Cage

by Lilja Sigurdardóttir

  ‘Is that Húni Thór?’ she asked as Anton’s father came into the living room, Tómas’s backpack in his hand.

  ‘I should say so!’ he said. ‘He’s my sister’s boy. You know him?’

  ‘Slightly,’ Sonja said. ‘That’s to say our paths crossed a long time ago. And I used to see him on TV sometimes when he was in parliament.’

  Anton’s father took the picture down from the mantelpiece.

  ‘That’s my sister,’ he said, pointing at the woman next to Húni Thór in the picture. ‘She was a single parent with the two girls and him, and the boy was out of control. So I more or less took him under my wing and made a man of him. Pushed him through navigation college and then helped him find his feet in business.’ There was a note of pride in his voice. ‘This is him with the first boat he skippered,’ he added, pointing at the picture Sonja had noticed first.

  ‘Was he at sea for long?’ Sonja asked, for want of anything better to say while she stared at the photograph.

  ‘No. That’s the thing with Húni Thór. He doesn’t stick with anything for long. He was a few years at sea, then two terms in parliament, but that didn’t suit him. He seems to have done well in business, though.’

  ‘What sort of business did he go into?’ Sonja asked. But when she saw the look on Anton’s father’s face she immediately regretted her question. It was clear Húni Thór’s uncle was aware that there was something shady about his nephew’s business activities, although Sonja doubted that he knew exactly what kind of business Húni Thór found most profitable; a business that she was also involved in.

  ‘I guess he’s much the same as me,’ he said, handing her the backpack. ‘Does what works out best, depending on the circumstances.’

  Sonja thanked him for fetching the bag, and Anton’s father showed her to the door.

  ‘I forgot to ask your name. I know we’ve met before, when the boys were playing football together, but it’s completely escaped my memory.’

  He extended a hand and she took it firmly.

  ‘Sonja,’ she said.

  ‘Ingimar,’ he said and smiled again. His discomfort following her awkward question about Húni Thór’s business was gone. ‘Tell you what,’ he added. ‘Maybe you and Tómas would like to come down to the dock to see my new boat being delivered? I’ll give you a guided tour.’

  Sonja smiled apologetically, unsure whether Ingimar was flirting with her; he had held on to her hand for longer than necessary and was now gazing straight into her eyes. She wondered how to decline courteously.

  ‘Anton will be going to sea for the first time this summer and he’d enjoy showing Tómas around the boat. And you’ll be able to say hello to Húni Thór as well, as you’re old friends.’

  ‘Say hello to Húni Thór?’ Sonja looked at him questioningly. ‘Will he be on board?’

  ‘Yes, he’s steaming it across from Fraserburgh for me.’

  Ingimar picked up a copy of that morning’s paper and showed it to Sonja. She stared at it transfixed. She had seen the front page in two or three places already that day but hadn’t taken a close look at it; pictures of ships weren’t something that sparked her interest.

  ‘We’ll be fishing for langoustine, and I’ll be taking every second trip this summer myself, with Anton as part of the crew. It’s a twenty-metre boat, steel hull…’

  Sonja no longer heard what Ingimar was saying, and his voice faded into the background as he rambled on about the boat, the trawl gear, langoustine fishing and the sea in general while she read the news article. A fishing company owned by Húni Thór, and presumably also by his uncle, Ingimar, had bought a trawler from Scotland, according to the article, and Húni Thór was the skipper who was bringing it over to Iceland following a refit. At the end was a quote from Húni Thór Gunnarsson, ‘former parliamentary star and entrepreneur’, who described the boat in glowing terms. He seemed to be displaying the flair that had served him so well through the years.

  Sonja put the newspaper down on the sideboard and told Ingimar that she and Tómas might well take up his offer to look over the boat if they had time, although during such a short visit to Iceland there was naturally a great deal to do, with plenty of people to visit and errands to run.

  She tripped quickly down the steps and sat in the car next to Alex. She took out her phone, punched in 800 5005 and as soon as the police confidential hotline responded she began to speak.

  ‘You need to take a good look at the boat that’s on the front cover of Fréttablaðið today: Anton RE. It’s due to arrive in Iceland the day after tomorrow and on board is the largest shipment you’ve ever seen. Coke, Es, speed, steroids.’

  She ended the call and took the battery out of her phone. Alex looked at her questioningly. He understood no more than a few words of Icelandic, but he could see that Sonja looked relieved.

  Messing up the occasional shipment was never appreciated, but Sebastian would never forgive Húni Thór for losing the whole of the store in one go. This would put Húni Thór out of the game and her back in a key position. The knot of tension that had been growing and hardening in her belly over the last few days had vanished, and now she gazed along Tjarnargata and admired how beautiful the dark-green shrubs on the bank of the lake looked even this early in the summer.

  102

  Agla had waited with her phone in her hand all evening, but when it finally rang she was so startled, she dropped it and it bounced onto the floor and under the sofa. On her knees, she groped for it, finally found it and answered.

  ‘What are you up to?’ Elísa asked. ‘Right now. What are you doing?’

  ‘I’m in my dressing gown, on my knees on the floor crawling around to find my phone under the sofa.’

  Elísa laughed.

  ‘I wish I was there with you,’ she said. ‘So I could laugh at you.’

  ‘I wish you were as well,’ Agla said. ‘But I have the feeling you’re best off at Hólmsheiði for the moment.’

  ‘Yeah, I know. I’m getting treatment for the withdrawal symptoms,’ Elísa said. ‘I have an AA meeting tomorrow and again the next day. I’m going to be at every one from now on.’

  ‘That’s good, sweetheart.’

  ‘Am I your sweetheart?’ Elísa giggled quietly and Agla imagined her standing hunched against the white-painted wall by the wing pay-phone, and immediately felt a strong wave of desire.

  ‘You’re my sweetheart,’ Agla whispered. ‘And now you’re mine. You’re free of the Boss and all of that crowd.’

  ‘I’m free of them at least for as long as I’m in here,’ Elísa said. ‘The problems start when you’re let out and old friends start to call, you know. Of course you’re fond of them and don’t want to lose them, and all that. But before you know it you’re back in the shit and doing all sorts of stupid stuff.’

  There was a desperation in Elísa’s voice, so Agla hushed her.

  ‘It won’t be like that next time,’ she said. ‘I’ve fixed things with Sonja. With the Boss. You’ll be left completely alone.’

  ‘How did you do that?’ Elísa suddenly sounded agitated. ‘I owe one of the guys who works for the Boss and promised to do something for him instead, and those debts don’t disappear, even after a couple of years. You don’t know how all this works, Agla.’

  ‘Don’t worry about all that. You’re safe. The Boss doesn’t own you any longer. You’re mine.’

  ‘That’s if you want me now,’ Elísa said and burst into sobs. ‘I’ve no idea how it happened, but I’ve just been told my blood test says I’m pregnant.’

  103

  His father was sitting in the living room, watching TV when Anton came home. He dropped onto the sofa next to him, kicked off his shoes and loosened his tie.

  ‘Well, then,’ his father said, with the habitual artificial cheerfulness Anton knew he switched on in order to appear buoyant when things had been difficult. More than likely his mother had been more than usually unpleasant to him this evening. ‘How’s things with the y
ounger generation? How was your evening? And the meal?’

  ‘The meal was fine,’ Anton muttered.

  ‘Good to hear,’ his father said. ‘I told them to look after you, and let them know that it’s Júlía’s birthday. Did they make something out of that?’

  His father switched channels, as the ten o’clock news bulletin was about to start.

  ‘They brought ice cream and sparklers and stuff, and the waiter sang for her,’ Anton said, and his heart ached. Two hours ago they had sat in the restaurant, happy and satisfied. Júlía had gazed at Anton as she did sometimes, with a tenderness in those brown eyes that made him feel there could be nobody happier than he was.

  ‘Hey, what’s the matter?’

  His father turned down the TV and turned to Anton.

  ‘Nothing,’ Anton said, yet wanted his father to keep asking, because there was so much that had gone wrong.

  ‘I can see something’s up,’ his father said. ‘Spill the beans, young man.’

  ‘Umm.’

  He didn’t know what he could tell his father without saying too much.

  ‘What happened, my boy?’

  Now his father had switched to the gentle voice, and Anton felt himself give way. The tears forced their way out and he buried his face in his hands.

  ‘We split up,’ he gasped.

  His father stared at him in amazement.

  ‘What? And tonight of all nights? My poor lad.’ His father shifted closer, put an arm around Anton’s shoulder and pulled him close. ‘There, there, my boy,’ he crooned, patting his back as if he were a small child who needed to be burped. ‘There, there.’

  Gradually his words and the patted rhythm on his back drew him in. It had been years since he had grown out of curling up in his father’s arms, but this time he let himself lie against his shoulder, in the security of his bulky body, while the ten o’clock news bulletin, devoted solely to the explosion, rolled across the screen.

  104

  ‘It’s all wrecked. All the information I had gathered, everything I had written, all the links and the screenshots and everything I had ready for you has been blown up. Not that any of it fucking matters.’

  María knew that she was still sedated because she felt like she was floating on a white cloud, although she could see clearly enough that it was a hospital bed she was lying in. But her feeling was correct: she didn’t care about all that stuff, all the missed opportunities and ideas of some kind of justice. She was just relieved to be alive – relieved that she was going to be fine.

  ‘We have the timeline of events that you let us have, and to be honest, the explosion doesn’t do the story any harm.’ The guy from the Spotlight team, whose name María couldn’t remember, seemed keener than ever. ‘Even though important documents have been lost, some of that can be retrieved and as this is linked to the explosion, we’d be guaranteed record viewing figures. Everyone wants to know about it.’

  ‘But it’s not connected to the explosion,’ María said, realising she was unable to speak clearly. ‘The police said Radio Edda was the target, and The Squirrel had been, you know, collateral damage.’

  ‘That’s not what my sources in the police are saying. They suspect that The Squirrel was what they wanted to blow up, precisely because of your coverage of this scandal. The same source said they’ve managed to trace the vehicle used to place the bomb, and it won’t be long before there’s news of an arrest that will take people very much by surprise. It seems it’s also linked to a massive drugs operation. That’s what I’ve been hearing.’

  María shrugged and closed her eyes for a moment. She was too tired to keep track of what the Spotlight guy was saying. He was mixing things up, just as Marteinn used to when he saw conspiracy everywhere. When she opened her eyes, he was still talking; now it was about how media across the Nordic countries wanted to buy her work, so she shut her eyes again. She just didn’t care. She heard him continue to murmur steadily, and then she heard the nurse come in and tell him that she was tired and needed to rest, and he ought to come tomorrow or the next day.

  ‘Bye, bye,’ she said, or at least that was what she thought she said. She was so desperately worn out, she couldn’t be bothered to open her eyes, let alone raise a hand to wave him goodbye. She allowed herself to sink back into the stupor she had been in, between spells of wakefulness, ever since she had walked along the corridor, past the sack truck with the box on it, and had been about to open The Squirrel’s door. She’d realised then that she needed the toilet, so she turned and went back along the corridor to the horrible, stiff iron door that turned out to have been an ancient fire door that Radio Edda’s manager had at some point decided to have fitted there as a cost-saving exercise. Never again would she complain that she had such a small bladder. Her modest bladder had quite literally saved her life.

  105

  Ingimar coughed and blinked hard, but could see nothing through the smoke except the pattern on the Spanish rug right in front of his eyes. He could feel the handcuffs behind his back, then one of the police officers crouched behind him, hauling his hands high so that he was completely helpless and pain shot through his shoulders.

  He had no notion of how all this had happened. He had dozed off on the sofa with Anton, and a moment later he found himself here on the floor in handcuffs. He had the impression that all of the police officers were in black, wore helmets and were armed; this had to be the Special Unit.

  ‘Anton,’ he tried to call, but his voice was drowned out by the shouts and noise of the police team. Somewhere in the din and the smoke he was sure he could hear Anton’s voice calling, ‘Dad!’

  ‘Anton! Anton!’ he shouted, before it dawned on him that he might have more success calling to the policemen so that they might treat the boy more gently than they had him. ‘The boy’s only fifteen,’ he yelled. ‘He’s fifteen!’

  The police officer behind him shoved his knee harder into his lower back until his vision began to darken. When he was again able to concentrate, the smoke had mostly dissipated from the living room and the noise level had dropped enough for him to make out words.

  ‘Ingimar Magnússon you are hereby under arrest for terrorism. You are not obliged to answer questions about the matter on which you are charged. You have the right to a lawyer, and the police are obliged to respect your wishes in appointing legal representation. On arrival at a police station you will be given a sheet of information establishing these points, which you are obliged to sign.’

  Ingimar stared at the feet of the police officer giving this speech, and then craned his neck to see Anton. As soon as he saw him, he felt the fear overwhelm him. Anton sat in a chair in front of him, a burly police officer training a weapon on him. Anton stared back at his father and as their eyes met, the tears began to roll down the boy’s cheeks. The look on his face was the one he’d had as a little boy when he had done something seriously naughty.

  Terrorism meant the explosion yesterday. There was no other explanation. Anton nodded, as if he was reading his father’s thoughts.

  ‘Dad…’ he gasped as two police officers hauled Ingimar to his feet. But Ingimar managed to hush the boy, frowning so that Anton understood that he was telling him to keep quiet. He was silent.

  If anyone had asked him how he would have reacted if his son had caused a huge amount of damage by setting off a bomb, almost killing someone in the process, he would have said that there would be no end to his fury. But now, standing in the living room in handcuffs and watching Anton in tears, he felt himself overwhelmed by a need to protect him. There wasn’t anything he wouldn’t do for the boy, not a thing. He would accept any kind of endless punishment if it would spare Anton.

  ‘I’ll sort this out,’ he whispered to Anton as he was led out. ‘I’ll sort it all out.’

  He was swept down the steps between two police officers, who held his upper arms so tightly that his feet barely touched the ground.

  ‘This is all some misunderstanding,’ he said t
o the young officer who placed a hand on his head and folded him into a seat in the patrol car.

  ‘People like you,’ the young man snarled. ‘You think you can get away with anything. But now we’ve nailed you.’

  He shut the door behind Ingimar and sat in the front seat as the bald policeman in the driver’s seat started the engine. He twisted around to reverse, and looked into Ingimar’s eyes.

  ‘“Soon they’ll come; soon my ships will come to harbour”, eh?’

  It was clear from the police officer’s grin that he thought he was being clever, quoting poetry, but Ingimar failed to understand the connection. More than likely it was the usual Icelandic spite aimed at anyone who did well for himself; and of course his new boat had been in the news recently.

  August 2017

  106

  According to the radio, it was the warmest day of the summer, and Agla could feel it, standing in the shade of the church wall. She took off her jacket so she wouldn’t sweat.

  William laughed.