The Absolution

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Ævar closed the laptop on the kitchen table. He couldn’t read any more, couldn’t take any more of the ugliness. He focused instead on the back of his son’s head.

  It was a small flat, smaller than he’d have liked, though bigger than he could really afford. There had been embarrassingly little property to divide up when he and Ágústa divorced. The flat had an open-plan kitchen and living area into which he had crammed a small table, a sofa and a television. Although their old house hadn’t exactly been palatial, at least it had been possible to make coffee without being able to reach out and adjust the TV controls at the same time. But the compactness had its advantages, one of which was the enforced intimacy with his son. Davíd had a tendency to shut himself away, but that was impossible here since his room was little more than a windowless broom cupboard and all the floor space was taken up by his bed. He preferred using his PlayStation in the living room to sitting on his bed, staring at the blank walls.

  Armed men were involved in a shootout on screen, in a game Ævar knew was not intended for children of Davíd’s age. Ágústa would disapprove, but she had no say here. Besides, Davíd would be fourteen soon and he had a feeling that content banned for under sixteens was allowed if an adult was present. Or, if the rule didn’t exist, it should be invented. There must be plenty of kids like his son, kids who needed a safety valve, an outlet for their feelings that a more sedately educational game wouldn’t provide. He briefly considered joining Davíd to see if he could find any relief himself in blasting away enemy soldiers from a sniper’s lair, but he doubted it.

  Ævar turned and stared out of the window. He couldn’t bear to look at the fair head as he asked: ‘How’s the new school?’

  Davíd didn’t answer immediately. The quality of the noise altered as the relentless rattle of gunfire ceased. ‘It’s all right.’

  ‘Have you got to know any of the other boys yet?’

  Again, that hesitation. ‘Sure.’

  ‘Are they nice?’

  Another perceptible pause, followed by: ‘Sure.’

  ‘What are their names?’ Ævar watched a bus drive by, slowing down to edge past the bank of snow that had encroached into the road after repeated ploughings. ‘Your new mates, I mean.’

  This time the silence lasted longer. Davíd was a good boy; he didn’t like lying. ‘Can’t remember.’

  Ævar wanted to put him on the spot, wanted to yell that if you had friends you knew what they were called. But he couldn’t do it, any more than he could bring himself to mention the names of the kids who had sent his son all those hateful messages on Facebook. He didn’t know if Davíd had already seen them and felt a despairing impulse to confiscate his laptop and replace his phone with an old push-button model. But it wouldn’t do any good. Davíd had read plenty of similar abuse directed at him; it was nothing new. And he had a wretched enough time at school without being forbidden to use the internet at home. Ævar didn’t want to make his daddy weekends a miserable experience, so he bit his lip to stop himself asking any further questions. After a brief interval, the rattle of gunfire started up again.

  Ævar turned from the window to study the back of his son’s head. ‘Ever wanted a real gun, Davíd?’

  The boy twisted round to his father, looking surprised and bemused. ‘What?’

  ‘Just wondered.’ Ævar couldn’t explain why he had felt compelled to ask. Perhaps he had wanted to sound out his son’s attitude to real-life violence; find out if his desire to kill was limited to the figures on screen. Davíd’s reaction made it clear what he thought of the idea. Ævar should have known: such a thing would never have crossed his own mind once. But these days he’d become hardened, a consequence of all those endless, unsuccessful attempts to put a stop to the mental torture his son had been forced to endure since his very first day at school. It was only surprising he hadn’t felt like resorting to violence sooner. They’d tried everything else. But despite everyone’s apparent eagerness to help, nothing had changed.

  The school system had let them down every time, in spite of repeated attempts to implement the Olweus Bullying Prevention Programme, which had been held up like a crucifix against the Antichrist. At meetings with him and Ágústa, the school authorities had spoken of the programme as the gold standard, which would provide a solution to the whole problem, but it had proved totally ineffectual in practice. And the psychologist Davíd was seeing had turned out to be full of hot air. Whatever they tried, nothing worked. Instead, the unspeakable situation got steadily worse. He had lost count of the phone conversations he’d had with the parents of Davíd’s classmates, who had all, without fail, let them down as well. At first they appeared willing to take firm steps to deal with the situation but when that didn’t work, their enthusiasm quickly waned. By the fifth phone call to the bullies’ parents, they all, almost without exception, turned against Davíd and started listing his faults and issues that were, in their view, at the root of the incidents. In other words, the problem lay with Davíd. Ævar should concentrate on sorting his son out, then everything would be fine and they could all go and get an ice-cream together.

  Even his and Ágústa’s friends and families had lost patience over the years. They listened to his tales of woe but no longer had anything to contribute, just waited for the conversation to move on to a more uplifting topic. Even worse, their children, who had been drafted in to play with Davíd outside school hours, were now bored of the situation and had started making excuses about how they were too busy to help. The little shits.

  Davíd had returned to his game. Ævar watched the figures toppling, shot either through the heart or the head. They all died instantly; no death throes, no convulsions. As unrealistic as what you saw on TV or in films. Presumably the gamers had little interest in pretending to take part in a real war; as little as his son had in using a real gun. Which was strange in light of what he was going through, but probably just one more symptom of the boy’s lack of self-esteem. He didn’t feel he deserved anything but crap from other kids. Davíd had stopped noticing what was glaringly obvious to Ævar: that there was nothing wrong with him. The problem lay entirely with his tormentors.

  Ever since social media had entered Davíd’s life, the situation had got totally out of hand. The stuff that had happened before seemed almost laughable in comparison, though it had felt like hell at the time. Now Davíd had nowhere to hide. The abuse pursued him wherever he went, into his room, into bed. And it was getting worse. If the other kids at school had been spiteful to him face to face, there were no limits to what they could do now. Moving to another school had made not the slightest bit of difference since his old enemies had hunted him down in cyberspace and spread their poison to his new classmates. Some of the messages were so cruel and hurtful that Ævar could hardly bear to read them. He wanted to hurl the laptop out of the window, send it crashing onto the pavement three storeys below, but he curbed the impulse. The computer was valuable because it enabled him to access his son’s Facebook page without Davíd knowing. He’d let the boy use it from time to time and at some point Davíd had unwittingly ticked the ‘Save password’ option. Ævar might not be so lucky again.

  He bit back the mocking laughter that threatened to burst from him. Luck. A phenomenon that had vanished from his life long ago. As a boy he’d had it: he’d won at the school bingo, made lucky guesses on various exam questions and scored goals in football that had had less to do with skill than fluke. But these days he wouldn’t be able to win the lottery with the help of a crystal ball. Not that he had any interest in a financial windfall. All he wanted was for something to go right occasionally. Something for Davíd. Like making a friend. Just one. An acquaintance, even. At least that would lighten the burden he himself carried as a result of his son’s sufferings.

  But such dreams had long ago gone sour. Davíd was alone and isolated and there was no prospect of the situation changing. The dreams Ævar consoled himself with these days were of a different kind. Old Testament ju
stice, that’s all he had to cling to. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth. Without descending to the same level as his son’s abusers. No, he preferred a different take on the old adage. A blow for a tear. One for every tear Davíd had shed over the years. One for every tear he himself had shed. And one for every tear of Ágústa’s. That would make for a hell of a lot of blows. Enough to pulverise those bloody kids as if they’d been put through a blender. If that was good enough for God, it must be good enough for him.

  The messages his son had received had etched themselves on his retinas. They felt like acid injected into his skull.

  Kill yourself.

  Hang yourself.

  Kill yourself.

  I hate you. We all hate you.

  Pig. Dirty pig.

  Fuck off and die.

  You faggot.

  Do us a favour. Cut yourself.

  No girl will ever want you. You ugly freak.

  Fuck off out of our school. You ruin everything.

  Kill yourself.

  Hang yourself.

  Kill yourself.

  Ævar looked at Davíd’s head and the game on screen. The bullets were still blasting, muscle-bound soldiers falling like flies. He hoped they were the bad guys; grown-up bullies who had wrecked the lives of other children when they were kids. If so, they deserved it, and worse.

  Ævar ground his teeth, then rubbed his face to clear away the hate-filled expression it wore more and more often these days. When he reckoned he looked normal again, he stood up. ‘Right. Time to turn that thing off. How about we go out and get a burger?’

  Davíd obeyed immediately, putting down the controller, switching off the screen and getting to his feet. His good, obedient, clever, beautiful boy. Ævar smiled warmly so Davíd wouldn’t be able to see the ugly thoughts running through his head.

  Kill

  Hang

  Cut

  Chapter 8

  The girl was dead. There could be no doubt about it. She was lying on her side at the back, and the trail of blood that led from the door was dry and brown. So was the blood masking her smashed face. He tried to avoid looking at it, tried to shut out the horror and the sickening smell. Instead he concentrated on what he’d come here to do.

  Laying his torch on the floor to free up his hands, he spread out the sheet of clear plastic beside her, then, holding a gloved hand over his nose and mouth, took a deep breath. He didn’t want to have to inhale when he bent over her. After this he edged round behind her with difficulty, bent down and started rolling her over onto the plastic. This turned out to be harder than he’d expected and he was grateful that the girl was so slight. Corpses weren’t like living people; they provided no more help than a sack full of sand. Twice he broke off to stand up and gasp for breath, face averted, but in the end he succeeded in manoeuvring the girl’s body onto the sheet. Now it was easier to roll and he wrapped it in the crackling plastic, fastening it with tape here and there, then straightened up.

  After switching off and pocketing his torch, he took several more deep breaths, then began to drag the bundle towards the door, praying the plastic wouldn’t tear and that no one would see him. The mere thought made his heart contract. What would happen if he was spotted? But there had been nobody around when he arrived and it was unlikely anyone would be outside now. Opening the door, he peered out into the darkness and was relieved to see that the place was still deserted. It was going to be all right.

  As he was lugging the body outside he wondered why no explanation had appeared online or in the media yet. Was it possible that the newsdesks had forwarded the letters to the police rather than using them to boost their circulation? Or hadn’t they realised what they were? They must get a ton of stuff sent in by the public and probably dealt with it in the order they received it. That had to be the explanation. They just hadn’t read the letters yet. But the blog must have been posted; it had been prepared ages ago and the postings were timed to appear automatically. He didn’t dare check, though, since that would leave behind a digital trail. As long as he was careful he had no need to worry; everything apart from the publication of the material in the media had gone according to plan. He needed to focus on that instead of worrying about minor details that had gone awry.

  If he made it through the next few days without being spotted, he would get away with it. Holding on to that thought, he made for the car with the bundle rustling along behind him like a giant plastic tail.

  Chapter 9

  Photocopy of a handwritten letter, entry no. 1 – posted on blog.is by a blogger going by the name of Laufa.

  Now that I’ve made up my mind I feel good. It’s strange. I can hardly remember what that feels like because usually I feel bad all the time. It’s not like I’m relieved or cheerful or happy, exactly. More like I’m contented. It reminds me of a berry-picking trip we once went on when I picked more than anyone else. That was just before everything started to go wrong.

  I want to repeat that I feel good. I’m not in a state, I haven’t tipped over the edge. You need to remember that when you try to understand what I’ve done. I finally know what it’s like to feel contented.

  But I want there to be a record of why I did this. It should help you come to terms with what’s happened. Perhaps the kids from my class will see it. If they do, it would be good for them to be reminded of what happened. Though things will probably look very different to them. I expect their memories of what school was like are like mine were before the boy sniggered at my name. The nice smell of a new eraser, the shiny stickers the teachers used to put in your exercise books, the fun we had during storytime, lunchtime and break. How lucky they are, though I don’t suppose they realise it – that’s what being lucky means. I’m not one of them.

  I remember when it all began, where we were and who started it. I was eight years old. We were only in the same class for that one year, then he moved away and I haven’t seen him since. Perhaps it’s just as well because I don’t know what I’d say to him if I saw him now. Nothing, probably. He wasn’t to know what effect his words would have. I mean, all he did was repeat my name after the teacher called it out, then snigger. That’s all it took. He’d often heard my name, so had the others. They all knew me. But they giggled too, like he’d said something unbelievably funny. My name’s not even that strange.

  After that I became a laughing stock. Every time someone said my name people would crack up. Their laughter was spiteful – it had nothing to do with being happy or having fun. It was like the laughter of someone who treads on a spider just to be mean. First it was my name, then it was other things. My hair was stupid. My clothes were stupid. My shape was stupid. Everything I said was stupid. Everything I did was stupid. I was stupid. Useless, ugly, boring, uncool and dumb. It didn’t matter if it was true or not. The group had decided and that was that. Sometimes the truth is just what everyone else decides it is.

  I still remember it vividly.

  The boy’s eyes opening wide in his freckled face as he thought about my name before repeating it.

  My lunchbox on the desk in front of me; the untouched sandwich my mum had made me, forgetting that I didn’t like cucumber any more.

  The carton of chocolate milk I’d just started drinking from when the giggling began.

  My friend beside me, laughing along with the rest.

  The sweet milk turned sour, and, although I didn’t realise it then, the same would happen to my life. From the moment he opened his mouth, my nice life turned sour and was ruined. And just as there’s nothing you can do about milk once it’s gone off, the same was true of me. My life turned bad from then on.

  Chapter 10

  The sandwich tasted off; the bread was stale and the shrunken lump in the middle was unrecognisable as tuna salad. Come to think of it, the sell-by date had been illegible, and Huldar wondered if the shop owner had deliberately rubbed it off. He scrunched up the wrapping and chucked it across the room. The ball flew in a high arc over a colleague’s head
and landed in the bin – well, admittedly it was the green bin, but never mind. ‘Ta-da!’

  Gudlaugur, unimpressed, barely looked up from his screen. He himself had taken his packaging over, conscientiously separated out the plastic and paper and disposed of them in the appropriate bins. ‘What do you think of this e-mail from Freyja? Worth looking into?’

  ‘Maybe. It’s not like we’ve got anything else to do.’ Huldar opened the message and read it again. She’d tried to ring but he’d forgotten to unmute his phone after leaping off the stage in the school assembly hall. Which was ironic, given how much time he spent waiting in vain for her to call. He’d rung straight back but she hadn’t answered. ‘She does point out that it’s unlikely to have any connection to the attack since there’s no way Adalheidur could be the assailant and she’s so socially isolated it’s difficult to see how she could have got anyone to help her. I know Freyja says the father’s a possible suspect but I don’t agree. If he was waiting outside the school during our meeting with the pupils, he can hardly have put the phone through the women’s door. There wouldn’t have been time. I remember seeing a car like the one Freyja described parked outside the school. It was there when we arrived and still there when we left.’