Someone to Watch Over Me (22 page)

‘Yes and no. There were definite signs from the start that we ignored. Deep down we knew that there was something fundamentally wrong, long before we admitted it to ourselves.’ The woman stared at the photo of her son as she spoke. ‘He never looked into my eyes as an infant. Even when he was breastfeeding he never looked at me. That was the first thing that struck me, although since he was my first child I didn’t know much about how they were supposed to behave. He also hardly ever cried, but we thought it was just because he was an angel. Later the symptoms became more pronounced and by the time he was ten months old we had to admit that there was something wrong with him. He didn’t make any baby noises. When we picked him up he didn’t support himself; he was just floppy, helpless. He didn’t like being touched, he didn’t try to learn to talk and he didn’t eat unless the food was put in exactly the same spot in front of him; the plate had to line up with the edge of the table and the plastic cup and spoon always had to be in the same place. I never worked out why he’d decided on this particular arrangement. Maybe I set the table like that the first time he tried eating by himself. Everything had to be the same, always. He hated change, and he often became mad with fear when something unexpected happened. His life wasn’t simple, in any case.’

‘How did he take moving to the residence? Hadn’t he always been at home until then?’

‘It wasn’t easy, but it had got better by the time the disaster happened. Moving brought so many changes that he was completely confused and he found it terribly difficult at first. We were there all the time to start with, to help him get used to it. No one knew him like we did.’ The woman looked down, agitated, and rearranged her necklace. After she’d moved it to the centre of her chest she appeared to feel better. ‘Tryggvi lived with us until he was twenty. I took care of everything for him during the daytime, apart from when he was in therapy or class; then I would take him there and pick him up. When he was offered a place at the centre, we accepted it, in the hope that it would help with his developmental therapy. It wasn’t because we were giving up or didn’t trust ourselves any longer to have him at home, as many people thought. We thought that perhaps he’d developed as much as he could under our care and that this change would help him make progress.’ She paused before continuing: ‘No one expected things to end as they did.’

‘And did he make progress? Before the fire, I mean?’

Fanndís seemed surprised by the question, which was a bit odd considering how smart she seemed. ‘No, not really, but the fire was only six months after he moved in, so he might have been about to show an improvement.’

The conversation was starting to flow now, which encouraged Thóra slightly. ‘So did he attend therapy sessions and classes at the residence? I saw that the list of employees included developmental and physiotherapists.’

‘Yes, the programme was a good one, if a bit old-fashioned for my tastes – though the director was very open to recent innovations. There’s so much happening in terms of treatments for autism that has produced excellent results but that they won’t try in Iceland, because of prejudice or some other reason, I don’t know. Still, they worked hard and I don’t want to sound ungrateful, but I would have preferred to see more ambition in such a supposedly progressive project. But of course, there was just so little experience in those who were running it.’

‘I’ve heard that the residents were rather unhappy; did you notice that?’

‘God, I forgot the coffee!’ Fanndís pressed a hand to her chest and sprung to her feet. ‘I’ll be right back.’ She hurried out of the room.

Matthew looked at Thóra in surprise.

From the kitchen came sounds of bustling activity, a cupboard door shutting and the chinking of crockery. Then they heard a voice, but it was difficult to determine if it came from a radio or whether Fanndís was speaking to someone, perhaps on the phone. Thóra listened carefully but couldn’t make out what was being said or even whether it was one or two people speaking. She noticed a framed drawing on a low bookshelf next to the sofa, which intrigued her. She had to bend down to see the drawing properly and ended up taking it from the shelf. It was obviously not the work of a known artist, since as far as Thóra was aware they didn’t tend to use crayons. So it was probably by one of the family’s children, and it wasn’t much of a leap to guess that it was Tryggvi. Thóra had no idea exactly what the artist had meant to depict, but in one corner large, clumsy characters spelled out
08
INN
or something similar. The picture was too carefully drawn to be by a toddler, and the subject too peculiar. In the foreground was a figure that was probably supposed to be a person, but it had neither eyes nor nose, only a gaping mouth that appeared to be screaming silently. Behind it was a building that seemed to be the community residence, drawn roughly, which was why the picture had drawn Thóra’s attention. Although it bore a slight resemblance to the real thing there was something about it that didn’t fit, but Thóra couldn’t work out what it was that bothered her. There was also a second figure standing off to the side. Unlike the first, which was lying horizontally, this one was upright and had two eyes and a closed mouth. Its hands were raised and between them was a nearly perfectly drawn circle, divided into three sections by lines that met in the centre. There was something sinister about the figure, but it was difficult to pinpoint why; its facial features were unclear, apart from its fiery red mouth. If this was how Tryggvi had viewed people, and the world around him, no wonder he’d found life so difficult and been so afraid of change.

It was clear that the picture had originally been drawn in pencil, then coloured in. The thick, yellowish paper made it look older than it probably was. Thóra handed the picture to Matthew, who agreed that the building looked like the care home and drew her attention to what appeared to be fire burning in one of the windows. Thóra scrutinized the drawing more closely and wasn’t quite convinced, although she could make out something reddish-yellow there. She was bending down to put the picture back when Fanndís appeared with coffee things on a tray. ‘I was just looking at this drawing. Did Tryggvi do it?’

Fanndís put the tray on the coffee table and went over to Thóra. ‘May I see it?’ She took it and frowned. ‘I’d forgotten about this. Where was it?’

Thóra pointed at the bookshelf. ‘Did Tryggvi do it?’ she repeated.

‘Yes,’ Fanndís answered distractedly, gazing at the picture. ‘He had a real talent for drawing. It’s not obvious in this one, because it was coloured in afterwards, but he drew all his pictures in one long movement – he never lifted the pen or pencil. He must have seen each one precisely in his mind before transferring it to paper, because there was no hesitation or nervousness once he started.’ She put the drawing back in its place again, now so hidden behind the books that only one edge of the frame showed. ‘I’d completely forgotten this picture. Our daughter had it framed and gave it to her father as a birthday present shortly after Tryggvi moved to the centre. I really don’t know why she chose this picture, because there are so many other, much better ones. I find this one a bit creepy, which is why it’s kept down there.’

‘Is it meant to show the home?’ asked Thóra. ‘I feel like I recognize it, but it’s not quite as I remember it.’

‘Oh, yes. You didn’t figure it out?’ Fanndís smiled at Thóra as if she were a bit slow. ‘It’s a mirror image of the building. Tryggvi always drew mirror images; that was one of the symptoms of his autism. They tried to work out why and they decided that the scanner in his brain, if it can be called that, was calibrated wrongly. What he saw and wanted to convey in a drawing came out mirrored. Actually, we never discovered whether he did see life like that, because it turned out to be too difficult to test him, but there have been reported cases. People with this sort of disability can’t learn to read clocks, for instance. Although it still seemed inconceivable when he died, maybe Tryggvi would have been able to do that one day.’ She gestured towards the coffee. ‘Please help yourselves while it’s hot. The coffeepot is a bit worn out so it gets cold quickly.’

The coffee was indeed still hot and agreeably strong. Thóra placed her patterned cup on its saucer. She had poured herself too much and was afraid of spilling it. ‘Did he draw a lot?’

‘If a piece of paper and pen were put in front of him, he would start sketching immediately. As I said, the pictures were always fully formed in his mind, so he never hesitated. He didn’t speak, which meant he never asked for a drawing pad; he could have showed that he wanted one in some other way, but he never did. He didn’t ever ask for anything, not even water when he was thirsty. For him, life just happened; he didn’t try to influence its progress or change the course of events. I’ve often wondered what it must be like to live that kind of life, but I just can’t imagine it. It’s a shame, because it might have helped us understand him better. He had everything he needed in order to do what comes naturally to the rest of us: his vocal cords were normal and there was nothing wrong with his brain, based on the huge number of CAT scans and tests he underwent. There was just something undefinable missing, some connection or spark. I was told to think of it like a disconnection in a piece of electrical equipment; when two parts are uncoupled, nothing works the way it should, but when the connection’s made everything starts running.’ Fanndís raised her hand to her other ear and rubbed it. ‘I hadn’t given up on the idea that that might still happen.’ She smiled, embarrassed, and looked out of the window, clearly not wanting to see the doubt in their eyes.

Thóra tactfully avoided commenting on the possibility of the boy’s improvement; she knew little or nothing about autism, except that no one could be ‘cured’ of it, although remarkable progress was achieved in some cases. ‘In the picture he drew someone screaming. Do you think that’s a reflection of his feelings about where he was living? I asked you before whether the residents seemed unhappy; maybe this was Tryggvi’s way of expressing it. The reason I’m so keen to discuss this with you is that you must be the person who spent the most time there, after those who were actually on the payroll. The employees would hardly tell me if the level of care was in any way substandard.’

‘I don’t know what to say. As I mentioned, Tryggvi hated change, which is a very common symptom of autism. Since he’d not long arrived there, it’s hard to know how he would have felt over time. But it’s still important to bear in mind that it probably wouldn’t have been the place itself that caused him discomfort, but this aspect of his disability. Obviously I knew the other residents a little and they seemed to be doing okay, each in their own way. In general, I’d say the ones who were physically disabled seemed better off than the ones suffering mental disabilities. But perhaps that’s to be expected.’

‘So you never heard any shouting or screaming? Or any other noise that might suggest that something was wrong?’

‘No. I mean, of course you did hear screaming, crying and everything in between. The residents were often upset about something. Sometimes no one could figure it out, but usually they could tell what the problem was. For example, some residents would kick up a fuss when someone was trying to help them, even though they were only in temporary discomfort. I believe the therapy could be uncomfortable; quite painful, even. I once injured my shoulder so I know this first-hand, though I had the self-control not to scream during physiotherapy.’ Fanndís smiled at them. ‘But any distress the residents felt wasn’t down to the employees; on the contrary, they tried to make life as easy for them as possible. Of course they couldn’t always manage it, because sometimes neither painkillers nor kindness can help. Some things hurt in a different way to, I don’t know, hitting your thumb with a hammer.’ She stopped smiling. ‘Like the pain I experienced when Tryggvi died.’

‘I can imagine it was terribly hard for you, and that it will continue to be so.’ Thóra was keen to get the conversation back on track. ‘If we assume Jakob didn’t start the fire, was there any other resident you could imagine resorting to such a desperate act? Maybe without realizing the consequences of their actions?’

Fanndís grabbed her ear again. ‘Not that I can think of. Everyone living there was either physically or mentally incapable of doing such a thing. Except for Jakob.’

‘Well, you say that, but even with him I have serious doubts about the mental aspect. Starting the fire would have taken much more organizational ability than Jakob seems to possess.’ Out of the corner of Thóra’s eye she noticed Matthew staring at the doorway to the living room, although he was trying to hide it. He needn’t have bothered, since all Fanndís’s attention was on Thóra. ‘What about the employees, or the other residents’ relatives? Could they have been involved?’

Fanndís clearly found Thóra’s question tasteless; her expression suggested Thóra had taken some gum out of her mouth and stuck it underneath the coffee table. ‘Of course not. The staff was composed of ordinary people who wouldn’t have had anything to gain by committing such a crime – quite the reverse, in fact, since the fire meant their placement there was terminated and indeed several lost their jobs entirely. As for the other relatives, they weren’t there as much as I was; most of them worked, which made it harder for them to visit. Most came on the weekends and I never noticed anything suspicious in their behaviour.’

‘You’ll have to excuse me.’ Matthew stood up suddenly, smiling. ‘I need to pop out to the car to make a phone call; I shouldn’t be long.’

Thóra was careful not to let Fanndís see how surprised she was. She held off on any further questions until he was gone, then said, ‘Has your husband told you that the girl in the coma, Lísa, was pregnant?’ Fanndís nodded, and her hand crept back to her ear yet again and started worrying at the lobe. ‘The man who made her pregnant would have had considerable motive to intervene. Isn’t that right?’

Fanndís merely nodded again. The question was obviously unfair; you couldn’t expect an ordinary person to put themselves in the shoes of a violent criminal, someone who would abuse someone who literally couldn’t lift a finger in their defence. ‘Well, hopefully the guilty party will be found; there’s some DNA from the foetus and it’s just a question of getting a sample from the right man.’