Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Someone to Watch Over Me

There were only five minutes left of the show when the final advert on the tape finished. Instead of giving in to his desire to put on another song, he decided to talk about a newspaper article on cycle paths. He actually had no opinion whatsoever on this area of transport policy, and it amazed him how good he was at discussing a topic without meaning a word of what he said. This had started to affect his private life; the women he met weren’t impressed when he automatically switched to bland DJ patter every time there was an awkward silence. Lately even his parents had started rolling their eyes when he joined in conversations at family gatherings.

The light had started blinking again. This time the call was a godsend; the show was about to end, so it didn’t matter what dickhead was on the line – he wouldn’t have long. ‘Good evening, you’re through to Margeir, what’s on your mind?’ He winced as a screech of feedback pierced his eardrums. ‘Could you please turn down the volume on your radio, caller?’ This wasn’t one of the regulars, that was certain. They had learned long ago to turn off their radios when they got through. The noise stopped and Margeir repeated his greeting, which had become so hackneyed that he could say it backwards without any problem. ‘Good evening, you’re through to Margeir, what’s on your mind?’

‘Good evening, Margeir .’ He didn’t recognize the voice, and the emphasis on his name sounded sarcastic.

‘To whom am I speaking?’ Margeir had been so busy grumbling to himself about the regular callers, he had forgotten how difficult first-timers could be.

‘To me.’

Margeir looked at the clock in the hope that just once, time had sped up at the right moment, but he was disappointed. Four minutes left. ‘Well, my friend.’ The man must be drunk; sometimes heavy drinkers called the evening show just to have someone to talk to. Yet another reason to want an earlier slot. ‘Our time is running out, so you’d better hurry up if you want to share something with the listeners.’

‘I called to talk to you. Just you.’ The voice was not slurring at all; on the contrary, every word was clear and seemed loaded with hidden meaning.

‘Well, that’s too bad, my friend. You’re on air. Don’t you want to share something with the listeners?’ The damn clock must be broken. Time simply refused to pass.

‘Do you want the listeners to hear what I have to say?’ The caller paused. ‘I’m not sure you do.’

Margeir wasn’t used to letting listeners throw him off balance. He couldn’t deny he often found them tiresome, but he always kept his composure. This call, however, was nothing like the ones he was used to; the voice was calm and level but somehow unpleasant, as if the man was about to burst into mocking laughter. ‘Hey, I think our time’s up. Karl will be on in a minute, so if you’re lucky you can call back and have a chat with him.’ Margeir should have just said ‘goodbye’ and hung up, but he paused long enough for the eerily composed man to speak again.

‘Be careful.’ The voice sounded odd, and Margeir suddenly wondered if it was a woman, or even a child, pretending to be a man. ‘Soon there will be a reckoning and it won’t be pretty. Did you think this was over?’

‘This? What do you mean, “this”?’ Again Margeir knew he was being unprofessional; he should be cutting the caller off, not encouraging him.

‘You should know.’ There was a quiet chuckle, which stopped as suddenly as it had started. ‘What do you do when you get too drunk, these days? Things aren’t going that well, are they, one way and another?’ The man’s breathing got heavy and ragged, then he said: ‘I’m so hot. I’m burning up.’

Margeir had had enough. ‘OK, thanks, pal.’ He disconnected the line. ‘That’s it from me. I’m leaving you now, listeners, but I hope we can meet here tomorrow evening at the same time. Good night.’ He tore off his headphones and played the programme’s theme music, then stood up, his knees weak. He ran back through the brief conversation in his mind but couldn’t put his finger on exactly what had caught him off balance unless it was the voice itself, which had been impossible to read. It was unusually calm, completely at odds with the voices of the other listeners who called in. That must be it. He was tired and bored and fed up with everything at the moment. He moved down to the other end of the table, where the producer usually sat, and lifted the little handset that displayed the callers’ numbers. He checked the most recent one, but the little screen showed only the letters: P.No for Private Number. Margeir gnawed the inside of his cheek and stared at the screen. The flesh was bumpy there, scarred by the nervous habit even though he hadn’t done it for many years. Now his teeth caught on the scars.

‘Hi! Sorry I’m late. Damn car was playing up again.’ The next DJ in the schedule had arrived without Margeir realizing. The man’s loud greeting startled Margeir and he had to take a deep breath before answering.

‘I was just going to put on a pre-record.’ Margeir put down the caller-ID gadget. ‘My outro music is still playing, so you have a few seconds.’

‘Who was that nutjob at the end? I was listening to it in the car. Man, I hope he doesn’t take your advice and call me too.’

Without knowing why, Margeir felt sure that wasn’t going to happen. His instinct told him the caller thought he had business with him, not the other hosts. He felt uneasy as he walked out to the dark car park. In his mind the abhorrent thought took hold that he knew exactly what the caller had been talking about, and as soon as he was in his car he quickly locked the door.

‘Is she asleep?’ Svava put down the pen and took off her reading glasses, happy to be able to take a break from peering at the small print. She had chosen the glasses at random in a petrol station and their strength was not right for her at all. She couldn’t put off making an appointment with the optician any longer.

‘Who?’ The young woman was one of the temps who moved from department to department, covering sick leave and holidays, so it was hardly surprising she didn’t know who Svava meant.

‘Room 7, the girl who was just admitted.’

‘To be honest, I didn’t look in on her. I was checking the drip in Room 3. It was running out, so I changed the bag.’

‘No problem.’ Svava stood up. ‘I guess I’d better check on her.’ She placed her glasses on her forehead in case she needed them; they didn’t make that much difference, but they were better than nothing. She smiled at the temp; it actually didn’t matter whether she’d checked on the patient, as Svava liked to keep an eye on the new patients and try to learn a bit about them. Often you could detect when a patient was about to go downhill, through signs you wouldn’t necessarily notice unless you knew them. Only by learning what was normal for a patient could you identify abnormalities.

She walked from the staffroom down the corridor to Room 7. Her route took her past several rooms, and from each open door she could hear slow breathing and the electronic beeps of monitors and other equipment. Everything seemed normal, or as normal as could be expected, and as she approached Room 7 she heard nothing to make her quicken her pace. Assuming the girl was asleep, she tiptoed into the spartan white room, almost empty apart from the huge bed. No attempt had been made to disguise the hospital bed as something more homely; the chrome frame was clearly visible.

Svava had never given it much thought until this young woman was admitted, since there seemed little point. Most patients weren’t in the department for long, and their illnesses ended with them either going home or being carried out in a coffin, which would at least be spruced up with a satin lining. It was a different matter for this girl, who was a young woman really. She had spent many years of her short life in hospital beds, and would be in one until it ended. She was completely paralysed, which confined her to the bed for the larger part of each day. The only change came when she was moved – with great effort – into a specially modified wheelchair and allowed to go out for a breath of fresh air with an orderly. This was not a service provided by the hospital; she was seriously ill and it was not considered safe to move her. Svava wished the room could be made more comfortable somehow, but she thought any attempt to do so would be like hanging Christmas lights on a shotgun. The girl wouldn’t be in the room for long no matter what, so it was futile to make any kind of effort doing it up; Svava’s role, like the others’ in the department, was to nurse and heal, not to play interior designer.