‘Oh, Permaflush, eh?’ said the man, nodding to his father and patting the boy on the head before going on his way.
It was the smirk, the tone of mockery, the lack of respect that winded Sigurdur Óli. He had never before had any cause to assess his father’s position in society and it took him some time to grasp that the man had been referring to his father with this peculiar name, and that it was intended to belittle him.
He never mentioned the incident to his father. Later he discovered what Permaflush meant but could not work out why he had acquired this nickname. He had assumed that his father was like any other tradesman and it upset him to find out that he bore such a humiliating moniker. In some way that Sigurdur Óli could not fully understand it diminished him. Did his father cut a ridiculous figure in the eyes of others? Was he seen as a failure? Was it because his father preferred to work alone, had no interest in joining a firm, had few friends and tended to be unsociable and eccentric? He was the first to admit that he did not particularly enjoy company.
Earlier that day Sigurdur Óli had gone to the hospital and sat by his father’s bed, waiting for him to come round from his operation. He had been dwelling on the time he heard the nickname. Years later he understood more clearly what had happened, the emotions he had felt. It was that he had suddenly been put in the uncomfortable position of feeling sorry for his father, of pitying him, defending him even.
His father stirred and opened his eyes. They had informed Sigurdur Óli that the operation had gone well, the prostate had been removed and they had found no sign that the cancer had spread; it appeared to have been restricted to the gland itself, and his father was expected to make a quick recovery.
‘How do you feel?’ he asked, once his father had woken up.
‘All right,’ he answered. ‘A bit groggy.’
‘You look fine,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘You just need a proper rest.’
‘Thank you for looking in on me, Siggi,’ his father said. ‘There was no need. You shouldn’t be wasting your time on an old codger like me.’
‘I was thinking about you and Mum.’
‘Were you?
‘Wondering why you two ever got together when you’re so different.’
‘You’re right, we are, we’re poles apart.’ The words emerged with an effort. ‘That was obvious from the off but it wasn’t a problem until later. She changed when she started working — when she got the accountancy job, I mean. So you find the whole thing a mystery do you? That she got together with a plumber like me?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘I suppose it seems a bit unlike her. When you say later, do you mean after I arrived on the scene?’
‘It had nothing to do with you, Siggi. Your mother’s just a piece of work.’
They were both silent and eventually his father drifted off to sleep again. Sigurdur Óli remained sitting beside him for a while.
Sigurdur Óli stood up and switched off the TV. He glanced at his watch; it was probably too late to call but he wanted to hear the sound of her voice. He had been thinking about it all day. He picked up the receiver and weighed it in his hand, hesitating, then dialled her number. She answered on the third ring.
‘Am I calling too late?’ he asked.
‘No … it’s OK,’ said Bergthóra. ‘I wasn’t asleep. Is everything all right? Why are you ringing so late?’ She sounded concerned but excited too, almost breathless.
‘I just wanted a chat, to tell you about the old man. He’s in hospital.’
He told Bergthóra about his father’s illness, how the operation had gone well and that he would be discharged in a few days. And how he had visited him twice and intended to look in on him regularly while he was recuperating.
‘Not that he’ll let anyone do anything for him.’
‘You’ve never been very close,’ said Bergthóra, who had not known her former father-in-law well.
‘No,’ admitted Sigurdur Óli. ‘Things just turned out that way, I don’t really know why. Look, I was wondering if we could see each other again? Maybe at your place. Do something fun.’
Bergthóra was silent. He heard a noise, a muffled voice.
‘Is there somebody with you?’ he asked.
She did not answer.
‘Bergthóra?’
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I dropped the phone.’
‘Who’s that with you?’
‘Maybe we should talk another time,’ she said. ‘This isn’t really a good moment.’
‘Bergthóra …?’
‘Let’s talk another time,’ she said. ‘I’ll call you.’
She hung up. Sigurdur Óli stared at the phone. Inexplicably, it had never occurred to him that Bergthóra would go in search of pastures new. He had been open to the idea himself but was completely thrown by the fact that Bergthóra had beaten him to it.
‘Fuck!’ he heard himself whisper furiously.
He should never have rung.
What was she doing with someone else?
‘Fuck,’ he whispered again, putting down the phone.
27
They did not think it necessary to take Kristján into custody, as the accomplice, if accomplice was the right word, of Thórarinn, the debt collector and drug dealer. All the evidence suggested that Thórarinn was the man who had attacked and killed Lína. Kristján was no longer employed by the DIY store; he had gone back to his old work-shy ways and was easily tracked down at the pub where Sigurdur Óli had gone in search of him before. He had downed a few pints by the time Sigurdur Óli arrived and waved from his seat in the corner, looking for all the world as if they were old friends.
‘They told me at Bíkó that you’d quit,’ Sigurdur Óli said, joining him.
It was shortly after midday and Kristján was alone at the table, a half-empty beer glass, a packet of cigarettes and a disposable lighter in front of him. He was in no better or worse shape than the last time they had met and claimed, with obvious relief, not to have heard from Thórarinn. He was evidently hoping that the police would arrest Thórarinn as quickly as possible and put him away for life.
‘He’s no friend of mine,’ Kristján declared, ‘if that’s what you think.’
He was almost the only customer in the pub and was enjoying life, at peace with the world after receiving his wages for the few days he had worked. There had been occasions in the past few years when he had been so hard up that he had gone hungry.
‘No, I can imagine,’ said Sigurdur Óli. ‘I doubt he’s pleasant company. I saw his wife but she didn’t know where he could be hiding.’
‘What? Are you telling me that you lot haven’t managed to find Toggi yet?’
‘No, he’s vanished into thin air. It’s just a question now of how long he’ll be able to hold out. People usually admit defeat after a few days. Have you got any idea where he could be?’
‘Not a clue. Why don’t you relax and have a beer. Cigarette?’
Kristján pushed the packet towards him, much cockier now that he was on his home turf, the beer providing Dutch courage. Sigurdur Óli studied him in silence, hardly recognising him as the same person. Could he stomach any more of this sort of humiliation? If there was one thing that deeply pissed him off about his job it was having to be matey with little jerks like Kristján, having to suck up to people he despised and stoop to their level, even pretend to be one of them, try to put himself in their shoes. His colleague Erlendur found it easy because he understood these losers, and Elínborg could call on some sort of feminine intuition when forced to consort with criminal lowlifes. But the way Sigurdur Óli saw it, there was an unbridgeable gulf between him and a delinquent like Kristján. They had nothing in common, never would have, and would never exist on any sort of level playing field; one a law-abiding member of society, the other a repeat offender. From Sigurdur Óli’s point of view, the little shit had forfeited the right to stand up and be counted, to be listened to or treated as a member of society. But there were times, like now, when Sigurdur Óli had to put on a show of caring about what one of these deadbeats thought, about his opinions, about how his tiny mind worked. He had decided to ingratiate himself with Kristján in the hope of gleaning some more information.