Someone to Watch Over Me tg-5 Page 16

  ‘Precisely.’

  Margeir hadn’t expected this reply. Was the manager agreeing with him? His tone of voice suggested otherwise. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘From what I’ve heard, your show is practically a variation on what we’ve got on during the day. A lamer version of the primetime shows. I’m not about to reshuffle my most popular DJs to make room for someone who doesn’t have the same spark.’

  ‘What do you mean, spark?’ Margeir knew exactly what he meant, but he couldn’t think of a way to defend himself. He’d often thought the same thing. His passion was dis-appearing, his enthusiasm waning. He answered calls out of a sense of duty and took the path of least resistance, saying as little as possible instead of expressing strong opinions or deliberately disagreeing with the caller. In fact, he often agreed with them, which usually put them off. The people who called in were more used to being contradicted and provoked, and didn’t know how to respond when the radio host simply said: Yes, you’re right, I see your point.

  ‘You know what I mean. I heard a repeat of your show the other day and it was crap. You could almost feel how bored you were with your listeners. I was this close to calling you and telling you not to bother showing up again.’ As he said this, the manager brought his index finger to his thick thumb until they nearly touched. ‘Luckily for you, I didn’t want the hassle of having to find a stand-in, so it’s thanks to my laziness that you still have your job. But as long as you go on like this, you can forget about me moving your show up. Daytime hosts need to be sharp and motivated. Not half asleep or bored out of their skulls. Who do you think would advertise for that kind of host?’

  ‘If I just had the chance to try out an earlier slot, maybe I could convince you that I’d do really well with it? I’m very interested in engaging with national issues, even though they weren’t originally meant to be part of my show.’ Margeir was lying; he found all the nonsense going on in Iceland these days deathly dull: just endless incomprehensible political entanglements and lunatic bank and business magnates. Why waste your energy wailing on about greed and dishonesty? ‘I read every newspaper I can get my hands on and I’m always online, so the show you heard wasn’t a typical one. I must have been under the weather. Everyone has off days.’

  ‘I don’t.’ His boss wasn’t joking, even though everyone at the station knew that he was no better than the rest of them; he always seemed to get the wrong end of the stick with the callers he spoke to, and ended up getting irritated by them. Maybe it was easy to think you were perfect if you were a dictator. ‘But it doesn’t make any difference; I see no need to mess with something that’s working fine. If it ain’t broke, fix it.’

  Margeir was itching to correct him, but let it go for fear that it would bring this brief visit to a premature end. ‘How about as a sidekick to another DJ? I don’t mind playing a supporting role.’

  The manager stuck out his lower lip and wrinkled his nose at the same time – quite a feat. ‘Nah.’ He thought for a moment, but then repeated: ‘Nah. It’s all running so smoothly right now that there’s no chance. All the shows that need two hosts already have them, and it would be crazy to have three. There wouldn’t be room for guests in the studio. Do you want to stand behind them, shouting to be heard?’

  This didn’t merit a reply. ‘How about as a temp? Emergency cover, for when people get ill or go on holiday?’

  ‘What’s going on, Margeir? Have you got yourself a woman who wants you home at night?’

  ‘No.’ If only.

  ‘What is it, then? Until now you’ve been quite happy with your time slot, or am I mistaken?’

  ‘Yes. No.’ Margeir squirmed in his seat. Soon he would be politely shown the door. It was only ten minutes until the manager’s own show was due to start. ‘I mean, yes, up until now I’ve been satisfied and no, you’re not mistaken. It’s to do with something else.’ His mouth suddenly filled with saliva, and he swallowed hard. ‘This real weirdo has started phoning in and the idea that he might be the next caller is putting me constantly on edge. I think he’d be less likely to call during the day.’

  The laughter this provoked was loud and hearty. ‘Dream on! Haven’t you learned anything? The loonies call whenever the lines are open, it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference what time of day or night it is. It’s just part of the job; most callers are all right, but there are always a couple that are… how shall I put it… different. You can’t take it personally.’

  ‘It’s not just a run-of-the-mill nutter. There’s something really disturbing about his calls, even though he doesn’t say much or stay on for very long.’

  ‘Then don’t answer. Simple.’ The manager raised his hands and moved them in circles above his head, as if conjuring ideas from the air. ‘I don’t know… put on a song, read from the newspaper, find something funny on the Internet for your listeners. Play some commercials.’

  ‘He calls from an unlisted number. But others do too, so there’s no way of weeding him out; if I don’t answer him when he’s still trying to get through, no one else can be put through either. It would help if we could just screen our callers.’ Margeir knew that it had long been in the pipeline to buy a machine that would make this possible.

  ‘Hmm, yes.’ The manager dropped his hands to his lap. There wasn’t much evidence of the station investing in anything; one of the studio headphones had been in need of new foam since September. ‘That’s something I’ve been planning on sorting out, of course, but with the króna the way it is, it would be well worth waiting, even just a few months. You must understand that, surely – your finances can hardly be in great shape.’ This was below the belt and the manager seemed to realize it, hurrying on. ‘But why does it bother you so much? We all get strange phone calls and they mean nothing, at the end of the day. They’re either from wannabe comedians or shrinking violets who don’t dare to speak once they’re on the air and just breathe into the receiver instead. I don’t know why you let it get to you.’

  ‘These calls are different. He’s not a joker or a breather.’ Margeir wanted to explain himself without going into precise detail. ‘This listener seems to know me. He says things that he knows will bother me.’

  This was getting too personal, and the last thing the manager was known for was his powers of empathy. ‘What? You’re not going to let that get under your skin, are you? It’s just some coward who gets his kicks from knowing he’s got to you. Laugh at him and hang up.’ He leaned back, satisfied with his latest solution. ‘There’s no need to get worked up over nothing.’ It was clear he’d had enough of this topic. ‘Do you think you can manage that?’ He didn’t need to add, Or should I start looking for someone else?; it was clear to Margeir which way the wind was blowing.

  ‘Uh, yes, of course. No problem.’ But this was far from the truth. His words rang hollow in his ears. He had a big problem, but if he told the manager the whole story, he might as well quit. ‘Well, keep me in mind if anything changes, but until then, no problem.’ Margeir stood up and left the office, taking care to walk out with his head held high. As he went through the door it crossed his mind to turn around and get down on his knees. Maybe that was the way to get into the manager’s good books. But his hesitation was momentary and he let the door click shut behind him. It was just as pointless to humiliate himself that way as it was to imagine that carrying on with his show would be no problem. Nonetheless, he allowed himself to hope that his fears might not come true after all.

  It had been a difficult morning, and this was reflected in the atmosphere in the little duty room, where they were sitting dismayed and frustrated after hearing about the hospital’s latest cutback plans. In short, they meant more work and less pay at the end of the month – a deadly combination. ‘How come Bjarni in Room 2 hasn’t been discharged? The x-rays show that he’s fine to go home, and we need the bed. I made that clear yesterday.’ The senior consultant was rarely happy, and always liberal with his criticism. He was due to retire soon and the recen
t organizational changes to the hospital and to his department had done nothing to improve his moods. ‘How could I have been misunderstood?’

  Silence fell over the group as each hoped that one of the others would come up with an explanation. The senior consultant tried in vain to make eye contact with them, until a nurse finally spoke up. ‘His wife refuses to have him at home. A social worker is trying to find a solution, but until then we were told to leave him where he is.’

  ‘And nobody said anything? This isn’t our problem; the man is completely healthy. Healthy enough, anyway.’ Again no one said anything; the patient had barely recuperated and his wife had just undergone a hip operation herself, making it difficult for her to look after him at home. ‘We’re expecting two new admissions this afternoon; what do you recommend we do with those patients? Send them home to this man’s wife, perhaps?’

  ‘Bjarni still being here isn’t the problem – even if he’d gone, we could hardly put both the new patients in the same bed. Admissions have to be organized better. It doesn’t make any difference whether it’s one patient or two that end up in the corridor – it ought to be none.’ The doctor who answered was widely tipped to take over from the senior consultant when he retired. He was a quiet, unassuming man, although recently he’d done more to make his presence known.

  The senior consultant didn’t look impressed. He crossed his arms, pushing his striped tie – which was noticeably too wide to be fashionable – to one side. ‘This isn’t the only thing that went wrong here yesterday. I see from the report on the paralysed girl in Room 7 that she still hasn’t been seen by a therapist. May I remind you that this could provide an invaluable insight into her condition and therefore help us to diagnose her.’

  ‘She came yesterday.’ The nurse who said this flushed a little as she spoke, regretting having attracted the attention of her ill-tempered superior. ‘The therapist. Someone might have forgotten to record it, but she was here and she sat with the girl for at least half an hour.’

  ‘And? They could hardly have just been having a pleasant chat. Didn’t she tell anyone what conclusions she drew from the session? Did she simply disappear without speaking to anyone?’

  The young nurse became even more embarrassed and fiddled distractedly with a pen in the breast pocket of her scrubs as she spoke. ‘She talked to me a bit on her way out. Said she was going to get in touch with us today about it.’

  ‘Why the delay?’ The senior consultant tightened his arms across his chest, pushing his crumpled tie to an even more ridiculous angle. ‘Doesn’t she know we’ve been waiting for this?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ The young woman blushed even harder and looked pleadingly out of the corner of her eye at the doctor who’d spoken up first, but to no avail. ‘She said she was going to write up her notes about what she got out of the patient and go over them. If I understood her correctly, she thought she might have misunderstood or misinterpreted what the patient was trying to say.’

  ‘Misunderstood? Misinterpreted?’ The sarcastic tone was completely unjustified but the senior consultant didn’t care; it felt good to have an outlet for his irritation. He’d had enough of not being able to do his job properly. The hospital’s quality controls were diminishing, but that wasn’t the staff’s fault; constant changes and lack of funding made things very difficult. ‘How is it possible to misunderstand? Have you seen the cards they use for communication? It’s not like there are many words to choose from.’

  ‘I don’t know exactly what she meant, but I imagine she’d be able to draw more conclusions from their conversation than we could.’ The nurse had stopped fiddling with her pen. Her mood was beginning to darken. ‘According to you she could, anyway.’

  The senior consultant unfolded his arms. ‘Well, we can’t wait for this for another whole day, so I suggest you get in touch with the therapist immediately and figure something out.’ The nurse merely nodded. Inside, her anger grew, but now it was directed at her colleagues, who had kept silent and made no attempt to help her. Of course she’d often done the same, but this was the first time she’d found herself playing the role of sacrificial lamb. She hoped she had enough integrity to learn from this and come to others’ aid next time instead of keeping quiet. However, she knew deep down that she probably wouldn’t.

  After the meeting, alone at the duty station, she reached for the hospital phone directory. Just as she had given up all hope of the therapist answering, she heard a breathless voice on the other end of the line.

  ‘Hi, sorry, I haven’t forgotten you – I was called unexpectedly to the children’s hospital and I’ve only just got back. I still have to go through my notes one more time, but I should be able to come over in half an hour or so.’

  ‘That would be great. We’re keen to know whether she has any complaints about anything, or if she’s in pain. We’re having a hard time determining the root cause of the symptoms she’s displaying.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt I’ll be able to help you with that. I actually need to ask her a few more questions; yesterday she didn’t want to say anything about how she felt physically. But it won’t hurt to try again.’

  ‘Really? What did she say, then?’ The nurse wanted to know as much as possible in case she ended up being questioned again.

  ‘If I understood her correctly, she’s unhappy – or frightened, to be more accurate. But I wasn’t able to clearly determine what of. That’s why I’m going to try and communicate with her again today. It’s an extremely primitive means of communication, although she’s much better equipped for it than many others are, since she’s literate and she can spell what she wants to say. It just takes an awfully long time, and on top of that it’s very easy to end up in the wrong square. She was tired and impatient, so it didn’t go very well. Hopefully it’ll be better when I see her today.’

  ‘What can she be afraid of? Us?’

  ‘I’m not sure. She spelled “oxygen” again and again when I asked, but I have no idea what she meant. Maybe she’s having trouble breathing, although I didn’t notice any signs of that. She also spelled the word “man” more than once, and “bad man” when I asked her to explain it better. I have no idea who she means, and by the time we reached that point I couldn’t get her to continue. Plus, there are other things I don’t quite understand, but I need a little more time to go over them and try to sort out the context.’

  ‘Can you go into any detail?’

  ‘I think the less I say right now, the safer we are. Let me just go over it a bit and speak to you properly after I meet up with her again. Maybe it’s all just nonsense – a bad dream she had, or some kind of delusion, but I still feel it’s worth checking to see whether I can get to the bottom of it, if possible. Her heart rate went through the roof when she mentioned this man, so it may be that her fear is causing symptoms that are confusing you guys.’

  ‘I see.’ The nurse tried to think of anything else she’d wanted to ask, but nothing came to mind. ‘See you later, then. My name’s Svava, I’ll be here until four.’ They said goodbye, and the nurse stared at her phone for a few moments before standing up. Maybe she should start by looking in on the poor girl; apparently she enjoyed listening to the radio, so maybe that would relax her and lessen her fear. Mind you, the girl’s heart rate had actually increased when she stuck the ear phone in her ear the other day, and for a second Svava wondered whether it was the country’s financial crisis, which was all they ever discussed on the radio now, that was scaring her. No, it couldn’t be. It must have been a coincidence.

  CHAPTER 14

  Monday, 11 January 2010

  Each storey would have housed a family of three quite comfortably. The house was so overwhelming that it was actually difficult to appreciate its architecture; its overall appearance made it look as if the blueprints had been done to the wrong scale and the building was now a distended version of the original idea. It was the same story with the next house. They were all crowded together, and none had windows at the sides
because of the proximity of their neighbours. Either the residents were well off or they’d received a good discount from the builders’ merchants. Thóra had had considerable trouble navigating them to the northern part of the suburb of Grafarvogur, where she never normally had any need to go. Most of the driveways leading up to these enormous homes were empty of any cars, since maintaining these palaces required two breadwinners, but there were snowmobile trailers in many of the driveways, and the odd camper trailer here and there, covered with a tarpaulin. Einvarður and Fanndís’s driveway contained no trailers, however, and Matthew pulled up next to a newish family car that made it clear that the owner wasn’t rolling in money, but didn’t want it to look as if that were the case.

  On a copper plate beneath the doorbell were the names of all the members of the family – Tryggvi included. She saw Matthew raise his eyebrows when he saw the son’s name, but he said nothing; his only experience with children was with Thóra’s son and daughter and her grandson, and he seemed to realize his limitations when it came to understanding parents. He rang the bell and after a few moments Fanndís opened the door. She was just as elegant as in the photograph at her husband’s office, although she’d aged since it was taken. Tiny wrinkles stretched from the corners of her eyes to her temples and a vertical lines lay at either side of her mouth. Otherwise her face was smooth and healthy-looking. The woman extended a slender hand adorned with rings and smiled warmly as they introduced themselves. The clothes she was wearing were not the kind that Thóra would have chosen if she worked at home; it looked as though Fanndís was going out to lunch at the golf club. But maybe she’d simply dressed up especially for her guests, and if that were the case, Thóra regretted having dressed according to the weather that morning.

  They followed the woman through the beautiful foyer and into a large but tasteful living room that felt cosy despite its size. A small number of attractive paintings hung on the walls and family photos stood on shelves and on nests of tables. In all the photos showing the family dressed in their Sunday best, the daughter wore a long dress that looked Spanish to Thóra. ‘Your daughter’s clearly a strong character,’ she said, pointing at the same photo that Einvarður had shown them in his office. ‘Sometimes I think young people all dress alike, but that’s not the case with her, I see.’