Ten Year Stretch

by Martin Edwards

  The car was now as cold as the air outside. Colder. Signý knew from experience that confined cold was worse than cold in the open. The same degrees were more powerful in a closed space. It defied the little physics she had learned at school but it was true nonetheless. Despite this, she stayed inside the car, watching the short-lived puffs her breath made when she exhaled. It was better inside than outdoors. There was something menacing about the solitude it offered. The lack of life and abundance of nothingness.

  Despite not wanting to appear anxious or afraid, Signý called Eiríkur. The ring tone was different from that of the farmer’s mobile but the end result was the same. No one answered. She tried not to read too much into it. Eiríkur often turned down the volume on his phone and it would not be the first time she was unable to reach him. She tried to see the bright side. Now she was annoyed and annoyance was a much preferable feeling to being on edge.

  Her phone beeped in her hands, the familiar sound announcing the arrival of a text message. Her cold fingers immediately went for the screen and to her surprise it was not from Eiríkur but from her husband. The text was brief: Did you see this? It was followed by a link that she copied into her browser. Fuck the roaming charges. She recognised the beginning of the URL; it was a rival newspaper. The article reference was a long number so she had no idea what the subject matter was or why her husband thought she would be interested.

  The page opened to a headline reading: Do not be fooled. Underneath it was a picture of a familiar woman, the boy’s mother whom she had interviewed last week. It was not of the same quality as the photos Eiríkur had taken which had accompanied Signý’s interview. Instead it was a bit fuzzy and seemed to have been snapped without the woman’s knowledge. She was exiting a building that Signý recognised as the hospital in Reykjavík. She was just as gaunt as Signý remembered, her rather cheap and worn parka not managing to hide her thin frame.

  Signý had forgotten all about the cold and her missing photographer. She scrolled down and read the accompanying article. She read the paragraphs in a similar way as one would drink to quench a desert thirst, in gulps. The piece began with a slap to her professional face and only got worse. And worse. When she was done, Signý closed her eyes and tried her damnedest to calm down. She had made a total fool of herself and could more likely than not kiss her new-found job security good-bye. As could Eiríkur, just by association. She was actually surprised that she had not got another text message, one from her editor telling her not to show up for work again. She had brought shame down on the publication and that shame would be meted out to the editor in equal measure to her. That was not something he was likely to forgive easily.

  The article was an exposé of her interview with the woman. It was based upon groundwork Signý should have done after conducting it. But her enthusiasm over the piece had blinded her inner journalist. It had wrapped a blindfold over her eyes and plugged her ears, her alertness doused as if by a hefty dose of alcohol. Under ordinary circumstances she would have done more, spoken to more people and checked for any mistakes. Excitement to share the interview with readers had got the better of her. If she was fully honest, it was more excitement over being praised and becoming popular with her bosses.

  Signý did not know if she would have spoken to the woman’s sister if she had operated with less haste. At the moment she believed she would have, but it was hard to say. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, while glaucoma seems to rule the present. But after reading what the sister had to say, one thing was clear. It would have changed everything. According to this woman, who looked super sour in the photo that accompanied the piece, her sister had made everything up. She had not killed her husband or otherwise harmed him. It was her son. Just like she had dutifully told the police at the time. The only reason she was making this nonsense up now was because she was dying. She was in the terminal stages of lung cancer with only a few months to live. The sister had gone on to say that she had this firsthand. The boy’s mother had told her of her intention to give him his freedom as her parting gift, hoping to make up for not having protected him as a child when he was molested, beaten, and broken by his stepfather. She would take the blame and die as a pariah. The woman who let her child take the blame for her actions.

  Terminal cancer. The face reminiscent of a skull should have told Signý that something wasn’t right. She had put it down to smoking but hadn’t thought anything about the fact that the woman had not lit up once during the three-hour interview. Looking back Signý remembered ashtrays in the small grubby apartment. One on the sofa table, one on the windowsill in the kitchen, one in the hallway. There had even been one in the bathroom. All empty. It should have told her something. Even asking whether she had given up smoking might have caused the woman to give something away, enough to make Signý’s journalist radar sense there was something off. But she had not cared about the woman. Not at all, really. Definitely not enough to enquire about her smoking habits. She had merely put up with her company to get the story.

  Signý picked up her phone again and closed the browser. She did not want to see the article next time she needed to access the Internet. In fact she never wanted to see it again. Never to be reminded of the jibes that the other journalist had managed to pepper the text with. The one that stung the most was when he quoted his interviewee saying that only a simpleton would not have seen through her sister’s made-up story. This was followed by very indignant words about trash journalism and using vulnerable people as click-bait. Signý was certain that the reporter had put those words into the woman’s mouth. Just to be mean. Professional success was known to cause envy and a strong urge to take the winner down. She was not inoculated against it herself. She would probably have done the same had the tables been turned.

  Signý tried not to think about the readers’ comments she had stupidly viewed. Such comments were never positive. Mercifully the article had not been up for long so there weren’t many. In her mind she could see them growing in number by the minute, becoming increasingly negative as each commentator tried to outdo the indignation of those who had come before him. Those she had seen called her unprofessional and stupid, by midnight she would be called much worse. Evil, heartless, and as ignorant as dirt. If she was lucky. Worse name-calling often occurred in the comments section. Usually the worst of them were removed but she had the feeling the rival paper would let them fester for a while. They might even add some of their own to fuel the fire. After all, she was the one tied to the stake in its midst and she worked for the competition.

  If the new article had only been an interview with the sister, Signý might have been able to sit out the backlash and slowly float to the top again. Given ample time. But the rival journalist had gone the extra mile. He had interviewed a psychologist and asked the man to envisage what the original article could do to the boy. The specialist had not been shy when it came to pouring out his thoughts and none of them were good. He believed that the boy’s mental state was likely to suffer from such irresponsible reporting. In his view it did not matter what was true; whatever recovery the boy had made during his time at the farm had probably been jeopardised. Hopefully only temporarily, but possibly for good. It was the psychologist’s opinion that no matter how many people came forward saying that his mother made this up, the boy would still have doubts. The damage done could therefore not be erased. The boy’s doubts could develop into anger, and anger for someone with his mental issues was really bad news for everyone around him. Seriously bad news. His words had probably been dumbed down to make for easier reading. No one liked to read quotes full of medical or psychological jargon. Layman’s terms were more effective.

  The psychologist’s statement echoed in Signý’s mind. She recalled the yelling in the background when she spoke to the farmer. His strong insistence that they stay away took on another meaning. A more serious, menacing meaning.

  Signý tried Eiríkur’s number again. As before, there was no
answer. But unlike previous attempts, it wasn’t simply annoying but a reason for serious worry.

  The darkness outside seemed to have intensified. The mountains in the distance were barely discernible from the black sky. The moon was new and the pinprick lighting provided by the stars overhead had nothing to say. Signý realised that if someone decided to creep up on her she wouldn’t make him out until he was almost beside the car.

  Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. Signý tried to gather her thoughts but couldn’t. Any thought process leading up to what she should do if something had happened to Eiríkur seemed unable to get past the original thought of him being attacked. Her mind immediately jumped from that thought to one where she was the next victim. And from there to the cop’s description of the shredded body of the boy’s stepfather. The stab wounds having stab wounds and how it must have hurt. She tried to stop imagining how it would feel to have a knife stabbed into the soft part of her abdomen, under the ribs. But she could not. Her mind refused to let go.

  She phoned Eiríkur again. Still no answer. When the ringing died out she sat in the silence, staring out the window, wondering if she should phone the police. The nearest station was over an hour and a half away. But that was probably a shorter wait than sitting around hoping someone would pass by. This section of the road led nowhere. Only the farm. The farm and the boy.

  The silence had become more intense, like the darkness. Signý realised that this was something she could actually use to her benefit. She might not see a possible attacker crossing the field or coming at her, but unless this person could fly, she would hear the crunching of snow underneath his shoes. She lowered her window until the glass reached under her ear. Her previous theory about it being colder inside the car than outside proved to be wrong. Her ear and forehead felt the brunt of the increased chill but she forced herself to grin and bear it. She would phone the police, count down until their arrival. Her ear would probably suffer frostbite before that happened but there was no way she was covering it up. She needed to hear everything.

  Before phoning the police she tried one last call to Eiríkur. It would look good if her phone was confiscated. After two rings she realised that the tone was somehow different. An odd echo followed each ring. She had phoned often enough to know Eiríkur’s ringtone by heart. Or by ear. And it had no echo. She listened more carefully, covering the cold ear exposed to the elements. The ringtone went back to normal. She removed her hand and the tone changed again. Taking the phone from her ear she realised she was hearing a separate ring coming from outside the car.

  Slowly she turned her head in the direction she believed the sound came from. It wasn’t from the field. It came from the road. She tried lifting herself up a bit to get a better view but couldn’t see far because of the incline. She had no choice but to get out of the vehicle in the hope of seeing what the hell was going on. It was cumbersome and turned out to make very little difference. The visibility was crap due to the darkness. Yet she did not get back in or close the door. Instead she stood holding on to it so as not to slip while she stretched her head to see even further. And she did. Someone was walking down the road. Towards the car. Towards her. She couldn’t make out more than a dark outline but with every step the figure became more discernible. What should she do? She hadn’t planned for anything happening so soon. She had yet to formulate any sort of plan. Should she lock herself in the car? Run? Where to?

  Frozen to the spot, Signý stared at the figure that was slowly approaching. It resembled a shadow, one that had pulled free from its maker and ventured alone into the world. Mesmerised, she realised that she was losing any head start she had if she needed to run, but her feet refused to move. The dark outline of the figure was becoming clearer and she thought she could make out one of its hands lifted upwards, held high into the air. It was waving. Her breathing became calmer. Who waves at someone they intend to harm? Obviously no one. Maybe it was the farmer, maybe Eiríkur. The hand gesture indicated someone friendly at least.

  A couple more steps and she could now see a hint of colour and clothing. A mustard-yellow. Eiríkur’s coat. Signý breathed a sigh of relief. It was swiftly replaced by anger at the man for not answering his phone. The only reasonable explanation for it was his headphones. He must have plugged his ears to listen to the stupid iPod that he had brought along. What was he thinking?

  Signý stood by the car for another minute until she was certain that it was him. When there was no mistaking the large yellow parka she got back in and shut the door after her. How dare he cause her this unnecessary distress. Fuming, she gripped the steering wheel but soon her anger at Eiríkur subsided and in its place came the realisation that they were still in a predicament. The farmer had obviously not been at home or unwilling to help since Eiríkur had returned alone. The phone call to the police could not be put off. She began to mentally prepare for the speech they were certain to give her about winter driving safety and the state of her car. If there was a fine for driving with bald tires she was sure to get one. This would be added to her additional roaming charges and possibly the cost of repairs. And all for nothing. There would be no interview and quite possibly there would be no job when she returned. Her husband would have a field day.

  The sound of snow crunched underneath the soles of Eiríkur’s Timberland boots became discernible. Signý welcomed it; the monotony of the silent surroundings had done little to relieve her misery. Despite this she decided to close the window; her ear had started to throb with pain from the severe cold. She was again shrouded in silence and despair set back in. She was about to become unemployed and unemployable, to boot. She pushed the thought away for now. Soon she would have Eiríkur to share her depressive mood with; he would be just as badly affected by the news of the new article as she was. He would probably emphasise over and over that he was ‘just the photographer’ and hold on to the hope that his part in the fiasco would be overlooked. But she would make sure to smash that hope and had already decided to tell him that as the photographer he should have noticed the woman’s frail appearance. He was the one who should have questioned her health and alerted Signý. He had taken countless photos of people and should have recognised the signs. It was imperative that he be as miserable as her while they waited for help. She needed a partner in this fiasco. Misery divided by two felt only half as bad as experiencing it all on your own.

  Lost in thought, Signý was distracted from Eiríkur’s impending arrival. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest when he knocked on her window. She lost her balance in the slanted car, knocking her forearm on the hard and unforgiving steering wheel. Fucking fool. Why didn’t he just get in the car? Signý turned to the window and stared at the mustard-coloured parka almost touching the glass. It was dirty. Covered in dark streaks. And ripped. What the hell had happened to Eiríkur? Perhaps he had an explanation for his delay after all. Possibly one involving him falling into a ditch in the darkness. Too bad about the parka then. It was a ridiculously expensive one. Not one easily replaced when living on unemployment benefits.

  She rolled down the window. ‘What the hell happened? Get in.’ Eiríkur didn’t reply. She could not see his face from her position so she could not see if he still had the earbuds in. Perhaps he had suffered a concussion and was delirious. Did one lose hearing under such circumstances?

  Signý’s eyes focused on the damaged coat and she involuntarily shifted in her seat, away from the window. The dark spots weren’t mud. Mud wasn’t red. The ripped material did not look as if it had been damaged by a fall. The edges were not jagged but straight and smooth, as if cut. ‘Eiríkur? What happened?’ Still no reply. Carefully Signý moved back towards the window so that she could angle her head upwards and look him in the face.

  ‘Eiríkur?’ Her eyes did not reach to his face. Instead they fixated on his left hand, or what he was holding to be exact. A knife. A fancy large butcher’s knife with a black handle. And a dirty blade. The only thought sh
e managed to muster was that Eiríkur wasn’t left-handed. Why was he holding a knife in his left hand?

  Slowly Signý looked upwards. Her eyes passed over the damaged parka, all the way up to the hood and the face it partially hid. There was no beard. The face was not Eiríkur’s. It was younger. Much younger. She realised she had seen it before. An even younger version of these features. It was the boy. A grown-up version of the boy she had seen in a framed picture hanging on the wall of his mother’s apartment. Signý swallowed a huge lump that threatened to suffocate her otherwise.

  The boy grinned, his teeth crooked and lips thin. He raised his left hand, bringing the knife aloft while he opened the car door with his right hand. ‘I didn’t want to be photographed.’ His features became grim, the lopsided and awful smile disappearing as if wiped off. ‘And I don’t want to do the interview anymore either.’

  Neither did Signý.

  But it was too late. She would do no more interviews. Not ever. Signý realised she was about to find out what a knife feels like instead. Plunged into the soft area of the abdomen, just under the ribs.

  And just about everywhere else.

  Long Time, No See

  Maj Sjöwall,

  translated by Catherine Edwards

  Despite the fresh snow lashing at her face and the slush on the pavement, which was seeping in through the cracks in her left shoe, Blomman was in an excellent mood.

  As soon as she had woken up, she’d had a sneaking feeling that this cold, grey January day was going to bring her luck; a feeling which grew stronger later in the morning, when she went through the rubbish bins on Ringvägen and found such a rich harvest of cans and empty bottles that she could fill both her large plastic carrier bags to the brim.