Someone to Watch Over Me Read online

  ‘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 inconvenien
ce 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.’

  ‘So were you able to overcome all this?’

  ‘Not to any miraculous degree, but I was able to significantly reduce his repetitive behaviour, and I got him to look people in the eye and accept their presence. As I said, he still had a long way to go.’

  ‘Tryggvi must have undergone some other forms of treatment before you came along; how did you manage to succeed where others had failed?’

  ‘It’s not as if his previous teachers or developmental ther-apists didn’t do anything for him – far from it. For example, he spent endless amounts of time browsing illustrated textbooks, though he didn’t read the words. His tendency to inflict harm on himself had also already been suppressed. As a toddler he would bang his head against things whenever he could, even to the point of cracking his skull. So a lot of progress had been made. For any improvement to be possible in people as autistic as Tryggvi, it’s essential that their behavioural therapy begins very early. His parents, particularly his mother, were very concerned that he receive the best treatment available. She watched his diet very closely and followed the newest developments in that area, since in some cases the effects of autism can be reduced by changing a patient’s nutritional intake. For instance, Tryggvi stopped eating both gluten and sugar, and according to his mother it reduced his symptoms. Not that I was able to judge – I didn’t meet him until after they had been removed from his diet. Also, both his parents were very much alert to any developments in autism medication. They were kind of unique, actually, because the parents of autistic children sometimes focus on one particular factor: food, drugs or specific treatments, but few have been so aware of all the different aspects. They were terribly fond of him, but of course the same goes for all the parents of autistic children that I’ve encountered.’

  ‘So why did they stop the treatment, just when things were starting to look up?’

  Ægir shrugged. ‘God knows. All I can think of is that the methods I was using weren’t to his mother’s liking; I didn’t exactly take the “softly softly” approach. I had to use a great deal of discipline to get results, and you’ve got to bear in mind that in this instance what we had was an individual who shunned human communication and attempted to avoid it by any possible means. So I had no other choice but to force him into acknowledging I was there. It was noisy, and must have been hard to watch. Still, I thought she realized that the end justified the means, but that was clearly a big misunderstanding on my part. It probably didn’t help either that other residents and visitors complained about it. It was a real shame, that’s for sure.’

  ‘How much progress did Tryggvi make under your guidance?’ The man had yet to answer the question that was really plaguing Thóra.

  ‘Quite a lot, but again you have to consider that we were starting from zero. He had started to draw more, pictures that seemed to better reflect what was on his mind, and he wasn’t as afraid of everything. I got him to look me in the eye and accept my presence, as well as his mother’s.’

  ‘But did he move around the building voluntarily? In search of company or food, for example?’

  ‘No, I very much doubt it.’ Ægir shrugged. ‘I suppose he might have left his apartment on his own, but not in search of either company or food. That would really surprise me.’

  ‘I know of one instance when he paid a visit to a bedridden girl who lived there. I don’t know why he went to see her, but he walked in and looked at her, in any case.’

  ‘You see? Progress.’ He rubbed his chin and stared around at the chattering crowd. ‘If it was one of the girls who couldn’t move, I’m not surprised he visited her rather than any of the other residents. A person who couldn’t speak would have suited him well, and maybe he was drawn by the silence in her apartment. I went with him a few times to see the girl in the coma, in order to get him used to the unknown. Obviously she was the most harmless person in the place and I didn’t want to bother those who were conscious, but she couldn’t move a muscle. A couple of times we stopped in her doorway. We had the director’s permission, of course, she was extremely cooperative, and Tryggvi didn’t do anything to the poor girl, just stared at her in fascination, probably because she was so still. Naturally, she didn’t know we were there, since she wasn’t conscious. I wasn’t aware of him ever having visited her without me.’

  Thóra didn’t feel like correcting this misunderstanding; it didn’t matter whether Ægir thought it was Lísa or Ragna Tryggvi had visited. ‘How did he express himself with the pictures, anyway? I’ve seen a few of them – on a video recording, admittedly – but I couldn’t work them out at all. In them was a person lying down, and then another person holding onto a large circle which was divided into three. There were also flames in some of them.’

  ‘Of course the pictures weren’t the same every time, but both figures you describe were frequently involved. The person lying down was probably the girl in the coma, who he was really fascinated with, as I mentioned. She turned up in his drawings when I started my treatment, but she began to appear more and more frequently and by the time I stopped working with him she was in every picture. No matter what the subject of the picture was. As far as the other figure is concerned, it came and went and I think it symbolized his mother; I couldn’t give you a better guess than that. The ring she usually held was a peace symbol, in my
opinion, but I couldn’t confirm that for certain any more than anything else in his imaginary world.’

  ‘And the flames?’

  ‘They were another thing that fascinated him, but I suspect you’re reading more into them than you should. They’re not related in any way to the fire at the residence. It’s one thing to draw fire, quite another to start one.’

  ‘But that did actually happen: he was caught doing exactly that some years ago. That’s not to say that he was responsible for the fire, but it certainly raises some questions.’

  ‘The flames in his drawings symbolized distress and fear. It wasn’t any more complicated than that. He drew fish when he was hungry and a sink when he was thirsty. Why he chose these things and not others, I don’t know. He drew every picture in one go, with one unbroken line, so to speak. And if you examine the drawings very closely, you can see all kinds of things in them that are more important sometimes than the main subject.’

  ‘What did 08INN or OBINN mean? It was in all the pictures and I wondered whether it was his signature or something like that. Would that fit?’

  ‘No, I never understood what that meant. He was angry at the letters so he connected them to something bad; he always drew them last, but I’m not sure that they stood for something that we can understand. Maybe it’s something he saw during his life that burned itself into his consciousness. He couldn’t read or write, so he saw it and copied it, in precisely the same way that he drew a house or some equipment that he came across, say. Since the text was in all likelihood a mirror image, like everything else that he put on paper, it’s hard to say what it was supposed to represent; no words begin with NN, for example. It didn’t ring any bells with his parents, either, but you never know, maybe he might have added more letters to the others over time, and the text would have become clearer. Unfortunately, this never happened, because shortly after these letters started appearing in every drawing, his parents decided to terminate the treatment.’