Yrsa Sigurðardóttir
The car began to slide sideways on the icy road, slowly and somewhat gracefully. Signý tightened her grip on the steering wheel and the peeling, dried-up leather pinched her palms. The car was old and in way too bad a shape to be making this journey. But it was what was on offer. The influx of tourists had hiked prices up enough to make renting a car a non-option. The newspaper Signý and her companion Eiríkur worked for was so in debt she had not even raised this idea. Instead she had offered her beat-up car, failing on purpose to mention the bald tires that had now completely lost their grip on the road.
‘Shit, shit, shit.’ Signý’s voice sounded needy, her tone summing up the situation quite nicely. The car was headed off the road and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.
‘Brake! Brake!’ The level of urgency in Eiríkur’s screech just about matched the level of stupidity in his command. Signý wasn’t surprised. He was the archetypical hipster, rode a bike wherever he and his manicured beard were headed and he probably didn’t even have a driver’s license. He had no way of knowing that stepping on the brake would only make the situation worse.
Signý tried forcing the car back onto the road but the tires refused to follow the steering wheel’s lead. She hurriedly changed down a gear in an effort to slow the car’s progress, but it was too late. They were off the tarmac, crossing the hard shoulder at a neat forty-five-degree angle and suddenly tipping over onto the incline leading into the trench beside the road. There the car came to an abrupt halt and the motor went quiet, the snow that filled the trench having done nothing to soften the blow. Eiríkur’s large camera bags on the back seat flew into Signý’s seat. It hurt, but to a lesser degree than the harsh catch of the seat belt. It was certainly better than face-planting into the windshield but Signý would not be surprised if it left her with bruising across her torso. A zombie beauty pageant sash of sorts.
‘Fuck.’ Eiríkur let go of the ceiling-handle and rubbed his chest. He then removed his earbuds and the vague, muffled tones of an ancient Fleetwood Mac song filled the car. ‘Fuck, fuck, fuck.’ He stared out the front window while cursing and turned his angry gaze to Signý. ‘Why didn’t you brake?’
She met him with a death gaze of her own. ‘Don’t. Just don’t.’
Never one for confrontation, Eiríkur turned back to the view in front of them. Snow, snow, and more snow. The field stretching before them was a sea of white, as were the snow-covered mountains rising into the dark evening sky at its far end. The only colour which broke the monotony was the brown wooden poles of a raggedy fence lining the field a few feet from the car. Eiríkur let out a tired sigh. He fetched the stupid iPod he had been listening to from his pocket and turned the music off. The car went silent. ‘Do you think we can push it back onto the road?’
Signý thought about making a snide comment comparing the weight of a bicycle to an automobile but decided against it. They had enough problems without adding a sour mood to the mix. ‘No. I don’t think we can. The incline is too steep. We have to phone for help. Get someone with an SUV to pull us out.’
‘From where? We haven’t passed any farmhouses or seen any cars since we left the main road.’
It was true, they were in the middle of nowhere. The place they were headed to had been chosen to house the boy they were going to interview for exactly that reason. It was isolated. Signý pointed ahead. ‘Phone the farmer. We aren’t that far off.’
‘Why should I phone? I’m only the photographer.’ Eiríkur reached to loosen his seat belt with one hand while supporting himself with the other in anticipation of falling forward. ‘You phone. You’re the reporter.’
Signý thought she could make out a pout under his beard. Considering the circumstances, it was understandable. She did not want to make the call any more than he did. The last call to the farmer had not gone too well. It had been around two hours ago when they stopped for gas in Akureyri. The purpose of the call had been to confirm their impending arrival, but instead it had turned into the farmer berating them. He was opposed to the interview and made it clear in no uncertain terms. She had barely got a word in edgewise. Apparently their visit had upset the boy, made him agitated, and put him on edge. Her saying that the boy had agreed to the interview did not calm the man. Neither did her argument that the boy was eighteen now and able to make his own decisions. She could hear yelling in the background that only emphasised the man’s point and undermined hers. But there had been no conclusion; the phone call had ended rather abruptly with the man telling her he had to go and that they should turn back. A call now, asking him to pull them out of a ditch, was not one she was very eager to make.
But a minuscule part of life was set aside for doing things one was enthusiastic about. ‘Fair enough. I’ll do it.’ Signý followed Eiríkur’s lead and braced herself before unfastening her seat belt. She felt the pressure on her ribs subside as she became free of its unforgiving grip. She managed to manoeuvre herself into a position that allowed her free use of her arms and took her phone out of her coat pocket.
The farmer’s phone number was at the top of her recent calls. She had not made any others since they left early this morning. Her husband was angry at her for making the trip and she hadn’t felt like talking to him. Still didn’t. That call could wait until tonight, after the interview. She did not need to hear him repeat how unsafe the car was for winter driving outside the city, especially now that he had been proven right.
Signý phoned the farmer. She felt Eiríkur’s eyes on her but did not acknowledge his presence while she listened to the ringtone repeat itself over and over. She hung up when a recording began and tried again. The same. She decided against a third time. ‘He’s not answering.’
‘Do you think he left? Took the boy with him to avoid the interview?’
‘How should I know?’ Signý stared at the lit screen of her phone. Then she looked up and shook her head. The movement nearly made her lose her grip and fall forward. ‘No. They’re still there. Where would they go?’
‘Then why isn’t he answering?’
‘Again. How should I know? Maybe there are cows to milk. Eggs to collect. Livestock to feed. It’s a farm. They have stuff to do.’ The words had a reassuring effect on them both. Of course both the man and the boy were still at the farm. The farmer did not strike her as the type to leave without at least letting them know that their trip would be in vain.
Eiríkur was apparently in agreement. ‘So what then? We wait and call back later? Or walk?’
‘Walk. Waiting isn’t really an option.’ Signý started the car and the snow covering the hood lit up momentarily. It then went dark again when the engine shut off and the headlights followed. ‘We’ll freeze if we wait. The heater won’t work if the car won’t.’
‘How far is it to the farm?’
Signý braced herself once more so that she could navigate the screen on her phone. Google Maps had the answer to Eiríkur’s question. As soon as she accessed 4G, her phone reminded her that she had gone over her data limit. Anger at the photographer swelled anew inside her bruised ribcage. Why couldn’t he have a smartphone like everybody else? Why did she have to rack up charges because he mistakenly believed it was cool to carry around an old Nokia 3210? Fucking hipster. She swallowed her annoyance. ‘It’s about a fifteen-minute walk. We were almost there.’ His shoes caught her eye and the anger at his lifestyle choices subsided. He was wearing the trademark footwear of his kind: lace-up Timberland boots. Perfect for walking along the icy road. Much more so than her meant-for-the-pavement-but-really-good-looking shoes. His roomy, mustard-yellow parka with the fur-lined hood was also perfect for the occasion.
‘So what are we waiting for?’ Eiríkur zipped up his coat. When Signý did not do the same, it dawned on him. ‘You want me to go alone?’
‘Yes. One of us has to wait here in case a snowplough arrives. If they see an abandoned car, they’ll have it towed away. I can’t afford to pay for that.’
‘How about I wait and you go?’
‘You don’t have a licence.’
‘So? It’s not as if there’s any need for driving.’
‘There will be if the snow-plough pulls the car up on to the road.’ Signý hadn’t a clue whether snow-ploughs offered this sort of service. It didn’t really matter as the imaginary snowplough in question wasn’t going to pass by. It was late, almost dinnertime, and already pitch black. No one was going to pay overtime to clear a road as little used as this one. ‘You go. The farmer will be fine. He’s sure to have a car big enough to help out and equipped for winter. No one can live here and not have one.’
‘Won’t you freeze?’
‘No. You should be back in twenty minutes. I’ll be fine.’
Eiríkur nodded. ‘Okay, then. But if he starts arguing about the interview I’m going to tell him to save the speeches for you. I’ll tell him how it is. I’m just the photographer.’
‘Sure. Whatever.’ Signý felt her anger increase. Eiríkur might be the photographer but this interview was just as important to him as to her. There was talk of downsizing at the paper and neither of them would be on the to-go list if they repeated the click-fest that the interview with the boy’s mother had turned out to be. Anyone could write the article that was most-read that week. Few could repeat it the week that followed. Eiríkur should be happy she chose him to come with her. His job was on the line too.
Eiríkur opened the door and got out. It took a lot of wrangling, the incline made all movements awkward and clumsy. Once out, he bent down, stuck his head back into the car and waved goodbye. ‘Sure you will be okay?’
‘I’ll be fine. Just get the farmer to come immediately. Don’t let him make you wait while he finishes some farming stuff. I don’t want to sit here for an hour or more. Then I won’t be okay. Got it?’
He nodded and closed the door, swinging it with force to counteract gravity. Signý watched him clamber up the steep incline and walk away, the mustard-yellow parka quickly disappearing from the limited view she had of the road. As soon as she saw nothing but her desolate surroundings she began to feel the oppressive silence. She regretted not asking him to leave his stupid iPod behind. Even corny old hipster music was preferable to listening to the silence of the deserted environment.
It was a still evening. No howling wind, no falling snow, no birds, no horses. No nothing. Just her, the car, the snow, and the silence. She looked at her phone and contemplated phoning her husband but decided against it. What would she say when he asked if everything was okay? She did not want to lie and she did not want to explain her circumstances either. It sucked to have to admit that he was right; she could brush off the incident more easily once she had something to tell him about the interview. He was just as curious as the online readers. Everyone wanted to hear the boy’s side of the story after what the mother had to say. Signý corrected her own thoughts. Everyone wanted to know what the boy had to say regardless of his mother’s sudden willingness to talk. He was, after all, a curiosity of the driving-by-a-car-accident type. A boy people were interested in from a safe distance. No wonder, he was the country’s youngest murderer and crazed to boot. As if that hook wasn’t enough, interest was further fuelled by the fact that the coverage at the time of the murder had been very limited. Everyone knew the story but its details were mostly based on conjecture and rumours. The records were locked away, not in the public domain as was the case for most murder cases that had gone to trial.
The boy had only been ten years old and hence under the age of criminal responsibility, so the case never went to court. His guilt was established by the police, based on his mother’s description of events and a confession that was made after intense interrogation. His sentencing, if that term applied, was decided by the child welfare system. Its ruling: ship the boy to a faraway farm and keep him there until further notice. The idea was probably that no one need keep out of harm’s way if the harm itself is well secluded. But was the boy dangerous? Was he even a murderer? Not according to his mother. To be more precise, not according to his mother now. Signý had spoken to a contact from the police in preparation for the interview and he maintained that the mother’s testimony had been very clear. Her son killed his stepfather. Stabbed him many times. So many times that the dead man’s stab wounds had stab wounds.
But now the mother had experienced a change of heart. During the interview, the gaunt woman had told Signý that she had been the one to kill her then-husband. Her son had merely had a panicked reaction to the bloody event, picked up the knife she had previously used to kill and stabbed away. Considering the abuse the boy had experienced at his stepfather’s hand, as well as what he had witnessed him doing to his mother, his actions were understandable. Well, almost.
What was less understandable was the mother’s decision to let her son take the hit for her actions. During the interview Signý had repeatedly asked her to explain herself but the woman never fully managed to do so convincingly. She spoke of being in shock. Emphasised having been a victim for so long that she was easily led by the police. She even suggested having been in the midst of a psychotic episode. None of this explained why she had said nothing for eight years while her son gathered dust in a remote valley. Nor did it throw any light on why she had decided to step forward now.
But Signý thought she knew why the woman had thrown her son under the bus and was now making amends. She had even run her theory by the woman, who had at first stared at her, mouth agape, before becoming flustered and looking away. Signý got the feeling she had hit the nail on the head and was still pretty sure of herself.
It was obvious, really. The mother, a borderline simpleton either from birth or as a result of head trauma from her husband’s beatings, had believed that the boy would not be punished because of his age. That they would walk away, free to resume their lives. When that did not transpire she would have waited a bit, hoping that her son would soon be set free. It was easy to imagine that once one or two years had passed she would have decided to wait one more and so on and so forth. But now that he was eighteen and there were no signs of his freedom on the horizon, she had to face the facts. If her son was to have any semblance of a life she had to step up. So she phoned the paper asking for a tell-all interview. Enter Signý. Enter Eiríkur the hipster photographer.
Despite everything—the argument with her husband this morning, the long annoying ride and the accident with the car—Signý felt upbeat. She couldn’t wait to hear what the boy had to say. Did he remember what had really happened? Had he let his youth pass in a lighthouse-keeperish environment out of love and his misguided protective feelings towards his mother? Or had he been brainwashed into thinking that he actually killed his stepfather? If so, what did the realisation of having been wrongly accused feel like? What would he have to say regarding his mother’s actions? Did he hate her or had he found it in his heart to muster up some sort of understanding? The interview had all the markings of a success.
Signý smiled. She looked at her phone to see how much time had passed since Eiríkur left. Her smile evaporated. Not long at all. Not even ten minutes. She bent down a bit to look out over the field and the mountains lining the valley. No sign of life. Just cold, white snow that softened all outlines and obliterated the jagged edges of the mountain’s rock face. Signý shivered a bit, and was reminded of the temperature outside. It would not take long for the car to cool down to the same level. She tried starting the engine in the hope she could put the heat back on. She watched the snow in front of her light up while the engine churned. But it lasted only a moment before the car went silent and the snow back to normal.
She tried again a few times. Every five minutes or so. She wasn’t stupid, she knew the result would be the same each time, but it gave her something to do. There was no sign of Eiríkur, something she did not worry much about until he had been gone for half an hour. She did a simple calculation in her head. It was a ten-minute walk to the farm, five minutes to explain the situation and five minutes to get into the farmer’s car and drive back to her. Altogether, twenty minutes. So where the hell was Eiríkur? She did a recalculation. A ten-minute walk to the farm, five minutes establishing that no one was home, ten minutes walking back to her. Altogether, twenty-five minutes. It came out to the same thing: where the hell was Eiríkur?
The car was now as cold as the air outside. Colder. Signý knew from experience that confined cold was worse than cold in the open. The same degrees were more powerful in a closed space. It defied the little physics she had learned at school but it was true nonetheless. Despite this, she stayed inside the car, watching the short-lived puffs her breath made when she exhaled. It was better inside than outdoors. There was something menacing about the solitude it offered. The lack of life and abundance of nothingness.
Despite not wanting to appear anxious or afraid, Signý called Eiríkur. The ring tone was different from that of the farmer’s mobile but the end result was the same. No one answered. She tried not to read too much into it. Eiríkur often turned down the volume on his phone and it would not be the first time she was unable to reach him. She tried to see the bright side. Now she was annoyed and annoyance was a much preferable feeling to being on edge.
Her phone beeped in her hands, the familiar sound announcing the arrival of a text message. Her cold fingers immediately went for the screen and to her surprise it was not from Eiríkur but from her husband. The text was brief: Did you see this? It was followed by a link that she copied into her browser. Fuck the roaming charges. She recognised the beginning of the URL; it was a rival newspaper. The article reference was a long number so she had no idea what the subject matter was or why her husband thought she would be interested.
The page opened to a headline reading: Do not be fooled. Underneath it was a picture of a familiar woman, the boy’s mother whom she had interviewed last week. It was not of the same quality as the photos Eiríkur had taken which had accompanied Signý’s interview. Instead it was a bit fuzzy and seemed to have been snapped without the woman’s knowledge. She was exiting a building that Signý recognised as the hospital in Reykjavík. She was just as gaunt as Signý remembered, her rather cheap and worn parka not managing to hide her thin frame.
Signý had forgotten all about the cold and her missing photographer. She scrolled down and read the accompanying article. She read the paragraphs in a similar way as one would drink to quench a desert thirst, in gulps. The piece began with a slap to her professional face and only got worse. And worse. When she was done, Signý closed her eyes and tried her damnedest to calm down. She had made a total fool of herself and could more likely than not kiss her new-found job security good-bye. As could Eiríkur, just by association. She was actually surprised that she had not got another text message, one from her editor telling her not to show up for work again. She had brought shame down on the publication and that shame would be meted out to the editor in equal measure to her. That was not something he was likely to forgive easily.
The article was an exposé of her interview with the woman. It was based upon groundwork Signý should have done after conducting it. But her enthusiasm over the piece had blinded her inner journalist. It had wrapped a blindfold over her eyes and plugged her ears, her alertness doused as if by a hefty dose of alcohol. Under ordinary circumstances she would have done more, spoken to more people and checked for any mistakes. Excitement to share the interview with readers had got the better of her. If she was fully honest, it was more excitement over being praised and becoming popular with her bosses.
Signý did not know if she would have spoken to the woman’s sister if she had operated with less haste. At the moment she believed she would have, but it was hard to say. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty, while glaucoma seems to rule the present. But after reading what the sister had to say, one thing was clear. It would have changed everything. According to this woman, who looked super sour in the photo that accompanied the piece, her sister had made everything up. She had not killed her husband or otherwise harmed him. It was her son. Just like she had dutifully told the police at the time. The only reason she was making this nonsense up now was because she was dying. She was in the terminal stages of lung cancer with only a few months to live. The sister had gone on to say that she had this firsthand. The boy’s mother had told her of her intention to give him his freedom as her parting gift, hoping to make up for not having protected him as a child when he was molested, beaten, and broken by his stepfather. She would take the blame and die as a pariah. The woman who let her child take the blame for her actions.
Terminal cancer. The face reminiscent of a skull should have told Signý that something wasn’t right. She had put it down to smoking but hadn’t thought anything about the fact that the woman had not lit up once during the three-hour interview. Looking back Signý remembered ashtrays in the small grubby apartment. One on the sofa table, one on the windowsill in the kitchen, one in the hallway. There had even been one in the bathroom. All empty. It should have told her something. Even asking whether she had given up smoking might have caused the woman to give something away, enough to make Signý’s journalist radar sense there was something off. But she had not cared about the woman. Not at all, really. Definitely not enough to enquire about her smoking habits. She had merely put up with her company to get the story.
Signý picked up her phone again and closed the browser. She did not want to see the article next time she needed to access the Internet. In fact she never wanted to see it again. Never to be reminded of the jibes that the other journalist had managed to pepper the text with. The one that stung the most was when he quoted his interviewee saying that only a simpleton would not have seen through her sister’s made-up story. This was followed by very indignant words about trash journalism and using vulnerable people as click-bait. Signý was certain that the reporter had put those words into the woman’s mouth. Just to be mean. Professional success was known to cause envy and a strong urge to take the winner down. She was not inoculated against it herself. She would probably have done the same had the tables been turned.
Signý tried not to think about the readers’ comments she had stupidly viewed. Such comments were never positive. Mercifully the article had not been up for long so there weren’t many. In her mind she could see them growing in number by the minute, becoming increasingly negative as each commentator tried to outdo the indignation of those who had come before him. Those she had seen called her unprofessional and stupid, by midnight she would be called much worse. Evil, heartless, and as ignorant as dirt. If she was lucky. Worse name-calling often occurred in the comments section. Usually the worst of them were removed but she had the feeling the rival paper would let them fester for a while. They might even add some of their own to fuel the fire. After all, she was the one tied to the stake in its midst and she worked for the competition.
If the new article had only been an interview with the sister, Signý might have been able to sit out the backlash and slowly float to the top again. Given ample time. But the rival journalist had gone the extra mile. He had interviewed a psychologist and asked the man to envisage what the original article could do to the boy. The specialist had not been shy when it came to pouring out his thoughts and none of them were good. He believed that the boy’s mental state was likely to suffer from such irresponsible reporting. In his view it did not matter what was true; whatever recovery the boy had made during his time at the farm had probably been jeopardised. Hopefully only temporarily, but possibly for good. It was the psychologist’s opinion that no matter how many people came forward saying that his mother made this up, the boy would still have doubts. The damage done could therefore not be erased. The boy’s doubts could develop into anger, and anger for someone with his mental issues was really bad news for everyone around him. Seriously bad news. His words had probably been dumbed down to make for easier reading. No one liked to read quotes full of medical or psychological jargon. Layman’s terms were more effective.
The psychologist’s statement echoed in Signý’s mind. She recalled the yelling in the background when she spoke to the farmer. His strong insistence that they stay away took on another meaning. A more serious, menacing meaning.
Signý tried Eiríkur’s number again. As before, there was no answer. But unlike previous attempts, it wasn’t simply annoying but a reason for serious worry.
The darkness outside seemed to have intensified. The mountains in the distance were barely discernible from the black sky. The moon was new and the pinprick lighting provided by the stars overhead had nothing to say. Signý realised that if someone decided to creep up on her she wouldn’t make him out until he was almost beside the car.
Jesus Christ. Jesus Christ. Signý tried to gather her thoughts but couldn’t. Any thought process leading up to what she should do if something had happened to Eiríkur seemed unable to get past the original thought of him being attacked. Her mind immediately jumped from that thought to one where she was the next victim. And from there to the cop’s description of the shredded body of the boy’s stepfather. The stab wounds having stab wounds and how it must have hurt. She tried to stop imagining how it would feel to have a knife stabbed into the soft part of her abdomen, under the ribs. But she could not. Her mind refused to let go.
She phoned Eiríkur again. Still no answer. When the ringing died out she sat in the silence, staring out the window, wondering if she should phone the police. The nearest station was over an hour and a half away. But that was probably a shorter wait than sitting around hoping someone would pass by. This section of the road led nowhere. Only the farm. The farm and the boy.
The silence had become more intense, like the darkness. Signý realised that this was something she could actually use to her benefit. She might not see a possible attacker crossing the field or coming at her, but unless this person could fly, she would hear the crunching of snow underneath his shoes. She lowered her window until the glass reached under her ear. Her previous theory about it being colder inside the car than outside proved to be wrong. Her ear and forehead felt the brunt of the increased chill but she forced herself to grin and bear it. She would phone the police, count down until their arrival. Her ear would probably suffer frostbite before that happened but there was no way she was covering it up. She needed to hear everything.
Before phoning the police she tried one last call to Eiríkur. It would look good if her phone was confiscated. After two rings she realised that the tone was somehow different. An odd echo followed each ring. She had phoned often enough to know Eiríkur’s ringtone by heart. Or by ear. And it had no echo. She listened more carefully, covering the cold ear exposed to the elements. The ringtone went back to normal. She removed her hand and the tone changed again. Taking the phone from her ear she realised she was hearing a separate ring coming from outside the car.
Slowly she turned her head in the direction she believed the sound came from. It wasn’t from the field. It came from the road. She tried lifting herself up a bit to get a better view but couldn’t see far because of the incline. She had no choice but to get out of the vehicle in the hope of seeing what the hell was going on. It was cumbersome and turned out to make very little difference. The visibility was crap due to the darkness. Yet she did not get back in or close the door. Instead she stood holding on to it so as not to slip while she stretched her head to see even further. And she did. Someone was walking down the road. Towards the car. Towards her. She couldn’t make out more than a dark outline but with every step the figure became more discernible. What should she do? She hadn’t planned for anything happening so soon. She had yet to formulate any sort of plan. Should she lock herself in the car? Run? Where to?
Frozen to the spot, Signý stared at the figure that was slowly approaching. It resembled a shadow, one that had pulled free from its maker and ventured alone into the world. Mesmerised, she realised that she was losing any head start she had if she needed to run, but her feet refused to move. The dark outline of the figure was becoming clearer and she thought she could make out one of its hands lifted upwards, held high into the air. It was waving. Her breathing became calmer. Who waves at someone they intend to harm? Obviously no one. Maybe it was the farmer, maybe Eiríkur. The hand gesture indicated someone friendly at least.
A couple more steps and she could now see a hint of colour and clothing. A mustard-yellow. Eiríkur’s coat. Signý breathed a sigh of relief. It was swiftly replaced by anger at the man for not answering his phone. The only reasonable explanation for it was his headphones. He must have plugged his ears to listen to the stupid iPod that he had brought along. What was he thinking?
Signý stood by the car for another minute until she was certain that it was him. When there was no mistaking the large yellow parka she got back in and shut the door after her. How dare he cause her this unnecessary distress. Fuming, she gripped the steering wheel but soon her anger at Eiríkur subsided and in its place came the realisation that they were still in a predicament. The farmer had obviously not been at home or unwilling to help since Eiríkur had returned alone. The phone call to the police could not be put off. She began to mentally prepare for the speech they were certain to give her about winter driving safety and the state of her car. If there was a fine for driving with bald tires she was sure to get one. This would be added to her additional roaming charges and possibly the cost of repairs. And all for nothing. There would be no interview and quite possibly there would be no job when she returned. Her husband would have a field day.
The sound of snow crunched underneath the soles of Eiríkur’s Timberland boots became discernible. Signý welcomed it; the monotony of the silent surroundings had done little to relieve her misery. Despite this she decided to close the window; her ear had started to throb with pain from the severe cold. She was again shrouded in silence and despair set back in. She was about to become unemployed and unemployable, to boot. She pushed the thought away for now. Soon she would have Eiríkur to share her depressive mood with; he would be just as badly affected by the news of the new article as she was. He would probably emphasise over and over that he was ‘just the photographer’ and hold on to the hope that his part in the fiasco would be overlooked. But she would make sure to smash that hope and had already decided to tell him that as the photographer he should have noticed the woman’s frail appearance. He was the one who should have questioned her health and alerted Signý. He had taken countless photos of people and should have recognised the signs. It was imperative that he be as miserable as her while they waited for help. She needed a partner in this fiasco. Misery divided by two felt only half as bad as experiencing it all on your own.
Lost in thought, Signý was distracted from Eiríkur’s impending arrival. Her heart nearly jumped out of her chest when he knocked on her window. She lost her balance in the slanted car, knocking her forearm on the hard and unforgiving steering wheel. Fucking fool. Why didn’t he just get in the car? Signý turned to the window and stared at the mustard-coloured parka almost touching the glass. It was dirty. Covered in dark streaks. And ripped. What the hell had happened to Eiríkur? Perhaps he had an explanation for his delay after all. Possibly one involving him falling into a ditch in the darkness. Too bad about the parka then. It was a ridiculously expensive one. Not one easily replaced when living on unemployment benefits.
She rolled down the window. ‘What the hell happened? Get in.’ Eiríkur didn’t reply. She could not see his face from her position so she could not see if he still had the earbuds in. Perhaps he had suffered a concussion and was delirious. Did one lose hearing under such circumstances?
Signý’s eyes focused on the damaged coat and she involuntarily shifted in her seat, away from the window. The dark spots weren’t mud. Mud wasn’t red. The ripped material did not look as if it had been damaged by a fall. The edges were not jagged but straight and smooth, as if cut. ‘Eiríkur? What happened?’ Still no reply. Carefully Signý moved back towards the window so that she could angle her head upwards and look him in the face.
‘Eiríkur?’ Her eyes did not reach to his face. Instead they fixated on his left hand, or what he was holding to be exact. A knife. A fancy large butcher’s knife with a black handle. And a dirty blade. The only thought she managed to muster was that Eiríkur wasn’t left-handed. Why was he holding a knife in his left hand?
Slowly Signý looked upwards. Her eyes passed over the damaged parka, all the way up to the hood and the face it partially hid. There was no beard. The face was not Eiríkur’s. It was younger. Much younger. She realised she had seen it before. An even younger version of these features. It was the boy. A grown-up version of the boy she had seen in a framed picture hanging on the wall of his mother’s apartment. Signý swallowed a huge lump that threatened to suffocate her otherwise.
The boy grinned, his teeth crooked and lips thin. He raised his left hand, bringing the knife aloft while he opened the car door with his right hand. ‘I didn’t want to be photographed.’ His features became grim, the lopsided and awful smile disappearing as if wiped off. ‘And I don’t want to do the interview anymore either.’
Neither did Signý.
But it was too late. She would do no more interviews. Not ever. Signý realised she was about to find out what a knife feels like instead. Plunged into the soft area of the abdomen, just under the ribs.
And just about everywhere else.