Having drunk too much at the pre-party, Sigurdur Óli arrived to be met by a wall of heat, noise and people, and the alcohol immediately went to his head, making him dizzy. Sweat broke out on his brow and he flopped onto a chair, feeling queasy. Then suddenly she was there, trying to help, asking him if he was OK. He muttered something in reply. He knew she was at his school but had never talked to her, and did not know her name.
She helped him out into the lobby and propelled him into the Gents where he threw up until he thought he would never stop. In the end, the attendants whose job it was to make sure everyone behaved came across him there and chucked him out of the disco, so he crept home to his mother who greeted him with an uncharacteristic show of sympathy.
‘You shouldn’t drink, dear,’ he heard Gagga saying through the haze of alcohol. ‘You don’t have the head for it.’
Several days later he was standing in the school corridor when the girl who had helped him came up. The memory of her kindness was still clearly etched in his mind.
‘Feeling better?’ she asked.
‘Yes, actually,’ he said diffidently. ‘I don’t normally get so …’
He was going to say ‘pissed’ but felt it was hardly his style. The whole incident was an embarrassment to him.
‘I’m sure you don’t,’ she said and vanished into the nearest classroom.
Over the next few days he watched her from afar, and the following week he plucked up the courage to sit down next to her in the canteen where she was eating a sandwich and reading a discarded newspaper. He watched her before making his move, telling himself: ‘I’ve got nothing to lose.’
‘Anything in the news?’ he asked.
‘It’s ancient,’ she said, looking up.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘Have you got a free period?’
‘No, I’m skiving. I can’t stand my teacher — and he can’t stand me, so we’re quits.’
‘Is he …?’
‘Oh, he’s always showing off to us girls. Aren’t you the guy who runs the neocon magazine?’
‘Milton, yeah.’
‘You’re not exactly popular.’
‘Well, what do you expect? The school’s full of commies,’ said Sigurdur Óli with a shrug.
After that, whenever they bumped into each other they would stop for a chat. One day she came across him in the cloakroom where he was hunting for his anorak.
‘Are you doing anything tomorrow night?’ she asked directly. ‘Do you feel like coming to the cinema?’
‘What? Yes … sure, of course.’
‘Have you got a car or …?’
He thought quickly: it would mean having to bargain with Gagga but it was worth it.
‘I could pick you up,’ he said.
He drove up to her house and waited, feeling far too self-conscious to go and knock on the door and risk having to ask for her. Nor did he want to use the horn, which might easily be misinterpreted as rudeness. So he just sat and waited in patient silence. The minutes ticked by, one by one, until abruptly the front door opened and she hurried out.
‘Have you been waiting long?’ she asked, climbing into the passenger seat.
‘No.’
‘I was waiting for you to honk your horn.’
‘You didn’t keep me,’ he assured her.
The film was a disappointment and they could find little to say when they got back into the car afterwards. He headed towards the town centre, with the vague notion of doing a couple of circuits and maybe buying an ice cream. The late-night kiosks would still be open. They exchanged a few remarks about the female lead who she had found irritating, and he commented that the film had been seriously lacking in laughs. They bought ice creams and he paid, as he had paid for the cinema tickets and popcorn, then he drove slowly home. It was midweek and the streets were empty. Almost before he knew it they were outside her house again.
‘Thanks for a nice evening,’ she said, finishing her ice cream.
‘Thank you,’ he replied.
She moved closer and realising that she was going to kiss him, he leaned in towards her. Her lips were still cold from the ice cream. her tongue cool, with a lingering taste of sugar.
He was unable to get her out of his head and longed to meet her but could not see her anywhere in the school corridors. He had not been paying proper attention but vaguely remembered talk of a trip with her parents, which probably explained her absence. He tried to ring her but nobody answered, and twice he drove to her house in the evening and saw that all the lights were off. He had never before felt so peculiar, so tense, so tingling with anticipation, had never experienced such yearning.
A few days later he and Patrekur arranged to meet at a club in the city centre. When he arrived he found the place heaving and the noise level almost unbearable. Patrekur shouted in his ear that he had met an amazing girl who went to their school, and called her over to meet his friend. She appeared out of the throng.
It was Súsanna, the girl who had dominated his every thought since that evening.
‘Hi,’ she shouted over the din, adding in surprise: ‘Do you two know each other?’
‘Yes,’ shouted Patrekur. ‘Do you know Siggi?’
Sigurdur Óli looked uncomprehendingly at the pair of them.
‘We went to the cinema the other day,’ she shouted. ‘To a really crap film.’ She laughed. ‘Didn’t you think so?’
‘Are you … are you two …?’
Sigurdur Óli stumbled over the words, the deafening noise drowning out his whisper and before he knew it the two of them had disappeared into the crowd.
52
He thought it safe to assume that just before midday their children would be at school and she would be alone at home. Rather than ringing ahead, he had taken the precaution of calling her workplace, where he learned that Súsanna had reported in sick and had not been seen for several days. He considered calling Patrekur and including him in the plan but abandoned the idea in the end. This was her affair and there was no need to mix Patrekur up in it until after he had spoken to her. The possibility of sending someone else to bring her in had occurred to him, but he resolved to do it himself. Other people would take over the case once they reached Hverfisgata.
When the time came, he drove to his friend’s house. Patrekur and Súsanna lived in an attractive detached house in the new suburb of Grafarholt. They had taken out a large mortgage, part of it as a foreign-currency loan, but Patrekur had assured him that they were perfectly able to afford it, though the monthly payments were well over a hundred thousand kronur. They had purchased their two cars on credit as well.
She answered the door herself, wearing jeans and a pretty, pale blue shirt, and did not seem surprised to see him, though her attempt at a smile was perfunctory and awkward. In spite of everything, he had always liked Súsanna: she was fun, sensible, clear-headed, and a good match for Patrekur. To his eyes, she had not aged at all, with her thick, fair hair and dark eyes, her determined expression and straightforward manner. As far as he knew, she and Patrekur had always had a good life together; at least he had never heard otherwise from his friend until Patrekur admitted to sleeping with Lína.
‘You probably know why I’m here,’ he said as she invited him in, and kissed her on the cheek. They always greeted each other this way.
‘Have you spoken to Patrekur?’ she asked.
‘No.’
‘I thought he might be with you,’ said Súsanna.
‘Would you have preferred that?’ asked Sigurdur Óli.
‘No, probably not.’
‘Could we sit down?’
‘Of course, come in.’
They sat down in the living room. It faced west and offered a fine view of the city. Sigurdur Óli had not slept all night.
‘I’ve just been talking to a man called Hördur or Höddi, who says he’s known you since primary school,’ he began. ‘Right now he’s in custody at Litla-Hraun, charged as an accessory to the unlawful killing of a woman called Lína.’