Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Someone to Watch Over Me

The priest said nothing. Jósteinn wouldn’t have heard him anyway, now that he had his hands over his ears. He had seen a great deal in his work at Sogn, so Jósteinn’s peculiar behaviour didn’t surprise him, but he did find his declarations more difficult than normal.

‘Sometimes good is bad and bad is good.’ Jósteinn dropped his hands and glanced briefly into the priest’s eyes, for the first time since he’d arrived. ‘But there are also examples of bad being bad, and that’s how it is in this instance. I can promise you that I have only bad intentions.’

Thóra swore quietly as she waited for the man, not because of the location, which was far from ideal, but because of how upset she was by what had happened. The bustle in the packed café in the Skeifan shopping area wasn’t enough to distract her. It wasn’t until Ægir appeared fifteen minutes late that she managed to direct her thoughts elsewhere. He stood in the entrance, looking around for her, and when she stood up and waved at him, he smiled amiably and threaded his way between the densely arranged tables. Nothing in his bearing suggested a tyrant who might apply severe methods in his therapeutic treatment of autistic patients. On the contrary: he seemed rather gentle, apologizing for the inconvenience to everyone he slid past. His appearance, however, might inspire fear in particularly sensitive individuals, with his pitch-black hair and snow-white face. His eyes, also black, stared out from beneath his floppy fringe, and Thóra even caught the glint of a gold ring in one of his eyebrows.

‘Hi.’ He extended his hand. ‘I assume you’re Thóra.’ She nodded and he sat down at the tiny table that barely accommodated the two cups of coffee Thóra had ordered, assuming the man would turn up on time. Now her cup was empty and the other one had stopped steaming.

‘Sorry I’m late.’

‘No problem.’ Thóra gestured towards the cup. ‘I don’t know whether it’s still drinkable.’

‘Not to worry. I drink tea, but thanks anyway.’ Thóra seriously regretted not having drunk his coffee as well. ‘I understand you want to talk about Tryggvi? I’ve mainly come out of curiosity – it’s been more than a year and a half since he stopped having treatment with me, so I have to admit it’s been a long time since I gave him any thought. Of course I couldn’t stop thinking about him after the fire; that was horrendous. But why do you want to talk about him? Didn’t you say you’re a lawyer?’

Once again Thóra explained her connection to the fire at the residence. She had repeated the story so many times now that she could have done it in her sleep. ‘I particularly wanted to discuss the progress he was making. I can’t imagine anyone knows better than you what this consisted of and how signifi-cant it was. I’ve been hearing some quite contradictory stories about his condition.’

‘Okay, that shouldn’t be a problem.’ Ægir leaned back and folded his arms. ‘Though I do need to point out that in my opinion, he was only in the very early stages of improvement; he could have advanced much further if I hadn’t been asked to stop treating him. I don’t think I’ve ever been as disappointed, professionally.’

‘Can you describe the nature of the improvements?’

‘Oof, where do I begin?’ Ægir exhaled gently. ‘I don’t know how much you know about this level of autism, but broadly speaking, Tryggvi was suffering from a severe developmental disability that hampered his communication to such an extent that he was barely able to express himself to others. He had no social skills, so he played no part in what went on around him beyond that of an indifferent spectator. Few people are autistic to such an extreme degree; many can make themselves understood, even though their ability to communicate is always impaired in some way, as is their social behaviour. Tryggvi could stare at a fan, or anything mechanically repeti-tive, for hours at a time. He could also sometimes fall into patterns of movement for long periods, rocking back and forth or wringing his hands incessantly, for example.’

‘So were you able to overcome all this?’

‘Not to any miraculous degree, but I was able to significantly reduce his repetitive behaviour, and I got him to look people in the eye and accept their presence. As I said, he still had a long way to go.’

‘Tryggvi must have undergone some other forms of treatment before you came along; how did you manage to succeed where others had failed?’

‘It’s not as if his previous teachers or developmental ther-apists didn’t do anything for him – far from it. For example, he spent endless amounts of time browsing illustrated textbooks, though he didn’t read the words. His tendency to inflict harm on himself had also already been suppressed. As a toddler he would bang his head against things whenever he could, even to the point of cracking his skull. So a lot of progress had been made. For any improvement to be possible in people as autistic as Tryggvi, it’s essential that their behavioural therapy begins very early. His parents, particularly his mother, were very concerned that he receive the best treatment available. She watched his diet very closely and followed the newest developments in that area, since in some cases the effects of autism can be reduced by changing a patient’s nutritional intake. For instance, Tryggvi stopped eating both gluten and sugar, and according to his mother it reduced his symptoms. Not that I was able to judge – I didn’t meet him until after they had been removed from his diet. Also, both his parents were very much alert to any developments in autism medication. They were kind of unique, actually, because the parents of autistic children sometimes focus on one particular factor: food, drugs or specific treatments, but few have been so aware of all the different aspects. They were terribly fond of him, but of course the same goes for all the parents of autistic children that I’ve encountered.’

‘So why did they stop the treatment, just when things were starting to look up?’

Ægir shrugged. ‘God knows. All I can think of is that the methods I was using weren’t to his mother’s liking; I didn’t exactly take the “softly softly” approach. I had to use a great deal of discipline to get results, and you’ve got to bear in mind that in this instance what we had was an individual who shunned human communication and attempted to avoid it by any possible means. So I had no other choice but to force him into acknowledging I was there. It was noisy, and must have been hard to watch. Still, I thought she realized that the end justified the means, but that was clearly a big misunderstanding on my part. It probably didn’t help either that other residents and visitors complained about it. It was a real shame, that’s for sure.’

‘How much progress did Tryggvi make under your guidance?’ The man had yet to answer the question that was really plaguing Thóra.

‘Quite a lot, but again you have to consider that we were starting from zero. He had started to draw more, pictures that seemed to better reflect what was on his mind, and he wasn’t as afraid of everything. I got him to look me in the eye and accept my presence, as well as his mother’s.’

‘But did he move around the building voluntarily? In search of company or food, for example?’

‘No, I very much doubt it.’ Ægir shrugged. ‘I suppose he might have left his apartment on his own, but not in search of either company or food. That would really surprise me.’

‘I know of one instance when he paid a visit to a bedridden girl who lived there. I don’t know why he went to see her, but he walked in and looked at her, in any case.’

‘You see? Progress.’ He rubbed his chin and stared around at the chattering crowd. ‘If it was one of the girls who couldn’t move, I’m not surprised he visited her rather than any of the other residents. A person who couldn’t speak would have suited him well, and maybe he was drawn by the silence in her apartment. I went with him a few times to see the girl in the coma, in order to get him used to the unknown. Obviously she was the most harmless person in the place and I didn’t want to bother those who were conscious, but she couldn’t move a muscle. A couple of times we stopped in her doorway. We had the director’s permission, of course, she was extremely cooperative, and Tryggvi didn’t do anything to the poor girl, just stared at her in fascination, probably because she was so still. Naturally, she didn’t know we were there, since she wasn’t conscious. I wasn’t aware of him ever having visited her without me.’