Someone to Watch Over Me tg-5 Page 10

  ‘Who do you mean? Which of the residents?’ asked Thóra.

  Ari threw up his hands. ‘Sorry, I don’t remember. I’ll look it up later and send you an e-mail.’ He didn’t ask her for her e-mail address, so clearly this e-mail would never be sent. She would have to find out by other means.

  ‘Could this corruption, or whatever it was, have been the reason behind the fire?’ Thóra had no idea how that might be the case, but who knew, maybe someone whose child hadn’t been admitted had lost it when it turned out that the offspring of someone better-connected had queue-jumped the waiting list.

  ‘No.’ Ari shook his head. ‘I’ve told you that Jakob is the guilty party. He started the fire and that’s the end of it. Maybe he didn’t realize the consequences it would have but he did it nonetheless. Isn’t he doing OK at Sogn? It can’t be all that different to living at the residence.’

  The image of Jakob’s face as he’d pressed up against the window when Thóra visited the Secure Psychiatric Unit flashed across her mind. ‘I think he’s having a terrible time there. Really terrible.’

  ‘Aw…’ Ari’s expression of sympathy was entirely devoid of sincerity. ‘Well, at least the people there are more like him. That care home was a bag of mixed nuts, get it? Those poor fuckers had nothing in common. Another shitty idea dreamed up by the bureaucrats.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Someone had the genius idea of trying to run an institution for individuals who have totally different disabilities. It was supposed to be a great master-plan for some reason, though I’ll never understand why. It was because they put so much pressure on Jakob’s mother that he moved in. They needed a mongoloid; they’re generally all aborted these days, which meant there weren’t many of them in his age group to choose from when the admissions selections were made.’

  ‘Down’s syndrome.’ Thóra had to correct him. He was clearly unaware of the proper terms when it came to discussing people outside his narrow definition of normality. And to think she’d been worried about her own use of language.

  ‘Whatever.’

  ‘But didn’t the person he leapfrogged at the top of the waiting list also meet a requirement for a particular type of disability, one that others didn’t have?’

  Ari waved his hands as if he were being pestered by an invisible fly. ‘What’s that? No – he was autistic and they’re a dime a dozen. It doesn’t show up on the ultrasound, you see.’ He winked at Thóra conspiratorially.

  ‘Right.’ Thóra tried hard not to frown; she had no desire to encourage any more of these comments, but she also didn’t want to shock the man into refusing to lend her the files. This whole encounter was excruciating, but she would have to put up with it until he handed her the stack of papers that was on the verge of falling over onto the rubbish on his desk. One thing was clear, at least: the person who had jumped the queue must have been Tryggvi, the autistic resident.

  Ari suddenly stretched out one hand, nearly knocking over the stack of papers. ‘Just so you know what to expect…’ He unfastened the buttons on his shirtsleeve and rolled it up, revealing a fat pink arm that clearly hadn’t done a scrap of physical labour in years. In the middle of it a large, shiny, horseshoe-shaped scar was clearly visible. ‘Jakob, your current client, did this. That’s how sweet and innocent he is.’

  Thóra couldn’t take her eyes off the unsightly, uneven skin. ‘What happened?’

  Ari pulled his sleeve back down. ‘He bit me. Just took a piece right out of me.’

  ‘Unprovoked?’

  ‘Of course – what, you think I deliberately made him angry?’ He refastened the button. ‘He simply bent me over the table where we were sitting and took a bite.’

  ‘What were you discussing?’

  ‘Just some stuff about the case. I don’t remember precisely, but it wasn’t anything upsetting or significant.’

  Ari pushed the files carefully an inch closer to Thóra. ‘I didn’t even report it, so no one can say I didn’t protect my client’s interests. I should have bowed out of the case, of course, but we were about to go to court and like a fool, I felt uncomfortable about the idea. You, on the other hand, can still quit – and that’s what I’d recommend you do. A scar like this would doubtless do you more harm than me. And I wasn’t the only one he hurt; he often attacked the people who lived with him, staff as well as residents. This isn’t the only scar that he has on his conscience. He’s prone to violence, as well as being guilty. That’s all there is to it.’

  ‘You don’t remember how you came to be chosen to defend Jakob? I can tell from what you’ve said that he’s not exactly the kind of client you like to work for.’

  ‘No, hardly. He’s the worst client I’ve ever had.’ He seemed contemplative, but it wasn’t convincing. ‘But how I ended up defending him… I just can’t remember. Probably the police suggested me.’ He smiled and patted the stack of files. ‘It was a huge mistake for you to take this case, but as I said, you can still back out. My bloody arm still hurts now.’

  Thóra took the files. She didn’t think she would withdraw from the case, but she was certain that she would be very careful around Jakob. ‘Thanks for the warning.’ She had arranged a meeting with her client the next day at Sogn, and she was definitely taking Matthew with her. She wouldn’t be alone with Jakob, that much was clear.

  CHAPTER 8

  Friday, 8 January 2010

  The meeting with the lawyer had gone worse than Glódís could have imagined. In truth, before their encounter she had given little thought to what they might discuss; had thought that it would be smooth and easy work to convince this Thóra of Jakob’s guilt, and subsequently to persuade her not to dig any further into the case. To her mind there was no doubt about his part in the horrific deed, so this should have been a piece of cake for Glódís, but she hadn’t reckoned on the woman being so well prepared and their conversation taking such an unexpected turn. How could she have known that the lawyer had access to all of the court documents on the case? Glódís had assumed they would have been locked up after the sentence was pronounced. In retrospect, she had no idea why she had thought this to be the case, but she’d been dead wrong. This was a bloody mess. She couldn’t afford for this case to be reopened. She’d suffered enough because of it in her career, and only now was the fall-out from it finally starting to dissipate. Glódís had lost count of all the meetings she’d been called to because of everything that had come up during the investigation and the trial. That whole time she’d felt like an outsider in her workplace; no one spoke to her voluntarily for fear that her unpopularity with the higher-ups was infectious. She didn’t know how she’d get through it if it happened all over again.

  A familiar feeling of depression washed over her. How could it all have gone so wrong? It had always seemed like a good idea to her, no matter what anybody said afterwards. Overnight she’d become a kind of rising star within the organization. Before she’d suggested a unified community residence, disabled housing issues were like matching socks after doing the washing. The blind over here, the paralysed there, and autistic people somewhere else. Oops, one with severe dementia – oh well, he’s the only one, can’t do anything for him. In the end her proposal had been welcomed eagerly and was implemented with great speed: Iceland was experiencing a boom, people were enthusiastic, and there was plenty of money. If the experiment worked, more of these kinds of centres would be built when budgetary resources allowed. When she was then informed that she was being considered to run this innovative unit, it seemed fate was smiling on her, especially after she’d been an assistant director for ten years and obliged to take on all the most tiresome and difficult cases by a boss who took only the agreeable ones for himself. Now it was Glódís’s chance to allow herself that luxury. But her bliss had been short-lived.

  Jakob, that damn Jakob. If only she hadn’t pushed so hard to have him admitted, right now she would be in her little office in the nice new residence, casually tallying up receipts with supermarket
bills or taking a bit of time out to browse sunny places to visit for her summer holiday. But no. Now she was sitting at the Regional Office for the Disabled, answering phone calls from family members whose only role in life appeared to be to irritate her. When will a space become available? The wheelchair’s got too small. Isn’t it possible to extend my daughter’s day-care hours? Endless demands that she could hardly ever meet, with very little thanks for her trouble. Now, since they’d been preaching bloody cutbacks and savings, it looked as though the few positive conversations that she’d had with the agency’s clients or their relatives had become a thing of the past. It had given her monotonous days some colour to be able to fulfil people’s wishes from time to time. Yes, her life had undergone a complete transformation. All because of Jakob.

  She felt a painful throb in the small of her back, which ran up her spine and stopped at her neck. Glódís moaned softly and reached behind her head to rub the sore area. It did little good, as she’d known it wouldn’t. She still hadn’t managed to rub away her headache. The doctor had informed her that it was a consequence of injuries she’d received when she’d been struck heavily with a broom on her lower back. Two vertebrae had been pressed together and there was little that could be done about it apart from a major operation that had no guaranteed outcome of success. Again, all Jakob’s fault. He had attacked her from behind, completely unprovoked, and the blow had sent her crashing into a wheelchair in the corridor. The blow had been so hard that she hadn’t felt the initial impact at all; the fear of being paralysed had overwhelmed everything else and she’d wept with relief when she realized that her legs hurt. Luckily other workers had happened to come along and had removed Jakob, because otherwise he would probably have continued to hammer her with the broom. In any case, he was standing over her when she opened her eyes, staring at her with his familiar sheepish expression. And then this idiot lawyer thinks the man is innocent. She’d change her opinion pretty sharpish if she got hit like that herself. Glódís found herself hoping that that would happen.

  ‘There’s a quick meeting in ten minutes. We’re going to continue discussing the cuts.’ The fact that the woman in the doorway had come to notify her of this meeting was one more sign that the business about the fire was slipping into the coma of oblivion. If it were just allowed to be left to rest, like Sleeping Beauty, everything would be good again.

  ‘Thanks. I’m coming.’ Glódís put on her most pitiful expression and continued to rub her neck. ‘I’m dying of pain. This is never going to go away.’

  ‘Take a painkiller.’ The woman vanished from the doorway without showing any sign of empathy. Glódís had further to go than she had hoped, particularly if this lawyer started raking everything up again. Glódís had to ensure that this wouldn’t happen; she was afraid she would just be fired. Cuts inevitably meant a reduction in staff and she would probably be among the first to go. And what then? There were few jobs available in the recession and unemployment benefits were low and didn’t last long. She knew the requirements for disability benefits well enough to be able to take advantage of her back injury and receive them, but they were next to nothing. She did have a few contingency plans, though; for example, knuckle down and perform so well that she made herself irreplaceable, contact the union and get them on her side, or play the trump card she was saving until all other avenues appeared closed. That time could very well be approaching.

  For the moment, however, she had to make an urgent decision. Should she tell her superiors about the lawyer’s visit and the possible reopening of the case, or keep quiet? It would of course be worse if they found out about it later, worse still if they discovered she had kept it secret from them. On the other hand, any hope that this could turn out to be a flash in the pan would be gone if she opened her mouth. Glódís had trouble concentrating due to the pain in her neck. She let her head roll onto her shoulder and shut her eyes. With a concentrated effort she emptied her mind of worries. This self-consolation didn’t help much, however, since it merely cleared the way for other more troubling thoughts and memories. Look at me. Look at me. Look at me. This repeated itself continuously until she opened her eyes.

  Glódís wiped away a tear that had slowly formed. It made a tiny wet spot on the back of her hand, which disappeared quickly but left behind a grey mascara streak that would have been almost invisible if she weren’t aware of it. This reminded her uncomfortably of her job as the centre’s director: it had lasted only a short time, but had managed to leave behind a black smudge on her soul. She straightened up and went to the meeting.

  The nurse knew he was forgetting something, but couldn’t think what it was for the life of him. His shift was ending and this wasn’t the first time that he’d had this nagging feeling at the end of the day. His job was hectic and it was impossible for him to finish everything; more often than not he had to put off visiting patients and spending quiet time speaking with them, as he would have preferred to do. The strictly necessary tasks had to take precedence, and in recent days the lack of staff had meant that these were divided between fewer pairs of hands. He wasn’t actually worried that he’d forgotten something important; he’d administered all the necessary medications and those who’d been scheduled for examinations or x-rays had gone and returned. No, this was something different.

  ‘How’s your stomach?’ He bent down to an old man hunched in a wheelchair at the edge of the corridor. The man had obviously embarked on too long a journey and not made it to his destination, wherever that was.

  ‘What time is it?’ His pink gums shone. His dentures lay in his lap. Every word was accompanied by a wet smack.

  ‘It’s almost four o’clock, my friend.’

  ‘Are you the doctor?’ More wet smacking, and the final word was such an effort that a tiny bit of saliva ran down the man’s chin.

  ‘No, I’m the nurse, remember? I took your blood pressure earlier.’ He positioned himself behind the wheelchair. ‘Shouldn’t I help you back into the lounge? Then you can watch TV before dinner or enjoy the view outside.’

  The old man’s sinewy neck cracked when he attempted to turn his head around to look at the nurse, but he could only move it far enough for one eye to briefly meet his gaze. His expression was one of doubt and mistrust, but the young man had long grown used to this from very elderly patients. These people were from a different time when nurses had all been female. In any case, his number was diminishing, and the nurse had never been offended by their suspicion or let it get on his nerves. Sometime in the distant future he would probably be sitting in an advanced version of the same wheelchair, looking with yellowed eyes at new, changed times that he didn’t understand. He rolled the man’s chair into the lounge and positioned him so that he could choose between watching television or gazing at the life that passed by outside without him.

  The duty room was in order, so it wasn’t the tidying or finishing up of paperwork that had been bothering him. A medical record rested on the table and he picked it up to put it back in its place. No one could say that he left his work behind for the next shift. The file fell open and a piece of paper slipped out. He grabbed it as it fell and at the same time as he noticed the female handwriting he realized what he had forgotten; he didn’t need to read what was written there to remember it. He had forgotten to call a developmental therapist to speak to the poor young girl in Room 7, as his colleague Svava on the evening shift had requested. He hurriedly dialled the internal number, but there was no answer. That was not a good sign. It was almost four o’clock and developmental therapists didn’t provide round-the-clock service. Damn it.

  There was nothing for it but to pay the girl a visit and see whether he could do anything himself. As far as he knew, no doctor was expected until after his shift ended and in any case there was no guarantee that a doctor would be able to accomplish any more than he could. He would at least have to try to communicate with the girl so that he could mention this at the shift change later – if in fact there really wa
s a problem. The note had mentioned a rapid heart rate and anxiety that might have been due to a nightmare, but it was necessary to find out whether something preventable was troubling the girl. It was extremely tricky to deal with patients who communicated with difficulty or not at all; only they could describe the majority of their symptoms, which made any diagnosis a thousand times more difficult than usual, if not impossible. This girl was the worst example of this problem that he had ever encountered, and the department was not properly equipped to handle these kinds of cases. So he couldn’t rely on previous experience to communicate with her, and he had to admit to himself that he’d spent as little time with her as he could get away with. There was something about her complete lack of mobility that disturbed him. He hoped for her sake that he was alone in feeling this way, but deep down he knew that this wasn’t the case.

  Inside the room a faint beeping sounded from the EKG machine, which the girl had been hooked up to after the incident yesterday evening. The day’s readings had already been collected for the doctor, who would look in on her after dinner. Someone else would have to go over the information that was currently trickling out, but for the moment he was grateful for the monitor because the diligent needle that moved continuously across the paper showed that there was still life in the girl. There was hardly any other evidence to confirm this; her slender body lay virtually motionless beneath the blanket and you had to concentrate to notice the feeble movement of her chest, which barely moved when she breathed. The girl stared up at the ceiling and appeared not to have noticed his arrival, though he knew that she could hear perfectly well.

  ‘Hi, Ragna, how are you doing?’ He walked up to her and took her pale, bony hand. A needle had been inserted into a cannula in the back of it and he suspected that half the weight that now rested in his palm belonged to its pink plastic casing and the large bandage that held it in place. The bandage must have been bound round the cannula as automatic procedure, because there was no risk of the girl bumping her hand or knocking the needle against things that she touched. Her hand didn’t move unless it was moved. He stroked her hand carefully around the edge of the plastic, knowing that she had full feeling. What an awful, awful existence.