Towards White

by Zena Shapter

  “I will call my father first.” Ari says, leaning into the back seat to search his pack for his phone. “He will need to know. He has known Jón a long time. They used to, er, help each other back in Reykjavík.”

  “Help each other how exactly?” Ari squirms but doesn’t answer. “Ari, tell me. How did they used to help each other?”

  “Security guards can, um, hear a lot of talk outside a courthouse, between lawyers and clients. When Dad was Höfkállur’s Police Commissioner, and his more serious cases were sent down to Reykjavík, Jón was on security there. For the right price, he would…”

  “Share what information he overheard?”

  “Yeah.” Ari hooks his phone to an earpiece. “Dad thought it okay because he was putting criminals away. After the discoveries, when he realised what the Heimspeki meant, he felt bad for using Jón. That’s why he became a counsellor, got Jón a job with Höfkállur MUR. And he, Jón,” Ari harrumphs bitterly, “made a deal with me. He was to tell me if he had any problems and I would not judge him. So much for that.” He shoves the Eroder’s gearstick into reverse and swings away from the pools.

  As his front tyres hit the main road, he activates his phone. Before he can dial out, a digital tune hums in the silence. He tilts his phone to see its caller-id. “Director Úlfar,” he says, surprised. His thumb is already moving to answer it.

  “Don’t answer!”

  It’s too late, his thumb has already depressed the phone’s green answer button. “Halló?”

  Listening through his earpiece, he doesn’t speak for a few minutes. Then he asks questions in Icelandic and agrees to something before hanging up.

  “We are to go to the morgue,” Ari tells me. “Director Úlfar tried to call you first, but your phone isn’t working.”

  “It’s rather wet.” It was in my pocket when I fell in the river, and its metallic weight still in my clothes when I undressed. Hopefully all the photos I took will be safely stored on my backup cloud. “Why does he want us to go to the morgue? I was planning on going straight to the police.”

  “Doctor Emil is there, waiting to speak with you about your brother.”

  “Doctor Emil? I thought he was away from Höfkállur until next week.”

  “Nei,” he shakes his head. “Who told you that?”

  “His assistant, Gunnar somebody.”

  “When?”

  “He left a message on my phone last night. Why?”

  “Gunnar Eyjólfsson,” Ari changes gear and speeds up, “is missing. Doctor Emil tried to speak to him today but no one knows where he is. This afternoon they found your contact details on his phone. They also found emails between him and some group called Velja. It means ‘to choose’. Director Úlfar says he’s looking into it. He left a message on Gunnar’s phone asking him to go to the Litrúm-Hús as soon as he got his message. He hasn’t shown up yet.”

  “You think he’s our activist? Is he working with Jón?”

  Ari pauses in thought as we exit onto the highway. “I don’t know.”

  “Ólaf said Jón was in a case yesterday. Do you know whether he was in it all day, or just the morning?”

  “Actually, Jón has been having migraines for a few days now, coming in and out of work when he can. I think he only worked yesterday in the afternoon.”

  “Ólaf said he was there all day.”

  Ari shrugs. “I can check. Data from the scan booths go to Personnel too. There will be a record of his absence at the Litrúm-Hús.”

  “Can you check the scan booths for someone else too? Anna said Mark was at the Litrúm-Hús last Friday. He never went back to The Himinn. Your records might show whether he left the Litrúm-Hús with anyone or by himself.”

  “I can check after the morgue.” Ari grips the steering wheel and eases up the acceleration.

  The thinning grey road disappears fast. Few cars interrupt our speed. It brings me a degree of comfort and we settle into an urgent silence that has us on high alert, especially when a car of a certain colour rushes towards us from Höfkállur: a grey four-wheel drive. It couldn’t be Gunnar or Jón of course, and, sure enough, the car passes us. I turn to watch as it continues on its way, then it skids to a stop, jerks into a turn, and shoots back towards us.

  “Ari, that’s a—”

  “I see it.”

  I survey the road up and down. “No black sedan following us this afternoon?”

  “No need if you’re with me.”

  “Do you think it could be—”

  “Jón? I wouldn’t rule anything out.”

  The car flies towards us like an out-of-control freight train. It must be Jón. His erratic swerving revs closer and closer. All Ari can do is speed up. He slams his foot onto the accelerator, pinning me to my seat. Every muscle in my body urges our speed to outmatch Jón’s. Trapped in my seat, I grit my teeth. There can be only one reason Jón has come back from Höfkállur—to finish a job he now knows is outstanding.

  Chapter 21

  We manage to stay ahead of Jón until there’s a bend in the road, and a yellow and red sign telling us it’s a sharp one. Ari flicks his eyes between the rear vision mirror and the road ahead, assessing Jón’s speed and our distance to the curve. We’re close. In fact, if Ari doesn’t brake soon, we’ll lose control. I gnaw at the insides of my cheek. It’s not until our tyres actually meet the bend that he finally hits the brakes.

  Tyres screech and Ari turns into the skid. He doesn’t lose control. We straighten out and he speeds up again.

  Behind us, the grey four-wheel drive swerves like it’s being driven by a crazed lunatic: Jón takes the bend on its inside lane, gains on us then starts honking and flicking his headlights off and on, off and on. He lowers his window and waves frantically at us. Flowing white hair whips against the side of his car and I swear Jón is wearing a wig. Oh…

  “It’s not Jón,” I realise. “Slow down, it’s Anna!”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Pull over!”

  Anna sees us brake and attempts to pull in behind us. But she doesn’t brake hard enough and, when she reaches the road’s gravelly verge, her tyres slue across sharp rocks at the edge of the lava field, searching for grip. Rubber scrunches against the rocks and there’s an almighty pop as a tyre bursts. Panicking, Anna depresses her accelerator by mistake and spins the steering wheel in the wrong direction, skidding across the highway. She slams through the line of fluorescent yellow poles on the opposite roadside and rams into a boulder. Then all is still.

  Ari leaps from the Eroder and runs to her. If a car were to come around the bend right now, it would nip the boot of Anna’s car, sending it spinning again.

  I spring my door and hobble to where Ari is pulling Anna out. “Anna! Are you okay?”

  She sends me a look to say she is, yet struggles to put any weight on her right foot. We sit her by the roadside and check her over. Her neck is tender from whiplash. Her right ankle is either broken or severely sprained. She can’t move her left wrist and blood trickles onto her black bustle dress from a cut hidden beneath her reddening, matted hair.

  “What were you thinking?” I ask gently. “Why are you here—is everything okay at home?”

  Shaken and embarrassed, she shrugs in response but doesn’t look either of us in the eye. She also doesn’t notice my injuries. “I…I need a moment.”

  Ari assesses her cut, then her car. “It can’t stay here,” he says, meaning its angle across the road. “It’s a danger to other drivers. I’ll pull it over there.” He sets about detaching the Eroder’s winch and hauling it over to Anna’s car.

  I sit beside her. “What are you doing here, Anna?”

  “It was getting late. I was worried.”

  Worry is one thing. Driving like a lunatic to a remote glacier is another. “So you thought you’d come and find us?”

&nbs
p; “I had to do something. You know me, I couldn’t wait at home.”

  “Why not?” What did she think might happen to us? “If we were having a good time, we’d have been much later than this.”

  “But, after Mark…”

  “What about him?”

  “I, um…” Her struggle to explain reeks of guilt.

  “Anna, why didn’t you tell me Mark was helping you research corruption at the Litrúm-Hús?”

  “Ólaf told you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh.” She searches my eyes for a way out, deflates when I don’t offer her one. “I didn’t want to tell you until I was sure you were ready to do something about it.” She bows her head again. “But you are right of course. I should have told you. I know what you’re going through, that’s all—how confusing this stage is. You need time to adjust.”

  “Adjust to what?”

  “I’m sorry, Becky!” She thrusts the words at me like her entire soul depends on them. “I didn’t know they’d go this far.”

  “Anna, I think you need to tell me everything. Start with why you’re really here.”

  “I was worried. That’s the absolute truth.”

  “Anna, I know you can’t lift me.” I ignore her innocent, confused expression. “You said you helped me to bed last night. You couldn’t have, you’re not strong enough. I know it was Jón. I heard him.” I smelt him. “Why did you lie?”

  Again Anna’s eyes dip to the ground.

  “You already know what happened to Ari and me at the Skepnasá, don’t you? That’s why you’re here. You know Jón tried to kill us, and you—”

  “What?” Anna’s voice quivers. “No. What are you saying? He couldn’t have.” Looking up, she notices my nose for the first time. Backing away to get a better focus, her expression turns to disbelief. “What happened?”

  “I told you. Jón tried to kill us.”

  “It’s not possible.”

  “It is possible. It happened. How do you think I got this?” I point to my nose. “Did Jón hurt Mark too?” I shake my head as I ask the question.

  “No!” Anna insists. “Jón came home after work last Friday, stayed with me at The Himinn all weekend. He couldn’t have gone to Jötunnsjökull and back. But his…” She bites her lip, looks over at Ari. He’s attaching the Eroder’s winch to her rear bumper. She wants to say something but can’t find the words before my patience runs out.

  “Anna, unless you tell me what’s going on, Ari and I are going to the police to have Jón arrested, or whatever the hell they call it now, for attempted murder.”

  “No! You can’t!”

  “And if we accuse him of Mark’s murder too, your alibi won’t save him, not when there’s eye-witness testimony from Ari and me against him.”

  “You don’t understand, Jón would never have hurt Mark—he wants to be Iceland’s next MUR Director! He’s promised his mother a big house in Reykjavík. That’s why he accepted the job up here—he’s been saving up for years. His brother’s this highflying accountant, his mother idolises him. Jón’s determined to prove himself to her. If she found out he was under examination for murder, he…he’d…”

  “He’d what? Try to kill us again?”

  “No, you’ve got it wrong. He didn’t kill Mark. And if you accuse him of attempted murder you may as well shoot him in the head. Yes, he does things he shouldn’t sometimes, to get the money he needs to impress his mother, but he’s a good man. Becky, listen, you’ve got to believe me. He’s in trouble, that’s all. We have to help him.”

  “Sure, we’ll help him, and anyone else in trouble, as soon as you tell me why you’re here.”

  “I can’t let anyone else get hurt, Becky.”

  “Who would do the hurting?”

  She gazes at my face, then tuts and looks away. “You’re alive, Ari’s alive, your parents are waiting for you. You should just take Mark home and forget about it—it’s nothing.”

  “If it’s nothing, then tell me. And make it quick—Ari’s almost finished.”

  In fact, he’s reversing the Eroder to align it with the winch. As the slack in the cable tightens, Anna straightens.

  “Okay,” she lowers her voice to a whisper, “so…Jón couldn’t have killed Mark because he was with me. But someone else could have driven to Jötunnsjökull and back last weekend.”

  “And why would they have done that?”

  Anna takes a breath then speaks fast, as if the words are too hot to keep in her mouth any longer. “I think my research got Mark killed. I think someone drove to Jötunnsjökull and killed your brother because he found proof.”

  “Proof of what, the corruption? Is there an activist or isn’t there?”

  Anna reaches to touch my hand. “Becky, listen, this is important…you can’t tell anyone, do you understand? No one. No matter what.”

  “Okay,” I agree, though I suspect I don’t mean it.

  “I don’t know who exactly is doing what,” she whispers, “but Jón is always speaking with them on the phone. He never says their name out loud, but they talk a lot about something that happened before Jón came to Höfkállur, so it has to be someone who knew him from Reykjavík. He calls them ‘Chief’.” She eyes Ari again, then looks me up and down. “Why are you both in bathrobes?”

  I raise my eyebrows. She’s only just noticed? I explain the last few hours to her and, as I do, her expression fixes on pained regret. I feel nothing for her except disappointment. She should have told me about Mark and the Litrúm-Hús.

  “Okay, Anna.” I say after telling her about Jón and the ice, “what I need you to do now is tell me about your research, everything you’ve been doing, everything you know. Go.”

  Anna pauses, closes her eyes, then starts explaining her theories to me. They reflect almost exactly what Ólaf’s already told me about Pàll, his hit and run, Anna’s argument with him, how Jón must be keeping the driver’s identity a secret, and about the battlelights again.

  After a while she opens her eyes but rather than look at me, she watches her car as she speaks. Metal scrapes against rock in high-pitched squeals as Ari drags her car off the boulder. The noise is piercing, yet I sense Ari listening to Anna through his open window. I don’t point this out to her—I want Ari to overhear, because then he can tell her that she’s nuts, and that I’m nuts too. I don’t want my brother to have died because of some crazy widow’s research into corruption in a far away country—one he actually loved very much.

  At the same time, Anna’s explanations begin to sound all too feasible. She has such a way with words. So, taking a deep breath, I force myself to listen to the reality she’s painting—a world I didn’t know existed: a world where lives can be stolen and never returned, where my brother might have made a fatal mistake, and where I might have made one too. What if she’s not crazy?

  Sat on the roadside with the weight of her words pressing on me, my head slumps forward. How can any of this be actually real?

  Becky, says a voice, are you okay?

  Chapter 22

  Lit only by the faint-blue of dusk, surrounded by a head-high lava field, I watch Ari towing Anna’s car away from the bend, I hear Anna talking about her research, and I know this moment deserves my utmost attention. At the same time, I’m barely able to comprehend where I am. Everything feels so abstract from life, from the continuous toil of breathing and swallowing and blinking.

  Becky, are you okay?

  My head grows so heavy I struggle to keep it upright.

  The next minute it’s weightless, like the top of my scalp has wedded one of the few stars twinkling faintly in the navy sky closer to Höfkállur. I open my eyes wide, try to take in more oxygen. I have to listen to Anna.

  “Becky, love, are you okay?” Anna asks.

  “I’m fine,” my mouth lies. I’m slurring. I swa
llow and try again. “Just a little lightheaded. Go on.”

  “I said, have you ever wondered why people scheduled for examination in Höfkállur bother to plead not-guilty? Why, when they know we use the Sannlitró-Völva and it will find them out?”

  Anna waits but I can’t articulate an answer. I haven’t been listening close enough. My head and nose are pounding in sync.

  “Maybe they believe,” she supposes for me, “they can outwit the machine? Or…maybe they really are innocent?”

  “Go on.” While I rest my brain.

  “Jón’s always very busy before and after these not-guilty cases, so I began to wonder. Yes, he wants a big career. He’s also not the type to work harder than he needs to ensure the course of justice runs smooth. So what’s he doing? Maybe it has something to do with his phone calls with his ‘Chief’?”

  I nod to assure her I’m listening.

  She puts her arm around me, then continues. “I started looking into things and found all the offenders causing Jón this extra work were wealthy. Not only that, but they were all sent to the Reformation Cooperative for minor offences and, according to local government records, they all owned investment properties. I kept checking, looking for connections. Then one of the offenders’ investment properties was sold while they were still in the Cooperative.”

  “Now,” she clears her throat, “under our new system, if an offender continues to deny their guilt after two years in the Cooperative, the MUR reserves the right to seize assets to fund their extended counselling. However, this particular property was sold a month after the offender arrived at the Cooperative. So I entered my details into a real estate website to get alerts when any of the other offenders’ properties were sold, and found a pattern: not-guilty plea, plus wealthy offender, equals property sold one month later. Don’t you see? Jón and his Chief are selling these properties early and pocketing the sale money!”