Ten Year Stretch

by Martin Edwards

  Her blush had been subsiding. Now it bloomed upwards again.

  Job ignored her discomfort. He remotely collapsed the scene and opened another in its place. Still the toll plaza, but cleaner imagery from a higher perspective.

  Initially, Olivia struggled to work out where the camera had been positioned. Then it swept around as though the scene itself was rotating, and she realised it could only come from inside the TRU helicopter.

  The view pitched and steadied. For the first time, Olivia noticed a tiny set of cross hairs overlaying the picture.

  Down on the ground she saw herself standing over the boy, aiming the weapon at his writhing body. The hologram zoomed onto her face. For a split second the cross hairs centred on her forehead as she stood there, gaping up directly into the lens. Then, as Olivia watched, she saw herself lift a hand to shelter her eyes against the debris from the rotor wash. As she did so, the outline of the Taser she clutched became more clearly defined.

  A cold prickle ran across her skin as the hairs struggled to rise. She knew now exactly where that camera had been mounted. When she looked through the ghosted scene to Job, she found him watching her reaction, unsmiling.

  He nodded. ‘Yes, it was a close one, wasn’t it? Just be thankful, Ms Milton, that the TRU sniper hesitated long enough to recognise your non-standard-issue Taser for what it was. And also that he was your average hot-blooded heterosexual male with an understandable disinclination towards killing a pretty girl, despite his undoubtedly thorough training.’ He rose, buttoned his jacket and looked down at her. ‘Tomorrow, you might not be so lucky.’

  Road Trip

  Yrsa Sigurðardóttir

  The car began to slide sideways on the icy road, slowly and somewhat gracefully. Signý tightened her grip on the steering wheel and the peeling, dried-up leather pinched her palms. The car was old and in way too bad a shape to be making this journey. But it was what was on offer. The influx of tourists had hiked prices up enough to make renting a car a non-option. The newspaper Signý and her companion Eiríkur worked for was so in debt she had not even raised this idea. Instead she had offered her beat-up car, failing on purpose to mention the bald tires that had now completely lost their grip on the road.

  ‘Shit, shit, shit.’ Signý’s voice sounded needy, her tone summing up the situation quite nicely. The car was headed off the road and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.

  ‘Brake! Brake!’ The level of urgency in Eiríkur’s screech just about matched the level of stupidity in his command. Signý wasn’t surprised. He was the archetypical hipster, rode a bike wherever he and his manicured beard were headed and he probably didn’t even have a driver’s license. He had no way of knowing that stepping on the brake would only make the situation worse.

  Signý tried forcing the car back onto the road but the tires refused to follow the steering wheel’s lead. She hurriedly changed down a gear in an effort to slow the car’s progress, but it was too late. They were off the tarmac, crossing the hard shoulder at a neat forty-five-degree angle and suddenly tipping over onto the incline leading into the trench beside the road. There the car came to an abrupt halt and the motor went quiet, the snow that filled the trench having done nothing to soften the blow. Eiríkur’s large camera bags on the back seat flew into Signý’s seat. It hurt, but to a lesser degree than the harsh catch of the seat belt. It was certainly better than face-planting into the windshield but Signý would not be surprised if it left her with bruising across her torso. A zombie beauty pageant sash of sorts.

  ‘Fuck.’ Eiríkur let go of the ceiling-handle and rubbed his chest. He then removed his earbuds and the vague, muffled tones of an ancient Fleetwood Mac song filled the car. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ He stared out the front window while cursing and turned his angry gaze to Signý. ‘Why didn’t you brake?’

  She met him with a death gaze of her own. ‘Don’t. Just don’t.’

  Never one for confrontation, Eiríkur turned back to the view in front of them. Snow, snow, and more snow. The field stretching before them was a sea of white, as were the snow-covered mountains rising into the dark evening sky at its far end. The only colour which broke the monotony was the brown wooden poles of a raggedy fence lining the field a few feet from the car. Eiríkur let out a tired sigh. He fetched the stupid iPod he had been listening to from his pocket and turned the music off. The car went silent. ‘Do you think we can push it back onto the road?’

  Signý thought about making a snide comment comparing the weight of a bicycle to an automobile but decided against it. They had enough problems without adding a sour mood to the mix. ‘No. I don’t think we can. The incline is too steep. We have to phone for help. Get someone with an SUV to pull us out.’

  ‘From where? We haven’t passed any farmhouses or seen any cars since we left the main road.’

  It was true, they were in the middle of nowhere. The place they were headed to had been chosen to house the boy they were going to interview for exactly that reason. It was isolated. Signý pointed ahead. ‘Phone the farmer. We aren’t that far off.’

  ‘Why should I phone? I’m only the photographer.’ Eiríkur reached to loosen his seat belt with one hand while supporting himself with the other in anticipation of falling forward. ‘You phone. You’re the reporter.’

  Signý thought she could make out a pout under his beard. Considering the circumstances, it was understandable. She did not want to make the call any more than he did. The last call to the farmer had not gone too well. It had been around two hours ago when they stopped for gas in Akureyri. The purpose of the call had been to confirm their impending arrival, but instead it had turned into the farmer berating them. He was opposed to the interview and made it clear in no uncertain terms. She had barely got a word in edgewise. Apparently their visit had upset the boy, made him agitated, and put him on edge. Her saying that the boy had agreed to the interview did not calm the man. Neither did her argument that the boy was eighteen now and able to make his own decisions. She could hear yelling in the background that only emphasised the man’s point and undermined hers. But there had been no conclusion; the phone call had ended rather abruptly with the man telling her he had to go and that they should turn back. A call now, asking him to pull them out of a ditch, was not one she was very eager to make.

  But a minuscule part of life was set aside for doing things one was enthusiastic about. ‘Fair enough. I’ll do it.’ Signý followed Eiríkur’s lead and braced herself before unfastening her seat belt. She felt the pressure on her ribs subside as she became free of its unforgiving grip. She managed to manoeuvre herself into a position that allowed her free use of her arms and took her phone out of her coat pocket.

  The farmer’s phone number was at the top of her recent calls. She had not made any others since they left early this morning. Her husband was angry at her for making the trip and she hadn’t felt like talking to him. Still didn’t. That call could wait until tonight, after the interview. She did not need to hear him repeat how unsafe the car was for winter driving outside the city, especially now that he had been proven right.

  Signý phoned the farmer. She felt Eiríkur’s eyes on her but did not acknowledge his presence while she listened to the ringtone repeat itself over and over. She hung up when a recording began and tried again. The same. She decided against a third time. ‘He’s not answering.’

  ‘Do you think he left? Took the boy with him to avoid the interview?’

  ‘How should I know?’ Signý stared at the lit screen of her phone. Then she looked up and shook her head. The movement nearly made her lose her grip and fall forward. ‘No. They’re still there. Where would they go?’

  ‘Then why isn’t he answering?’

  ‘Again. How should I know? Maybe there are cows to milk. Eggs to collect. Livestock to feed. It’s a farm. They have stuff to do.’ The words had a reassuring effect on them both. Of course both the man an
d the boy were still at the farm. The farmer did not strike her as the type to leave without at least letting them know that their trip would be in vain.

  Eiríkur was apparently in agreement. ‘So what then? We wait and call back later? Or walk?’

  ‘Walk. Waiting isn’t really an option.’ Signý started the car and the snow covering the hood lit up momentarily. It then went dark again when the engine shut off and the headlights followed. ‘We’ll freeze if we wait. The heater won’t work if the car won’t.’

  ‘How far is it to the farm?’

  Signý braced herself once more so that she could navigate the screen on her phone. Google Maps had the answer to Eiríkur’s question. As soon as she accessed 4G, her phone reminded her that she had gone over her data limit. Anger at the photographer swelled anew inside her bruised ribcage. Why couldn’t he have a smartphone like everybody else? Why did she have to rack up charges because he mistakenly believed it was cool to carry around an old Nokia 3210? Fucking hipster. She swallowed her annoyance. ‘It’s about a fifteen-minute walk. We were almost there.’ His shoes caught her eye and the anger at his lifestyle choices subsided. He was wearing the trademark footwear of his kind: lace-up Timberland boots. Perfect for walking along the icy road. Much more so than her meant-for-the-pavement-but-really-good-looking shoes. His roomy, mustard-yellow parka with the fur-lined hood was also perfect for the occasion.

  ‘So what are we waiting for?’ Eiríkur zipped up his coat. When Signý did not do the same, it dawned on him. ‘You want me to go alone?’

  ‘Yes. One of us has to wait here in case a snowplough arrives. If they see an abandoned car, they’ll have it towed away. I can’t afford to pay for that.’

  ‘How about I wait and you go?’

  ‘You don’t have a licence.’

  ‘So? It’s not as if there’s any need for driving.’

  ‘There will be if the snow-plough pulls the car up on to the road.’ Signý hadn’t a clue whether snow-ploughs offered this sort of service. It didn’t really matter as the imaginary snowplough in question wasn’t going to pass by. It was late, almost dinnertime, and already pitch black. No one was going to pay overtime to clear a road as little used as this one. ‘You go. The farmer will be fine. He’s sure to have a car big enough to help out and equipped for winter. No one can live here and not have one.’

  ‘Won’t you freeze?’

  ‘No. You should be back in twenty minutes. I’ll be fine.’

  Eiríkur nodded. ‘Okay, then. But if he starts arguing about the interview I’m going to tell him to save the speeches for you. I’ll tell him how it is. I’m just the photographer.’

  ‘Sure. Whatever.’ Signý felt her anger increase. Eiríkur might be the photographer but this interview was just as important to him as to her. There was talk of downsizing at the paper and neither of them would be on the to-go list if they repeated the click-fest that the interview with the boy’s mother had turned out to be. Anyone could write the article that was most-read that week. Few could repeat it the week that followed. Eiríkur should be happy she chose him to come with her. His job was on the line too.

  Eiríkur opened the door and got out. It took a lot of wrangling, the incline made all movements awkward and clumsy. Once out, he bent down, stuck his head back into the car and waved goodbye. ‘Sure you will be okay?’

  ‘I’ll be fine. Just get the farmer to come immediately. Don’t let him make you wait while he finishes some farming stuff. I don’t want to sit here for an hour or more. Then I won’t be okay. Got it?’

  He nodded and closed the door, swinging it with force to counteract gravity. Signý watched him clamber up the steep incline and walk away, the mustard-yellow parka quickly disappearing from the limited view she had of the road. As soon as she saw nothing but her desolate surroundings she began to feel the oppressive silence. She regretted not asking him to leave his stupid iPod behind. Even corny old hipster music was preferable to listening to the silence of the deserted environment.

  It was a still evening. No howling wind, no falling snow, no birds, no horses. No nothing. Just her, the car, the snow, and the silence. She looked at her phone and contemplated phoning her husband but decided against it. What would she say when he asked if everything was okay? She did not want to lie and she did not want to explain her circumstances either. It sucked to have to admit that he was right; she could brush off the incident more easily once she had something to tell him about the interview. He was just as curious as the online readers. Everyone wanted to hear the boy’s side of the story after what the mother had to say. Signý corrected her own thoughts. Everyone wanted to know what the boy had to say regardless of his mother’s sudden willingness to talk. He was, after all, a curiosity of the driving-by-a-car-accident type. A boy people were interested in from a safe distance. No wonder, he was the country’s youngest murderer and crazed to boot. As if that hook wasn’t enough, interest was further fuelled by the fact that the coverage at the time of the murder had been very limited. Everyone knew the story but its details were mostly based on conjecture and rumours. The records were locked away, not in the public domain as was the case for most murder cases that had gone to trial.

  The boy had only been ten years old and hence under the age of criminal responsibility, so the case never went to court. His guilt was established by the police, based on his mother’s description of events and a confession that was made after intense interrogation. His sentencing, if that term applied, was decided by the child welfare system. Its ruling: ship the boy to a faraway farm and keep him there until further notice. The idea was probably that no one need keep out of harm’s way if the harm itself is well secluded. But was the boy dangerous? Was he even a murderer? Not according to his mother. To be more precise, not according to his mother now. Signý had spoken to a contact from the police in preparation for the interview and he maintained that the mother’s testimony had been very clear. Her son killed his stepfather. Stabbed him many times. So many times that the dead man’s stab wounds had stab wounds.

  But now the mother had experienced a change of heart. During the interview, the gaunt woman had told Signý that she had been the one to kill her then-husband. Her son had merely had a panicked reaction to the bloody event, picked up the knife she had previously used to kill and stabbed away. Considering the abuse the boy had experienced at his stepfather’s hand, as well as what he had witnessed him doing to his mother, his actions were understandable. Well, almost.

  What was less understandable was the mother’s decision to let her son take the hit for her actions. During the interview Signý had repeatedly asked her to explain herself but the woman never fully managed to do so convincingly. She spoke of being in shock. Emphasised having been a victim for so long that she was easily led by the police. She even suggested having been in the midst of a psychotic episode. None of this explained why she had said nothing for eight years while her son gathered dust in a remote valley. Nor did it throw any light on why she had decided to step forward now.

  But Signý thought she knew why the woman had thrown her son under the bus and was now making amends. She had even run her theory by the woman, who had at first stared at her, mouth agape, before becoming flustered and looking away. Signý got the feeling she had hit the nail on the head and was still pretty sure of herself.

  It was obvious, really. The mother, a borderline simpleton either from birth or as a result of head trauma from her husband’s beatings, had believed that the boy would not be punished because of his age. That they would walk away, free to resume their lives. When that did not transpire she would have waited a bit, hoping that her son would soon be set free. It was easy to imagine that once one or two years had passed she would have decided to wait one more and so on and so forth. But now that he was eighteen and there were no signs of his freedom on the horizon, she had to face the facts. If her son was to have any semblance of a life she had to step up.
So she phoned the paper asking for a tell-all interview. Enter Signý. Enter Eiríkur the hipster photographer.

  Despite everything—the argument with her husband this morning, the long annoying ride and the accident with the car—Signý felt upbeat. She couldn’t wait to hear what the boy had to say. Did he remember what had really happened? Had he let his youth pass in a lighthouse-keeperish environment out of love and his misguided protective feelings towards his mother? Or had he been brainwashed into thinking that he actually killed his stepfather? If so, what did the realisation of having been wrongly accused feel like? What would he have to say regarding his mother’s actions? Did he hate her or had he found it in his heart to muster up some sort of understanding? The interview had all the markings of a success.

  Signý smiled. She looked at her phone to see how much time had passed since Eiríkur left. Her smile evaporated. Not long at all. Not even ten minutes. She bent down a bit to look out over the field and the mountains lining the valley. No sign of life. Just cold, white snow that softened all outlines and obliterated the jagged edges of the mountain’s rock face. Signý shivered a bit, and was reminded of the temperature outside. It would not take long for the car to cool down to the same level. She tried starting the engine in the hope she could put the heat back on. She watched the snow in front of her light up while the engine churned. But it lasted only a moment before the car went silent and the snow back to normal.

  She tried again a few times. Every five minutes or so. She wasn’t stupid, she knew the result would be the same each time, but it gave her something to do. There was no sign of Eiríkur, something she did not worry much about until he had been gone for half an hour. She did a simple calculation in her head. It was a ten-minute walk to the farm, five minutes to explain the situation and five minutes to get into the farmer’s car and drive back to her. Altogether, twenty minutes. So where the hell was Eiríkur? She did a recalculation. A ten-minute walk to the farm, five minutes establishing that no one was home, ten minutes walking back to her. Altogether, twenty-five minutes. It came out to the same thing: where the hell was Eiríkur?