Black Skies

26

Sigurdur Óli got home around midnight and collapsed on the sofa in front of the TV. He turned on an American comedy but soon lost interest and channel-surfed until he found a live broadcast of an American football game. But he could not concentrate on that either. His mind kept drifting to his mother and father and to Bergthóra and their relationship, and how it had all come off the rails without his making any real effort to save it. He had just let things run their course until they had gone irretrievably wrong and there was no turning back. Perhaps it was his obstinacy and indifference that had caused everything to break down.

His thoughts moved on to Patrekur, from whom he had heard nothing since he was called in for questioning, and to Finnur, who had threatened to throw the book at him. This was unlike Finnur. He was good at what he did and it was out of character for him to act precipitately, but then of course Patrekur and Súsanna were not friends of his. Sigurdur Óli had nothing against Finnur. He was a family man, meticulous in his private and professional lives. His three daughters had been born at two-year intervals and all had birthdays in the same month. His wife was a part-time sixth-form teacher. He was conscientious almost to the point of pedantry, concerned that all his dealings should be above board, both with his colleagues and in his capacity generally as a police officer. So it was no surprise that he should take exception when Sigurdur Óli failed to take himself off the case, citing a conflict of interest. But Finnur had his foibles too, as Sigurdur Óli had reminded him. He had managed to pacify him for now but how long that would last he could not say. Sigurdur Óli could see nothing improper in continuing to work on the investigation despite his friend’s connection to the case. He had full confidence in his own judgement, and anyway Iceland was a small country; links to friends, acquaintances or family were inevitable. All that mattered was that they were handled in an honest, professional manner.

The game ended and as Sigurdur Óli changed channels he thought about the film clip and the boy’s distressing pleas for mercy. He recalled the time he and Erlendur had visited Andrés shortly after New Year. Andrés, stinking and repulsive, had clearly been drinking for a long time. He had suddenly started referring to himself as little Andy, which Erlendur took to be a childhood nickname. So could it be little Andy on the clip? And where was the rest of the film? Were there others? Just what had little Andy been forced to endure at the hands of his stepfather? And where was this stepfather today? Rögnvaldur. Sigurdur Óli had checked the police records but found nobody by that name who could have been Andrés’s stepfather.

If Andrés had looked terrible back in January when they had confronted him in his lair, he seemed in an even worse condition now, in the autumn. The wraithlike figure who had accosted Sigurdur Óli behind the police station had been a shadow of his former self: his haggard, grey face unshaven, a disgusting stench rising from his filthy clothes, his back hunched. A bundle of nerves. What had happened? Where had Andrés been hiding?

Surely the boy in the film must be Andrés?

Sigurdur Óli remembered how he had been at that age. His parents had recently divorced and he had been living with his mother but would spend some weekends with his father, accompanying him to work at times, as he seemed to work late seven days a week. Sigurdur Óli had learned a little about plumbing and discovered that his father had a nickname among his fellow tradesmen that puzzled him at first. He had gone with his father to a cafeteria one lunchtime; it was midweek but he had a day off school because it was Ash Wednesday, so he went with his father, who always ate lunch at the same place. The cafeteria was on Ármúli, somewhere tradesmen and labourers gathered to enjoy cheap, unpretentious platefuls of meatballs or roast lamb, shovelling down their food, smoking and swapping gossip before returning to work. It took no more than twenty minutes, half an hour at most, and then they were gone.

He was standing by a table, waiting while his father queued for food, when a man hurrying out bumped into him, almost knocking Sigurdur Óli over.

‘Sorry, son,’ the man said, catching him before he could fall. ‘But what the hell are you doing getting in the way like that?’

He spoke roughly, as if the boy had no right to get under the feet of his elders and betters. Perhaps he was curious about what a youngster like him was doing in a workers’ canteen.

‘I’m with him,’ explained Sigurdur Óli timidly, pointing to his father who had just turned round and smiled at him.

‘Oh, Permaflush, eh?’ said the man, nodding to his father and patting the boy on the head before going on his way.

It was the smirk, the tone of mockery, the lack of respect that winded Sigurdur Óli. He had never before had any cause to assess his father’s position in society and it took him some time to grasp that the man had been referring to his father with this peculiar name, and that it was intended to belittle him.

He never mentioned the incident to his father. Later he discovered what Permaflush meant but could not work out why he had acquired this nickname. He had assumed that his father was like any other tradesman and it upset him to find out that he bore such a humiliating moniker. In some way that Sigurdur Óli could not fully understand it diminished him. Did his father cut a ridiculous figure in the eyes of others? Was he seen as a failure? Was it because his father preferred to work alone, had no interest in joining a firm, had few friends and tended to be unsociable and eccentric? He was the first to admit that he did not particularly enjoy company.

Earlier that day Sigurdur Óli had gone to the hospital and sat by his father’s bed, waiting for him to come round from his operation. He had been dwelling on the time he heard the nickname. Years later he understood more clearly what had happened, the emotions he had felt. It was that he had suddenly been put in the uncomfortable position of feeling sorry for his father, of pitying him, defending him even.

His father stirred and opened his eyes. They had informed Sigurdur Óli that the operation had gone well, the prostate had been removed and they had found no sign that the cancer had spread; it appeared to have been restricted to the gland itself, and his father was expected to make a quick recovery.

‘How do you feel?’ he asked, once his father had woken up.

‘All right,’ he answered. ‘A bit groggy.’

‘You look fine,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘You just need a proper rest.’

‘Thank you for looking in on me, Siggi,’ his father said. ‘There was no need. You shouldn’t be wasting your time on an old codger like me.’

‘I was thinking about you and Mum.’

‘Were you?

‘Wondering why you two ever got together when you’re so different.’

‘You’re right, we are, we’re poles apart.’ The words emerged with an effort. ‘That was obvious from the off but it wasn’t a problem until later. She changed when she started working — when she got the accountancy job, I mean. So you find the whole thing a mystery do you? That she got together with a plumber like me?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘I suppose it seems a bit unlike her. When you say later, do you mean after I arrived on the scene?’

‘It had nothing to do with you, Siggi. Your mother’s just a piece of work.’

They were both silent and eventually his father drifted off to sleep again. Sigurdur Óli remained sitting beside him for a while.

Sigurdur Óli stood up and switched off the TV. He glanced at his watch; it was probably too late to call but he wanted to hear the sound of her voice. He had been thinking about it all day. He picked up the receiver and weighed it in his hand, hesitating, then dialled her number. She answered on the third ring.

‘Am I calling too late?’ he asked.

‘No … it’s OK,’ said Bergthóra. ‘I wasn’t asleep. Is everything all right? Why are you ringing so late?’ She sounded concerned but excited too, almost breathless.

‘I just wanted a chat, to tell you about the old man. He’s in hospital.’

He told Bergthóra about his father’s illness, how the operation had gone well and that he would be discharged in a few days. And how he had visited him twice and intended to look in on him regularly while he was recuperating.

‘Not that he’ll let anyone do anything for him.’

‘You’ve never been very close,’ said Bergthóra, who had not known her former father-in-law well.

‘No,’ admitted Sigurdur Óli. ‘Things just turned out that way, I don’t really know why. Look, I was wondering if we could see each other again? Maybe at your place. Do something fun.’

Bergthóra was silent. He heard a noise, a muffled voice.

‘Is there somebody with you?’ he asked.

She did not answer.

‘Bergthóra?’

‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I dropped the phone.’

‘Who’s that with you?’

‘Maybe we should talk another time,’ she said. ‘This isn’t really a good moment.’

‘Bergthóra …?’

‘Let’s talk another time,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you.’

She hung up. Sigurdur Óli stared at the phone. Inexplicably, it had never occurred to him that Bergthóra would go in search of pastures new. He had been open to the idea himself but was completely thrown by the fact that Bergthóra had beaten him to it.

‘Fuck!’ he heard himself whisper furiously.

He should never have rung.

What was she doing with someone else?

‘Fuck,’ he whispered again, putting down the phone.