Season of the Witch (37 page)

Kristín switches a kettle on. “Would you like some tea?”

She doesn’t seem at all disconcerted by my turning up here in the middle of the night.

But people’s reactions to the unexpected can be unexpected too.

I sit down on a wooden stool by the small plastic-covered kitchen table. “If you’re having one.”

She takes two cups from the dish rack.

“Were you expecting Rúnar here tonight? Since you thought it was him at the door?”

“I wasn’t sure,” she replies. “But I was hoping he’d come.”

“Have you heard from him in the past few hours?”

“You just don’t know what your kids are getting up to when they reach his age,” she says, as if she hasn’t noticed my question. “I suppose you have to be grateful if they stay in touch.”

I think of Gunnsa and count my blessings yet again.

“I’m sure you’re right. Skarphédinn had moved out long ago, hadn’t he? First into the student dorm, then to his friend Mördur’s place. You and your husband must have been upset when he flew the nest?”

“There are so many things we have to deal with in life,” she says, her back still toward me. She places tea bags in the cups and rests her hand on the kettle, as if it will boil faster like that.

“Skarphédinn seems to have been a remarkably independent young man, according to what I’ve been told.”

“Yes, he changed when he became a teenager.”

“Was that when he went down south to be in the movie?”

“It was then, yes,” she slowly replies.

I say nothing.

“But,” she adds, turning toward me and leaning against the table, “he’s not my concern now. Rúnar is.”

“Of course,” I mumble. She has a strange way of putting it.

Her expression is severe, almost harsh, as she stands with her arms crossed, glaring at me.

“Why are you here?” she asks.

“Because I think there are some nasty characters out there who are out to get Rúnar.”

“And what do you think that has to do with you?”

I’m floored by her question. “Well, there’s the fact that they busted into my home on the night before last and raised hell. They said it was because they couldn’t find Rúnar.”

The kettle’s boiling. She turns away and pours water into the cups.

“Milk and sugar?”

“Just sugar, please, if you’ve got it.”

Kristín pushes the sugar bowl and spoon toward me and places the cups on the table. I notice that her fingernails are bitten to the quick. She takes a teaspoon and prods the tea bag with it for a long, long time.

“Why were they after you?”

“I don’t really know,” I tell her as I stir the sugar into my tea. “They’re nuts. High most of the time. And they can be dangerous.”

“They came here that night, looking for Rúnar. What did they want with him?”

“I can’t answer that. You’ll have to ask him. Or them.”

“Is it anything to do with his brother?”

“I’m not sure. It may be.”

She gazes into space.

“Have they been here tonight?”

“I only just got home. My husband doesn’t answer the door.”

Silence reigns for a while at the kitchen table. We sip our tea, which has a refreshing lemon flavor.

I break the silence. “What does your husband do?”

She looks up from her teacup. “He’s disabled. An invalid.”

“So you care for the sick at work, then come home and do more of the same?”

No comment.

“What did he do before he was ill?”

“He was a pharmacist.”

“And you’re a nursing graduate. Did you meet at college?”

She lifts her cup as if in confirmation and takes a sip.

I’ve had enough of this stalling. “Where do you think Rúnar could be?”

“Couldn’t he be at the apartment?”

“That’s possible. But he’s not answering the phone or the door.”

“Could be asleep.”

“I don’t think that’s likely. He sounded pretty upset when I spoke to him less than an hour ago.”

“I have the feeling,” she says after a brief pause for thought, “that Rúnar’s all right.” She goes on: “We reap what we sow.”

“Was that true of his brother?”

She says nothing. But an undefined tension is added to her obdurate expression.

“Shouldn’t we contact the police?” I ask. Down the corridor, I hear a door opening.

“This is none of your business. You ought to go home and get some sleep. Me too. My days are long and my nights short.”

She stands up.

I do the same.

“Thank you for your concern about my boy,” she says hastily as she sees me to the door.

On the way out we run into her husband, Valgardur Skarphédinsson. Blue-striped pajamas flap on his wasted frame like laundry on a clothesline. His thick hair is sticking out in all directions and his unshaven face bristles darkly. Lethargically he walks toward us. His bony face is expressionless, lifeless. The eyes, concealed by dark glasses at his son’s funeral, are blue, dead. It’s as if he doesn’t see us.

As his wife propels me out of the door, I hear her say: “Valli, dear, you should be in bed.”

After my rather unsettling encounter with Skarphédinn and Rúnar’s parents, I have a better idea of why the two brothers wanted to move out as soon as they could. Not a happy home. By three thirty I’ve driven around most of Akureyri, calling both cell phone numbers every fifteen minutes. I decide to call it a night and head home. When I get there, everything seems fine. Before going indoors, I make a final attempt.

Skarphédinn’s phone is answered.

“Einar?” asks a strangled voice I recognize as Rúnar’s.

“Where are you?” I ask.

A pause. “At the dump,” he murmurs.

“You mean the junkyard?”

No answer.

“What are you doing out there?”

“I knew they’d never find me here.”

“Wait there. Don’t move. I’m on my way right now.”

And with that, my phone is off, out of range, or all channels busy.

____

The night is cold and bleak as I step out of my car in front of the padlocked gate of the junkyard. With the engine running, I flash the headlights three times, then walk to the gate. Almost at once a hunched figure looms out of the darkness, wearing blue jeans and a leather bomber jacket. Rúnar stands for a moment silent and motionless in front of the gate, then swings himself up and climbs nimbly over. He’s shaking like a leaf, either from the cold or sheer terror.

“You could have found a less extreme hiding place,” I remark as I sling an arm over his shoulders and steer him toward the car. He obediently goes with me like a well-brought-up little boy. Back in the car, I light up.

“I wanted…,” says Rúnar.

“What?” I ask, rolling down the window and blowing my smoke out.

“If they…if they found me and killed me…” He falls silent.

“Are you trying to say that, if that were to happen, you wanted to die here, in the same place as your brother?”

Rúnar nods, gazing straight ahead at the mountains of rusty iron, garbage, and tires.

I drive off.

“What happened after I spoke to you earlier?”

“They’d been coming over all evening, again and again, calling and ringing the doorbell…”

“You mean Agnar and his thugs from Reydargerdi?”

“Yeah. I wouldn’t let them in. I threatened to tell the police…”

“And?”

“They said I could try that, if I dared.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He hesitates. “I have my reasons.”

“That you’re not going to tell me?”

Silence.

“OK. Then what?”

“I knew they’d just hang around outside until I came out. I’d have to go out sometime…so I called ösp downstairs on her cell and woke her up. I went downstairs and she let me into their apartment, and I climbed down into the back garden from her bedroom window.”

“There was no one there when I arrived about one o’clock,” I say.

“Yeah, I asked ösp to wait for fifteen minutes after I left and then wake her dad up and tell him there were some suspicious people lurking around outside.” A faint smile lights up the handsome face. “I called her afterward, and she said her dad woke up with a shock and went ballistic. He ran downstairs and gave them a good yelling at. She said they didn’t stick around.”

“So you walked all the way out here to the dump, did you?”

“I flagged down a taxi and it took me out to the Glerá bridge. Walked from there.”

“Why didn’t you go to your parents’ place instead?”

Rúnar gives me a grave look. “Not possible.”

“You don’t want to add to their troubles?”

He looks away.

“Rúnar, what do those guys want?”

No answer.

“Why are they after you?”

Still no answer.

“They told me they were going to make you pay for ratting them out to the cops.”

Rúnar shrugs.

“That’s not why, is it?”

No response.

“Because you didn’t rat them out. Someone else did. You weren’t at the party. Not officially, anyway. Didn’t you want to be questioned like the rest of them?”

He shrugs again.

I park the car outside my place and Polly’s and turn to face him. “They’re after you because they want Skarphédinn’s phone.”

No question mark at the end of that. But he answers with a muted, “Yes.”

“Why don’t you just hand it over to them?”

After a brief pause, he says: “It’s not their phone. It’s mine.”

“So was it your phone all along? Or do you mean it’s yours now, since Skarphédinn died?”

“Both.”

“How’s that?”

He looks around. “Where are we?”

“This is where I live. Me and my life partner.”

He seems bewildered.

“Don’t worry, they won’t come here,” I reassure him. “Not for now, anyway.”

It’s daylight by the time I can induce Rúnar to lie down in the middle bedroom and try to get some sleep. I ordered a pizza and tried to talk to him. Tried to get him to say more. But he always jumped up again immediately and started prowling around like a caged animal. I tried to persuade him to call his mother to let her know he was all right, but he said he didn’t want to disturb her—she needed her sleep. I somehow doubt that she’s sleeping, all things considered. Speaking for myself, I can’t get a wink of
sleep if I think Gunnsa may be in trouble. But what do I know about other parents?

It’s nearly nine o’clock in the morning. I’m overwhelmed with exhaustion and nerves—much like my overnight guest. But I’ve forced myself to stay awake for three-quarters of an hour until I’m sure he’s asleep. I sneak up to the door of his room and listen. Hearing slow, regular breaths, I cautiously open the door. Rúnar is lying curled up under the quilt, fast asleep.

His bare left arm lies on top of the covers. It’s crisscrossed with cuts and scars, which look recent. I’ve read that self-mutilation is a growing phenomenon among young people. I can’t begin to understand the pain that drives them to it.

Rúnar’s jeans lie draped on a chair, and the leather jacket is slung over the back. I grope in the pockets with both hands, looking for the phone. I find one in each. I slip quietly out of the room and close the door behind me.

Back in the living room I sit on the sofa, examining the two phones. One is in the tooled leather pouch I saw Skarphédinn using that day at Hólar. The other is in a plain black cover. I put the plain one down on the table and check out the
Contacts
list in the other. There are names like
Mom, Sólrún, Skarpi, Einar journo
.
That’s odd
, I think.
Why would Skarphédinn list his own Top Secret phone number?
And I never gave him my number.

I pick up the other phone. I realize that Rúnar has been more devious than he seems. He’s switched covers.

If someone got hold of the tooled leather case, they’d have the wrong phone.

I turn to the other phone, in the plain case. There is no
Contacts
list. The
Call registers
have been deleted. I check the
Messages
. Same story. Everything’s been deleted.

So what’s all the fuss about? What’s the big secret about this phone? What is so important that a crazed gang of idiotic thugs are chasing around looking for it and threatening all and sundry?

My mind’s buzzing but getting nowhere. There’s a wall of exhaustion between me and my objective. I get up, go into the kitchen, and make coffee. Then I light up and return to the sofa. I’m no expert on cell phones. It’s my own stupid fault. Goddamned stick-in-the-mud.
Think clearly
, I say to myself.
Think clearly
. But my mind doesn’t obey.

I start fiddling with the buttons. OK.
Messages.
Nothing.
Call register.
Nothing.
Profiles.
What the hell is that? I press some more buttons and find
Conference call
; something called
Outdoor
; something called
General
and
Silent
. Nothing.
Settings
leads me to
Alarm, Time settings, Call settings, Lock keypad, Ringtone settings, Security
. I try them all. Nothing.
Games.
I can select a game,
Game services
and
Game settings.
All these damn settings. But they’re not the right settings
.
They’re just unsettling.

Calculator.
I can add and subtract, multiply and divide, convert currency and God knows what. Thank you very much. Then I hit the jackpot:
Calendar.

Or what?

There are entries for every day, for months back in time. The most recent was entered on the day of Skarphédinn’s death. But each entry is an incomprehensible string of letters and numbers.

I give up. I’m running on empty.

I’ve got to sleep. Recharge my batteries.

Before going to bed I call in sick, then sneak back into Rúnar’s room and replace the phones in his pockets. But not until I’ve removed Skarphédinn’s SIM card from the phone and place it under my pillow. I’m instantly asleep.

I wake up to the angry shrieks of my roommate, who is understandably upset that room service is hours late. It’s past four in the afternoon. I jump out of bed to see to Polly. Under this roof, the campaign for equal rights has not progressed further than the good old rule of
Ladies First.
Although I’ve only had six hours’ sleep, I feel rested and refreshed.