Betrayal

by Sigurdardóttir, Lilja

  ‘Isn’t it strange that he should lose his life right now?’ she added, subdued and slumped on the stool.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Gunnar said. ‘I don’t know what to think. The cops said that he was well known for getting into all kinds of rucks with people, so maybe it was an accident. Maybe he fell into the water. Maybe the marks on the body are from before last night. Maybe he was in a fight earlier in the day and took his own life by jumping in the water. It’s difficult to tell.’

  Úrsúla made no reply, but slumped even further down on the stool. Gunnar didn’t know what he ought to do or say. He placed a cautious hand on her back and muttered something about how sorry he was. His insignificant words of sympathy seemed to break the dam, as she suddenly broke into loud sobs.

  He had the feeling that her tears weren’t for the dead homeless man, but more for his lot in life; and not just for his life but for another that had been similar. He felt that Úrsúla wept for her father.

  106

  Marita had read through the paperwork the police had left with her three times, and some of it a fourth time, but she still failed to understand how her sweet boy could have put such vile things into words. Where had this shocking loathing for a woman’s body come from? Along the corridor she heard Kiddi’s bedroom door open and then the bathroom door open and shut. She got up and fetched breakfast cereal and milk, placing them on the table with a bowl and a spoon. She poured coffee into her mug and waited for the coming conflict.

  ‘Breakfast!’ she called when she heard the bathroom door open, and before long Kiddi stood in the kitchen doorway. She had expected to see angry truculence, but instead he stood there, his face puffy with tears.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mum,’ he wailed.

  She went over and wrapped her arms around him. He shook as he sobbed on her shoulder, and she wondered how long it had been since she had held him like this. His frame, which had so recently been boyish and slim, had bulked out as his shoulders had broadened and his muscles had built up. Physically he was a fully grown man, but this was still her little boy crying on her shoulder.

  ‘I’m not angry,’ she said gently, leading him to the kitchen table and sitting him down. ‘I’m just shocked at how you were able to fool those men into intending to harm that woman. I can’t understand how you could think of doing such a thing. I’m not sure you comprehend what could have happened.’

  Kiddi said nothing, but filled his bowl with a generous helping of cereal.

  ‘The woman could have been raped. She could have suffered all sorts of violence,’ she continued. ‘And those disgusting messages…’

  ‘I was just trying to scare her,’ Kiddi said, pouring milk over his cereal.

  He began to spoon food into his mouth, and Marita sat and watched as he shovelled it up with a warm feeling of fondness that filled her whole body. In spite of his size, regardless of the fear he had inflicted on a complete stranger, despite the danger he had conjured up, he was still a child. He was still a boy who shovelled breakfast cereal into his mouth as he waited humbly for his mother to scold him.

  ‘I know that in your own way you were trying to help me and your dad,’ she said. ‘But trying to scare people into not investigating a case is absolutely not the right way to do it. The right thing is to make efforts to prove your innocence…’

  Kiddi shoved his bowl away so that milk spilled onto the table.

  ‘Dad isn’t as innocent as you think,’ he snarled. ‘Maybe it’s time you figured that out. Even though that fucking whore Katrín Eva isn’t telling the truth, Dad isn’t the angel you always seem to think he is.’

  He bolted from the kitchen and Marita heard the bedroom door slam behind him, as she stood up, feeling her own rage finally boiling over.

  All the inner terror that she had again and again gulped down, the anger that had smouldered so long deep in her belly, erupted with a force that took control of her body. She rushed along the corridor after Kiddi and wrenched open the door to his bedroom. A red mist had formed in front of her eyes and the blood pumped through the veins in her head at a fearsome pace.

  ‘Tell me what you mean!’ she yelled. ‘What do you think you know that I don’t? Tell me, everything, all of it. Tell me every fucking thing!’

  107

  Úrsúla had waited in front of the television for the last ten minutes, as if she could will time to move faster to six-thirty and the news. She had been on edge the whole afternoon, since the announcement of the discovery of the body in the harbour on the three o’clock bulletin. She would have liked to have had Nonni by her side – she missed his composure and comfort – but she was also relieved that he had made sandwiches and taken the children up to the Blue Mountains to go skiing. Up there they would be away from all the media and away from their mother’s tension. This was the first time since Thursday that she had been alone in the house. Gunnar had gone home, as the twenty-four-hour guard duty had been lifted because the stalker who had sent the emails had been found. It turned out to have been a youngster – the son of the police officer in Selfoss who had been charged with raping a young girl.

  Úrsúla glanced yet again at her watch and turned up the television, even though the adverts were still running. She wasn’t able to stay still, so she stood behind the sofa where Kátur had curled up to sleep, her hands on the back, her fingers squeezing the upholstery to ease the tension. Finally, a chubby female newsreader in a pastel outfit began by reading out the main headlines.

  ‘The man found dead in Reykjavík harbour last night was Pétur Pétursson who was homeless. His death is believed to be suspicious. The police are searching for a white Suzuki Swift that was seen on CCTV in the harbour area.’

  The newsreader continued with the headlines, something about greenhouse-gas emissions and the Kyoto Protocol, but Úrsúla dropped onto the sofa and stared at the screen without seeing it, and listened without hearing. She was stiff with shock and her nervous energy had vanished. She felt drained, unable to move. At last she took her phone from her trouser pocket.

  ‘I’m on the way back to your place, toothbrush and everything,’ Gunnar said as he answered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Yes, I’m staying with you until Boris has organised security in the street. There’s a call out for a protest to be held outside your house tonight.’

  Úrsúla felt herself floating on the fringes of consciousness, her mind locked on to the news bulletin playing out in the background.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’ll send you a link to the Facebook group that you can take a look at. I’ll be with you in ten minutes.’

  His voice sounded flustered, and he ended the call before she was able to answer. She was relieved that he would be there shortly. That would ease the loneliness and the longing for the security of Nonni’s presence. Her phone pinged to announce Gunnar’s message. She opened it and tapped on the web link.

  It took her to a Facebook group announcing a protest outside her house, with people encouraged to take part and demand her resignation as minister. More than thirty people had confirmed that they would join in, and some had left comments on the page. One of the comments included a picture. It had clearly been taken in the dark, but the ministry car could be easily made out, with her in the front seat:

  This picture was taken outside the homeless shelter on Friday, the comment read. What was she doing there? Time to get that witch out of the Minister’s office! #notmyministerofjustice

  Monday

  108

  ‘This stuff’s supposed to be good for your hair, isn’t it?’ Úrsúla asked as she leaned over the wash basin to rinse the mess of raw egg from it. Her feeble attempt at humour seemed to bypass Eva, who stood behind her, concern plain on her face.

  ‘Won’t you take a shower?’ Eva asked, a towel in her hand.

  ‘No. That’ll do. Could you look in the cupboard and see if there’s a clean blouse in there?’

  ‘Of course there are clean blouses in your cupboard!
What kind of an assistant do you think I am?’ said Eva as she turned and left the room.

  Úrsúla laughed, but as she began to towel her hair dry, she felt her hands tremble. A second before the egg had hit her head someone among the gaggle of protestors outside her house had yelled ‘murderer!’

  Gunnar had walked her through the crowd and those few steps to the car had felt endless.

  Murderer. She had wanted to stop, to look the person who had said it in the eye, to explain; to tell them that she and Gunnar had searched for Pétur at the police station and then at the homeless shelter on Friday so they could talk to him. But this desire gave way to the fear of this throng of angry men, who wanted nothing but the worst for her, and she let Gunnar push her into the back seat. They had sped away from the echoing shouts, Gunnar muttering something under his breath about it being hopeless to try and talk to people under these circumstances, as if he had sensed what she had been thinking.

  ‘Here you are,’ said Eva, reappearing in the bathroom with a blouse that Úrsúla was sure she hadn’t seen before. She had become used to wearing whatever Eva told her to put on. She would miss it when she was no longer there at her side to deal with all those little daily matters.

  ‘Will you please call a press conference for tomorrow,’ she said to Eva. ‘And put together a draft of my resignation from office?’

  Eva stared at her, her mouth open in surprise.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Yes,’ Úrsúla replied. ‘I can’t remain in office as long as I’m under some kind of suspicion of having murdered Pétur.’

  ‘That’s just a few idiots,’ she said.

  Úrsúla shook her head. ‘I have to stand down while an investigation takes place. This photo of me outside the homeless hostel seems to have become a real bone of contention, and there’s no point trying to explain that Gunnar and I were looking for Pétur so we could talk to him. It all looks very suspicious, considering the man was found dead shortly afterwards. The neatest thing is for me to step aside so the police have a free hand to pursue an investigation.’

  Eva looked at her questioningly, took out her phone and tapped notes into it.

  ‘OK,’ she said. ‘You’ll need to speak to the prime minister, and there are all sorts of issues that need to be dealt with. Where do you want to start?’

  ‘First of all I need to speak to Óðinn,’ Úrsúla said. ‘Would you send him along to me? But first I’m going outside for a smoke.’

  She knew she needed a dose of nicotine to stop her hands from shaking.

  *

  Stella the cleaner was already on the balcony, finishing a cigarette. But when she saw Úrsúla approaching, she took another one from her pocket and lit up. The temperature had risen above zero and the snow had begun to melt. Water dripped from the roof, pattering on the handrail, which rang like a bell under the beating drops.

  ‘Thanks for your company out here,’ Úrsúla said. ‘This is my last day. I’ll be resigning tomorrow.’

  It was as well to practise her speech out here. In the morning she would have to gather the ministry staff in the central meeting area and repeat it.

  ‘What?’ Stella said. ‘Because of the homeless guy and all that?’

  ‘Yes,’ Úrsúla confirmed. ‘First I was accused of trying to get hold of his medical records without permission, then of having him locked up without reason, and now it’s being insinuated that I’ve actually killed him. You hear that?’

  She held a finger to her ear, indicating that Stella should listen. The mutter of protestors’ chants could be heard by the main entrance around the corner.

  ‘But that’s crazy!’ Stella said, her vehemence taking Úrsúla by surprise. ‘Nobody believes that. That’s just bullshit. You mustn’t resign.’

  ‘I don’t have a choice,’ she said. ‘It’s pretty much impossible to be in a worse position than having the insinuation of murder hanging over you.’

  ‘But you can’t resign!’ Stella said in desperation. ‘I can help you. I’ll do everything I can.’

  Úrsúla stubbed out her cigarette and dropped the butt into the can they used as an ashtray. The young woman’s earnestness genuinely took her by surprise, and it warmed her heart. She spread her arms and hugged her close.

  ‘You’ve already helped me a lot,’ she said. ‘It’s been lovely to share smoke breaks with you.’

  She planted a kiss on Stella’s cheek and stepped back inside. She hoped the rest of the staff wouldn’t take her departure so personally.

  ‘Is Óðinn here?’ she asked Freyja on the way back to her office.

  ‘No,’ Freyja replied. ‘He’s on holiday in Spain.’

  Úrsúla was brought up short.

  ‘I wasn’t told he was taking any holiday,’ she said.

  Freyja coughed gently, and Úrsúla knew there was no point applying any pressure to her. Undoubtedly it made little difference that ministers came and went. Freyja would always be first and foremost one of Óðinn’s staff. The permanent secretary was just that – permanent – while ministers stayed for a little while, or, as in her case, a very little while.

  ‘He must have forgotten to let you know,’ Freya said. ‘It was booked ages ago.’

  She put her hand cautiously under her carefully lacquered hair and adjusted it upwards, as if the lie had displaced it. This was at least one member of the ministry’s staff who would hardly miss her – and who she wouldn’t miss either.

  109

  Stella didn’t bother to clock out as she left, but that didn’t matter. She wasn’t going back to work there. She was too upset to figure out which bus routes would take her to the TV station, so she ran up to Hverfisgata and flagged down a taxi.

  Once she arrived at the studio, she asked for Gréta at reception and was shown into the station’s newsroom. It wasn’t lunchtime yet, but it looked like Gréta was already working her way through a packed lunch at her desk while she peered distractedly at the screen in front of her.

  ‘Hæ,’ she said in surprise as Stella greeted her, and seemed even more surprised when Stella asked if they could talk somewhere private. ‘I’m drowning in work—’ she began to explain, but Stella interrupted.

  ‘This is a work thing. Big news,’ she said. ‘The minister of the interior is resigning tomorrow.’

  Gréta quickly got to her feet and motioned for her to follow her into a room with a long conference table and chairs.

  ‘What did you say?’ Gréta asked as she sat down. ‘How do you know?’

  Stella began to recount her story, but then decided that she would need some assurance that she would be able to get out into the open what needed to be said.

  ‘I’m not saying any more unless I’m interviewed and can tell the truth in my own words,’ she said.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Gréta asked and gazed at her with interest.

  Stella felt the glow flow through her. She felt a kind of warmth when Gréta looked at her in that way, as if right now she was important. This was the look of concentrated energy that Gréta sent out to TV screens across the whole country when she looked into the camera and read the news.

  Stella couldn’t help opening up to her and was barely halfway through the tale of the creepy journalist who had bought the bags of ministry rubbish, and how the permanent secretary had been in his car, when Gréta stood up and asked her to wait a moment. She left briefly and returned with a grey-haired man she introduced as the news editor.

  ‘I want to try to save the minister by admitting my part in all this,’ Stella said.

  But he shook his head. ‘I think she’s beyond saving,’ he said, but sat down nevertheless.

  ‘Úrsúla is having an affair with a creep of a journalist called Thorbjörn, but he buys her waste paper from me so he can write about all kinds of stuff that’s taken out of context. And I believe the permanent secretary asked him to do it – or at least is controlling all this – because I saw him get out of Thorbjörn’s car. He was yellin
g at him, telling him that he hadn’t done as he had asked.’

  Stella was desolate, struggling to pull together what she wanted to say.

  ‘You mean Óðinn Jónsson, the permanent secretary?’ Gréta asked.

  Stella nodded. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think all this sounds like some sort of conspiracy?’

  Gréta and the news editor went out into the corridor and stood there for a while, whispering. Then Stella heard him say ‘OK’ in a loud voice before walking away.

  While the sound technician fitted her with a microphone for the interview, Gréta brought her a cup of coffee.

  ‘You know this is going to cost you your job, don’t you?’ she said, and Stella nodded. She knew, but hoped that her confession would do something to help Úrsúla avoid having to resign.

  Stella had no great understanding of politics, but a journalist buying the contents of the minister’s waste paper bin had to have some significance, especially when the website he worked for began publishing reports about the homeless guy, which seemed to be a sensitive subject. Plus there had to be a reason the permanent secretary had been talking to the very same journalist.

  She would have preferred to be elsewhere. But if her story could do anything to make up for the damage she had done to Úrsúla by selling her waste paper, then it was worth the shame and the loss of her job.

  She drank her coffee while the makeup artist finished her work, and noticed Gréta watching her closely. Maybe she was watching her being made up, but Stella felt that behind her piercing gaze was some kind of disdain. Somehow their roles had been reversed. She had a fantasy of Gréta fixed in her mind, made up of her bulky body, heavy perfume and weighty breasts. But now it seemed that for the first time Gréta saw Stella for what she really was: unremarkable scum.