Outrage

14

Elínborg’s father was resting in the bedroom. It was Monday, his bridge night, and he would be going out to one of his friends’ homes. He had been playing bridge on Monday evenings with the same group for as long as Elínborg could remember. Year had followed uneventful year in a blur of bids and slams. They had grown old gracefully, those young men who had once patted her on the head and teased her and played cards, and consumed the snacks served by her mother. They had a quiet dignity, a friendliness, and an inexhaustible eagerness to explore the mysteries of bridge. Elínborg had never learned the game, nor had her father shown any interest in teaching her. He was a good player and had taken part in tournaments, occasionally bringing home a minor trophy, which he would put away in a drawer. But age had its consequences and these days, if he was to be alert for an evening at the card table, he needed to take a nap in the afternoon.

‘Hello, dear!’ said Elínborg’s mother as she opened the door. Elínborg had her own key and let herself in.

‘Just thought I’d look in.’

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Yes. How are you?’ asked Elínborg.

‘I’m well. I’m thinking of doing a bookbinding course.’ Her mother was sitting in the living room, reading an advert in the paper. ‘My friend Anna is doing it, and she says I should try it too.’

‘That’s a good idea, isn’t it? You can take the old man with you.’

‘I don’t think so. He can never be bothered to do anything. How’s Teddi?’

‘He’s fine.’

‘And what about you?’

‘Fine. Busy.’

‘I can see that — you look a bit tired. I’ve been reading about this awful murder in Thingholt. I just hope you’re not involved with that. It’s not the kind of thing normal people can cope with.’

Elínborg had heard it all before. Her mother was disappointed that she had ‘finished up’ in the police, as she put it. She thought the job was beneath her daughter. Not because it was unimportant — far from it — but she simply could not bear to think of her Elínborg dealing with crooks. She imagined other people — nothing like her daughter — pursuing criminals, arresting them, questioning them and locking them up. Her daughter just wasn’t that kind of woman.

Elínborg had long ago given up defending her profession. She understood that most of her mother’s objections stemmed from fears of her daughter being surrounded by the dregs of humanity. Elínborg did what she could to protect her mother by playing down her role in apprehending violent criminals and giving her a sanitised impression of the job. Perhaps she had gone too far. Sometimes Elínborg felt her mother was in a state of denial about her line of work. ‘Really, there are days when I can’t help wondering what I’m doing in this job,’ Elínborg said.

‘Of course you do,’ her mother answered. ‘Would you like some hot chocolate?’

‘No, thanks. I just wanted to check that you were both all right. I’ll be off home now.’

‘Now, now, dear, it will only take a minute. No need to rush away — they’re all old enough to look after themselves. Sit down for a minute and relax.’

Quick as a flash, her mother had placed a saucepan on the stove, with a little water in the bottom and a bar of dark chocolate that was melting in seconds.

Elínborg sat at the kitchen table. Her mother’s handbag was hanging from the back of a chair. She remembered how she had always liked the fragrance of her mother’s bag when she’d been a little girl. Whenever she was under pressure and needed a brief respite from her day-to-day routine she found it comforting to visit her childhood home and ground herself again in her old surroundings.

‘It’s not so bad,’ said Elínborg. ‘Sometimes we achieve something worthwhile. Arrest people, stop violence, help victims.’

‘Of course,’ said her mother, ‘But I don’t understand why you should have to do it. It never occurred to me that you would stay in the police for so long.’

‘No,’ said Elínborg. ‘I know, but somehow it worked out that way.’

‘Not that I ever understood the geology thing either. Or that Bergsveinn.’

‘His name’s Bergsteinn, Mum.’

‘I don’t know what you ever saw in him. Teddi’s entirely different, of course. Reliable. He’d never let you down. And what about Valthór, how is he?’

‘All right, so far as I know. We don’t talk much these days.’

‘Is it still because of Birkir?’

‘I don’t know. Maybe he’s just at a difficult age.’

‘Yes, of course, he’s growing up. He’ll come back to you. He’s such a fine lad, Valthór. And intelligent.’

So is Theodóra, thought Elínborg, but did not say anything. Valthór had always been a favourite with his grandmother. The other children sometimes felt left out, and Elínborg had mentioned it to her. ‘Nonsense!’ had been the old lady’s response.

‘Do you ever hear from Birkir?’ she enquired.

‘Occasionally. Hardly ever.’

‘Doesn’t he keep up with Teddi?’

‘No more than with me.’

‘I know Valthór misses him terribly. He always says he needn’t have left.’

‘Birkir wanted to go,’ answered Elínborg. ‘I don’t know why Valthór goes on about it. I think we’re all over it now. We’re on good terms with Birkir, even though he doesn’t contact us often. He’s fine. He and Valthór are in touch, although I don’t get to hear much about it. Valthór never tells me anything. I hear it from Teddi.’

‘I know Valthór can be a bit pig-headed, but …’

‘It was Birkir’s decision to go and live with his father,’ said Elínborg. ‘It was nothing to do with me. He tracked his father down, although the man had never acknowledged him in any way, never asked about him, in all these years. Not once. And all of a sudden he was the central person in Birkir’s life.’

‘Well, he is his father.’

‘What about us? What were we, then? Childminders?’

‘Youngsters that age always want to break out and go their own way. I remember well how eager you were to leave home.’

‘Yes, but this is different. It’s as if we had never been his parents, as if he’d just been a guest in our home. And that’s not how we treated him. He called you Gran. Teddi and I were his mum and dad. And then one day it was all over. I was angry with him, and so was Teddi. It was no problem that he wanted to get to know his father — of course that was natural — but when he cut us off completely it was awful. I told him so, but he wouldn’t listen. I don’t know what went wrong.’

‘Perhaps nothing went wrong. Things just happen. You can’t always control them.’

‘Maybe we didn’t do enough, didn’t devote enough time to them. One fine day they become complete strangers, all because we didn’t spend enough time with them. We no longer mean anything to them. They learn to take care of themselves, not to need us. Then they move out, and they’re gone. Never talk to you again.’

‘That’s only right,’ answered her mother. ‘They have to learn to look after themselves. They must become self-reliant, not dependent on others. Can you imagine what it would be like if you still lived here? It’s bad enough, having your dad around the house all day.’

‘So why do I always feel guilty that I don’t do enough for them?’

‘I think you’ve done a fine job with them, my dear. Don’t worry yourself about it.’

The bedroom door opened and Elínborg’s father appeared. ‘Hello, darling,’ he said, pushing back his tousled hair. ‘Have you caught the killer yet?’

‘Oh, stop it!’ exclaimed her mother. ‘As if our Elínborg’s out chasing murderers!’

From her parents’ house Elínborg went back to the station where she worked late into the evening. She did not get home until past ten o’clock. Teddi had taken the children out for burgers, followed by ice cream, so they were in high spirits. She looked in on Valthór to ask how he was. He was watching TV and simultaneously surfing the net, and seemed fully occupied. Aron was with him in his room, watching TV. He hardly answered his mother’s greeting. Distractedly they informed her that Teddi had gone to a meeting.

Theodóra was in bed. Elínborg peeked into her room. A small reading lamp shone from the bedside table but Theodóra was asleep. Her book had fallen from her hand and lay open on the floor. Silently Elínborg approached the bed, intending to switch the light off. Theodóra was absolutely self-sufficient. She never had to be reminded to tidy her room — unlike her brothers. She tidied it every day, and even made her bed before leaving for school. Her dozens of books were kept in perfect order in a large bookcase, and her little desk was always as neat as a pin.

Elínborg picked the book up. It was one of her own from childhood. She’d passed it on to her daughter: an adventure story by a well-known British writer whose language was probably a little ornate for modern children. It was one of a long series of books which were great favourites with Theodóra. Elínborg remembered reading them voraciously as a child, and waiting impatiently for each new story. She turned the thick yellowed pages with a smile of remembrance. The spine was damaged and the cover tattered by the many young hands through which it had passed. She noticed that she had written her name in clumsy joined-up script on the title page: Elínborg, class 3G. The thrilling events were illustrated by excellent drawings, and Elínborg paused over one image; she had a feeling that there was something important in the picture. She stared at it for a long time until she identified what had caught her attention. After gazing at the drawing again, she woke her daughter up.

‘I’m sorry, sweetheart,’ she apologised, once Theodóra’s eyes were open. ‘Your Gran sends lots of love. Can I ask you something?’

‘What?’ asked Theodóra. ‘Why did you wake me up?’

‘This book — I don’t remember, it’s such a long time since I read it. Look, this man, in the drawing, who is he?’

Theodóra screwed up her eyes and peered at the illustration. ‘Why are you asking about him?’ she asked.

‘I just want to know.’

‘Did you really have to wake me up to find out?’

‘Yes, I’m sorry, darling. But you’ll drop straight off to sleep again. Just tell me, who’s the man in the story?’

‘Did you go to Grandma’s?’

‘Yes.’

Theodóra squinted at the picture again. ‘Don’t you remember who it is?’ she asked.

‘No,’ replied her mother.

‘That’s Robert,’ explained Theodóra. ‘He’s the villain.’

‘Why does he have that thing on his leg?’ asked Elínborg.

‘He was born that way,’ said Theodóra. ‘He wears the brace because he was born with a twisted foot.’

‘Yes, of course,’ Elínborg recalled. ‘It was a deformity.’

‘Yes.’

‘Can I borrow your book? I’ll give it back to you by tomorrow evening.’

‘What for?’

‘I want to show it to a lady called Petrína. I think she may have seen a man with a brace on his leg, like that one, walking down her street. What was it that this Robert did in the story?’

‘He’s horrible,’ said Theodóra, yawning. ‘They’re all scared of him, the children, and he tries to kill them. He’s the malefactor.’