Nightblind (13 page)

At the morning meeting I was pressured to take part in occupational therapy, so I signed up for carpentry. The other option was needlework, which isn’t my strongest suit. I can do some woodwork, but I don’t like it. It’s two hours a day and they pass terribly slowly. We can have the radio on if we want to, but that makes things even worse with dreary classical music that might be fine under other circumstances. Here, it does nothing but add to the gloom that this community can do without. Sometimes the newspaper headlines are read out, which isn’t much better. Every now and again there’s some lighter music, something with a beat that lifts the mood a little.

What happened the other day has been forgotten, or so it seems. I doubt that I’m the first inmate on the psychiatric ward to lose his temper, and I don’t suppose I’ll be the last. All the same, I’m ashamed of my behaviour. I had in some way wanted to prove that I’m not ill. But the ‘healthy’ individual who ‘chose’ to spend a little time among the sick no longer stands out from the crowd.

I managed to get to speak to the nurse this morning. She was afraid of me. I asked her straight out why the hell Dr Helgi hadn’t wanted to see me.

He is busy, she said.

Or perhaps I forgot to ask him, she said.

Forgot! I don’t believe her. In fact, I could see she was lying. Either he had no intention of seeing me, or she deliberately didn’t request an appointment for me.

I walked away.

I’m still taking this medication. There’s no chance of getting away with avoiding it, but I don’t feel well. Not well at all.

It could have been the news of Herjólfur’s death earlier in the day that prompted Gunnar to change his mind, but he found he couldn’t bring himself to visit Elín with the express purpose of being unfaithful to his wife.

He was painfully aware of his own guilty conscience, and he’d certainly had every intention of climbing into Elín’s bed.

He gave himself plenty of excuses to visit her, all of varying quality, and for a while his decision had been set in stone, irreversible. He deserved it, he told himself. He had waited long enough. His wife’s lack of interest had pushed him into it.

He had been excited and strained the whole day, unable to concentrate on his work. At the outset, the news of Herjólfur hadn’t affected him, although he did his best to exhibit the right responses, whatever ‘the right responses’ were supposed to be. It wasn’t as if there was a handbook to lead you through nightmare situations like these. It was obvious that people were numb with shock and the atmosphere at the municipal offices became leaden. People’s eyes dropped to the floor and voices were kept low in fitting respect for the deceased, despite the all-pervading air of anxiety. The feature mentioning Elín hadn’t helped. Gunnar had tried to defuse the situation with an email to the staff explaining that Elín had been helping police with enquiries and that she was in no way a suspect, but he wasn’t sure it had had the intended effect.

It wasn’t until Gunnar had got home, fairly early in the day, and showered and changed his clothes, that his conscience began to gnaw at him. All of the excuses that had kept his thoughts buoyed during
the day, all his attempts to justify his plans, seemed trivial and weak when he heard his wife’s voice on the phone. Yes, he had called her, out of the blue, ready to make his way to another woman’s bed. He had sat down on the living-room floor and made the call to Norway.

His wife had answered the phone unusually quickly and she gave herself time to chat about minor things. It was as if she had somehow sensed an urgency to this call, and that their marriage was at stake. The precarious future of their relationship rested on a conversation about nothing in particular.

They talked for half an hour, an expensive half hour on international mobile phone rates, although the call was worth every penny because Gunnar stood up, took off and folded away the smart clothes that were intended to impress Elín, and lay flat on the sofa to think, sighing as he did so. He had been a hair’s breadth from a move that would have been irrevocable.

He should have called Elín and apologised, even taking the time to explain honestly. But that could wait,
would have to wait
, he decided. He couldn’t even think of her at the moment, let alone speak to her.

He lay on the sofa, looking out of the window, watching the darkness deepen, but feeling a new brightness inside himself.

‘Can we sit down?’ Elín finally dared to ask. ‘You’re going to have to let go. It hurts.’

‘It’s supposed to hurt!’ Valberg snarled, the anger burning in his voice and his eyes. She knew from experience that he was about to lose control of his temper. She had to keep him quiet, win some more time until Gunnar would come. Valberg was capable of extreme behaviour.

‘Let’s sit down,’ she said as firmly as she could. ‘Talk things over. Let me go, I’m not going anywhere.’

He relaxed his grip. ‘A good idea. If you try anything, I’ll kill you. I swear that I’ll kill you.’

‘I’m not going to try anything,’ she said, summoning inner reserves of strength to add, ‘my love.’

‘I know you don’t mean that,’ he shouted. ‘Otherwise you’d never have left me.’ For a moment he looked vulnerable, but Elín took care to avoid his gaze.

He let go of her wrists, but kept her within an arm’s length.

She went slowly to the kitchen table. ‘Shall we sit here?’

He nodded. ‘Don’t you try anything,’ he snapped, pushing her towards a chair. She was taken by surprise. Losing her balance, she caught her shoulder hard against the corner of the table as she fell. She felt the stinging pain as she tried to pull herself up, trying not to make it obvious.

The man was dangerous, and it now seemed that his enjoyment in causing her pain was greater than it had ever been. She sat at the table with difficulty, her shoulder numb.

‘I didn’t come here to get you back. I know it’s over between us. But no one treats me like that and I’m not letting you get away with it. Moving halfway across the country to start a new life, running away! You should be ashamed of yourself.’

‘You want something to drink?’ she asked cautiously. ‘I think there’s some beer somewhere.’

Unfortunately he was quite clearly sober. Alcohol made him drowsy, and he knew that well enough himself.

‘No. No beer.’

‘Can we try to fix this, Valberg? Start all over again?’

The words left a foul taste in her mouth. The man was vile. What a huge mistake she made, letting herself be fooled into moving in with him. Or, not walking out the second he first laid a hand on her…

He was silent.

‘How’s work?’ she asked trying to sound normal.

‘As if you care! But since you ask, those bastards sacked me. Fucking idiots.’

Elín’s heart skipped a beat, knowing that the loss of his usual security would make him even more unstable.

Her eyes were drawn to the clock on the wall. She had invited Gunnar to drop by after work, but ‘after work’ could be a flexible concept. She had come home later than usual, and he had left the office before her. It was likely that he would appear soon … and her phone was in the hall where she habitually put it down when she came in. The chances that she could get that far and make a call were zero. Valberg would stop her first. Her physical fitness was good, but in a fight with Valberg there would be no question of the outcome.

‘Are you serious?’ he asked, his voice sharp.

‘What?’ She was shaken from her thoughts.

‘Are you serious?’
he repeated. ‘What you said, starting all over again?’

Was he about to take the bait? Was this her escape route, for the moment, at least – not unscathed but still alive? Her cheek throbbed from the slaps he had given her and the pain in her shoulder was getting worse by the minute.

‘Yes, of course,’ she said, as convincingly as she could. ‘Of course.’

‘Prove it!’ He was on his feet and grabbed at the injured shoulder. The pain was like nothing she had ever experienced. Her body could take no more and the tears burst forth.

‘Go on, move!’ He pushed her in front of him towards the stairs. Up!’

‘Why?’ she asked between sobs. ‘Why upstairs?’

‘The bedroom, stupid. Since you reckon there’s a second chance, you must know the best way to consummate it.’

She felt she could detect the sarcasm in his voice, but wasn’t entirely sure. There was only so far she could go. She wasn’t getting into bed with this man for what would be nothing but rape.

‘Wait,’ she said.

‘Wait? No! Move! Get up there!’

They were halfway up the stairs.

‘Not now, my love. Not now.’

He took no notice and shoved her ahead of him.

‘Not now,’ she repeated, and he stopped suddenly.

‘Not now? I knew you weren’t serious. I fucking knew it! You lying bitch, you’re nothing but a liar.’

He wrenched her shoulder from behind, pulling her off balance. At the same time, she lost her grip on the handrail. He stepped back and let her fall, watching her tumble down the stairs. Elín could feel the hammering of her heart, hardly believing that this was happening, trying to think clearly in the fleeting moments left to her between life and death. They had nearly reached the top of the staircase, and it was a long drop. She screamed in panic, hoping that the fall would not be fatal.

There are circles in the bathroom. It’s strange, almost hallucinogenic wallpaper, circles upon circles upon circles … But you can get used to this just like anything else. Just like the tasteless crap they call food. Just like being ignored.

My body has mutinied against this medication but I’m not giving up. I’ve repeatedly asked to see a doctor, but I’ve had no response. I have to be careful not to let my temper run away with me, to remain calm and courteous. The nurse has promised to talk to him, but nothing ever happens.

I try not to mix with the others here on the ward. That may sound like arrogance. Some people would call it anti-social behaviour, but I don’t see it like that. I’ve no intention of becoming part of the group in any way. I need to stay here while I recover, while I try to regain direction, so my father can forgive me. It’s hard to believe, but it’s true that you can invent a whole world for yourself here by not talking to anyone unless it’s absolutely necessary. There aren’t many of us who are inclined just to chat. People have problems of their own. The few of them, two or three people, who have a strong need to express themselves have long since found each other and they sit in the common room the whole day long, in their corner. I avoid them. And they avoid me.

Ari Thór went home for dinner, allowing himself a few hours to relax before returning to the station at nine. Tómas was due to chair a briefing of all the officers in the north coast region involved in the case, with key members of the team in Reykjavík listening in via telephone link. A police officer’s killer had to be caught and it was clear from the ongoing attention that the case was receiving that the public expected nothing less. Things like this weren’t supposed to happen in Iceland, the most peaceful place on earth. The angriest were the policemen themselves, both those in senior positions as well as the rank and file. Even Tómas had been affected. The justifiable fury of the force had its roots in some kind of natural instinct for self-preservation. ‘It could have been me’ and ‘I could be next’ were the palpable but unspoken thoughts. Although nobody voiced them, Ari Thór had no doubt that this was what was beneath the rage, consciously or otherwise.

Tómas had let him return home on the condition that calls to the station were forwarded to Ari Thór’s mobile, providing Tómas with some peace to concentrate on preparing the briefing. Few of the calls received had been urgent; most were journalists, the same ones calling repeatedly and often. Nobody wanted to miss out on the chance of a scoop. In between there were the odd calls from people who claimed to have some special information about the case. Some even believed they had the solution to the crime, always something far-fetched. Finally there was a call from someone who claimed to have a message from Herjólfur from the other side. Ari Thór conscientiously recorded the details of every call, even though no reliable
information had been received. There had been nothing that could warrant further investigation.

It was also very noticeable that the people of Siglufjördur had taken the killing personally. Ari Thór understood their feelings well. It wasn’t just that the vision of living in the safest place in the world had turned out to be a mirage, but Siglufjördur had become the iconic centrepoint of a new and invisible menace. Previously a peaceful little town, Siglufjördur had become a dangerous den of crime. The town had lost its innocence.

Ari Thór and Kristín ate in near-silence. Stefnir was already asleep when Ari Thór came in, and Kristín appeared exhausted by a day with their son.

They watched the evening news together. The main item was naturally the case, which had been upgraded to a murder investigation following Herjólfur’s death, and his career was detailed at length under a photograph that had been taken too long ago.

‘Stefnir was lively today,’ Kristín said suddenly. ‘How was your day?’

The lack of interest in her voice made the question empty.

‘It’s heavy going. Tómas is more demanding than he was in the old days, which isn’t a bad thing. But it’s exhausting.’

‘You should get to bed early,’ Kristín said, her voice expressionless.

‘I hope I get a chance,’ Ari Thór said with a sigh. ‘I have to go back for a briefing.’

‘Go back? Don’t you get a break between shifts?’ she demanded, her irritation evident.

‘Yes, but…’

The ringing of his mobile gave him a chance to leave his sentence unfinished.

There was a journalist on the line, introducing himself so hurriedly that Ari Thór didn’t catch his name.

‘We’re putting the paper to bed,’ he said. ‘Any news? Anything new for us?’

Ari Thór groaned, took a deep breath and decided to let the man wait for a moment.

‘No. No developments,’ he said at last.

‘Callmeifthere’sanything, right?’

The journalist spoke so fast that his words could hardly be deciphered.

‘We’ll let you know when there’s anything new,’ Ari Thór said, putting the phone down and turning to Kristín. ‘I’m sorry, sweetheart.’

‘I’m going to crawl into bed,’ she said wearily.

‘Already? Really? Hold on, don’t…’

The phone was ringing again.

‘Yes?’ Ari Thór said gruffly. As he fumbled for the phone, he tried to whisper to Kristín, ‘Don’t go yet…’

‘Is that … the police? In Siglufjördur?’ It was a woman’s voice, quiet, speaking cautiously.

‘Yes,’ Ari Thór said, frantically trying to catch Kristín’s eye.

‘Er … My name’s … Ása.’

‘Who? Ása?’ he asked. He scrawled the name down. This call would have to be logged as usual.

‘I wasn’t sure … or…’ Her voice was faint and quiet.

‘Yes?’ said Ari Thór tetchily. He could see that Kristín’s patience was at its limit.

‘You see … I wanted to speak to you about a patient on the psychiatric ward, but I wasn’t sure if I should call, not really sure…’

Ari Thór rolled his eyes.

‘The psychiatric ward, you say? Is that where you are?’

‘What? No, no, or actually, yes. I’m a nurse.’

‘And about this patient?’

‘Yes…’ she said and lapsed into silence. ‘Listen. I’ll call later, maybe. I’m sure I shouldn’t be talking about patients … this was a mistake.’

‘OK,’ Ari Thór said, half relieved that the call was over. ‘Thank you.’ He hung up.

Kristín was on her feet.

‘Wait, my sweet. Shouldn’t we, you know, take the opportunity? Since he’s asleep and I’m here…’

‘Not now, Ari Thór. I’m not in the mood. I’m too tired.’ Kristín moved towards the door without a backward glance, but as she reached the hall he could see her face in profile. He stood still and watched her disappear up the stairs, certain he could see tears in her eyes. Why would she be crying? What on earth was going on, and what was so serious that it could move her to tears?