Betrayal

by Lilja Sigurdardóttir

  ‘Can I offer you more coffee?’ the prime minister asked when the meeting was over and they were the only two left.

  Úrsúla shook her head. She had moved to a seat next to him at a corner of the table. Through the window she could see the buildings at Lækjartorg, and if she were to crane her neck, she could see the square itself, where a small snowplough was scraping the ground and salting it for the benefit of pedestrians.

  ‘The more I think about it,’ he said, stretching to take one more of the twisted doughnuts and dipping it carefully into his coffee, ‘the more I’m convinced we absolutely did the right thing by bringing transport, local government and justice under one roof in a single interior ministry.’ Chewing the doughnut, he continued to speak from the corner of his mouth. ‘Rúnar probably wasn’t the right man for the job. But I have a strong suspicion that you’re the person who can take this on.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Úrsúla said. ‘I hope I can meet your expectations, and those of both parties.’

  ‘No question,’ the prime minister said, his mouth full of doughnut.

  Úrsúla cleared her throat and drew a deep breath.

  ‘Let’s get down to business,’ she said and the PM nodded.

  ‘Although the South Coast Highway was one of our main election pledges, we need to find a good reason to dump it,’ he said. ‘We have to come up with something along the lines of the financing having fallen through, or that the whole matter has been put on hold until after the next election, or whatever, so that we can quietly put the whole thing to bed. You can rely on Óðinn to come up with some bullshit that sounds convincing but which can’t be looked into too closely.’ Úrsúla opened her mouth to speak, but the prime minister continued. ‘Or, if you dare, you can take this decision on your own initiative, but you’ll be in the firing line from every direction.’

  ‘That’s exactly the problem. There’s cross-party agreement on this, all the polls show that the public is in favour, the environmental assessment has been done and the finance is there. So why pull out?’

  ‘Do you think it’s acceptable that a social-democratic party should be behind an initiative that means people have to pay a road toll for travelling around the country?’ he asked and reached for another of the doughnuts. Úrsúla wondered if he had had any breakfast that morning.

  ‘Of course private enterprise isn’t the ideal option,’ she said. ‘But can you see this being done any other way in the foreseeable future?’

  The PM put his half-eaten doughnut aside, sighed and stared into his coffee cup as if he was looking for fragments.

  ‘I watched you on the TV when you presented this initiative,’ Úrsúla added. ‘You sold it to me, just like you sold it to everyone else. So why has your position changed now?’

  The prime minister turned the cup around in his hands a few times then slurped down the remaining coffee. He put the cup down in its saucer, cleared his throat and looked at Úrsúla, who was taken aback by the intense blue of his eyes. She had often noticed them in pictures, but never face to face. There had to be something in the cold winter light coming through the window that intensified their striking sky-blue colour.

  ‘There’s a problem,’ he said in a low voice. ‘We have to get out of this, and the sooner the better.’ He shifted in his seat, placed his elbows on the table and leaned closer to Úrsúla. ‘There’s a hitch in the financing,’ he said. ‘The bulk of it comes from pension funds and the state makes a small contribution, but there’s a substantial chunk that comes from overseas investment funds.’

  ‘I’ve looked through it,’ Úrsúla said. ‘As far as I could see, it all looks fine.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ the PM said. ‘It’s extremely problematic; it’s come to light that one of these funds – the largest one, in fact – is an overseas investor in name only. In reality, it’s held by an Icelandic individual.’ The prime minister coughed again. ‘Ingimar Magnússon.’

  Úrsúla stared at him and felt her jaw drop in astonishment.

  ‘The one and only Ingimar Magnússon?’ she asked.

  ‘Hmm. Yep.’

  ‘Shit.’

  It was the only comment Úrsúla could think of.

  ‘Yes.’ The prime minister leaned back in his chair and looked down at the table like a small child with a guilty conscience. ‘That pretty much sums it up.’

  24

  Úrsúla’s frame of mind was grim as she stepped out of the portico of the prime minister’s offices, but she had to stop herself laughing when the driver jumped out of the car and hurried around it to open the door for her. He didn’t seem to be in a humorous mood though. He was dressed like a bodyguard in some foreign country, in a dark suit, white shirt with a black tie, and a white wire that snaked from his collar up to one ear.

  ‘It’s a bit silly not to walk the few metres from one building to the next,’ she said, as if she felt a need to excuse herself, although this was his job and he was the last person she needed to apologise to.

  ‘Pretty much everyone who has had a driver misses it afterwards,’ he said.

  Óðinn had said the same thing. Maybe this was a standard civil-service answer: a way to persuade ministers to have a driver at their disposal, with the same mixture of bossiness and concern that she had encountered more than a few times over the last few days.

  ‘I imagine I’ll get used to it,’ she said, and realised as soon as she had said them that the words sounded odd. ‘That doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate your work,’ she added quickly. ‘It’s just a very strange feeling – I seem to have become the kind of figure everyone buzzes around.’

  The driver nodded. ‘I understand,’ he said. ‘But it’ll become part of the routine.’

  They were outside the ministry, and as he had instructed, she waited while he got out of the car, went around it and opened the door for her. Then he accompanied her to the door, not turning away until Eva came to meet them, a phone in her hand, which she handed to Úrsúla.

  ‘I feel like a child being babysat,’ she whispered to Eva as she took the phone.

  ‘It’s Rósa,’ Eva whispered. ‘The woman who came to see you that first morning. The one whose daughter…’

  Úrsúla needed no further information and sighed as she took the phone.

  ‘I’m so relieved to hear from you,’ she said, as the woman began to apologise down the line.

  ‘I hope I’m not being too pushy by going through your assistant. Your own number goes straight to the government offices and I didn’t want to call your home number…’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Úrsúla assured her. ‘I wanted to get in touch with you. I didn’t take your number the other day and it seems the assistant got things wrong. I’m sorry about that.’

  ‘Please don’t apologise,’ the woman said. ‘I’m so grateful that someone’s prepared to help us. Everyone seems to have lined themselves up against us. There are kids online who have been calling my daughter a whore. And she’s never even done it … apart from … except when…’

  The woman’s voice cracked and for a moment Úrsúla had no idea what to say. There were no words of comfort that would suffice.

  ‘I’m deeply sorry to hear it,’ she said in a low voice. ‘It’s a hard world, and it’s painful to see our children experiencing the bad side of it.’ She heard the woman sigh and sniff. ‘Give me your full name and ID number, and your daughter’s as well,’ she said, trying to sound cheerful. ‘This isn’t going through an assistant. I put everything in the hands of the permanent secretary this morning, so it should go through the system quickly.’

  Úrsúla started at the woman’s snort of derision.

  ‘If it’s still the same permanent secretary, then not much will happen,’ the woman said. ‘I’ve spoken to him time and again, and every time he’s just about to put things in motion, and nothing ever happens.’

  25

  ‘Why don’t you make something of this fascination with ancient Icelandic stuff and study it pr
operly?’ Stefán asked with the questioning look in his eyes that always made Stella take what he said seriously. She always took careful notice of his advice and had done so ever since he had become her social worker when she was ten years old. This was why she continued to meet him at a coffee house once a month, even though he was long retired. The mystery was, why on earth he was still happy to give her his time. He was so generous with it, there had to be real concern there.

  ‘I thought studying it would kill the enjoyment,’ Stella said, and looked out of the coffee house’s window. The driven snow seemed to be piling up against the pane so that soon there would be no way to see outside. ‘School makes everything such a drag.’

  He smiled through his grey beard, and Stella smiled back.

  He still seemed to enjoy her company. She was grateful for that, even though his unasked-for advice and interference could irritate her.

  ‘Academics don’t even believe in magic. They just want to find out where it came from and how it was used,’ she said. ‘I’ve read loads of articles; there’s nobody left who uses magic.’

  ‘Why do you think that is?’ he asked, a hint of a smile reaching those questioning eyes of his.

  ‘Because people don’t believe it works, that it’s just some old junk.’

  ‘Old wives’ tales.’

  ‘Yes. I understand why people think that, but what if this is an unexploited resource? What if the magic does work and can be used?’

  Stefán sighed and grinned, but his smile vanished when the waitress appeared and asked Stella in English if there was anything more they wanted.

  ‘She may be brown, but she’s Icelandic,’ Stefán snapped in irritation.

  Stella gave the girl a smile and shook her head.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ the girl apologised. ‘I didn’t know you spoke Icelandic.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Stella said. She was used to this and was no longer surprised when someone addressed her in English. This had become more frequent after all the tourists had begun to arrive and there were more foreigners than locals around the town. ‘Were you about to say something?’ she asked Stefán, who had a sour look on his face.

  ‘When people were cold and hungry – and beset by sickness, superstition and the fear of trolls and ghosts – they needed something they could believe in that would give them a little control over their lives,’ Stefán said. ‘I have to say I don’t quite see how trousers made of a dead man’s skin or farting runes have any relevance to people today.’

  Stella laughed. It was just like him to come up with the farting runes. She had to admit some of the ancient Icelandic spells were hilariously funny, in their own sick way. But others were useful, no less so today.

  ‘All right,’ she said. ‘But just imagine how useful it would be to be invisible. Or if you needed to find a girlfriend,’ she added. ‘I could help you out there.’

  ‘I’m happy as it is with my Ása,’ Stefán smiled, but reached forward and placed a hand on Stella’s arm. ‘But I can well imagine how you would have wanted to be invisible when you were a little girl.’

  The questioning look was back, as was the concern in his voice.

  ‘Could it be that, just like those people in the seventeenth century, this fascination with magic is just you trying to make sense of your life?’

  26

  As Úrsúla cleared her desk at the end of the day, she thought over a few other strategies she could have used to ensure the rape accusation received proper treatment. But it was too late now. What was done was done, and she had to admit that she felt her blood pumping faster through her veins. She needed to direct her thoughts elsewhere; after the meeting with the prime minister, the whole South Coast Highway headache had created a knot of tension inside her. Or maybe the tension was because she simply wanted to see Thorbjörn again; apart from the dog, he was the only one who had moved her on any emotional level since she’d been home. It was as if his proximity set off a turmoil within her that she hadn’t felt for far too long, and she was unable to explain to herself why he had this effect on her. He’d been in her office less than a quarter of an hour before he’d pulled her close and kissed her.

  As soon as he had come in she had begun to explain the complexities of the rape case. He had replied that it wasn’t a problem, was easy to deal with. Then he’d taken the newspaper articles and the online coverage that Eva had printed out, along with the mother’s phone number, folded it all together and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. His careless demeanour both fascinated and irritated Úrsúla.

  ‘I can do an interview with the mother,’ he said. ‘That would attract attention.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Úrsúla said. ‘And you can send a request to the ministry to ask what progress has been made on the case, and then I’ll have no choice but to make my own formal request, and push it hard. That way it can’t keep getting pushed to the back of the queue.’

  When she had spoken to the mother on the phone, she had come to the conclusion the usual methods weren’t going to work. She would have to do something to crack the ministry’s deep inertia when it came to uncomfortable cases. She would make it plain that she had no intention of tolerating such working practices. If her year in the job resulted in people who brought accusations to the ministry getting better treatment, her time would have been well spent. Some cleaning up was needed, and she wasn’t going to shy away from it. But it was questionable whether Thorbjörn was the best tool for the job.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ he had asked. His voice was warm, and she had to swallow the lump in her throat as she recalled how understanding he had been when she had frozen, shrivelling up inside herself, in the middle of an interview about Liberia. That had been just after her return, after her time in the refugee camps in Syria, which would be any normal person’s vision of hell. It was supposed to have been a prominent interview, but she had put a stop to it, feeling that it was the wrong approach, in view of all the suffering she had witnessed. She was also sure she could not describe in words what her work was all about, and wasn’t convinced that anyone would be better off for reading about it. Some things were simply so terrible that it was better for people not to know about them; the results of an Ebola infection were exactly those things. Thorbjörn had said he understood her position and hadn’t applied any pressure, despite having spent two days gathering material and preparing himself, and even though Vefpressan had already flagged up the interview.

  Ever since then, thinking of Thorbjörn had given her a warm feeling inside, and as he stood in her office, looked at her with concern in his eyes and asked how she was feeling, she felt the turmoil inside and her feelings coming alive.

  ‘I’m just fine,’ she had said, coughing awkwardly; but he shook his head, took her hand and pulled her to him, and for a moment Úrsúla let his lips rest on hers, until she pushed him away. She longed to rest her head on his chest, nestle in his strong embrace, mould herself to him and forget.

  She finished sorting the stuff on her desk, and sat down again, shaking the mouse to wake her computer from sleep. She would have to recover her equilibrium before going home. The guilt that had been a sharp pain in her belly for more than a year had built up. It was no surprise: not only had she become bereft of feelings for her own family, she had allowed Thorbjörn to kiss her, and in all truthfulness, she had returned his kiss. That was completely wrong, whichever way you looked at it. But at the same time, her heart pumped faster than it had for a long time. Alongside her regular heartbeat was another beat, with a rhythm that sent waves of delight through her. She closed her eyes and relived the moment.

  Thorbjörn was just as he had been the last time they had met: stocky, hair cropped close to his skull and two days’ worth of stubble on his face. He might well have been in the same checked shirt as when he was supposed to interview her.

  ‘You’re not all right,’ he had whispered, pulling her into his arms, and her heart filled with gratitude. It was so good to feel the
understanding, to feel the sympathy. ‘You’re not all right,’ he whispered. ‘But I can heal you.’

  27

  The drill’s battery was flat, so Gunnar finished the job with a manual screwdriver borrowed from Jón, or Nonni, as the minister referred to her husband. That closed up their letterbox, so the minister’s husband would have to do without the morning free-sheets. The note that had waited on the mat for the minister when she arrived home had clearly been written by some oddball; it was in an angular script with ugly letters in all different sizes, surrounded by marks and blotches. Gunnar could understand why she had been shaken by the message:

  Remember, Death is the Devil’s Handmaiden.

  Gunnar had taken the note from Úrsúla’s hand and put it in an envelope. It would be passed to the commissioner’s department, as they collected all the threats received by ministers for analysis, to decide how each minister’s security should be managed. Sometimes it was the same idiots who made a habit of pestering government figures, while there were others who had a particular axe to grind and were relentless in their efforts.

  ‘I’ll go to the post office tomorrow and arrange for your mail to be kept there. I’ll collect it two or three times a week and bring it to you,’ Gunnar said.

  The minister’s husband stared at him in astonishment.

  ‘Can you do the grocery shopping for us as well?’ he asked, and Gunnar laughed.

  ‘No problem,’ he replied, and shook his head at the open beer bottle the minister’s husband made to hand him. ‘I don’t drink.’

  It was one of the things he had weaned himself off. He didn’t like to be a prisoner to desire, even if it was just the innocent fancy for a cold one at the end of the working day. His personal development aim was to be rid of all worldly ties; to be a slave to nothing, neither the buzz of a drug nor his own pride. The phone ringing excused him from explaining all this to the minister’s husband. Normally a questioning look appeared on people’s faces if you turned down a drink, almost as if it was admission that there was something wrong with you. Most people asked if he had dried out in rehab, and shook their heads, unable to grasp that he had given up alcohol without having to.