Betrayal

by Sigurdardóttir, Lilja

‘You’re only allowed to put documents, notes and suchlike in one bin. That’s the black one in your office. I make sure everything gets shredded before it goes in the container for paper waste.’

  15

  She’d expected the start of the week was going to be tough, but it turned out to be worse. She could hardly keep her eyes open and was terrified that she would actually fall asleep pushing the cleaning trolley. That was the downside of party weekends, particularly if smarties had been consumed. She seemed to be able to sleep endlessly for a few days afterwards. She told herself she was never, ever going to drop those things again. From now on, she’d let a couple of beers do the job, she thought, also reminding herself that she was never going to one of the Annas’ parties again.

  She glanced around, and when she was sure there was nobody about, she went to the cleaners’ store and shut the door behind her. She just had to close her eyes for a few minutes. She took two packs of paper towels, put them under her head for a pillow, lay down and was asleep before she had even closed her eyes.

  She was startled awake on the cold floor by her phone buzzing at her. She sat up, with no idea of how much time had passed, and put it to her ear.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hæ. It’s Gréta.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Gréta. Thanks for your help the other day.’

  Stella searched her dazed mind for fragments of the weekend. Had she met someone called Gréta at the party? Or was this someone at the ministry whose face she couldn’t place?

  ‘Yeah. Hæ. Thanks…’ It was best to pretend nothing was wrong, and wait for whoever was on the line to let fall a hint of who they were. She stood up, feeling dizzy, and held on to the steel wash basin as a support. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Just fine,’ the woman on the phone said. ‘I was just going to let you know that I got two matches.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘On Tinder. Like you suggested.’

  Stella sighed with relief. It had to be the newsreader. Her head was still so messed up after the weekend, the name hadn’t rung any bells, but she did now have a vague recollection of giving the woman her phone number.

  ‘Cool! Told you so,’ she said. ‘Good-looking?’

  She was a tiny bit curious now: what kind of women were showing an interest in the newsreader, with the new information Stella had put on her profile?

  ‘Yes,’ Gréta said. ‘One of them in particular looks really lovely.’

  ‘That’s cool,’ Stella said. ‘I hope it all goes well for you.’

  She was ready to end the call; she wanted to check her phone for the time, so she could decide whether to go round with the mop again – enough to show she was working – or to lie back down on the floor.

  ‘But … how do I go about this?’ Gréta asked, a note of desperation in her voice.

  ‘Just chat to her,’ Stella said. ‘Give it a week and then invite her out on a date at the weekend.’

  ‘But I have to go for a work dinner, it’s a sort of annual thing.’

  ‘Then invite her to go with you,’ Stella said. ‘Aren’t you famous? Anyone who bites on the princess idea I put in your profile will have to be up for dinner with stars from the telly.’

  She ended the call abruptly, as her stomach was suddenly turning somersaults. She turned and vomited into the steel basin. Fuck this. She was never, ever, ever going to one of those fucking Anna parties again. She never failed to overindulge in everything on offer: too much to drink, too much grass and too many pills.

  When she had stopped retching, she drank some water from the tap and almost threw up again as the water was sickeningly warm. The hot and cold pipes had to be touching each other.

  Her phone told her that it was twelve-thirty, so now she could go for lunch. Something to eat would calm her stomach, but first she needed a smoke. A dose of nicotine would banish the trembling and the dizziness, and the almost overwhelming urge to smoke more grass. That was a yearning she would have to tough out, as she was broke until the end of the month.

  The cold air on the balcony was refreshing, even though she was dressed in a polo shirt and the chill left her shivering; at least she wasn’t so drowsy.

  ‘Hæ,’ the new minister whispered as she stepped out onto the balcony at Stella’s side. ‘How are things?’

  ‘Hæ,’ Stella said, holding her lighter up to the minister’s cigarette.

  ‘What’s that?’ the minister asked as she drew down a lungful of smoke, one finger lightly touching the tattoo on Stella’s arm. Stella started at the touch, as if a jolt of electricity had passed through her body. There was clearly some of the weekend’s cocktail of drugs still in her system.

  ‘It’s a Helm of Awe,’ she said. ‘It’s an old Icelandic rune that protects against black magic and enemies.’

  The minister smiled and took another drag on her cigarette.

  ‘Maybe I ought to get one,’ she said. ‘I wonder if it would work in politics as well?’

  16

  ‘What do you mean, you don’t remember?’

  Úrsúla had to make an effort to keep her irritation under control and suppress the urge to yell.

  ‘Friday morning, the day after I received the keys, a woman came here and you showed her into my office. She’d booked an appointment with Rúnar. I gave you a list of points afterwards and asked you to make a note of the meeting.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, but that was a very difficult day,’ Freyja the secretary said. ‘A new minister taking over…’

  Úrsúla raised a hand to stop her. She wasn’t going to listen to a lecture, the subtext of which would be that Freyja was the one with experience and Úrsúla was the rookie. Úrsúla opened her mouth, about to remind Freyja that on Friday she had asked her to look after the woman, who was in floods of tears, and had watched them go along the corridor together, when she was stopped by Eva bustling in with an armful of clothes.

  ‘I’ve brought you everything in two sizes,’ the adviser said. ‘So you can try on both and return whatever you don’t like or doesn’t fit.’

  Úrsúla followed her into the office and shut the door behind her. Eva dropped the bundle of clothes on the sofa.

  ‘My secretary is on the stiff side,’ Úrsúla said. ‘What should I do about her?’

  She picked up a blouse from the top of the pile.

  ‘Give her a chance. The staff are always stressed out when a new minister is appointed, and you came in at pretty short notice. Let’s see if she softens up in a couple of days. Otherwise you just get Óðinn to transfer her.’

  Eva held up another blouse to show Úrsúla. It was a light brown, patterned with a motif of small flowers and made from some material that shone like satin.

  ‘Pretty, isn’t it?’ Eva said.

  ‘It’s pretty,’ Úrsúla agreed. She would wear whatever Eva told her to. Eva had a far more developed taste in clothes and had strong opinions on what women in politics should wear. ‘Óðinn and my secretary both seem to have gaps in their memory, and I’m wondering if it’s because it’s this particular case – something I asked them to look into. I get the feeling that their selective memory is a way of telling me what kind of issues they want me to be dealing with.’

  ‘What was it they decided to forget?’ Eva asked, placing a jacket and trousers on the sofa and holding a top next to them for comparison.

  ‘A woman who came here on Friday and asked me to check where in the system her daughter’s rape case is.’

  ‘Understood. Bad PR for you to start with. They’re just trying to shield you,’ Eva said, handing her trousers to try on.

  Úrsúla took off the trousers she had come to work in, which were probably on the hippie side for a minister, and took the new trousers, tailored in a solid block of colour, from Eva.

  ‘I didn’t write down her name, phone number or address, or anything. I gave the whole thing to Freyja. All I remember is the woman’s name is Rósa; I don’t recall her other name.’

  ‘If
she came here to the ministry, then her name and ID number will have been registered at reception. Just ask the reception secretary downstairs.’

  Úrsúla was relieved. She had completely forgotten about the main reception desk, as she always came in through the building’s back door. She would find out the woman’s name and prepare a new memo, which this time she would place directly in Óðinn’s hands.

  17

  He woke up and bumped his head. His first thought was that he was in the shelter and someone was having a go at him, then he remembered that he was safe in his hiding place, his own personal foxhole. He felt dizzy, and was sure that he was being rocked back and forth, but in the darkness it was difficult to figure things out. He patted his pockets and found the torch, turned it on and lit up his refuge. All of a sudden he had the feeling that it was Christmas. This wasn’t a Christmas like his recent ones, when he had been fed by the Salvation Army and psalms were sung, but a childhood Christmas. Back then his mother had lit candles and baked as the Christmas greetings were read out on the radio, and they had sat at the table and read out loud to each other from the books they had received as presents. It would be good to have a book here in his hiding place. All he had were newspapers, and of course the cutting of Úrsúla and the Devil. He shone the torch on it once again and tried to fathom what the look in her eyes meant, but it was as if she wouldn’t give anything away. That was the problem with the picture. She was smiling, which indicated that she was happy, but how could she be happy in his company? It would be different if it was someone other than Úrsúla. Then he’d understand that she wouldn’t know any better. But she, Úrsúla Aradóttir, ought to know that caution was needed around this man.

  He felt his feet tingle, and knew that this was a precursor to cramp. He tried to shift himself around and stretch out his legs, but the space was too small. The cramp came on so he tried to shake his leg, kicking hard. That worked for a little while, but the cramp was obstinate and was back before long and he kicked out a few more times. This was the damned leg that had been broken all those years ago and had been nothing but trouble ever since. His breathing came fast and shallow as he tried to stop himself groaning with the pain, and he reached out to take hold of the luminous green handle that he used to get in and out of his hiding place. But everything rocked beneath him, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand up right now. He would have to wait until the movement had stopped and the dizziness had abated. He took a piece of Danish pastry from his pocket and stuffed it in his mouth. Sometimes a bite of something sweet kept the pain in his feet at bay. But he had to spit it out. The anger welling up in his throat stopped him from swallowing. He was raging with fury that Úrsúla should be in cahoots with that man, the Devil incarnate, who would kick a man when he was down, the Devil who took people’s lives.

  He kicked hard a few times and the cramp passed, he could breathe easily again, and as he did so the whole place stopped moving and fell silent. Then he heard the sound of approaching footsteps.

  18

  Stella had put the rubbish into the garbage container and was emptying the shredding bin into the paper container when her phone rang. She saw the number from earlier in the day appear on the screen.

  ‘It’s me again. Gréta.’

  ‘Yeah, hæ. Sorry I had to put the phone down earlier.’

  ‘No problem. I was just wondering if you could give me a little advice…’

  The grey tower in which Greta lived was nearby. Stella gazed at it now and saw that it was colourless and ugly in the gloom of falling snow. There were no velvets or silks in its rows of tones, just greyness, and she felt a sadness take hold of her heart, as it always did when the smarties wore off. Everything just turned so much lousier. This grey tower, which overshadowed the ministry’s car park, had turned ugly, and the flakes of wet snow that fell from the sky and inevitably found their way down your neck had turned disgusting, and Gréta the newsreader was just plain irritating.

  ‘Look, I’m a bit busy right now—’ she said, but Gréta interrupted her.

  ‘Haven’t you finished work? Why don’t you drop by on your way home? I’m cooking.’

  Stella sighed. She was starving. This was all part of the aftermath of a heavy weekend. Maybe she had lost a load of vitamins or something, but it seemed that her body constantly demanded food. On top of that, she was skint, and there was nothing to eat at home but cup-a-soups and crispbread. She could eat with Gréta the newsreader and in return she could give her some pointers on how to pull this woman on Tinder.

  Before she’d really had time to think about it she was there in the grey block, her coat on a chair in the hall, sitting in the kitchen, wolfing the appetisers along with the beer that Gréta had just given her.

  ‘She could have used an old picture as well,’ she said, trying to cool Gréta’s expectations; she seemed to be buzzing with excitement over her first matches.

  ‘I don’t care if she’s older and fatter than she looks,’ Gréta said.

  ‘A date is a date,’ Stella said, nodding her agreement.

  Although Gréta was something of a TV celebrity, she clearly wasn’t the type who could afford to be too picky. But the woman who had indicated an interest was quite good-looking. In fact she was remarkably pretty – unexpectedly so, for someone showing an interest in Gréta’s profile. She had to have just come out, had only just begun looking around and maybe had seen Gréta on television and had been intrigued by the well-known face.

  ‘What should I say to start off?’ Gréta said as she chopped mushrooms and dropped them into a saucepan. ‘I need some kind of icebreaker.’

  ‘Just say hello,’ Stella said. That was what she always did, and so far it had worked well enough.

  ‘Just hello?’

  ‘Yep,’ Stella said. ‘You say hello, and she replies somehow or other, and then you just start to chat.’

  Gréta put the knife down and picked up her phone. She stared at the screen for a moment as if she needed to screw up her courage, and Stella felt a pang of sympathy for her. This was a woman who wasn’t usually on the back foot.

  ‘Phew. I hope she replies soon, otherwise I’m going to be a bag of nerves,’ Gréta said, tossing her phone onto the table as if it had burned her hand. She poured a whole carton of cream in with the mushrooms. ‘Best to think about something else,’ she muttered. ‘What’s she like, the new minister?’

  ‘She’s fine,’ Stella said. ‘We go for a smoke together on the balcony.’

  ‘Really? I didn’t think she looked like a smoker,’ Gréta said. ‘What do you talk about when you’re having a smoke?’

  ‘Y’know,’ Stella said. ‘This and that.’

  ‘She comes across as a tough character.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, you know, cool jobs and all that. Refugee camps, Médecins Sans Frontières, crisis management. She comes across as an adrenaline junkie, not the type you’d expect would become a minister. It looks like there’s a lot more paperwork than in the work she’s used to.’

  Gréta reached for the phone she had only just tossed aside.

  ‘She’s not answering,’ she said with a frown.

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Stella said, feeling her belly call out for food. ‘If this one doesn’t work out then there are plenty more fish in the sea. And you can always use old-fashioned Icelandic magic to pull a chick,’ she added, pointing at the rune on her arm.

  Gréta laughed.

  ‘If you can work some magic that brings her to me, then that would be wonderful.’

  ‘I’m not joking,’ Stella said. ‘There’s an old spell you can use to attract girls. In fact, it’s pretty simple.’

  Gréta gazed at her curiously, as if she was trying to weigh up whether or not she was being serious.

  ‘I’m not sure I believe in that kind of stuff,’ she said, stirring the sauce.

  Stella shrugged.

  ‘It’s like the placebo effect,’ she said. ‘If you believe it’
ll work, then it will.’

  19

  There was something otherworldly about the way the secretary at reception downstairs shook her head, as if Úrsúla lived on a separate plane from the rest of the ministry, so contact with them was impossible. But this couldn’t be true. Every person who set foot inside the ministry was booked in and out of the building.

  Úrsúla asked the woman to check again, both on the computer system and the paper record. She obediently did so, but there was no visit recorded on Friday morning.

  ‘Could someone have forgotten to book her in?’ she asked, knowing it was futile. All the same, it was worth asking; people were fallible and mistakes happened.

  ‘It’s unlikely,’ the secretary said. ‘Nobody is allowed in without a booked appointment or for a prearranged reason. And I always call upstairs and let the person concerned know that their visitor is here, and they say yes or no to them coming in. If they say no, or don’t recognise the visitor’s name, then they’re simply not allowed in. But, of course, all kinds of things could happen.’

  ‘This woman had booked an appointment. She was supposed to meet Rúnar, my predecessor. There has to be a record of that.’

  The reception secretary went through the pages for Friday and shrugged her shoulders.

  ‘This was a middle-aged woman who came to see me on Friday,’ Úrsúla said in the hope that this would trigger a recollection. ‘As far as I recall it was just before midday and she spent a quarter of an hour with me. Freyja took her back downstairs. Don’t you remember?’

  The reception secretary had begun to shake her head before Úrsúla had finished her sentence.

  ‘That day was a very difficult one,’ she said. ‘It’s always particularly fraught when a new minister takes over, with a lot of people coming and going. I’m terribly sorry.’

  She looked down at the desk in front of her instead of meeting Úrsúla’s eyes. Úrsúla felt the irritation building up inside her. It was practically the same speech she had heard from Freyja: tough day, new minister, blah, blah, terribly sorry. There was no way to argue with people who were so sorry.