting on a sofa. It had to have been taken at Christmas, as on the table in front of them was an Advent wreath with four flickering candles. Anton’s father sat on the sofa and next to him was a woman who had to be his wife, as between them sat a little boy, presumably Anton, of around two years old. Next to the couple were two girls in their teens, an adult woman, and then him. Sonja leaned closer and squinted at the picture, hoping to see him more clearly. It was quite an old picture and he had changed, but there was no doubt who it was.