Towards White

by Zena Shapter

  “I’m guessing you don’t have any proof?” Otherwise she would have made an anonymous tip-off before now.

  “I’ve been trying. I have a diary of Jón’s work patterns, when offenders were sent to the Cooperative and the dates their properties were sold. But how can I show it to anyone at the Litrúm-Hús? I might end up confiding in Jón’s Chief, whoever that is.” Her gaze fixes on Ari. “Ólaf said it wasn’t enough proof anyway. He thinks we need evidence to negate any possibility the properties were sold under ‘administrative error’, prematurely or otherwise. We need proof that someone is tampering with the Sannlitró-Völva on purpose. Then, before we hand over our proof, we need to be certain we’re handing it to the right person. Otherwise we’ll never find out how high up this goes.”

  “So how do you intend to do all that?”

  “Ólaf and I thought up a plan, though we’ve been having trouble implementing it—there are only so many times I can watch examinations without raising Jón or his Chief’s suspicions. Then Mark came along.”

  “And he said he’d help?” Of course he did.

  “He was going to record the next not-guilty examination—someone called Sigmar—on his phone.”

  “Which is was why he was at the Litrúm-Hús last Friday?” I ask, feeling more earthed now. “Was Mark’s postscript about this in any way, the one he was adding to his thesis?”

  “His postscript?”

  “Yes. Did he talk to you about it?”

  “Of course. And yes, in a way his postscript was connected, though from a philosophical perspective—you know Mark. But now his phone and laptop are missing, and I still need a recording. Just one, Becky! Then Pàll can rest.”

  “What has any of this got to do with Pàll? Did he lose any property?”

  “No.”

  “Does he have anything to do with anyone losing property? Does his death?”

  “Not that I know of. But his visits are most strong before and after the not-guilty cases. He obviously wants me to stop them.”

  “You can’t know that’s what he wants.” Because there’s no way I can be certain of Mark’s messages, if that’s what they are.

  “You forget, Becky. I’ve been seeing Pàll’s energy for a year and a half. I know what he means now.”

  “Why does it even matter to Pàll?”

  “The Heimspeki could save so much fighting, Becky, it could bring peace to the world. It’s already brought peace to Pàll and I, knowing we’ll be together in the end. Imagine how much peace it could bring others. Something so beautiful can’t go into the world on the back of a flawed technology. And who knows what Jón’s Chief has planned for the Sannlitró-Völva? If they’ve been getting away with all this here, they could get away with it anywhere—in any country where the machine is integrated into the legal system. Remember all the countries Director Úlfar is negotiating with at the moment? There’d be no limit who they could or couldn’t find guilty—they could accuse anyone, anyone, of committing a crime, anywhere…or have them set free. I need a recording. I need proof the Sannlitró-Völva is flawed. At least…I thought I needed it. Now I’m not so sure. Pàll wouldn’t want anyone else getting hurt. I don’t either.”

  “But isn’t that why you wanted me to familiarise myself with the Litrúm-Hús?”

  She rubs my shoulder rather than answer. “You’ve got to understand, once Ólaf and I have a recording, all we need to do is wait until that particular offender’s property is sold, then we can drive straight to the Cooperative, re-examine them with equipment we know isn’t contaminated, and it’ll all be over. The two recordings will show different results and implicate Jón, who’ll then have to name his ‘Chief’ to the authorities to save his career. He’ll be the hero.”

  “What if he refuses?”

  “Then we’d submit him for an examination. Our evidence would be enough for a submission rather than an invitation.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “If you’re ‘invited’ you’re given notice, a night to think about it, you have access to your phone, email, social media. Jón and his Chief would just leave the country. But if there’s solid evidence…”

  “They’re formally accused,” Ari interrupts, appearing by my side. “No invitations, no phone, no email. Then the first question you’d ask Jón is who he’s working with at the Litrúm-Hús. It was a good plan.”

  Anna doesn’t reply, just watches Ari crouch before her. As he takes her damaged ankle in his hand she braces herself, as if fearing he’s going to snap it.

  “Anna,” he says, finishing his inspection, “if Jón wants his career so much, why did he try to kill us today?”

  She speaks her reply slowly. “I don’t believe he did. I can’t.”

  “Anna,” I lean forward until she looks into my eyes, “Ari saw him.”

  “Did you see him?” she asks me.

  I tut.

  “Even if he was there,” she adds, “he might only have been there because someone made him.”

  Ari rests his hand on her ankle, and peers into her eyes. “Do you really think anyone could make Jón do something he didn’t want to do?”

  She doesn’t answer.

  In my memory, I hear Anna complaining about Jón not helping her with Pàll. “He’s been stubborn enough over Pàll.” I remind her.

  “Pàll?” Ari asks.

  As I tell him about Anna’s late husband, Ari’s eyes dart from side to side as if processing the information.

  “Pàll who, exactly?” he asks after I’ve finished.

  I look to Anna.

  “Pàll Hinriksson,” she mumbles.

  “That was two years ago?”

  Anna nods.

  “When Jón arrived?”

  “No. Jón didn’t move here until six months after Pàll died.”

  “Huh-huh.” Ari says, deep in thought.

  “What are you going to do?” Anna asks.

  He studies her, then jumps to his feet, grabs her hands and pulls her to standing. “First we’ll go to the morgue so Doctor Emil can look at you both. I need to know you aren’t hurt more than it looks. Then we’ll hear what Director Úlfar has to say about Mark, and why he’s in Höfkállur. Then, we’ll submit Jón for an examination, tonight.”

  “How?” Anna moves her head to get a better look at him. “I don’t have a recording yet.”

  “I have the authority to submit Litrúm-Hús personnel for immediate preliminary examinations if I have ‘just cause’. All I need is your evidence, Anna, to justify the examination.” He puts an arm around her and pulls her towards the Eroder.

  Her car is now sitting beyond Ari’s, within the boundary of the highway’s hard shoulder but far enough from the bend to be easily seen. A couple of triangles forewarn approaching vehicles.

  “But,” I say, hobbling after them, “if Jón’s desperate enough to kill us,” I ignore Anna’s glare, “why would he let you examine him? He wouldn’t, not without a fight. I don’t want you getting hurt either.”

  Ari thinks for a moment. “Director Úlfar’s in Höfkállur,” he says, closing Anna’s door, “we’ll ask him to perform the examination, say it’s about security, that we all have to answer some questions.”

  I’m climbing into the Eroder but Ari’s words make me stop mid-way.

  Perform the examination.

  I hover in the doorway, pain stabbing my ribs like a hot poker. But more painful is the realisation that’s hitting me. It doesn’t come from logic, from answered questions, or any particular fact. Instead, everything I’ve learnt since arriving in Iceland, along with everything that’s been marinating in my subconscious for last few years, has finally coalesced.

  Oh shit!

  I know who Jón’s Chief is, without a doubt. The answer strikes with such clarity I cannot breath. The Skepnasá River almost
killed me; it also left me a consolation prize: instincts are not obsolete impulses, inferior compulsions no rational person needs; gut feelings are not illogical nonsense. They’re here to help, and I’m listening now—thanks to Ari and that river. Call it a hunch, a feeling, an inkling, intuition… Yes, I’ve even met people like Jón’s Chief before, in Jersey—people who hid their motives, people secretive about their purpose and underhanded. Sometimes what people say isn’t what they mean or even want. That’s why facts and evidence don’t always reveal the truth. I need to look elsewhere.

  “Director Úlfar,” Ari continues, thinking out loud, “will not say anything to Jón about today, he will tell him he needs help examining an aggressive offender about a security breach. Jón won’t know that offender is him until he’s already in the Dómstólls, being examined.”

  I wait for Ari to notice my reaction but he doesn’t. He continues to the driver’s seat, leaving me with the increasing sound of roaring water in my ears, and a warmth spreading over my head.

  I’m right, aren’t I, Mark?

  A wave roars towards a cliff and smashes over its rocky base.

  Anna’s theories, Jón’s supposed coercion, Mark’s ‘accident’—there’s only one person who could be responsible for it all, one person with the power, the access, the resources. It’s the only answer.

  For once, my gut is leading the way.

  I close my eyes, incredulous it hasn’t dawned on me before, and wonder what else my subconscious might have figured out that I have missed.

  Chapter 23

  The corridors of Höfkállur Hospital illuminate in sections as sensor-lights perceive our approach and flicker into action. While Anna limps along, supported by Ari, I hobble and feel like I’m negotiating a slippery precipice. On one side is a limitless chasm of doubt over what I’ve realised. On the other is the steep mountain face I have to climb to convince everyone my answer is sound. I’ve spent the entire drive back to Höfkállur reviewing and updating my notes on what everyone’s been telling me. Ari lent me his phone so I could access my online notes. Muddled together, facts can be as indistinguishable as the disconnected pieces of a puzzle. With a little organisation, the picture usually becomes clear. Now I’m convinced—I’ve made a critical error. We all have. Some people simply can’t help themselves. Mark said it himself.

  Those occasional few…

  Some people can never have enough, believing they’re more entitled to it than others. Sometimes it’s the people with too much power already—power corrupts. Sometimes it’s the people who want to protect their careers or reputations—self-preservation can force people to take extreme measures. Sometimes it’s the people who crave financial reprieve—money brings out the worst in people. Sometimes it’s all these things yet none of them. Sometimes it’s a secret that, really, everyone knows but doesn’t want to confront because difficult truths can be hideous to face, raw and bare. Deep down, we know they’re there. But sometimes we’d rather be whores to normalcy than expose ourselves to its ugliness. So we ignore it.

  Yes, since coming to Iceland, I’ve been favouring certain facts, ignoring others. I didn’t want to see them for what they could be. I couldn’t bear to acknowledge many things outright. But Ari is right, new facts—such as Mark helping Anna, Ólaf having the litagjöf, Ari seeing Jón at the glacier, and Gunnar’s absence—have made me think differently about old facts. Facts can often be unreliable when dealing with people. In such cases, it can be more logical to trust your gut, listen to your instincts, go with a hunch, faith in your subconscious reasoning…

  Mark wanted me to trust my gut more, and my gut is telling me that ignorance is no longer a choice. People can get away with murder, literally and figuratively, if they know how to intimidate—either directly with words or actions, or indirectly by relying on unchallenged reputations to cover tracks or create illusions people would rather believe because they’re beautiful and easy. But I know from experience that easy is not self-satisfying. Easy can allow weeds to sprout through the soil of your everyday living and grow where you least expect them. Until, one day, you wake to find yourself a nervous wreck wishing you’d faced the ugliness of truth—however raw or bare—rather than let yourself become infested with other people’s lies. I am not worthless and never have been. I am not crazy and never will be. Riley was a cheater and I know now how to spot them.

  My choice is made. It was made for me years ago when I was a young woman working with bullies, and decades ago when I was a little girl with new glasses. It was made for me when Mark died in pursuit of some truth he sensed but never saw—Anna’s truth. She wants closure. I can give it to her. I don’t need the police anymore; there’s only a question of timing to resolve. I have no evidence, no facts, no proof—and not everyone can be swayed without them, not everyone will happily trust another person’s gut feelings. I know I wouldn’t. So I need to wait for a moment that will convince everyone of the truth I now know, a moment when no one will shrink from a truth they don’t want to face. Including me.

  Ari slams his shoulder against the door of the morgue with a satisfying thud. I too feel like pounding inanimate objects, but my nose and ribs are so tender that when I clear my throat the hurt pierces through what pain-repression adrenalin has granted. I need to rest. Rest, though, will have to wait.

  Two figures hover over my brother’s body. If I were alone, I’d run to his fleshy pale shell and hold it close. But not here; not now. I ignore the sadness twanging my chest and look anywhere else. The burly frame of Doctor Emil is bent, studying Mark’s head injury through a magnifier. Dressed in medical scrubs, he looks less like a Norse warrior now. Yet when he clears his throat, his husky reverberation echoes into the corridor and, as he straightens to scratch at his blond beard, his stout solidity fills the room.

  Standing beside him, dwarfed and chubby by comparison, Director Úlfar listens intently to the doctor’s mutterings while re-tucking his shirt into a well-rounded waistband. When he notices our arrival, he beckons us inside. Avoiding eye contact with me, he specifically seeks out Ari, smoothing flat his bouncy brown hair as he does.

  This is not the right moment to play my cards. So I keep my poker face and watch.

  Immersed in his work, Doctor Emil acknowledges our presence not with a greeting or gesture, but by launching into his report on my brother’s re-examination. “So, Mark Dales, a 26-year-old white male presen—”

  Ari interrupts. “Excuse me, Doctor Emil…I must speak with Director Úlfar, immediately,” he adds, “in private. Can you wait some minutes?”

  Emil nods and indicates a corner of the room.

  All too eager, Director Úlfar waddles into it with Ari, eyeing him up and down as he did the receptionist at Reykjavík’s Central Travel Depot. The two of them whisper about Jón and make hushed phone calls. All the while, Director Úlfar takes every opportunity to rest a hand on Ari’s forearm or shoulder, and I realise what he meant on the phone yesterday when he said Ari was very nice. He meant he has a crush on him.

  Doctor Emil lifts his head magnifier, scratches his beard and goes to put some instruments away. He notices the cut on Anna’s head and my bulbous nose. “What has happened to you?” he asks, shuffling around the room to examine us. Anna explains something in Icelandic. When he fetches what he needs, she sends me a look to reassure me she’s only told him what he needs to know.

  The ensuing minutes of prodding and probing seem like hours. How many times do I need to wince and agree to the pain he’s measuring before he concludes what I already know? I’ve broken my nose and several ribs.

  With huge hairy hands that make me question how he can be so graceful with his care, he reapplies bandages and sutures my thigh with fresh Leukostrips. Then it’s Anna’s turn. I hear him mutter the word ‘x-ray’ but Anna shakes her head and points to my watch. She has more pressing matters to attend to. We both do.

  When Ari a
nd Director Úlfar turn, Director Úlfar’s lips are taut, the lines on his forehead deep in furrows. His expression could denote anxiety, embarrassment, possibly anger; the one emotion it does not denote is surprise. He knew this was coming. “Jón is at the Litrúm-Hús,” he tells me, still without making eye contact. “I have called ahead to authorise his examination, to be performed personally. Ari has also called ahead.”

  “Why is Jón at the Litrúm-Hús when he called in sick today?”

  “He waits there for Gunnar, and me.”

  I check my watch. “It’s past 9pm.”

  “I was at the Cooperative today…”

  “He met with Sigmar,” Ari interrupts, emphasising the name. Sigmar’s examination was the one Mark tried to record last Friday. “Director Úlfar knows about Jón already.”

  “Nei. I knew about someone. I did not know it was Jón.” Director Úlfar huffs and finally makes eye contact, his expression heavy at having to share this with me. “One of the Skyggõur we employed to review procedure, Haraldur, was noticing certain trends, so we started watching the Cooperative.” He pauses. “Last night Haraldur went to meet their newest offender, only to find it was an old friend of his, Sigmar Thorsteinson. Haraldur knows Sigmar from school and knows how very bad he was at maths, and technology. So how did Sigmar misappropriate funds from a college bursary account in Sauðákrókur? Naturally Haraldur realised he couldn’t have, even though the Sannlitró-Völva found him guilty, so he said I needed to come to Höfkállur straight away. Haraldur and Sigmar are on their way from the Cooperative as we speak. We’re meeting as soon as they get here, at the Litrúm-Hús, to identify Jón as the MUR officer who arranged Sigmar’s examination. We were going to proceed from there.”

  “Someone’s also watching Jón,” Ari adds.

  “So Jón already knows we’re onto him?” I ask.

  Director Úlfar shakes his head as if the very idea is nonsense. “He thinks he’s there to wait for Gunnar. He doesn’t know he’s the one being watched.”