Someone to Watch Over Me (39 page)

The front door was kept locked and Pési had never quite been able to open it by himself. Naturally, he grew bigger and stronger every day, so it could just be that this was the first time he’d managed it. Berglind opened the door and was hit by an ice-cold gust of wind. The weekend’s fine weather was well and truly over. Her coat hung on a hook in the hall, with Pési’s jacket next to it. If he had gone out, he was inadequately dressed, even ignoring the fact that he was too young to be wandering around alone. Instead of putting on her coat, Berglind ran back to check whether he’d been messing about in the garden. He could sometimes manage the sliding door if he pulled with all his might, and he was used to playing outside – though he’d rarely gone out there in the sleet of recent months. It was also possible that she’d left the door half open. She couldn’t remember whether she’d shut it behind her when she took the clothes from the line, irritated at foolishly letting the fine weekend weather dupe her into hanging the washing outside. Mind you, it was cold out and there was no chance that the door had stood open all that time. When she entered the room she saw the curtains moving in the breeze.

‘Pési?’ Berglind drew them back and was relieved to see her son out in the garden. She pushed her way out through the half-open door. Her son had his back to her, and appeared not to hear her. Fortunately, he was wearing a long-sleeved T-shirt, but he still had far too few clothes on for the middle of winter. His blond hair fluttered in the wind, reminding Berglind that he was well overdue for a haircut. ‘Pési? You can’t go out like this without letting Mummy know.’ He remained absolutely motionless, giving no indication that he was aware of her. He stood directly underneath the line where the white washing had been hanging that morning. It could be that he’d found the dead animal Halli had been talking about, which would explain the stench. That would definitely scare him; she didn’t know whether Pési had ever seen anything dead. ‘Come on, Pési, darling. You’ll catch cold if you stay out for long dressed like this.’ She went over to him and spoke calmly, so as not to startle him when she took his shoulder. It was rare for him to be so distracted; it did happen from time to time, of course, but always in the evenings when he was very tired.

‘Bad smell here, Mummy.’ He didn’t turn around.

Berglind felt a stabbing pain in her heart; he was the only one who knew that it wasn’t her imagination. ‘I know, darling. Let’s go inside.’ She had nearly reached him when he moved slightly, pawing at the grass with his bare feet. ‘Your feet must be like blocks of ice, Pési, sweetheart. I think I’ll need to make you some hot chocolate if we want to get them warm again.’

‘I don’t want hot chocolate. I want to be outside.’ He finally turned around and looked at his mother with sad eyes. His hair still blew in the wind a little, but suddenly it looked almost as if it was being smoothed down somehow; protected from the gusts by invisible means.

‘Come on, Pési.’ Berglind gave up trying to seem bright and cheerful; instead her voice was full of urgency and unease. ‘Let’s go inside.’ The air was tinged with a familiar metallic tang. ‘It’s too cold to be outside.’

He didn’t reply, but stared at her as if he didn’t recognize his own mother. Berglind wasn’t even sure if he could see her. But he couldn’t be looking at something in between them, since there was nothing there. ‘What are you looking at? My jumper?’ At moments like these it was better to talk, even though no one might be listening except you.

‘I want to go in now.’ Pési continued to stare straight ahead, hypnotized, his expression unaltered. He was even paler than usual; the only colour in his face was two red spots high on his cheekbones. The ghostly white hands sticking out from his thin sleeves looked as if they belonged to an overgrown porcelain doll.

‘Come on, then.’ She held out her hand, but it failed to draw him out of his hypnotized state. ‘Let’s go in, Pési.’ She went up to him, bent down and took his little, ice-cold palm. Then she felt her shoulder-length hair electrify and rise slightly. Brittle, fragile leaves were lifted into the air and blew across the grass.

‘Who was driving, Mummy?’

Berglind squeezed his small hand. She was desperate to pull him inside with her, get away from the oppressive stench that lingered under the washing line and stand with him in the kitchen, surrounded by the fragrance of hot cocoa. There they could chat together comfortably about everything but the terrible event that had destroyed their lives. She would do anything to free herself from this burden, but didn’t know what this ‘anything’ might be. She and Halli hadn’t realized until too late what a good life they’d had before. They were broke, their journey to work was too long, Pési was ill too often, she was always getting split ends, the weather was awful … these complaints sounded ridiculous now, compared to what was to come after. A year ago she would have been at work, not standing half dressed out in her garden like an idiot, trying to coax her son back inside. Once again she wondered why things had escalated so slowly before becoming unbearable; although the spirit had manifested itself immediately after the accident, it wasn’t until around the time of the financial crash that they had begun to feel as if they couldn’t stand it any more and had turned to the church for help. In other words, nearly a year after the actual accident. Berglind had the feeling that something had pushed the haunting to another level, but it was difficult to say what that might have been. Nothing had changed in her and Halli’s behaviour during that time, and Pési had continued to be the same little angel, following a routine that developed gradually with his increasing maturity. Whatever had caused it, it must have been something external. The best Berglind could come up with was that the changes were connected to Magga’s family, but when she had spoken to their neighbour, who knew their circumstances, the woman hadn’t known anything useful. Magga’s family were still overwhelmed by grief and trying to come to terms with what had happened.

Suddenly Pési appeared to jump start. All at once he seemed to feel the cold, because when he started speaking his teeth chattered. ‘There was someone in the garden, Mummy. I saw them earlier.’

‘Come on. You’re going to get ill if you stay out a minute longer in this cold.’ Berglind herself was feeling the cold even more now, and she stamped her feet in an attempt to get rid of the chill. It had no effect.

‘There’s a bad smell when someone dies, Mummy.’ He looked at her but instead of staring into her eyes, he looked at her open mouth. ‘Not straight away, though.’

Forgetting her earlier idea of taking him carefully by the arm, Berglind grabbed her son by the shoulders, picked him up and ran inside with him.

The priest couldn’t hide the fact that he was keen to get going. He kept starting his sentences with the phrase
Well, then
, but then he lost his bottle, repeatedly missing his chance to make an exit. Had he done a better job of concealing his desire to be elsewhere, Jósteinn probably wouldn’t have done anything to delay his departure; but his opportunities to make other people suffer were decreasing, and he fully exploited every single one he came across. ‘I’m just not sure that God exists. And if he does, then I can’t understand the hand I’ve been dealt.’

‘You shouldn’t worry about it. God loves you just as much as those who have done no harm. You simply need to work at realizing that and thinking about what you’ve done. When you recognize how wrong it was, you will repent, and repentance is the first step to letting God into your life.’ It was far too hot in the room, just the way Jósteinn liked it, and small beads of sweat had formed on the priest’s forehead.

‘You misunderstand me. I’m not searching for God. I asked how he came up with the idea of creating a man like me if he’s as perfect as you’re making out.’

‘No one is entirely evil, Jósteinn. We’ve discussed this before.’ The priest glanced sideways at the window and the freedom waiting outside. ‘But we don’t need to go over it again. You’re a smart man, and I know you remember everything I tell you.’

‘So you’re suggesting that your God created me?’ Jósteinn stared down at his lap, at the legs of his ripped velour trousers that had once been dark wine-red but were now almost pink.

‘Yes, I am.’ The priest laid his hands on his knees and prepared to lever himself up from the low couch. ‘Well, then …’

‘But if he
has
created me and I am the way I am, I don’t understand it.’ Jósteinn shut his eyes and listened carefully. He had read that if one of your senses didn’t work, the others made up for it. He couldn’t hear anything more clearly, just the faint sound of the cook’s radio from out in the corridor, water running in a bathtub further back in the house and the priest’s shallow panting as he suffocated from the heat. Nothing he hadn’t heard while his eyes had been open. ‘Your God is either kind of incompetent, or exceptionally unkind.’

‘We can discuss this when we next meet, Jósteinn. I wasn’t born yesterday and I’m fully aware that you’re trying to provoke me. But it’s completely normal for you to be pondering this and the fact that you are is a good sign, in my view. It shows me that you’re on the right track. Salvation harms no one, believe me, and your heavy burden will be lifted if you seek salvation wholeheartedly.’

‘Oh, I thought you knew. I don’t have a soul to save.’ Jósteinn opened his eyes again and tried pinching his nose. He neither saw nor heard more clearly as a result. ‘Either I never had one, or I lost it somewhere along the way,’ he said nasally. Maybe he would have to do this for longer to experience heightened perception.

‘What nonsense, Jósteinn. Of course you have a soul. Everyone has a soul.’ When there was no answer, the priest’s face lit up like someone who’s glimpsed his opportunity. ‘Well, I think I should visit you more often, Jósteinn. Pay more attention to you. And your soul.’ He stood up.

‘How do you know I have a soul?’ Jósteinn let go of his nose, but continued staring at his knees.

‘Because, Jósteinn, although you attacked your friend Jakob, I understand that you’re helping him, spending your own money to help him and his mother. That’s not the action of a soulless man.’

Jósteinn smiled but didn’t look up. ‘What
that
is, is a huge misunderstanding.’

‘How so?’ The priest was still standing by the sofa.

‘I’m not doing it to be kind to Jakob. It’s not compassion that motivates me. Far from it.’ He smiled again before trying to cover both his eyes and his ears simultaneously. ‘I’m only doing it in order to inflict pain. To … harm.’ The smile vanished. ‘It’s quite possible to do that without having a knife.’

The priest said nothing. Jósteinn wouldn’t have heard him anyway, now that he had his hands over his ears. He had seen a great deal in his work at Sogn, so Jósteinn’s peculiar behaviour didn’t surprise him, but he did find his declarations more difficult than normal.

‘Sometimes good is bad and bad is good.’ Jósteinn dropped his hands and glanced briefly into the priest’s eyes, for the first time since he’d arrived. ‘But there are also examples of bad being bad, and that’s how it is in this instance. I can promise you that I have only bad intentions.’

Thóra swore quietly as she waited for the man, not because of the location, which was far from ideal, but because of how upset she was by what had happened. The bustle in the packed café in the Skeifan shopping area wasn’t enough to distract her. It wasn’t until Ægir appeared fifteen minutes late that she managed to direct her thoughts elsewhere. He stood in the entrance, looking around for her, and when she stood up and waved at him, he smiled amiably and threaded his way between the densely arranged tables. Nothing in his bearing suggested a tyrant who might apply severe methods in his therapeutic treatment of autistic patients. On the contrary: he seemed rather gentle, apologizing for the inconvenience to everyone he slid past. His appearance, however, might inspire fear in particularly sensitive individuals, with his pitch-black hair and snow-white face. His eyes, also black, stared out from beneath his floppy fringe, and Thóra even caught the glint of a gold ring in one of his eyebrows.

‘Hi.’ He extended his hand. ‘I assume you’re Thóra.’ She nodded and he sat down at the tiny table that barely accommodated the two cups of coffee Thóra had ordered, assuming the man would turn up on time. Now her cup was empty and the other one had stopped steaming.

‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘No problem.’ Thóra gestured towards the cup. ‘I don’t know whether it’s still drinkable.’

‘Not to worry. I drink tea, but thanks anyway.’ Thóra seriously regretted not having drunk his coffee as well. ‘I understand you want to talk about Tryggvi? I’ve mainly come out of curiosity – it’s been more than a year and a half since he stopped having treatment with me, so I have to admit it’s been a long time since I gave him any thought. Of course I couldn’t stop thinking about him after the fire; that was horrendous. But why do you want to talk about him? Didn’t you say you’re a lawyer?’

Once again Thóra explained her connection to the fire at the residence. She had repeated the story so many times now that she could have done it in her sleep. ‘I particularly wanted to discuss the progress he was making. I can’t imagine anyone knows better than you what this consisted of and how signifi-cant it was. I’ve been hearing some quite contradictory stories about his condition.’

‘Okay, that shouldn’t be a problem.’ Ægir leaned back and folded his arms. ‘Though I do need to point out that in my opinion, he was only in the very early stages of improvement; he could have advanced much further if I hadn’t been asked to stop treating him. I don’t think I’ve ever been as disappointed, professionally.’

‘Can you describe the nature of the improvements?’

‘Oof, where do I begin?’ Ægir exhaled gently. ‘I don’t know how much you know about this level of autism, but broadly speaking, Tryggvi was suffering from a severe developmental disability that hampered his communication to such an extent that he was barely able to express himself to others. He had no social skills, so he played no part in what went on around him beyond that of an indifferent spectator. Few people are autistic to such an extreme degree; many can make themselves understood, even though their ability to communicate is always impaired in some way, as is their social behaviour. Tryggvi could stare at a fan, or anything mechanically repeti-tive, for hours at a time. He could also sometimes fall into patterns of movement for long periods, rocking back and forth or wringing his hands incessantly, for example.’