Towards White

by Zena Shapter

  I nod, but want specifics. “Are you saying, Doctor Emil, you’re trying to observe one, or you’ve already observed one?”

  “Neither.”

  I sit back. “But you want to kill someone and resuscitate them, so you can watch what happens to their electrical energy?”

  “Kill someone? Nei,” he chuckles, “we wouldn’t have to kill someone. We’re scientists, not butchers. No, no. We would simply wait for a car crash or heart attack.”

  “What, then rush a Sannlitró-Völva to their deathbed?”

  “Nei! We are putting a Sannlitró-Völva in space!” He puts his finger on his mouth and makes a ‘shhh’ shape with his lips. “A Sannlitró-Völva on Earth wouldn’t have the scope to observe where our posthumous energy goes, whether it merges with other energies in the atmosphere or leaves in a polar wind. We need one up there. And I’m on a special committee to ensure one gets there. My experience in post-mortem examinations of the—”

  “Wait. Leave in a solar wind? You think our energies go into the sun?”

  “Nei, not a solar wind!” He scowls at me like I’m an imbecile and turns to search on his computer again. Soon a rotating optic-light image of Earth beams out from the display. A column of fluorescent green light hovers above the North Pole, throbbing with an upward movement. “A polar wind.” After gauging my blank expression, he explains further, no longer whispering. “A few years ago we needed to know more about solar winds. As you probably know, when there’s a storm on the sun electrons and protons explode into space as solar flares. When those flares reach Earth, they collide with and energise the oxygen and nitrogen atoms in our atmosphere, causing them to glow.”

  I nod. “The Aurora Borealis and Aurora Australis.”

  “Já,” he looks impressed again. “As you probably also know, solar winds can cause a lot of damage.”

  “More than people realise.” I did a paper on them at school. Solar winds can travel at a thousand kilometres a second, carrying with them trillions of watts of electricity with currents of a million amps each. They distort the shape of Earth’s magnetic field from a curve into a comet shape and, in extreme cases, can knock out satellites, electrical power plants, computers, radars, even corrode pipes.

  “And because of the damage they can cause,” Doctor Emil continues, “we decided we needed to know more about their interaction with Earth’s magnetic field. So the United States launched a satellite into space, the Fast Auroral Snapshot, to capture the information we need to study the winds. But it also captured something else, something they didn’t expect. They found a polar wind carrying particles out of Earth’s atmosphere. Out.” Doctor Emil raises his eyebrows and waits for me to make my own logical connection.

  “Doctor Emil,” I say, after pausing to think, “are you suggesting our energies ultimately go into space?”

  “We know there are auroras on Saturn, Uranus, Neptune, Jupiter and its moon, Ganymede. Perhaps we end up on one of those planets?”

  For a moment I am silent. I haven’t heard this theory before, not even from Mark. Though it does remind me of something else he used to say. “My brother always believed heaven and hell were in one place, the same place,” I mutter.

  “Did he explain why?”

  “He said everything in the universe is cyclic, so our ultimate destination is bound to be the same. Our journey to hell is probably more unpleasant than our journey to heaven, but ultimately heaven and hell have to be in the same place.”

  As above, so below.

  “I agree.” Doctor Emil smiles, satisfied. “In this life, positives attract negatives, and vice versa. If this draw-of-opposites principle applies to our posthumous energy, irrespective of whether that energy is positive or negative or a balance of both, it will attract differently charged energies and keep attracting them until the final destination of all posthumous energy is in only one place. Dominus Illuminatio Mea. God is my light. We will know more when we study it further.”

  “From space.”

  “We could go a lot further scientifically,” he lowers his voice again, “if we formed an alliance with another country, such as the UK, France, the States or Australia, to launch an adapted Sannlitró-Völva into space, like the FAST.”

  “Provided your adapted Sannlitró-Völva can detect our posthumous energy once it changes into its next form of course.”

  “Of course. What we are certain of is that death is most definitely not the end. Science will prove the rest, as it proved thunder and lightning, earthquakes and the auroras—all scientific equations, not mystical happenings. Þú ert velkominn, gerðu svo vel. Otherwise, where does the electrical energy in our brains go when we die?”

  “I guess we’ll see,” I say, wondering what made us stray so far from the topic of Mark’s death. I look out the window, down into the Litrúm-Hús car park, and try to place how we became so distracted. Why did we start talking about sending a Sannlitró-Völva into space? It feels like Doctor Emil is trying to sell the idea to me. The view doesn’t give me any answers. Instead, in my peripheral vision, I see Doctor Emil turn to his computer, minimise his Internet browser, then close down Mark’s autopsy report.

  The report!

  He hasn’t printed it out for me.

  “Well, thank you very much for your time, Doctor Emil.” I stand, offering him my hand. “It was nice of you to spend so much time reassuring me. I hope you’re right and that Mark is heading for a better place right now.”

  “I am certain he is,” he replies, smiling and shaking my hand in a hurry. “Let me know when you’re ready to fly home and I will have your brother ready for travel the next day. Unless you want to take his personal belongings separately, they will travel with his casket.”

  “What is there?”

  “A backpack, briefcase, keys and wallet.”

  “No laptop, or phone?”

  “Nei.”

  “I’ll take his briefcase now please, leave the rest here.”

  “Ah, well, it’s all at the hospital. So I will arrange for the briefcase to be delivered to your guesthouse.” He moves around his desk and gestures at his office door.

  “Tonight?”

  “If I can arrange it,” he opens the door open for me.

  “Great. Thank you. I’m at The Himinn. Oh,” I pretend to remember, “and don’t forgot my copy of Mark’s report. I’ll take that with me now please.”

  Doctor Emil’s expression drops. With a huff, he returns to his computer and pokes the relevant commands into his keyboard. What did he hope to achieve by talking to me about our brains’ energy and the FAST? Surely he didn’t expect me to forget about my brother’s autopsy report? Even if I had forgotten, I would only have remembered later. Perhaps he hoped I was the type of person to give up at the first inconvenience? I’m not, but for him I suppose it was worth a try.

  He goes to his printer, snatching out each page as they emerge.

  “Takk fyrir.” I thank him, holding out my hand.

  He plonks himself back in his seat and staples the report together before thrusting it at me.

  “What time did you say the morgue opens in the morning?”

  “Nine a.m.”

  “Great. I’ll be there then. Bless, Doctor Emil.” I say, moving towards the door and curling the report under my arm. He doesn’t return my farewell. Instead, as I leave the room, he picks up an earpiece and instructs his computer’s VoIP. I’m tempted to leave the door ajar, loiter outside to see if he’s going to speak in English. But as I try to rest the door against its frame, my phone bleeps, making me jump. The movement makes the door shut with a slam.

  I look at my phone’s display. There’s no point rushing to read the message anymore—it won’t be from Mark—but I do anyway. It’s a new text message and the sender’s number is one I don’t recognise.

  “If you are back in Reykjavik by Frida
y,” the text reads, “I will not kill you. Be on the Austurleid tomorrow.”

  I read it until the words sink in.

  When they do, I grip the phone as if my hold can erase the threat. Why is this happening to me? Dealing with Director Úlfar is enough. Dealing with my brother’s death is more than enough. Having bus drivers watch me and threatening phone calls is plenty already. A death threat takes my day to a whole new level.

  Frozen to the spot, staring at the demand, I don’t know what to do. I hear a rustling of paper behind me. There’s someone else in the corridor. I glance over my shoulder. There’s a man a few metres away, standing beside a closed door, his face hidden behind a wodge of paper. Straight shoulder-length black hair shines atop a solid build. A light brown suit strains across his arms and thighs. He’s as big as a bear. He also doesn’t seem interested in me, so I angle my suitcase towards the hum of nearby voices and head towards human activity, and the main entrance where Ari will be waiting.

  When Ari sees this text, he’ll have to take action—it threatens my life!

  I call him but the tone rings out and goes to voicemail. I leave a message, asking him to phone as soon as he can, unless I get to him first.

  Streaks of light flash across me as I speed past open doorways. My suitcase clatters over the parquetry flooring but, as I follow the direction in which I came, I realise I’ve hurried too fast. Where am I?

  I stop to look around and retrace my steps in my mind. I thought this was the right way. Now I’m not so sure. I try not to think about being lost in a strange place where I can’t speak the language and where someone now wants to kill me, though both facts repeat through my mind like a nag. I’ve been complacent, striding around these corridors like I’m in the Royal Courts of Justice back in London. I’m not and at some point I need to acknowledge that.

  There are many things I need to acknowledge, whether I’m ready to or not. Emotions cloud clear thought.

  Chapter 6

  People are laughing up ahead so, although it means turning down a corridor I don’t recognise, I carry on until I find four Icelanders huddled around a smartphone. Beyond them the corridor is short, bending to the left. More voices echo from around the bend, and behind the group is the opening to a curved staircase leading down. The group consists of two middle-aged women and two younger men.

  “Halló,” I greet them. “Do you speak English?” They shake their heads, then wait while I access my phone’s Word2Word application. As I select the right languages, the man in the light brown suit, the one from outside Doctor Emil’s office, enters the corridor, his face still obscured by his reading material.

  “Can you understand me now?” I ask the group, as the man walks past with a confident stride.

  “Já,” say the group.

  Yes, my phone translates.

  “I’m looking for the main entrance.”

  After my phone finishes its translation, a petite woman with spiky auburn hair smiles and points at the staircase behind me. A score of bangles jangle up and down her arms. “Down there,” she and my phone say. “At the bottom, turn right, then use the second staircase on the left. It will take you straight there.”

  Her colleagues nod in agreement.

  “Great. Takk, bless.” I say, smiling and securing Mark’s report under my arm. I pocket my phone, heave my suitcase into both arms, then duck down the stairs. It feels better, knowing where I’m going. Still I remain alert and watchful, assessing the embracing odour that wafts up as I spiral down the echoing stone steps and, as the group’s voices grow more distant, the fact that it’s very quiet down below. Perhaps I should have asked them to actually show me the way?

  No, that would be an over-reaction. The security pods would sound an alarm should anyone try to enter the building with intent to cause harm. I’m safe here.

  I’m also already at the bottom. I lower my suitcase and turn to see a corridor lined with what looks like the courthouse’s old holding cells. Bleach has been used to overpower the pong of stale urine still sticking to the cells. Fresh manila paint attempts to disguise knobble-rusted pipes. But cells are still cells. Their walls have been exposed to so many years of caged testosterone that the corridor leading to them stinks of subjugation and silence.

  I glance into each cell as I pass. They’re occupied with empty single beds, toilets, sinks, and speckled brown and cream linoleum flooring. No one’s down here. Clearly no one in Höfkállur needs locking up anymore.

  When I reach the junction the woman described, I turn right as she said, down a corridor lined with staircases. I walk to the second staircase on my left, then pause at a clanking sound from the corridor above. Was I supposed to take the second staircase on the left after I turn right, or the second on the right after I turn left?

  While I’m trying to remember, my phone rings. Ari?

  No. I pull my phone from my pocket. Its caller-id says ‘THE HIMINN’. It’s the guesthouse where I’m staying tonight, and where Mark stayed these past few months. For some reason I answer with a whisper.

  “Becky?” says a voice.

  “A-hum.” I mumble.

  “This is Anna Naddoddur, from The Himinn Guesthouse.” Her voice is sonorous with a Canadian accent. “Are you in Höfkállur yet? The Austurleid has arrived already I think. Shall I pick you up?”

  Mark told me about his friend, Anna. From what he said in recent emails, he trusted her an awful lot. “Um, yes, okay. I’m at the Litrúm-Hús actually, just finished.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I would have come with you had I known. I can be there in ten minutes. You could wait for me out front?”

  “Sure, as long as I can find my way there.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “By the old holding cells, I think.”

  “Oh you’re not far. Put your back to the cells and take a right. It’s the second staircase on your left. At the top, turn right and follow the corridor. Once you pass the old law books, you’ll see it.”

  “Okay, thanks.” I must sound doubtful.

  “Don’t worry. My cousin works in the Litrúm-Hús, I know exactly where you are. You’ll be at the front entrance in five minutes or less. Wait near the door and I’ll see you there. Okay?”

  I’m not okay of course—who would be in my position? But I want to get off the phone and start moving again. Down here my voice echoes in the emptiness and I don’t like it. So I tell her I’m fine and try to sound chirpy. Then I hoist my suitcase again and scale the second staircase on the left. There’s another clank from above but I keep going…until my phone rings a second time.

  This time the caller is listed as someone called Ólaf Stefánson. I hesitate to answer in case it’s another threat. But the man who texted me, and/or the one who threatened me on the Austurleid, wouldn’t now suddenly reveal his identity. I put down my suitcase and answer quickly to silence the loud ringing.

  “Halló?” I whisper.

  “Rebecca Dales?” The caller has an Icelandic accent though thankfully doesn’t sound like the man on the Austurleid. Then again, this one’s not using a Word2Word translator.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Ólaf, Anna’s cousin.”

  “Cousin?”

  “Já. She spoke with you and thought you might be lost?” His voice has the resonant depth possessed by men of a certain maturity. It also sounds like he’s walking somewhere in a hurry. “She said you knew I’d be calling.”

  “Um, no, I don’t think she mentioned that.” All she said was she had a cousin who worked here.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. Do you know where you are now, my dear?”

  “Anna said to take the second staircase on the left, after the junction from the cells.”

  “Can you see a number six at the top of that staircase?” His breathing is heavy.

  I look up as another clank echoes toward
s me. There are no numbers anywhere. “Hold on.” I take another a few steps. Closer to the top, I see both a number six and a door banging in the breeze from an open window. “Yes I see it. I go right at the top?”

  “Já, correct. Gott. Anna sounded worried.”

  Obviously there’s no fooling Anna. “I’m fine.”

  “Okay. But if you want, you have my number now, so call me if you need any help after speaking with Anna, okay?”

  “Um, thanks.” Though I’m not sure why I’d need to contact Anna’s cousin again.

  “Bless, Rebecca. Bless.”

  I hang up and store his number anyway. Mark wouldn’t have invited me to Höfkállur if the whole town hated lawyers, some of its inhabitants must be indifferent. And Mark trusted Anna, and Anna obviously trusts her cousin Ólaf, so that’s good enough for me. Thanks to Mark, I now have two friends; two people I can go to for help. I pick my suitcase back up and climb the remaining steps, towards the voices in the corridor above.

  Wood panelling covers the walls until a series of glass walls and doors open up one side. A group of four men, a woman, and a boy stand in a stone alcove halfway down the corridor. Smiling as they slowly move away from each other, they look as if they’re saying goodbye. I recognise the outline of one of the men. It’s Ari, and he’s turning right, striding towards the front entrance.

  I’m about to call out when a smoked-glass door opens to my right. A bear of a man in a light brown suit with sleek shoulder-length black hair emerges. He walks with a confident stride. Holding no papers this time, texting on his phone instead, the side of his face shows weathered bronze Inuit skin, eyes that have spent a lifetime squinting into the distance, a high forehead and equally high cheekbones. With his spare hand, he strokes a thin black goatee. I didn’t see his face before, but easily recognise the man who was outside Doctor Emil’s office.

  At the sound of the door clicking shut, the boy with Ari’s group jerks his shaggy mop of hair aside to look behind him. When he sees the Inuit man, he narrows his eyes with unmistakable hostility.