Betrayal

by Lilja Sigurdardóttir

  110

  For the first time in many months Marita felt she could see clearly. The mist that had clouded her mind when the whole matter had begun, and which she had hardly noticed, had now lifted. Maybe she had just needed to do all that crying to clear her mind. She needed to cry and scream. She had screamed in the living room and the kitchen. She had screamed at Kiddi, and later on she had screamed into her pillow long into the night.

  She had packed for Klemmi. He had a whole suitcase of clothes that had gone with him to the Faroes, but now she had filled another case with clothes that had been on the large size for him when he had left, along with some toys and books. She had packed many of her own belongings in the two largest cases they had, as she also needed to take outdoor clothing and shoes with her. She went over to Kiddi’s door and tapped gently.

  ‘How’s it going?’ she asked, and he sighed. He sat hunched over the desk with a hand holding his chin and stared at a sheet of paper that looked to Marita to still be blank.

  ‘Can you help me with this?’ he asked yet again.

  She shook her head. ‘I’m not the one who needs to apologise to Úrsúla Aradóttir,’ she said. ‘I haven’t done her any harm. You’re the one who has frightened and threatened her, not me. And that’s why you’re going to send her a written apology, even if it takes you a month.’ Kiddi sighed deeply and scratched his tousled head. ‘It’s not just so that she’s more likely to accept a settlement and you get away without a sentence, but because it’s good for your soul. It’s so you recognise what you’ve done,’ she said, placing her hands on his shoulders, bending over and kissing his cheek. ‘It’s simply not acceptable for my sons to be women-haters,’ she added.

  Kiddi snorted. ‘They’re called misogynists, Mum,’ he said.

  She smiled, left his room and went over to her own. It was as if the previous day had also brought Kiddi some relief. Maybe the screams and the tears had lifted a stone from his heart; and he had plenty to shed tears over. Marita hadn’t known that he had been so fond of Katrín Eva. In love with her, he had said, head over heels. But all Katrín Eva saw was his father.

  Marita looked around the bedroom and wondered which of the things in there she would want to keep. She came to the conclusion that there was nothing she wanted, neither the vase on the chest of drawers that she had paid far too much for, nor the painting Jónatan had given her for her fortieth birthday. All these things were bound up with the bedroom where Jónatan had lain beside her, whispered sweet words to her, and acted as if a few months ago he hadn’t done something that had snatched away the foundations of her existence. It could all be left behind in the past. The whole room smelled of betrayal, or rather, some kind of revulsion, because betrayal alone would have been easier to bear. In reality, she wished that he had simply betrayed her, as men do. That would have been normal, almost to be expected, and at least something that she could have coped with.

  ‘I came home that evening,’ Kiddi had said. ‘I came home and went into the living room. I saw the old man on top of Katrín Eva, and he was fucking her. And the whore was crying because she already regretted it, she should have known fucking better…’

  That was as far as he had got before Marita slapped him, hard.

  ‘Women shouldn’t cry when they fuck,’ she yelled, not knowing whether she should speak in Icelandic or Faroese to make herself clear, so that he would understand without question and the message would be imprinted on his consciousness for the rest of his life.

  ‘Really what you’re telling me is that your father raped Katrín Eva.’

  111

  Úrsúla switched on the lamp and scanned her desk. This would be her last afternoon here, as in the morning she would collect the few personal items she had brought to her office during her time at the ministry. A draft of the press release that Eva had written, outlining her resignation, was contained in a couple of neat sheets of paper in front of her, along with notes for what she would say at tomorrow’s press conference. She had also put yellow sticky notes on some of the files she would be leaving behind.

  On the folder of South Coast Highway documents she had written This is lethal! Call me. Best, Úrsúla. She was going to be here for her successor, to warn him or her of the hazards. There was just one folder left on her desk and this was the one she wanted to finish herself.

  ‘Hello, Rósa,’ Úrsúla said as the girl’s mother answered the phone. ‘I have an idea that I’d like you and your daughter to consider. It states in the report that Jónatan gave Katrín Eva an unusually large amount of money that night, much more than he normally paid for babysitting. Even his wife corroborates that.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘I’d like to point out that buying sexual services from a minor is a punishable offence.’

  There was silence. Úrsúla waited for a while, listening, and coughed gently to remind the woman that she was still on the line.

  ‘You mean that I should have my daughter be branded the town whore?’

  There was a resignation in her voice, a flatness that had replaced the usual burning anger.

  ‘It’s something to consider. Sexual offences that seem most likely to make their way through the justice system concern purchasing sex. So there’s at least a probability that the man would receive a sentence. If it works out, it wouldn’t exactly be justice. But it would go some way towards it. At any rate, he wouldn’t be able to serve any longer as a police officer.’

  Úrsúla ended the call by telling the girl’s mother once again how painful it was that she had not been able to keep the promise she had made to her on her first day in office.

  Her desk was now clear, except for the slim green folder she had brought with her to work, and which she would take home with her. This was the folder Gunnar had given her containing all the documents related to her father’s death. She had eyed it, and held it in her hands for some time, but hadn’t trusted herself to open it. But now, as she finally did so, she was astonished. Her heart skipped a beat and she gasped.

  Could it be true? She stared at the sheet of paper in front of her with a cold flash of understanding. In her life, she had experienced only a few such moments, when all the threads came together, leading to a conclusion that had previously evaded her. This piece of paper would explain so much, and maybe lead to some kind of justice after all. She took a picture of the report and sent it to Boris with a message. She was considering calling him to follow this up when Eva swept into her office, a look of something approaching desperation on her face.

  ‘Úrsúla, evening news!’

  She said nothing more, but fussed with the little television on the wall, her hands trembling as she handled the remote control.

  ‘That’s our cleaner, isn’t it?’ Úrsúla said in surprise as the picture finally appeared.

  Her understanding was even slower to take shape. It seemed that time had suddenly slowed down. Úrsúla noticed that darkness had fallen outside and that her office was dim; she hadn’t switched on the main lights, only the desk lamp. These were the details that registered on her consciousness as her heart began to hammer in her chest.

  ‘It’s Stella isn’t it – who cleans?’ Úrsúla asked again.

  ‘Úrsúla, she…’ Eva was clearly in distress. ‘She’s saying that a journalist, clearly Thorbjörn from Vefpressan, has been buying the ministry’s waste paper from her, and that she saw Óðinn talking to him in a car outside the building, and that she believes that this journalist has had … an intimate relationship with you.’

  The question was there in Eva’s voice, but Úrsúla was unable to give her an answer. She was unable to explain, unable to remain there any longer. She had to get home, to Nonni.

  112

  Eva had sent Gunnar a message, asking him to drive Úrsúla home, but instead she had ignored Eva’s calls, run through the ministry building, down to the entrance and rushed out and across Arnarhóll. Úrsúla hurried along, her coat flapping, but she didn’t feel
cold as a thaw had set in and the streets were awash with treacherous slush. She made her way through the centre of the city without registering her surroundings, her thoughts too disturbed to see the details as she hurried along Hólatorg, beside the graveyard, and tried again to call Nonni. He didn’t answer. She hoped he hadn’t seen the news, that he had taken the children swimming or that he was watching some comedy with them with his phone switched off, or that he was cooking and the music in the kitchen drowned out the sound of his phone ringing. There was nothing unusual about him not answering the phone, so it didn’t have to be a bad sign. How often had she desperately tried to call home to let Nonni know that she was fine – to let him know that she wasn’t the Médecins Sans Frontières member of staff who had been in isolation after being infected with Ebola? That she was unhurt after the shells had hit the ground just outside the refugee camp in Syria? Now she could feel the hot tears running down her cheeks at the thought that he might have heard on the news that she had betrayed him, that she had broken the single most important promise she had ever made; the promise she had made to him.

  The pavement along their street was packed with a deep layer of ice that made it impassable, so there was no choice but to step out into the road and walk along the tyre tracks where the rising temperature had sliced through the ice and exposed the road surface below. This groove in the ice had become a river of meltwater running down the street and she could feel the icy water leaking into her shoes. She paid it no attention; those shoes could go to hell and her toes could freeze from her feet for all she cared, as long as she could get home to Nonni before he could hear the news somewhere else of what she had done.

  She stumbled over the bank of solid snow and onto the path outside their house, which was clear because Gunnar always carefully shovelled and salted it. Her fingers trembled with a mixture of confusion and cold as she fumbled to slot the key into the lock, unwilling to use the doorbell in case the children were at home. She needed to go directly to Nonni, to shut the two of them away, to try and find the right words to explain this to him. She had to find words to tell him that she loved him, and only him; that she knew this now, and that she felt more clearly than ever before that he and the children meant more to her than anything. Thorbjörn had been some kind of terrorist attack on herself, a horrible mistake.

  The lights were on in the kitchen but nobody was there. Everything was quiet. A fillet of fish lay on the worktop, still in its packet, and next to a chopping board, a knife and some chopped onion stood half a glass of white wine. She went up the stairs and looked into the empty rooms. Ari must have been playing with Lego, judging by the bricks that were scattered across the floor, and in Herdís’s bedroom a pile of clothes lay on the bed, as if she had been in the middle of one of her occasional sessions of trying everything on, and had left in a hurry. In the bathroom the children’s toothglasses were empty, and only her toothbrush stood in the glass that she and Nonni shared.

  She went back downstairs, went into the living room and sat on the sofa in the darkness. Nonni had undoubtedly taken the children with him to his mother’s, or even to a hotel if the humiliation had been too crushing. He had even taken Kátur with them. She missed the dog terribly. If he had been at home, by now he would have been in her arms or sitting at her feet, gazing at her with love in his eyes and waiting for her to pick him up. Her mind was numb, and if she hadn’t known better she would have said that her heart was bleeding, as if a hole had been ripped in it. She kicked off her shoes and a pool of water formed on the floor around them. This was the beautiful, polished wooden floor on which Nonni had strictly forbidden shoes or playing with a ball. All of a sudden, that insignificant detail took on a new importance. She had dirtied what had been clean. She had desecrated what they had built up. She couldn’t understand what had been going on in her mind. What had she been looking for with Thorbjörn? The Thorbjörn who had used her; the Thorbjörn who had triggered a passion in her, and then betrayed her.

  She blinked, trying to force tears, needing to unburden herself and seeking the clarity of thought that would follow weeping. But she couldn’t allow herself that. She had no right to cry. She had given up that privilege. It was more painful to betray than to be betrayed.

  She was startled by movement behind her, and leaped to her feet.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she gasped, her thoughts swinging between astonishment and terror.

  113

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Gunnar asked. Eva spoke so fast into the phone that he wasn’t able to piece together what she was saying.

  ‘Didn’t you see the evening news?’ she asked, and he said that he hadn’t. He was bathed in sweat in the changing room at the gym, and had noticed four missed calls from Eva when he checked his phone. He’d immediately called her back.

  ‘Úrsúla rushed out in a terrible state. I’m sure she was going home on foot to see Nonni, but she’s not picking up the phone. And now I don’t know if she’s at home or not. I went to her place and the lights are on, but nobody’s answering the door. I’m really worried. You have a key, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Gunnar said. He held the phone to his ear as he pulled off his training gear. He’d have to stay sweaty. ‘I’ll check on her.’

  ‘Please. And go inside. I hope everything’s all right. I’m sure they’re having a row and that’s why nobody’s answering the door, so if that’s the way it is you’ll just have to back out again.’

  ‘Why do you think they’re arguing?’ Gunnar asked.

  ‘Ach … shit. The evening news pretty much accused her of having an affair with that Thorbjörn who works for Vefpressan, the one who was all over the rape case. Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘No comment,’ Gunnar said. ‘I’ll check up on her.’

  He tugged the sweat-damp singlet over his head, dried his armpits and chest with a towel, pulled on his trousers and shirt, threw his training gear in his bag and hurried out. It wasn’t until he was in the gym’s lobby that he decided against going outside barefoot. He paused to pull on his shoes. The melting slush in the car park was filthy and had to be full of salt after months of ice on the roads.

  The car hurtled along Sæbraut towards the city centre, and as most of the evening rush-hour traffic was over, he made good time. He took the most direct route past the East Quay at the harbour, up along Vesturgata, put his foot down along Garðastræti and headed into the western part of town. He parked on the pavement next to the hydrant below Úrsúla’s house, hoping that no smart passer-by would decide to snap a picture of the badly parked ministry car and post it on the internet.

  He rang the bell and hammered hard on the door. When nobody answered he took out his key, gently opened it and stepped inside, listening for any sound. The house was silent, so he called out.

  ‘Hello! Úrsúla!’ He slipped off his shoes, shut the door behind him and went towards the kitchen. ‘Úrsúla? It’s Gunnar. Just checking you got home safely.’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Hello? Anyone home?’ he called as he went into the living room. It was deserted, so he continued to the kitchen, where it looked as if someone had been interrupted in the middle of preparing a meal.

  Úrsúla sat there on a tall stool at the breakfast bar, fear etched deeply into her face. It took Gunnar a moment to wrench his eyes from her and to realise that she wasn’t the only one in the kitchen.

  114

  Marita’s phone began to ring the moment she switched it on outside the airport at Vágur. There were at least five missed calls from Jónatan. She hadn’t wanted to answer him until she had arrived back home in the Faroe Islands. Kiddi and her mother were stacking cases in the back of the car, so she took a few paces away from them before she hit the reply button. She put the phone to her ear, but she couldn’t make out what Jónatan was saying. His furious gabble was no more understandable than the fuzzy sound of a badly tuned radio. She looked up at the hillsides and then down at the flat land by the air
port building and felt a relief to be rid of the snow. A fall of snow never lasts long in the Faroes.

  ‘Kiddi saw you,’ she said to stop Jónatan’s tirade in mid-flow, as he demanded to know what she was doing travelling to the Faroes in the middle of winter without letting him know. ‘Kiddi came home, saw you, and left.’

  No further explanation was needed about what, where or when. He knew exactly what she meant.

  ‘I’m going to stay here for a few weeks while I think things over,’ she said, although that wasn’t true. She had no intention of returning.

  ‘We could make a new start,’ he said. The irritation over her sudden departure had vanished from his voice, replaced by a desperate tone. ‘All that legal stuff is over now, so we could put a real effort into sorting out our problems.’

  ‘I don’t need to sort out problems,’ she said, not even trying to hide the coldness in her voice. ‘But you definitely have stuff you need to work on.’

  ‘Don’t be like that,’ he said, and Marita couldn’t make out whether the touch of impatience she could hear in his voice was anger or frustration. ‘Are you talking about whatever it was that Kiddi thought he saw? I was teasing the girl; we were just playing the fool. He must have just misunderstood things.’

  ‘Katrín Eva’s lawyer called me today before I got on the flight. She asked if I would be sticking to my testimony that Katrín Eva had an unusually large amount of money when she left that evening, and I said I would. I remember thinking at the time that you certainly paid her generously.’

  ‘What are you talking about? What’s this bullshit, Marita?’

  ‘Rósa is bringing a case against you: purchasing sexual services from a minor,’ Marita said.