Someone to Watch Over Me Page 27

  ‘I’ve never been good at talking to government agencies, and certainly not to that lawyer.’ Grímheiður glanced quickly at Thóra. ‘I’ve never been able to speak plainly to those people about what’s on my mind.’

  Thóra assumed the woman meant government officials. ‘Maybe I can help you.’ You never knew, perhaps Einvarður would be willing to use his contacts within the Ministry of Justice. The Prison Service answered to the Ministry and it was the least Thóra could do for Grímheiður and her son.

  ‘I would be very grateful.’ Two more tears appeared, but Grímheiður wiped them away immediately, sniffed and pulled herself together. ‘How’s it going with the case otherwise? Have you found anything that might help Jakob?’

  Thóra told her the main details of what she was working on, without actually giving anything away. There was no way of knowing whether it would bear fruit, and she was keen not to give the woman some scrap of information that she might obsess over for a lifetime if Thóra didn’t make any progress. ‘Hopefully I’ll be able to complete this over the next few days and then I can assess whether there’s reason enough to request a reopening of the case.’

  ‘Do you want to see his room?’ The question came out of nowhere. Perhaps the woman wanted to elicit even more sympathy from Thóra, in order to increase the likelihood that her assessment of the evidence would be favourable to Jakob.

  ‘Certainly.’ Matthew got up off the kitchen chair with lightning speed. A fear of being confined in a small kitchen with an unfamiliar, weeping woman had overcome him.

  They followed Grímheiður into a small carpeted hallway where the door to Jakob’s room was located. ‘Here it is. Just waiting for him to come home.’ She opened the door and waved them in ahead of her.

  ‘Very nice,’ said Thóra, just to have something to say. It was difficult to comment much on the room; it was like every other room in the apartment, packed with things and three sizes too small for its contents. Still, there was not a speck of dust to be seen. There was even a radio playing softly, as if Jakob had just stepped out. Thóra looked around. ‘You certainly have kept it looking tidy. I wish it were this clean at my place.’

  ‘I don’t have much to occupy me these days. Jakob was never much for cleaning up his room, and I was used to helping him. Now what I’d like most of all is for some naughty little boy to make a mess of everything so I can remember how things used to be, but I wouldn’t dare.’ She looked at some of her son’s things that had been set up on a shelving unit. ‘Something might break, and Jakob is so careful with his belongings.’

  Matthew gently lifted a pair of binoculars that stood on end on the bedside table. ‘These are fantastic.’ He held the binoculars up to his eyes.

  ‘They were a Christmas present from me and his father. The year before he died.’

  Matthew put the binoculars down hastily. He left the other things alone and started examining the posters hanging on the wall above the bed, which was neatly made. There were loads of them, some overlapping; for example, the bumper of a Formula One car peeked out from beneath a poster of the Manchester United football team. ‘What’s this?’ Matthew pointed at a rather faded picture of a figure on a white background, on which were written the words: Even angels have bad days. ‘Isn’t this an angel?’ He looked at Thóra and then at Grímheiður.

  ‘Funny that you should ask about this poster in particular.’ Grímheiður smiled. ‘It’s been a favourite of Jakob’s for almost ten years. He got it at the summer camp he went to run by the State Church. It was an experimental project, but I don’t know if they carried it on because Jakob was too old by the following year to be eligible to go. Perhaps the course wasn’t run again.’

  Thóra went over and stood next to Matthew to look at the poster. Perhaps the picture could explain Jakob’s reference to the angel when he was trying not very successfully to describe the fire. The mind sometimes sought out the familiar when it was under great strain. As the caption indicated, the angel’s existence had once been brighter; its golden halo had fallen from its head and the little harp in its arms had a broken string. It was missing one sandal and a feather drifted to the ground from one of its small wings. Thóra sensed that their interest in the poster surprised Grímheiður, and she asked the first thing that crossed her mind. ‘What made you say the course might not have happened again?’

  ‘Oh, it was a bit of a disaster. Although Jakob loved it and the organizers did what they could to make the experience memorable, some of the participants had far too many problems to fit in there.’

  ‘Oh?’ Thóra turned away from the wall.

  ‘Yes, all sorts of things happened that I can’t imagine the staff would have wanted to encounter again.’ Grímheiður shook her head, her expression sad. ‘No one had properly considered how the participants might cope – just like at that damn residence.’ She took two steps over to Jakob’s desk, lifted a blue stapler and blew invisible dust off it. ‘One girl nearly drowned when she fell into a river near the camp that she was constantly visiting, another ate poisonous mushrooms, and then there was one who tried to set his sleeping bag on fire. That was a close call; things could have turned out far worse.’ Grímheiður put the stapler back down on the table, positioning it in precisely the same spot. ‘That boy didn’t enjoy being at the summer camp at all, and I can’t understand who could have thought that he would. He was very autistic and couldn’t tolerate new circumstances. The poor thing.’ Lowering her voice, she added: ‘He died when the centre burned down. Tryggvi.’

  ‘Tryggvi? Einvarðsson?’ Thóra was careful not to appear too interested, but this could be pretty significant, even though burning one’s sleeping bag wasn’t quite the same as using petrol to set a house on fire.

  ‘Yes, him.’ A light suddenly came on for Grímheiður. ‘Do you think he started the fire?’ Then she shook her head violently. ‘It’s impossible; he wasn’t any more capable of it than Jakob. Tryggvi never left his apartment voluntarily. He would never have gone swanning around the residence on his own initiative.’

  ‘No, no. Of course not.’ Thóra acted as if she were dismissing this idea. Clearly not everyone was aware of Tryggvi’s progress with the therapist. ‘Did you say it was a summer camp organized by the Church?’ It couldn’t hurt to get some more information about the incident with the sleeping bag.

  From the small radio on the table came the tinny, irritated voice of the DJ complaining that the person who was supposed to take over from him hadn’t turned up.

  Chapter 23

  Sunday, 17 January 2010

  Lena was lying on a nice soft sofa, but she couldn’t get into a good position, due to the weight of the book she was holding. She put it down on the glass table; she wasn’t reading it anyway, and there was no point making herself uncomfortable. She had been finding it difficult to focus and the simple act of her mother walking into the room in the middle of a phone conversation, indifferent to her daughter, had made her lose the thread. Instead of peering at the small print, Lena watched her mother. She crossed the room, making sweeping hand gestures. The person she was speaking to was probably making the same gestures, because Lena’s mother’s friends all acted more or less the same. If Lena squinted in their vicinity she had trouble telling them apart. It was mainly her mother who stood out; more often than not she was the centrepiece, but in a completely different way to how Lena was with her friends. Her mother was always the most miserable; she could complain the most and wallow in the others’ sympathy and empty words of encouragement. ‘My dear Fanndís, I don’t understand how you cope, can’t you take a break and try to forget all of this for a while? God knows you deserve it.’ Lena wished she could peek into the past and see what things had been like before Tryggvi was born and her mother became an embodiment of sacrifices for her child. Perhaps the women had been more like Lena and her friends, giggling and chatting together easily.

  After Tryggvi’s death, Lena hadn’t expected significant changes, and she’d bee
n proved right. Her mother, of course, no longer played the role of the steadfast and dedicated parent who gave her all for her disabled son; now she smiled bravely through her tears, unable to come to terms with her loss. Both roles were characterized by how her mother said one thing but implied the opposite. Once it had been: Isn’t this terribly difficult for you, my poor Fanndís? No, no. You’ve just got to tough it out, even when everything seems hopeless. Now it was: But what do I really have to complain about? In the Third World there are people who have lost their children and can’t even feed the ones who are still alive.

  Lena was suddenly overwhelmed by irritation. As if her mother had some sort of exclusive right to feel bad about Tryggvi. When all was said and done, Lena and her father had loved him just as much, even if they weren’t constantly seeking attention after his death. Lena had never discussed the subject with her friends; her grief, like all the other feelings churning inside her, was private. Other people couldn’t possibly understand. She doubted her father did, even though he’d had a very difficult time with it all too and hadn’t been able to hide it either from her or from others who knew him well. It was as if he’d shut off part of himself; he was never properly happy, even though he tried to pretend to be for his wife and daughter’s sake. Although it had often been difficult at home, Lena couldn’t remember having seen him as miserable as he was now. If she were forced to choose which of the three of them had been most affected by Tryggvi’s death, she would pick him.

  ‘Oh, thank you, my dear. I’m thinking of you too.’ Her mother hung up. She stared for a moment out of the living room window before turning to Lena on the sofa. ‘Don’t you have any classes today?’

  ‘It’s Sunday.’ Lena looked at her mother, having long since become accustomed to this kind of thing.

  ‘What’s wrong with me? Of course!’ Her mother was embarrassed. ‘Where did your father go?’

  Lena shrugged. ‘He went out somewhere. He didn’t say where.’

  ‘Oh?’ Her mother seemed almost insulted. ‘Not to work, surely?’

  ‘He didn’t want to interrupt you while you were on the phone; he can’t have gone far. Maybe he’s just washing the car, now that the weather’s good enough.’ If she had to name one hobby of her father’s, it would be washing the car. He would probably be happier if he’d gone to work at a carwash instead of going into law and taking a job at the ministry. ‘Have you heard anything more from the lawyers who came to see you? About that Jakob, and the fire?’

  A flash of anger crossed her mother’s face but she managed to suppress it and return to her usual persona: the noble, elegant woman enduring great hardship. ‘No. Nor do I expect to. It’s utter nonsense and I don’t understand why they’re opening old wounds for all the victims’ relatives.’

  Lena just restrained herself from shrieking at her mother. ‘It’s hardly fair to let the wrong man rot in prison just to protect a few people’s feelings, is it?’ How could her mother, who pretended to be so good, not let such a thing bother her? Lena felt bad enough herself.

  ‘Oh, darling, come on – that’s enough.’ Her mother walked to the window and pushed the net curtain aside. ‘He’s not in the driveway. But the car’s there, so he hasn’t gone far.’

  ‘Maybe he went out for a run, Mum. Jesus. If you’re so worried about him, spend more time with him and less on the phone.’

  ‘You’re one to talk.’ Her mother’s mask had slipped now and she made no attempt to hide her anger. ‘Where did you go last night?’

  ‘Out with my friends.’ Lena looked at her curiously. ‘You already knew that.’

  Her mother grabbed her earlobe and rubbed it energetically. ‘Yes, that’s right.’ She plonked herself into a chair opposite Lena. ‘I’m really not myself. Your father’s acting a bit oddly these days and I don’t know whether it’s because of work or the reopening of the case.’ She feigned interest in the book between them. ‘He went to work last night after you left. He hasn’t worked in the evening in years, let alone at the weekend.’

  ‘He’s super-busy right now. You know that.’

  ‘Yes, yes. But I’m still concerned. He’s reached the age when his heart could give out and he should think about slowing down, even if things are frantic.’

  ‘If he had a study here at home he wouldn’t need to go to work at the weekend or in the evenings.’ Lena spoke carefully, knowing this was a sensitive issue. Although the house was large, there was only one spare room – Tryggvi’s old room. Everything in it had been left undisturbed, as if they were still expecting him to come home on weekends, as had been the idea when he moved to the unit. After he died, the door to his room had been shut and Lena never went inside; nor did her dad. She didn’t know how many times her mother had looked in there but twice she’d found the door open and seen her mother crying on the bed. Both times Lena had crept away unseen. She knew very well her mother’s tendency to dramatize every little thing and had quickly suggested to her dad that they clean out Tryggvi’s room and turn it into the study her father had long dreamed of. She didn’t attempt to gloss over the reason for her suggestion, and together they’d been trying slowly but surely to make it happen, while her mother always deftly avoided taking the final decision.

  ‘Yes, we need to think about that.’ In other words, discuss it endlessly.

  ‘Why can’t we just do it now? Nothing’s going to change in the near future. I know it’d make Dad very happy.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll speak to him about it tonight.’ Another delaying tactic.

  Lena sat up. ‘How about we just take a look at the room now? Go over what you want to do with his things? I’m not saying we have to start boxing them up tonight.’

  Her mother opened her mouth and closed it again. Her slender fingers stopped rubbing her ear. ‘Well, I’m not feeling well enough to do it now, Lena. You have to understand that I simply haven’t recovered yet.’

  ‘Maybe because you still have to work through it properly. I think sorting out Tryggvi’s room would actually do you good. There are so many people having a difficult time at the moment, who could make good use of a lot of what’s in there.’ Lena prepared to stand up. ‘Come on – Dad will be so pleased, and if you really are worried about him having a heart attack or whatever then surely you can see that this will help.’ She wriggled to her feet. ‘Come on, it’ll take fifteen minutes, max.’

  ‘We’re not going to start packing anything? Just have a look?’ Lena nodded and her mother sighed deeply. ‘I really can’t be doing this. I still need to do the shopping, and that’s just the tip of the iceberg.’ It would be difficult to squeeze as much as a child-sized carton of chocolate milk into the jam-packed fridge, but Lena let it go; it was a major victory to get her mother to consider this at all.

  The air in the room was heavy; it was much hotter in there than in the rest of the house and the smell was different. It was as if they were entering someone else’s home, where the heating was turned up to tropical levels. ‘Shall I open the window?’ Lena didn’t wait for an answer. However, the fresh air didn’t seem to have much effect. ‘Well, where do we start?’

  Her mother was still standing in the doorway. ‘We’ll never manage to finish this in such a short time. Shouldn’t we start on it after I’ve done the shopping and the cooking?’

  ‘No, Mum. Let’s start now.’ Lena opened the wardrobe. In it were countless hangers, one suit and a pile of old jumpers and T-shirts that had been left behind when Tryggvi went to the residence. ‘This, for example, could go to the Red Cross. The suit is almost new and I’m sure there’s someone who could use it.’

  ‘It’s brand new. He was supposed to wear it at Christmas.’ Her mother’s voice was devoid of all emotion. ‘I’m not sure I want to give it away. Or the jumpers. Your late grandmother knitted one of them.’

  Lena shut the wardrobe slowly, though what she really wanted was to slam the door as hard as she could. ‘Okay. What about the books?’ High shelves full of illustrated books a
bout animals, cars and astronomy stood at the opposite end of the room. ‘I doubt any of us will read them.’

  ‘I was taught never to throw books out. Don’t you remember how he used to look at them for hours? There’s something horrible about the idea of getting rid of them.’

  ‘Yes, Mum, of course I remember.’ This was going to be more difficult than Lena had expected. ‘We don’t need to throw them out or give them away; we can box them up and store them.’

  ‘It’s all the same in the end.’

  Lena wasn’t going to give up that easily. ‘We can put the ones on the shelves into storage, at least. They haven’t been opened since I don’t know when.’ Lena pulled out the smallest drawer in her brother’s sturdy desk, yanking it so forcefully that she was lucky not to pull it completely off its runners. In it were all sorts of things: crayons and other stationery, a deck of cards Tryggvi had used to build cardhouses and dice he’d loved playing with. At the back of the drawer was a bright red cigarette lighter she wouldn’t have noticed if she’d opened the drawer normally. She decided not to say anything and shut the drawer again without mentioning its contents. ‘We can probably give most of this away.’

  ‘It depends what’s in there, of course.’ Lena’s mother leaned against the doorframe, clearly not intending to actually enter the room . ‘Even if things aren’t in constant use, that doesn’t necessarily mean they should be recycled.’

  ‘Who said anything about recycling?’ Lena opened the next drawer. It was larger and heavier than the previous one, and she had to use some force. ‘Although we shouldn’t rule it out.’ The drawer was full of stones and pebbles, but not the kind of stones she’d imagine someone wanting to keep, She remembered a trip to a mineralogical museum where the stones had been beautiful and eye-catching, in every colour imaginable, many of them sparkly. These ones were all grey, irregularly shaped and uninteresting – just rocks. ‘Where did he get these stones?’