85
Úrsúla had decided to go home after her appointment with the psychologist, telling Freyja that she would call her to pick up any messages. Now she stood on a chair in the kitchen so she could peer deep into the spice cupboard, and spied a glass jar they always used to mix the cinnamon and sugar the children liked to have on rice pudding. Kátur watched her with vigilant eyes, always hoping that something edible might come his way.
She stepped down from the chair, put two slices of bread in the toaster and turned up the setting so they would be properly dark. The bread had to be fully toasted, otherwise it wouldn’t be right. This was one of the things that people who hadn’t been brought up poor couldn’t understand. There was a kind of victory to be had in toast with cinnamon sugar, and in enjoying it, even now when the fridge was full of the selection of brie, marmalade and other delicacies that Nonni made sure they had. There was a comfort in knowing, as a pampered westerner, that the secret of life simply came down to making sure your belly was full. There was a certain security that came with this knowledge.
As she scattered sugar onto the hot bread, it melted into it, releasing the cinnamon aroma. Úrsúla chewed the toast and wondered whether to make herself coffee – or even tea, as she had done as a child – but she didn’t want to ruin the flavour of the cinnamon bread right away. This was the taste of the woollen sweaters that her mother knitted after work, the taste of the two of them delivering newspapers before school, the taste of the lies she had to invent to keep the school from knowing about the situation at home.
This background had made it easier for her to work in challenging conditions – where there were few comforts, where the food was bland and the demands were high. She had no problem with sacrificing sleep if there was work to be done, and didn’t care if she had to live on rice alone for weeks at a time. Many of her colleagues in the aid sector had struggled with this, but for her it was straightforward not to think about what wasn’t available.
The doorbell rang, and Kátur responded with a volley of barks. For a moment Úrsúla felt her heart sink, and contemplated not answering the door. Nonni wasn’t at home to open it for her, as the police guidelines had laid down. But she shook off the fear. After all, Pétur was behind lock and key. Now she had the security camera and the emergency button, so what could go wrong?
A neat young man holding a box stood on the steps, or so the strange angle of the security camera showed her. He had to be a delivery driver, so she picked Kátur up and held him under one arm to prevent him greeting the man with a further barrage of barks.
The man handed her the box as soon as she opened the door.
‘Do I need to sign for this? she asked.
The man laughed. ‘It’s the chocolate you asked for,’ he said, winking and smacking his lips twice as if she ought to know that she had requested chocolate.
‘Who sent this?’ she asked. ‘I didn’t ask for any chocolate.’
‘Are you saying you weren’t expecting me?’ he said without waiting for an answer. Then shouldered her aside and forced his way in.
Úrsúla tightened her grip on Kátur and fumbled desperately for the emergency button.
86
‘There you go,’ Stella said to the creepy journalist as she handed him the bags of rubbish.
He smirked as he handed her notes, and now she wished she had planted something nastier than a banana skin in the middle of the minister’s bag – or what he thought was the minister’s bag. Today she had shredded the waste from the minister’s office, as she was supposed to, along with the paper waste from the permanent secretary’s office, and had handed the creep rubbish that had come from some other office, with no idea of what went on in there, but which had nothing to do with the minister. The guy deserved to spend time going through two bags of ordinary junk in the hope of finding some dirt on the minister. She couldn’t stand men who slept with a woman and then treated her badly.
Stella stopped in her tracks in the middle of the ministry car park, her eyes drawn to that grey tower block that loomed over the city’s Shadow District. Was that how she had treated Gréta? Slept with her and then let her down badly? Had she hurt her by suggesting unnecessarily that they shouldn’t let anyone know what had gone on between them? She had made it glaringly obvious that she didn’t want to be seen with her. Was she no better than that arsehole of a journalist?
She strode with determination across the car park and out into the street, then took a short-cut across Klapparstígur and between the white apartment blocks. She was going to apologise to Gréta. She could feel deep in her heart that it was the right thing to do. She wasn’t going to be a bitch. She jogged through the playground that nestled between the high-rise buildings and was panting by the time she reached the lobby of the grey tower block. She punched in the number of Gréta’s apartment and waited, but there was no reply. She tried the number a second time and pressed the bell icon, but before it had finished buzzing, the door opened and Gréta stepped out. Stella didn’t have to glance twice at the tall fair-haired woman beside her to know that this was the one she had been so captivated by on Tinder. She was even more attractive than her profile picture had indicated. Stella wondered what this woman saw in Gréta. They looked an unlikely pair, but there was something about them, some glow that joined them together. Stella was certain that they had only just got out of bed.
‘Hæ, I was wondering if I could have a word?’ Stella said, the words tumbling out of her.
Gréta’s reaction wasn’t what she had expected. There was none of the usual delight in seeing her, not even a smile. Gréta seemed unusually reserved.
‘Is this something to do with the ministry?’ she asked, and Stella shook her head.
‘No. Just a small private matter.’
‘Well, we’re going to dinner and we’re already a little late, and after that we’re going to the theatre.’
Gréta opened the outer door for her blonde companion, who stepped out like a princess and stood waiting on the pavement, looking Stella up and down. Stella followed them out.
‘Could we meet for a coffee tomorrow evening?’ she asked.
Gréta shook her head. ‘I’m working tomorrow evening.’
‘And Saturday?’ Stella asked and Gréta hesitated.
The blonde sighed. ‘On Saturday we’re going to Harpa. Remember? The concert and then dinner.’
Gréta nodded and spread her hands theatrically, while Stella swallowed her annoyance and felt a growing disquiet in her belly. What was this stranger doing, interfering in her meeting Gréta? What the hell business was it of hers? All she wanted was to talk to Gréta, simply to make up for her own bad behaviour. But it was obvious there was no point. She wouldn’t ask again. It was clear that Gréta didn’t want to meet her.
87
‘I just pressed the button and ran out into the street,’ Úrsúla repeated, one more time, for Boris this time, as he had just made an appearance. ‘I thought I had to get out right away or I’d be so frightened I wouldn’t be able to move, so I ran for it and waited for the police.’
‘You did exactly the right thing,’ Boris said. ‘Women are like songbirds – prone to freeze if they’re attacked, so it’s as well to escape while you can still make decisions.’
The man had been taken away by the police. To begin with they had taken him into the kitchen, and Úrsúla had been able to hear the special-unit officers who had been first on the scene talking to him. They had led him out through the living room, where she sat with the female officer who had been in the second car. The man had looked dejected and subdued, and for some reason it occurred to Úrsúla that she had made too much of the incident. Perhaps it had just been panic on her part, just as it had been a few days before when she had freaked out at the thought that the man delivering fish had been Pétur.
‘Do you think this could be a misunderstanding on my part?’ she asked.
Boris shook his head. He was about to say something when a plain
-clothes officer appeared in the doorway and called him. Boris went over and they spoke in muted voices. Úrsúla saw him hand a phone to Boris, who looked through the contents. She heard no more as the female officer sitting at her side patted her hand, asking if she wanted some water or a blanket, and Úrsúla realised that she was shivering. That had to be either nerves, or else the cold draught blowing in through the open door along with the flashing blue lights of the police cars outside.
‘Nobody has a right to push their way into your home against your will,’ the officer said, still patting the back of Úrsúla’s hand. ‘You did precisely the right thing by pressing the alarm button. That’s what it’s for. It’s better to use it once too often than to not use it at all.’
The officer’s words were presumably intended to be encouraging, but Úrsúla couldn’t help thinking this was a once-too-often occurrence; needless hysteria or panic, which could be symptoms of post-traumatic stress. She felt her face flush with discomfort and took a deep breath, preparing herself to stand up, tell the coppers to get out and pour herself a double brandy – her way of toughing things out.
But before she managed to stand up, Boris had returned with a perplexed look on his face. He perched on the coffee table opposite her and cleared his throat awkwardly.
‘I’m going to recommend to Gunnar that we run twenty-four-hour security around you while we get to the bottom of this. I’ve already spoken to him and he’s ready. We’ll have a police presence outside as well. I know it’s uncomfortable to have the police breathing down your neck the whole time and a member of staff staying in your house while we figure this out, but it’s the best way.’
‘Figure what out?’ Úrsúla asked.
Boris cleared his throat again. ‘There’s … err … This Tinder account that someone has set up in your name.’
‘I knew about that,’ Úrsúla said. ‘That’s been closed down.’
Boris again cleared his throat and this time it was closer to a cough.
‘What?’ Úrsúla demanded.
‘Well, there’s a new account and…’
‘And what?’
‘It seems that the person in question has been in touch with the man who pushed his way in, encouraging this behaviour. While we don’t know how many other men this lunatic has encouraged to do the same, it’s best that Gunnar is at your side all the time.’
‘Encourage what? Just what are you talking about?’
‘The person in question, acting supposedly on your behalf, asks men to come to your home and fulfil – what shall we say? – certain fantasies of yours. The men are encouraged to ignore protests or physical resistance as this is supposed to be part of the game. Some kind of role play, you see.’
Úrsúla felt her heart skip a beat, and the terror that she had kept under control since the man had pushed her aside in the doorway returned with full force. She felt her innards turn to a liquid that seeped down to her feet, leaving her unable to move.
Boris coughed again.
‘The person in question supposedly speaks for you in saying that you fantasise about being raped.’
88
Gunnar picked up a toothbrush and clean underwear, and stuffed them in his bag along with his laptop.
‘What do you mean, you’re staying in her house?’ Íris snapped.
She was already furious, even though he had explained it to her and apologised for ruining the evening they had expected to spend together.
‘In their house,’ he corrected. ‘With her and her husband and their children.’
‘What stupid shit is this?’ she said. ‘I’ve never heard that drivers get to stay with ministers. Are you fucking her, you idiot?’
Gunnar stopped and sighed. ‘No Íris. I’m not sleeping with the minister. And don’t call me an idiot.’
‘I’ll call you what you are,’ she hissed. ‘Not the sharpest chisel in the toolbox, are you? You think I haven’t seen your profile on Tinder? You set it up the day before yesterday and you don’t need to tell me you’re staying with this Úrsúla just to keep her safe. If you’re not fucking her, then you’re fucking some cow you found on Tinder.’
‘I set up a Tinder profile because of work,’ he said. ‘There’s someone who registered a profile in the minister’s name, some stalker. I did it so I can keep track.’
Tears flowed down Íris’s face, her mascara forming two black stripes. He reached out and tried to pull her into his arms. He wanted to hold and reassure her. Normally he took deep breaths and took care not to let her furious outbursts affect his emotions, but now he felt sorry for her.
‘Fucking liar,’ she whispered, and sniffed.
‘I know it looks weird, but it’s the truth,’ he said. ‘There’s someone out there stalking the minister, sending her disgusting messages, and now he’s put up a Tinder profile in her name and invited some guys to her house. I’m responsible for her safety, so I do what the police ask me to do. That includes staying in her house.’
‘You’re telling lies,’ she sniffed, and he felt a stab of pain in his belly. She was so miserable and helpless in her anger that he wanted to find something he could say that would comfort her. Her jealousy was so painful.
‘I swear it, Íris. I’ve never two-timed women. I’d never be unfaithful. I’m not that kind of person.’
The blow was unexpected and was too fast for him to dodge. The sting of pain in his cheek where her ring burst open the skin sent a rush of adrenaline through him. He put a hand to his face and looked at his palm. It didn’t appear to be bleeding much, but his cheek was left as numb as if a dentist had anaesthetised it. She had slapped harder than he could have imagined. He felt the stress hormones set loose in his body. He was angry, and also deeply hurt. This assault on his temple, the body he worked so hard to look after, came with a set of associations different to the old man’s beatings in the old days. Íris’s hands were the ones that should stroke his cheek, hold his hand and play with his fingers, leave scratches down his back when they made love. He felt the tears filling his eyes and he could see Íris staring at him in wonder, the fear building up in her face. He knew that look from his father. After the fear came more anger, then repentance and finally passion.
‘Now it’s over between us,’ he said, and he could feel the subsiding adrenaline rush leave his legs weak.
He took his bag and left, gently closing the door behind him. There was a good chance she would trash the place, but there wasn’t all that much there to trash. He could always buy new crockery and a new TV, and he’d have to get the lock changed.
He wiped the tears and the blood from his face as he jogged down the stairs. Later he would shed proper tears, when he started to miss her. But right now he was going to allow himself to feel the relief that streamed through his veins like a celebration. He had just graduated from his very own school of serenity. He had proved to himself that he was nothing like his father. He hadn’t returned Íris’s blow. What was more, he hadn’t even wanted to. Maybe the time would come when he could allow himself to love someone.
89
‘It’s good news, Kiddi,’ Marita said, glancing from father to son across the dinner table where the two of them sat without speaking. ‘It’s good news for us that the police are dropping the investigation.’
‘I know that,’ Kiddi said, without looking up. Instead he speared chunks of sausage with his fork, stuffing them into his mouth as fast as he could.
Jónatan was hunched over his plate, eating at a leisurely pace. He cut slices of sausage, speared them with his fork, piled mashed potato on top with his knife, and put it in his mouth. Neither of them touched the salad any more than they usually did, so there would be leftovers of that tomorrow.
She and Jónatan had been delighted when the lawyer had called. They had fallen into each other’s arms and Marita had burst into tears.
‘There, there,’ Jónatan had said, brushing a tear from her cheek. ‘You see? I told you I’d be proved innocent.’
‘Maybe we should do something to celebrate this all being over,’ Marita said. ‘Maybe a holiday, somewhere warm. The Canaries, or Tenerife.’
‘Tenerife is part of the Canaries,’ Kiddi pointed out sulkily.
Marita shrugged. She had long since given up taking any notice when she was corrected or told what to do. As a Faroese, she would never have been able to thrive in Iceland otherwise. But as he entered his teens, Kiddi seemed to have formed the impression that his mother was less than smart.
‘The weather should be good there,’ she said and smiled. ‘What do you two think? A week on a sunny beach?’
Kiddi stood up and dropped his plate in the sink.
‘You two can go with Klemmi,’ he said from the kitchen doorway. ‘I’m not going anywhere on holiday with him.’ He pointed at his father.
90
Pétur sat on the mattress, his mind on steadying his breathing. His body was so used to the cold that by now he was literally overheating, even though he had stripped down to underwear. He knew from experience that if he were to get up, pace the cell, yelling and hammering at the door as he shouted that he was suffocating, then he’d only get even hotter. It was better to sit still and breathe deep. That way his body would gradually cool down and adapt to the temperature in the police station.
Betrayal Page 20
