Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Someone to Watch Over Me

Jakob’s cheeks had turned red, so distressed was he by the memory. Thóra decided not to upset him any further, since it was quite clear what had happened. That bastard Ari had put the thumbscrews on Jakob and tried to get him to confess to the crime, which he obviously thought his client had committed. This was clearly unacceptable behaviour, but it would be impossible to prove. No matter that Thóra didn’t doubt for a second that Jakob was telling the truth. She was filled with an even greater desire to secure his freedom. One of the things that had weighed most heavily against him was that he had confessed, withdrawn his confession, confessed again and then contradicted himself in his testimony. Perhaps this had been partly due to Ari’s interference. How could Jakob have got so unlucky with his lawyer? ‘We shouldn’t talk about Ari any more. Let’s talk about Friðleifur instead; do you remember him? He was an employee at the centre, and he worked a lot at night and early in the morning?’ Jakob nodded again, but now he seemed wary. ‘Was he nice, did he do his job well?’

‘He was fun. He was funny.’ Jakob smiled at some amusing memory that the night watchman’s name seemed to have evoked.

‘Did he sometimes have visitors at work? Did his friends come to see him?’

‘Sometimes.’ Jakob clamped his mouth shut again.

‘How did they behave? Did they sometimes argue with Friðleifur?’ Jakob shook his head, surprised. ‘So they were just calm – they didn’t speak loudly or angrily or anything like that?’

‘No.’ Jakob looked puzzled and his eyes flicked around the room. Then he came closer to her, first appearing to peer past her and check whether anyone could overhear them. ‘Can you keep a secret?’

‘I’m really good at it.’ Jakob bent to her and whispered.

‘Friðleifur’s friends came to visit to breathe . He told me that but he asked me not to tell anyone. Never. So you can’t tell anyone, okay?’

‘No, I won’t tell, Jakob. But sometimes secrets stop being secret when the person who told them to you is dead. Not always, but sometimes.’

Jakob seemed uneasy with these new rules about something he’d obviously thought he clearly understood. ‘You promised not to tell anyone. You promised.’ He became more agitated with every word and Thóra remembered the stories of this small but sturdy man’s violent tendencies.

‘And I won’t. I do promise.’ She smiled, hoping to calm him down. Then, calling forth all the acting skills she possessed to seem conspiratorial enough, she whispered, ‘Were they breathing smoke? From a pipe?’ The best she could think of was that Jakob had come across the night watchman and his friends smoking hash and Friðleifur had tried to convince him of some nonsense about secret breathing.

Jakob’s anger dissipated, and instead he looked shocked. ‘No. They just came to breathe. Not with smoke; they wanted good breathing.’

‘Okay.’ Thóra patted Jakob on the shoulder. An angel with a suitcase and good breathing. Clearly the boy was a mine of useful information.

There was nothing to worry about in the middle of the day, even one as grey and gloomy as this. Margeir inhaled the cool, humid air, filling his chest. A sense of well-being he hadn’t felt in months washed over him and he shut his eyes. Maybe today would be a turning point in his life; a new start to a new life under new and more enjoyable circumstances. It was up to him to deal with much of what had tormented him lately and he had to stop beating himself up all the time. A bank of storm clouds filled the sky and a gusty wind blew snow from the handrail; winter wasn’t going to relent until it had given its all. He brushed the snow off himself irritably. His coat rustled and the noise made him realize how quiet it was outside. There was no murmur of traffic, no whisper from the bare branches of the aspen; Margeir stared, captivated, at them, feeling as if he were watching a silent movie on television.

A muffled ringing came from his coat pocket, startling him. It was as if his hearing was suddenly jump-started; the wind whistling in the trees came through loud and clear, backed by the distant rumble of traffic. He recognized the radio station’s number and despite his best-laid plans not to let the anonymous lunatic trouble him, he felt enormously relieved. The man had probably stopped calling, even though Margeir was still being bombarded with text messages that were bound to be from the same person. Margeir hadn’t heard this coward’s voice since looking up the address that had appeared in one of the messages. He suspected the weirdo lived there. Either the idiot regretted what he’d done after being found out, or he’d got bored of tormenting Margeir and had turned to someone else. Maybe it was the initial response that gave this guy his biggest kicks and it got boring to keep receiving ‘ Who is this? ’ ‘ Leave me alone! ’ and things like that in reply. Maybe the pervert had wanted to pester a girl, where he would doubtless get a more satisfying reaction. It was over. It must be over. It had to be over.

Margeir answered the phone cheerfully, certain that he was about to get some positive news; it wasn’t often that work contacted him. But the weary voice of the station manager crushed his hopes. Advertising revenue was slow and the number of sponsors was decreasing steadily, so he wanted Margeir to find some legal party to sponsor his show in return for advertisements and good publicity from the station. He added that Margeir should think about it carefully, since his job depended on it; he shouldn’t rule out any potential sponsors. Everyone was in need of publicity these days; times were hard and every customer and every penny was fought for. Nowhere could you find cheaper advertising that gave as much return, and the station’s listenership was constantly growing. His sales pitch was so convincing that Margeir was almost starting to consider advertising himself when the man said abruptly, ‘You can do it, right? Otherwise I’ll have to hire someone who can find his own sponsors. Times are tough, you know,’ he continued, when Margeir didn’t answer straight away.

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ was all he could think of to say. ‘Bye.’ He hung up and exhaled slowly. The wind had changed; Margeir gasped when it proved to be colder than his lungs had anticipated. He cursed his complacency. How did unemployment payments work? He had no idea. He vaguely remembered his mother nagging him to sign on when he’d lost his job just over a year before, but he’d completely forgotten where to go and what to do. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to bringing it up again, because he’d kind of implied that he’d already done it ages ago. He wouldn’t be able to convincingly explain to her why he’d been so unmotivated, and he suspected he’d get only limited sympathy from her about it, even though she always took his side.

He fully expected his right to full benefits to have expired after all this time, but surely he was entitled to something. The government could hardly expect him to go begging on the streets, could they? Wasn’t that against the law, too? He couldn’t afford to lose any more income, and the money he’d saved up by doing two jobs at the same time was long gone. Plus he could hardly cut back any further on household expenses. The apartment was owned by his grandfather, so he’d never find lower rent anywhere else. He’d stopped making calls from his mobile phone and had cancelled his accounts for his landline and Internet, along with everything else that cost money and wasn’t considered a necessity. His car was the only thing he was holding onto; no one would buy that piece of junk anyway, and it was good to have it for emergencies, even though the petrol tank leaked and he had to keep a can in the boot just to be on the safe side. He denied himself every other luxury and it was hard to think of further ways to reduce his expenses. He spent his money on little other than housing and food, and when you only ate noodles it was impossible to make cutbacks in that area. Pizza was a luxury he sometimes thought about but never allowed himself. The only proper meals he had were at his mother’s, usually on Sundays. She earned a huge number of brownie points from her son for not mentioning his ravenous appetite and the quantity of food he devoured. Once she had asked him if he was still growing even in adulthood, but otherwise she acted as if she didn’t notice anything unusual and simply started preparing bigger meals so that he could take the leftovers home with him. No, it wasn’t like the good old days when he’d had enough in his wallet. Of course there hadn’t been much left at the end of every month but he didn’t recall ever having lacked anything. He hadn’t had a clue about the hard times that awaited him.