The Fox

by Palsdottir, Solveig

  It had been years since the last time she had driven a car. Back then she had been working as an au pair, looking after the children for Ragnhildur, who had let her practise when the family spent time in their summer cottage. Sajee had enjoyed driving along the potholed country roads and had easily kept control of the car.

  But that was then, and it had been a terribly long time ago. She squeezed the key in her hand and tried again. A button inside popped up and she realised that the locking mechanism had to be remotely controlled. By chance she had managed to open it. Now she recalled that when Thormóður had driven her to Bröttuskriður, he had just dropped the key into a compartment on the dashboard. There had been no need to use it to start the car. She sat behind the wheel, dropped the key into the compartment and pressed the button on the steering wheel. The car’s engine started instantly and she could see the road ahead of her before she managed to switch off the lights. Then she drove carefully into the darkness.

  25

  The wind battered the jeep as its wheels fought to keep a grip on the road’s surface. On one side was the mountain slope, on the other a sheer cliff above the sea far below. It was dark and the snow was driven by the wind. Sajee held tight to the steering wheel and tears streamed down her cheeks. She could see only the white flakes spinning towards her out of the darkness and for a moment it occurred to her that it was time to give up, walk out into the teeth of the storm and leave the snow to pile up and cover her. She could let herself drift into unconsciousness before they could catch up with her. She could fall asleep in the cold and dream her way to the warmth of home. She glanced into the mirror and moaned at the sight of her face, swollen, the cuts turning septic and the clumsy stitches.

  ‘I will,’ she whispered to herself, feeling the old determination return. ‘I will go home,’ she told herself, out loud this time as a gust of wind made the car bounce. She gripped the wheel so tightly that her knuckles turned white as she cautiously put her foot on the accelerator.

  Eventually, she realised that she had taken the wrong road.

  She must have passed out, as she wasn’t aware they had reached her until she was shaken roughly. They tried to pull her clear, but she held tight to the steering wheel and only relaxed her grip when Thormóður bit one of her fingers until it bled. Her cries could hardly be heard over the howling of the wind as they dragged her along the road. She had a hazy memory of being violently shaken and was sure she must have lost consciousness on the way back. When she awoke, she was on a mattress in an unfamiliar place, and it was pitch dark.

  She slept and dozed without any idea of the passing of time. Ísak brought her a bucket so she could relieve herself, and water and food. She begged him to allow her out, but he acted as if he hadn’t heard her. A little later he came back with the torch that she had taken with her in her unsuccessful attempt to escape.

  It was obvious that this hole had been used to store goods. When she found a banknote on the floor, she remembered the five thousand krónur notes she had seen in Ísak’s pocket, and realised that he had been down here that night when she had been so frightened and had gone into the barn. Thormóður and Ísak had locked her away in a storeroom that was hidden behind the pit. The storeroom was no more than a few square metres with a ventilation pipe above her head. It was in this cold, dark place that she had been left alone to cope with her own suffering.

  There was a blanket, a quilt and a pillow on the mattress, and after a while Ísak also brought her things, so she hoped there must be some concern for her. She could sense his discomfort as he stood wordlessly in the doorway and shone a light as she tried to line up the statues she prayed to with trembling hands.

  26

  ‘Dad, when are you going to stop working there?’ Pétur Andri asked, a demanding note in the fifteen-year-old’s loud voice.

  ‘My contract is until June,’ Guðgeir replied slowly. ‘I can extend it, but probably won’t if I can find something to keep me busy in Reykjavík.’

  ‘Are you moving back home?’

  There was an innocent earnestness to his question that was clear, even through the poor internet connection.

  ‘Yes…’ Guðgeir hesitated. ‘If your mother and I have sorted things out between us by then. You know we were going to spend a year apart and then see how things look.’

  ‘I think you should go back to the police after the summer holiday,’ Pétur said.

  ‘That’s not certain, and it’s not my decision,’ Guðgeir said, trying not to be irritated that the boy always came back to the same thing. After all the explanations, he ought to have known better, but it seemed that he had difficulty facing facts.

  Sometimes he felt that Pétur Andri found it hard to accept that his father was no longer a senior police officer. The lad had always looked up to him, putting him on a pedestal, and it hurts to find one’s hero wanting. This appeared to be harder for him to bear than his parents’ separation.

  ‘I ought to be able to find a job of some kind when I’ve finished in Höfn,’ he said, trying to sound encouraging.

  ‘I think you’ve been punished enough, Dad. You’re a great cop. You’re the man they need. Særós came here and talked to Mum. I heard her say it.’

  The picture on the screen faded into a mess of pixellated colours.

  Lousy internet, and a lousy flat, Guðgeir sighed to himself.

  ‘I’ll call you right back,’ he said quickly, closed the connection and took the computer into the living room. So, Særós, his former colleague and assistant, had been to see Inga. The thought pleased him. She was now the acting detective inspector in his place, and if things didn’t go his way, then her appointment would be confirmed as permanent within a year. Guðgeir reflected that it wouldn’t be a bad outcome and he could see himself working as her subordinate, but decided it wouldn’t be likely to turn out that way. A former senior officer working under a former subordinate went against all the usual management rules, although Guðgeir knew that they could easily switch roles and work together. He had appointed Særós himself. She was smart, outstandingly precise and had never been inclined to spare herself. For the first couple of years she had occasionally messed things up, as she tended to take things too literally. But she was eager to learn, and snapped up every potentially useful training course on offer. He suspected that she had even taken a sense of humour course; maybe more than one and with some success. Særós was also a devotee of healthy living and every week brought something new, generally something that would take her closer to her latest goal.

  ‘Pétur? Are you there?’ Guðgeir called into the computer. The connection seemed stronger, and both sound and picture had improved.

  ‘Yeah, I’m here.’

  ‘Did Særós say she wanted me back at the station?’ Guðgeir asked.

  ‘That’s what she said, that you’re the best one to work with, and that you’re the best detective and the best boss.’

  Guðgeir felt a warm buzz, even though he wasn’t sure that those would have been Særós’s exact words. All the same, this was the smart reliable Særós he knew.

  ‘And your Mum?’ he asked. ‘Do you think she’s missing me?’

  ‘Dad, you should know better than to ask me that kind of leading question,’ Pétur Andri said, sounding very grown-up. It wasn’t for nothing that he was the son of a lawyer and a police officer.

  ‘Well, you’re quite right,’ Guðgeir admitted.

  ‘But I think she misses you,’ Pétur Andri said. ‘She’s in tears sometimes. How could you do this to us?’

  The accusation was plain in both his expression and the tone of his voice.

  ‘Pétur, we’ve been through this again and again. Life isn’t simple, and it’s never black and white. There are reasons behind everything to do with peoples’ relationships.’

  ‘Pack it in, please? Just come home and talk to Mum properly,’ Pétur said through clenched teeth.

  ‘It’s not that simple,’ his father explained patientl
y. ‘You’ll understand better when you’re older.’

  ‘I hate it when you say that! It is simple!’ Pétur yelped through the screen, his temper rising. Guðgeir had been increasingly aware of this tendency, even though his son had always been a quiet boy up to now. He decided to end the conversation before Pétur became too upset.

  ‘Hey, I have to go to work, do my rounds and check on a couple of buildings. Enjoy the Easter egg I sent, and give Ólöf a kiss from me.’

  ‘Ólöf? You have to be joking!’

  Guðgeir laughed, relieved that he had managed to steer the conversation away from his and Inga’s marital problems.

  His phone pinged and a moment later a message appeared on the screen.

  ‘Pétur, I have to be on my way to the school. There’s a water leak I need to deal with. I’ll speak to you again soon.’

  ‘A water leak? Dad, come on… You’re going to fix a leaking pipe? And you were a senior detective in the murder squad.’

  ‘It’s not called a murder squad in Iceland. You’ve been watching too many cop shows, my boy,’ Guðgeir said as he stood up. ‘I have to run. See you later.’

  During her first few days in Iceland Sajee was sure that it was winter, as she was constantly cold, until she realised that this was what summer was like over here. It was also a shock to discover that she understood only a few letters of this new language’s script. The streets seemed to be practically empty and she wondered where all the people were. She could see no animals. The silence was unsettling and the scarcity of people was terrifying.

  Now she had largely adapted to the environment she had found herself in, and understood much of the language, although she spoke little. There were still things that she found strange, in particular how gloomy people were and how they complained about everything. She found it difficult to understand if this habit had something to do with the religion, or some other reason, but she was thankful that she had managed to tame her own restlessness and impatience. This was something that had often served her well, not only after Lakmal’s death, but also during the difficult times in Iceland. It had been hard once the family she had been with no longer needed her. Hirumi found her work cleaning people’s homes, although that was not easy as so many people cut back on their spending following the financial crash.

  After a while Iceland began to recover and there were households that needed her again. Of course, she was sometimes unhappy and her thoughts would take her home to Sri Lanka. But in spite of the long spells of homesickness, she knew there was little future for her there. At least in Iceland she had work and somewhere to live. To make an effort to do better, Sajee enrolled in a language course for foreigners, but lasted only a few weeks. The people in the group were varied and those with similar educational backgrounds kept to themselves. There was one woman from Sri Lanka who only appeared a couple of times and then never came again. Sajee missed having someone to talk to and tried to maintain contact with the woman, but she was too occupied with her husband and children for friendship. It wasn’t as if they had much in common other than being from the same country.

  It was not only for this reason that she gave up on the language course, but also because the Icelandic letters were so confusing, angular and stiff, unlike the script she was familiar with. She was not aware that she had ever struggled to learn to read and write back in Sri Lanka, but here it had become a constant battle. The Icelandic she had picked up came from the children she had looked after, or from Hirumi, who had now departed on her longed-for trip home. Sajee was not even sure when, or even if, she would return as she had only sent one postcard describing a banquet she had held for the district’s Buddhist monks, and telling her that she had paid for repairs to a large shrine. Hirumi must be a respected person, she decided. One day she would also travel back to her old district, showing people how well she had done for herself in Iceland. The thought gave her a warm feeling inside and she opened her eyes.

  Guðgeir mulled over the conversation with his son several times over the day as he listened to the plumber and the caretaker trying between them to identify the source of the leak in the primary school’s boiler room. Then he drove his usual security route around the town and as everything seemed to be absolutely fine, he pulled up outside the Coffee Corner and peered through the windscreen. If Linda were here, they could have something to eat together and he could tell her about the trip to Bröttuskriður. He picked up his phone and got out of the car. Outside the café a group of tourists shivered in the cool spring weather and looked lost.

  The café was packed with people and at the entrance he stopped by a large table stacked high with beautifully wrapped presents. There was another table by the bar, laid out with nibbles and cakes, with a large, pink marzipan cake decorated with the face of a young girl at the centre of the display. It took him a moment to assess in the situation. He glanced around at the roomful of guests dressed in their best, the complete opposite of the travellers who usually occupied every corner. The tall girl from the marzipan cake picture came towards him, a flower in her long hair.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Guðgeir said. ‘I didn’t realise there was a confirmation reception in here. I was just looking for a bite to eat, and it looks like there are other people with the same idea,’ he said, nodding towards the group in the car park outside. The confirmation girl smiled and a tanned woman with inky eyebrows approached.

  ‘It’s closed.’

  ‘Sure. When’s it open again?’

  ‘Don’t know. If the reception goes on for a while then it won’t open today,’ the woman said, and he realised that she had to be the confirmation girl’s mother.

  ‘Fair enough. Congratulations,’ Guðgeir said and went outside, squeezing past the group of tourists and gave them the message that they’d have to look for somewhere else.

  Next, he tried the restaurant in the old building down by the quay, and found himself walking in on yet another confirmation reception. A boy in a suit came over to him, just as Guðgeir noticed another marzipan cake. The wording on this one read ‘Alex Breki’ but this time there was no picture. He apologised and backed out. There were a dozen hire cars and a minibus by the harbour. A variety of faces peered out, expectant that the restaurant would open once the reception was over. Cheers could be heard from one of the cars every time someone left the celebrations going on inside. There was only one other place that was open, albeit with a good two-hour wait for a table.

  Guðgeir had just about decided that he’d have to settle for the scanty contents of the fridge in the rented flat, when he remembered that Matthildur upstairs had invited him for dinner. How on earth had he been so absent-minded as to forget? It wasn’t as if invitations came his way every day. He hurried home to change.

  ‘You look very stylish,’ Matthildur said with admiration as she opened the door for him. ‘Svenni! Come and see how smart Guðgeir is!’

  ‘Suited and booted,’ Sveinn observed, followed by his characteristic bark of laughter. ‘Come on in.’

  ‘It is Easter, after all,’ Guðgeir said apologetically, realising that he had probably overdone it. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  A heavy vase stood in one corner of the living room with a spray of birch branches extending from it. Colourful wooden eggs – blue, yellow and green – hung from every branch, along with a yellow chick pushing up the lid of a chocolate Easter egg. Flowering daffodils stood in a vase on the window sill.

  ‘He runs and he swims,’ Matthildur said. ‘Svenni, look at Guðgeir’s lovely tie. You’ll have to find out where he shops for clothes.’

  ‘The old lady’s comparing us, and not exactly in my favour,’ Sveinn laughed, clapping a hand on Guðgeir’s back. ‘Good to see you!’

  Matthildur and Sveinn were excellent hosts. The amiable companionship dampened his longing to be at home and it turned out to be a relief to spend some time upstairs with its high ceiling and wide rooms. Existence downstairs could be depressing for a tall man.

  Sveinn
and Matthildur had sons of eighteen and twenty. The elder boy was at sea on a ship from Vopnafjörður, while his younger brother was at technical college in Reykjavík. Photographs of them charting their growth from babies to teenagers could be seen on walls and tables, and Guðgeir looked around curiously. He hadn’t been upstairs since they had signed the rental contract in the autumn. He recalled that had been a bittersweet occasion for him, confirming that he wouldn’t be going back home for months to come.

  They had a warm and welcoming home, bearing all the hallmarks of their fondness for it. A sofa that looked deep and comfortable, decked with cushions, occupied part of the living room, opposite a large TV on the wall. The dining table was covered in a sparkling white cloth, with daffodils in a vase and matching yellow candles.

  The slow-cooked leg of lamb was done to perfection and after a while Guðgeir brought up the mystery woman from Sri Lanka. She had been on his mind and he was curious to know what had happened to her, as this woman must have been through a great deal before she had washed up here. As far as he himself was concerned, he had certainly been through a lot before he had landed this job, far from his family.

  ‘Ach, I’m sorry, Guðgeir. I completely forgot to mention it to Svenni,’ Matthildur said.

  ‘What was that?’ Sveinn asked.

  ‘About the foreign woman who turned up here in the winter. He was wondering if you could check if she had taken a flight back south. Can I offer you some more?’ She said, cutting a thick slice from the joint of meat. Guðgeir shook his head. His belly was full and although he would have liked a little more, good sense told him to stop, even though the meat was exceptionally good. You couldn’t beat home cooking.

  ‘Sure you won’t have a little more?’ Sveinn asked, helping himself to another slice of lamb.

  ‘Didn’t you hear him, Svenni? Guðgeir doesn’t like to gorge himself,’ Matthildur said. ‘That’s no good for people who are on the move all the time, like he is. Maybe you ought to go for a run with him some time…’