Towards White

by Zena Shapter

  “Ari is very nice, you can trust him.”

  I don’t like the emphasis he puts on the word ‘very’. It implies something I can’t put my finger on. “As long as he brings the police with him I will.”

  “Miss Dales, there are…” He makes an exasperated sound. “Please, forget about the phone call and let me deal with it. All you have to do is get your brother and come back to Reykjavík, before Friday if pos—”

  I hang up before he says anything more about my returning to Reykjavík before Friday. My teeth clench just thinking about his persistence. How can any of this even be happening? Why aren’t lawyers welcome in Höfkállur anymore? And if someone’s so desperate for lawyers to stay away from the town, so desperate that they’d go to the trouble of finding my phone number and threatening me, what might they have done to Mark if they discovered his sister used to be one, and that he’d invited her to stay with him?

  No, it’s too far-fetched—why would anyone think to check who Mark’s related to, especially given his unwavering support for the Heimspeki. My imagination’s going into overdrive. Mark will be fine. He’s fine.

  Still, the thought makes my stomach contract into a knot so tight it’s not a nice feeling anymore. I feel like vomiting.

  Chapter 3

  The Austurleid SBS finally swings into Höfkállur around mid-afternoon. The travel depot is off the highway, its bitumen yellowed by a strong summer light that strikes without interruption from any surrounding buildings or mountains. I sit up as we pass its car park, full of four-wheel drives that glint in the sunlight. As we glide to a stop, I search for the person Director Úlfar has sent to meet me, no doubt another of his watchful minions. There’s a ticket office, and some bureaucrat in a high-necked white shirt and sash leans against it. Beside him is a placard bearing my name. That must be him, though he doesn’t react to the Austurleid’s arrival.

  The transport’s doors hiss open and our driver waddles down the steps to help passengers retrieve their luggage, watching me as he does so. I don’t care about his surveillance anymore. All I care about is speaking to the police about the threat, then getting to Mark.

  So, expecting the bureaucrat to make his way over to greet me, I follow some passengers outside and yank my suitcase from underneath the Austurleid. When I look up, I’m surprised to see him still relaxing against the wall. His eyes are closed, his head angled at the sun as if yearning to melt into some light warming breeze, hang off its gentle whispers. Director Úlfar must have told this guy about the threat and my reaction, about my brother and his…condition. So, shouldn’t he be searching for me, anxious to locate and placate me?

  Instead he’s enjoying the weather?

  He doesn’t even look up at the clatter of my suitcase rattling over the bitumen towards him.

  As I near the ticket office, however, and the sun infiltrates my own skin with its snug beams, I begin to understand. The air is warm yet crisp; the sun is welcoming yet invading. It reaches inside me and untwists my knots, warms my bones and relaxes my shoulders. I look up at my first unrestrained view of the sky in two days and fill my lungs with the forgiving freshness in the breeze, then release the air slowly. Like me, this guy has probably been inside all day, now he’s taking a moment for himself, enjoying a break from work. I’ve been chewing the insides of my cheek so hard they’re bleeding again. I’d like to rip the head off whoever threatened me on the Austurleid, possibly the driver and Director Úlfar too. Still, that’s because Mark is my brother. To most other people, he’s merely a name. He’s paperwork and statistics, a task they have to complete before they go home or stand sunning themselves in a car park. I need to keep a lid on things. Take it step by step. Emotions can cloud clear thought.

  I slow my pace to a stroll. This guy isn’t going to understand why I need to know the things I do, he isn’t going to understand that I’m tenacious on any usual day, let alone a day like this. The reason I used to be a good lawyer, the reason I’m good at my job now, is because when I decide to do something I do it well. I like to leave no stone unturned, then understand why those stones were put there in the first place and, if possible, who or what last touched those stones and for how long. Before I make a decision, I like to know details and reasons. And that’s not only when I’m keeping my mind occupied with work. That’s just me. I’ve come to accept it over the years, and I see it as a plus.

  But this guy may see it differently, as my parents often do. He might see it as controlling, as Mum sometimes does. She thinks I take control away from people. Like with this trip to Iceland. Mum wanted to come, despite the distance, despite the reason. I told her it wasn’t a good idea; that it would end up (hopefully) being an unnecessary trip, full of unnecessary angst. I was trying to help her, and Dad.

  “Right, that’s it then,” she said to Dad when we spoke yesterday about Mark.

  “What do you mean?” I asked, already knowing.

  “There’s no point discussing it any further—we both know it’ll be your way or not at all.”

  Dad hadn’t refuted her statement. They both think I’m stubborn. To me, it’s simple persistence. That’s how you get things done. Persistence leads to thoroughness, and a reputation for thoroughness gets me the best assignments. Mum thinks I’m too pushy. But for me pushiness is passion.

  Then again, occasionally Mum is right. There’s a fine line between pushiness and passion. Which is why, looking at this guy’s face, I realise I’m going to have to tread softly in case I cross that line. Mum and Dad will never forgive me if I stuff this up by putting everyone I meet on the defensive, which could be easy in a place judgmental about lawyer types like me. Mum already believes Mark wouldn’t be in Iceland if not for me. If I hadn’t been so selfish that time, eighteen months ago, she reckons Mark would have finished his thesis already. In that, at least, Mum does have a point. So what if she has a point about the rest too?

  Forcing a smile, I greet the guy with the placard as cordially as I can. “Halló. Ég heiti Rebecca Dales.”

  Hazel-brown eyes peer out from under low golden-white eyebrows. “Góðan dag.” The man shoulders himself away from the wall, arches his back to crack some joint in his spine. “Talarðu íslensku? You speak Íslenska?”

  “Not really. I keep trying, but everyone speaks such good English.”

  “It is true, we do. I am sorry.” He bows his head, tousling his crop of bushy blond hair that needs a haircut. “I hope you will survive. My name is Ari Halldórsson, and I am Chief of Personnel at Höfkállur Litrúm-Hús. Please call me Ari. Director Úlfar instructs me to help you, in every way, while you are in Höfkállur. Which, I feel, will be a pleasure.” He grins. “I have never met an Australian before. G’day!”

  I tighten my grip on my suitcase handle to control my irritation. This isn’t the time for joking, or flirting. “Thanks, but I’m not on holiday. Um…” standing my suitcase upright, I look around the depot, “…so, where are the police? Didn’t Director Úlfar tell you I needed to talk to them straight away?”

  The bureaucrat studies my face. “Are you sure you were supposed to get off here for that?”

  I frown. “Of course.”

  “Because we have no police in Höfkállur. Director Úlfar explained this to you, já?”

  “What do you mean? Are they on a training day or something?”

  He scratches at the regrowth on his jaw while digesting my question. “Rebecca. Can I call you Rebecca?”

  “Becky.”

  “Becky,” he smiles the word like it’s a luscious secret. “Director Úlfar told me your appointment with our coroner is very soon. Perhaps you would like to go there first, talk about the phone call with me as we go? Then you can decide who to speak with next. My car is over there.” He jerks his head towards the car park, takes the handle of my suitcase but waits for me to make a decision before moving in any particular direction. “You want
to see your brother first?”

  I do. Mark is my priority. I can always speak to the police after I’ve seen whatever cadaver Director Úlfar wants me to see. Then, assuming the cadaver isn’t Mark, the police can begin their official search for him at the same time as looking for the man on the phone. “Which car is yours?”

  “The Eroder. The, er, purple one, there.” He points to a huge mauve and silver four-wheel drive. “If you prefer to walk, the Litrúm-Hús is a little along the quay. I drove here in case I was late. But I forgot,” he chuckles to himself, “transports are always on time now.”

  I survey the depot. There are no grey four-wheel drives in sight. Ari has no deep rasping wheeze like the man on the Austurleid. It wasn’t the type of wheeze someone could control. Still, I’m not about to get into some stranger’s car. “Um, if it’s not far, we’ll walk.”

  Ari gestures towards the exit where seagulls as big as albatrosses search the footpath for food. As we walk, he tries to orientate me with the town and its harbour, though nearing the depot’s exit his words are drowned out by the passing of several tipper trucks heaving open trailers of fresh fish. The seagulls rocket into the air to reach the trailers, adding to the noise, so Ari gives up talking until the birds are further away. They squawk the loudest as they pilfer succulent silver morsels from the iced-up cargoes, not that the trailers stop. The birds follow after them too, hovering in the wisps of freezing vapour rising from their tops.

  I shiver as we cross to the quayside and follow the harbour’s dank shoreline towards the town centre. Ranges of lime green and taupe mountains throw their shadows over the mirror-flat waters of the harbour. Waist-high basalt boulders frame the docks and divide footpath from road, across from which wooden homes painted burgundy, olive and turquoise all face the view. Their corrugated-aluminium roofs stretch towards the ground, while balconets jut out from their upper floors. No wonder Mark stayed here as long as he did. It’s beautiful.

  “So,” Ari begins once the squawking has died down and our pace settles. “Director Úlfar told you that we are a research town, já?”

  “He said you were testing a legal system, based on the Sannlitró-Völva.” I remember Mark’s explanation of the machine now. “Apparently you’ve developed some kind of lie-detector?”

  Ari nods, yet frowns like he wants to disagree. “The Sannlitró-Völva is used for many things, detecting lies is only one. Its most important role is preventing crime, and it has been very successful to date, which is why,” he breathes out his next sentence fast, as if anticipating a bad reaction, “we retired our police, permanently.”

  I stumble on a crack in the footpath. “You what?”

  “I know,” he grins, unmistakable pride in his voice. “It sounds crazy, right? But it is okay, because of the Heimspeki.”

  I stare at him, waiting for the punchline. None comes. “You’re not joking? But how…how’s that working for you, exactly?”

  “Gott.” His voice fills with wonder as he explains. “When you see the positivity, or negativity, of your electrical energy through the Sannlitró-Völva, something happens to you. You realise, wow, this is the type of energy I will become when I die. It makes you want to be very positive. Suddenly all our offenders asked to be examined. Lawyers had no work, so they left.” He turns his palms up to indicate a lack of choice.

  “No.” I hear myself snap. “I meant, how could it be working for you at all when someone just threatened me?” My voice has a condescending tone to it. Keep a lid on things, I remind myself. “Last time I checked, threatening people is a crime.”

  Ari shakes his head as he speaks. “I know. It is a pity this has happened. Probably a lot of people are very passionate about the Heimspeki right now. Maybe, you are a lawyer, so Director Úlfar says…”

  “Not a criminal lawyer though. I specialise in researching new court systems and their procedures…Oh, hold on,” I realise the connection, “they think I’m going to condemn their new system because it puts lawyers out of work? I’d never do that. I’d never condemn a legal system for any reason other than it doesn’t work, and to believe that I’d have to have a very good reason.”

  “Your brother just died here.” Ari looks at me as if I’m being naïve. “Perhaps that is reason enough?”

  “I don’t even live here!” I glance over my shoulder to check the footpath behind me, and the road for grey four-wheel drives. It’s empty. “If your crime rates are low without lawyers, or police, then good for you. What does it matter to me?”

  Ari goes to say something but stops himself.

  “What?”

  “It is not about numbers, Becky. If this were your home, you would understand. When a community decides to trust each other it’s like falling in love, with thousands of people.”

  “Ha! I didn’t feel much love from the man who threatened me.” I probably could have said that without the scoff.

  “He will come forward. He will need to admit his mistake to neutralise his negativity.”

  “He’ll need to do what?”

  “That’s how things work here now.”

  “So people simply…admit their mistakes, even if it’s a crime?” Ari nods. “So when will this guy admit his? How long does it usually take?” Ari’s shrug says it all. “So, you want me to just wait? I’m only here a few days.” There must be something I can do. “How far away is the nearest town with police?”

  “Two hours’ drive. But they will not know where to start in Höfkállur. Straight ahead, please.” He gestures across a boat ramp. “Do not worry, sometimes we have anonymous information, sometimes there is evidence first, but for a year now all of our offenders have come forward.”

  “This one won’t.”

  “You will be surprised.” He sounds both amused and proud.

  “No, I won’t. There must be something I can do!” I struggle to keep the urgency from my voice. “I can’t just wait. When you say all your police have retired, what do you mean exactly? Is anyone keeping records or taking down information, maintaining files? Has anything like this happened before? Because if Director Úlfar sent you to pacify me rather than actually do something, you may as well go back to your car. I’ll find someone else.”

  Ari stops walking and looks at me. “You are very…”

  “What?”

  He shakes his head, tuts. “I don’t know.” He starts walking again, then stops and glances across the harbour.

  Fishing boats chug in and out of the harbour entrance, honking to each other as they bring in their catches to awaiting fish factories. He watches the boats for a moment. It looks like he’s thinking. Even so, his silence infuriates me. I’m about to snap again when he clears his throat to speak.

  “I could call my father,” he says, standing my suitcase upright with a decisive thud. “He was Höfkállur’s Police Commissioner, before. Now he’s an einstaklingsráðgjafi, er, a counsellor for offenders. He knows a lot of people. He can ask around for you.”

  “Great. Let’s call him.”

  “Now?”

  “Right now.”

  He searches my face. “Are you alright, Becky? You seem in a hurry. Like you need to know everything very fast.”

  “I’m sorry.” Keep a lid on things. “I’m not having the best day. It’s…I’m…very upset about my brother. This is important, for me. Though of course I understand it might not be for other people.”

  Ari nods to himself. “I understand.” He goes to say something more but pauses to make eye contact with me. His expression loosens then tenses to ensure nothing cheerful shows in it. “I know what it is like to lose someone.”

  “Really?” As soon as the sarcasm leaves my mouth, I regret adding it. He sounded sincere.

  “Yes.” He sighs quietly, glancing at the boats before looking at me again. “And I am here to help. I am trying to help. Okay?” He waits until I nod befo
re leading me over to a sculpture just ahead. A gleaming circle of polished steel is topped by a full-size Viking ship skeleton, also crafted from steel. Its upper curves shine white and sometimes yellow in the sun, while lower sections and underneath reflect a dark foreboding grey. Ari mutters something about it being a tribute to the town’s Viking ancestors, says there’s an even bigger one in Reykjavík, then moves off to phone his father, indicating I should wait on a nearby bench and relax.

  I cross my legs under the bench and lean on its armrest. But how can I possibly relax? Maybe coming here alone was a bad idea after all. It’s too much responsibility. I’m clearly an uptight mess, and how can a mess help anyone?

  As if in answer, a sea breeze wafts onto my face. It feels cool, smells salty and brings with it the sound of lapping waves. I gaze past the sculpture’s silver arches to ripples bouncing across the harbour’s briny surface. Closing my eyes, I tilt my face into the sun and listen to the water. Just as nature always lifts me, water brings me calm. Swimming above it, diving below it, gazing at it—I am a different person around water. There, I am not a mess. There, I am simply me—tenacious, careful me.

  I wish I were there now.

  I’m not, so all I can do is let this water soothe me. Emotions cloud clear thought and I’ll think quicker if I’m calm.

  So I inhale slowly; exhale slowly. The salty smell of the sea is the same the world over. Apart from Mark, it’s my only constant. My inner sanctum. So I listen to the water’s movement; ripples that rumble towards me and swash back, towards me and back. I feel my shoulders drop and my jaw loosen. I start feeling more chilled, until, when the breeze subsides, the water’s movements grow suddenly louder.

  Waves rumble so close it’s as if water’s swelling all around me. The tide surges as if to drench me; as if the Viking sculpture itself is a bursting fountain about to douse me in wetness. It feels like a waterfall is already plummeting onto my shoulders; that a burst thundercloud is already soaking me to the skin. I open my eyes. Of course I am still dry. Yet the thunder of surging water remains inside my head, filling my skull with gurgling rapids that gush against my eyes and course through my ears.