Someone to Watch Over Me

CHAPTER 22 Sunday, 17 January 2010

The jogger was flagging, but he focused on his goal. He chose a car parked up ahead in the distance and thought only of getting that far. Then and only then would he slow down. This way he hoped to be able to resist the temptation to stop, put his hands on his knees and breathe as deeply as his lungs could tolerate. Last autumn he had run this same circuit without breathing through his nose, but after being largely sedentary during the winter he had expected too much of himself on this first warm, ice-free day of the new year. He was alone, which would no longer be the case as spring approached, when he would hardly be able to go ten yards without meeting other joggers. Then they would feel exactly like he did now, whereas he would be one of the few in shape. For a moment he managed to forget his fatigue as he imagined himself in the spring sunshine, straight-backed, going at an even pace, passing one red-faced, sweaty runner after another.

At the moment when he was feeling best about himself, his body decided that it had had enough. Suddenly he couldn’t take another step; the burning in his lungs became unbearable, his heart pounded, he tasted blood and his legs were on fire. He stood panting on the pavement and it crossed his mind to take a taxi home. It was a long trip back and there were few things more embarrassing than staggering along in your running gear. However, his taxi plan fell apart because he had neither a phone nor money on him; there was no one out and about in the area, even though he was only a short distance from the popular Nauthólsvík Beach. He sighed heavily. It was then that he spotted the bench. He could rest there and massage the worst of the pain from his legs. Then he would have some hope of making it home free of shame – albeit not very quickly.

The surface of the bench was cold but he got used to it immediately, as if his body had reached its maximum level of pain. The bench was neither warm nor comfortable, but he couldn’t recall ever having been so glad to sit down. Slowly but surely the pain receded, but now he was aware that his body temperature was dropping rapidly; he was dressed lightly, since he hadn’t been planning to sit outside, not moving, in these tight, thin clothes. The wind that had felt so agreeable such a short time ago was now cold and biting, and his sweaty body quickly became chilled. He really ought to keep moving, but he couldn’t get himself to stand up immediately. He hammered his folded arms against his chest, as his grandfather had taught him when he was a small boy. It helped.

When he’d stopped punching heat into himself, the lapping of the waves caught his attention and he held his breath to enjoy it to the utmost. He turned to look across the bay and stare at the ocean. A loud electronic jingle suddenly tore through the peace and quiet, giving him a massive shock; he had thought that he was there alone and felt uncomfortable at the thought that someone had snuck up on him unawares. He turned around to look but saw no one. The ringing continued, however, now higher and more intense. The jogger quickly worked out where it was coming from; he noticed a blue gleam beneath the bench and reached down to pick up a rather cheap-looking mobile phone. On the blinking screen he saw the word Mum and for a second he considered answering, but he was still so exhausted that he didn’t trust himself to explain to this person who he was and how he had come to be answering a stranger’s phone. Instead he stared at the screen until the ringing stopped, at which point a message appeared: 7 missed calls. Some drunk idiot must have lost his phone last night and was probably still asleep at home. The jogger turned back to the sea; the phone could wait, he would take it home with him and then call the mother to let her know where she could come and get it. He decided to check whether the guy’s wallet might also be around somewhere, so that he could return it along with the phone.

It was then that he spotted the feet in the brown scrub where the land sloped steeply down to the sea. He actually had to think about it for a minute before he realized what they were; at first he thought they were funny-looking rocks, but then saw that they were black shoes, and that in the shoes were feet, which also looked oddly blackened. The realization shocked him out of his fatigue, and he forced his stiff legs to walk over towards the dip. He was afraid of what he might see when the rest of the body became visible; hopefully it was just the drunk owner of the phone who’d had too much fun the night before, but the completely motionless feet and the rather uncomfortable position of the body suggested otherwise. He noticed an odd burnt smell coming off the brown scrub as he approached, and thought to himself how strange it was that someone had decided to lie down in the one place where the scrub had been burned and the smell was so bad; although this was a trivial point when you also considered that he was partly lying in the grass and partly hanging down a rocky slope. Just before the entire body came into view, the jogger realized that no one, either living or half-dead, would choose this as a place to rest.

As he ran off in search of help, having forgotten all about the phone that he was clutching in one hand, the jogger felt neither pain nor fatigue. The only feeling left was nausea.

‘I just thought you should know.’ Thóra took the old woman’s hand, which was rough and cold, and felt it jerk at her touch. Thóra had called Grímheiður after her visit to the hospital to tell her what she thought she’d understood about the reason for Jósteinn’s attack. The panic this seemed to have provoked in Jakob’s mother had prompted Thóra to drop by and see her on her way home. Now she and Matthew sat with her in the narrow kitchen that Jakob missed so much. The apartment was small but welcoming and reminded Thóra of her grandparents’ home when she was a child, which had had ornaments along all the walls whose sentimental value far outweighed their actual price. Here, framed photographs took pride of place, most of them of Jakob at various ages, but also some of his deceased father. ‘I completely understand if you want to think about this a bit; even if as a result you might prefer me to resign from the case.’

‘What’s your hourly rate?’ The woman bit her thin upper lip, which was almost the same colour as her face. When she released it again all the blood rushed back and it reddened as if she’d put lipstick on it but forgotten the lower one. Thóra named the lowest possible rate, the one she offered her closest friends. The woman’s face revealed that she’d been expecting something lower. ‘Can’t I have a discount?’

Thóra was in a quandary; there was no way the woman could afford to pursue the case unless the firm simply did the work for free. ‘The rate doesn’t tell the whole story. The number of hours worked does tend to pile up in these kinds of assignments, but if everything goes to plan the majority of those hours would hopefully be reimbursed. In the part of the law that covers the reopening of cases, it’s stated that the cost of the petition – and of the new trial, if the petition is approved – will be paid by the State Treasury. On the other hand, we don’t know whether Jakob’s case will be reopened and even if it is, there’s no guarantee that the courts will consider the entire portion of the expenditure recoverable.’

‘But… ‘ Grímheiður stared open-mouthed, the colour now drained from her upper lip.

‘On the other hand, if I’m right, and Jósteinn still wants Jakob’s case to be reopened, then he’ll hopefully stick to his word about paying the cost. If that’s totally unacceptable to you after what’s happened, I will of course stop working for him, and then we can take the chance that the case will go well and the costs will be paid by the Treasury.’ Thóra felt sorry for Jakob’s mother; it didn’t take a psychologist to see that the woman had two choices, both of them bad. She could give the green light and indirectly receive money from a man who had maimed her son, or she could refuse any further assistance from this odious benefactor and effectively prevent Jakob from having any chance of returning home.

‘What would you do?’ Grímheiður directed her question to Matthew. She was of the old school; his words had more weight than Thóra’s, since he was more likely to come to a rational conclusion, being a man. Thóra didn’t let this bother her and smiled wryly to herself.

‘Me?’ Matthew had been following the conversation but clearly hadn’t expected to be directly involved. He carefully put down the doughnut that he’d been intending to enjoy, after Grímheiður placed a box full of them on the table in front of him, along with some coffee that she’d brewed the old-fashioned way. ‘Well, I guess I would let the investigation proceed. Look at Jósteinn’s payments as compensation for the injury. The damage has already been done and although it goes completely against your instincts to accept anything from this man, it’s the most sensible decision when you put aside your feelings and look at the bigger picture.’

‘In other words, it doesn’t matter where the assistance comes from.’ The woman appeared satisfied with Matthew’s answer and she filled his cup. ‘But what will people think?’

‘Does it matter?’ Matthew meant this sincerely; he cared little about others’ opinions. ‘The case is about Jakob, not some strangers in town.’

Grímheiður put the coffeepot down carefully on a tray that Thóra would have bet everything she owned Jakob had made. Her pale eyes suddenly filled with tears, which she self-consciously wiped away with her hands. ‘Sorry. I really don’t know what’s wrong with me.’

‘You don’t need to apologize for anything. I have a son; a daughter, too, and I understand how you feel. What Jakob’s been through, both last night and over the years, is more than most mothers have to deal with. You deserve credit for your endurance.’

‘Thanks,’ muttered Grímheiður, so softly that she could barely be heard. ‘He’s got to be allowed to come home. I’m so worried about him. What if he’s sent back to Sogn? What will this Jósteinn do then? Stab him again to send him back here? The hospital’s had its own cutbacks and they can’t keep readmitting him.’

‘I’d advise you to speak to the Icelandic Prison Service and even try to get the hospital on your side. Sogn is categorized as a hospital, not a jail, so these institutions could act jointly to get Jakob placed elsewhere, in consultation with the court – which would also have to get involved, since he was pronounced not criminally liable. It must be possible to find some sort of interim solution to his predicament. Unfortunately, Ari will probably have to be involved as well, as Jakob’s supervisor, but I can speak to him if you’d prefer not to.’ Thóra was afraid that no matter what solution the authorities chose, it would be one that neither Jakob nor his mother would be happy with – although at least he would be safe.

‘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.