Cage Read online

  4

  She had been more heavy-handed than usual today – to Ingimar’s satisfaction. He was exhausted after being whipped, and he had needed her help to reach the bed afterwards. This was the best part of it, exactly why he came to her; the hour he spent in her bed on the borderline between sleep and wakefulness, overwhelmed by the adrenaline that his body automatically pumped into his bloodstream as the first lash of the whip burned into his back, and the endorphins that accumulated the longer the treatment lasted, leaving him in a daze.

  In his younger years he had believed that what he craved was the humiliation – of being tied, manacled, hung from a hook and whipped; of being completely in her power. But now he knew better. The key to it was the vulnerability that came afterwards; his defencelessness as she helped him, sobbing and bruised, to the bed, where she would apply a soothing balm to his back, tuck him in and whisper sweet words that were both calming and encouraging, just like a mother with her child. This was when he felt he was truly loved; he revelled in lying in bed without having had to do anything to deserve it, not one single thing.

  ‘You’re a good boy,’ she whispered, kissing the top of his head and leaving the room as he began to doze. He lay there in a dreamless state for a while, he had no idea how long, until his thoughts were again clear and linear, and he felt there was no longer any need to lie still. The time for rest was over. He got to his feet, pulled on his trousers and took his shirt with him to the kitchen where she was waiting for him with a smile.

  ‘Let’s take a look at you,’ she said, examining his back. ‘You’re fine,’ she added, handing him his singlet and helping him into it. It stung like hell, but he liked that. He would feel the pain for the next few days, every time he dressed, took a shower or leaned back in a chair, and that was the way he wanted it. This reminder was something he needed; the reminder that he was human. It was the same as the Roman emperors who had a slave walking behind them, whispering ‘remember you are mortal, remember you are mortal’.

  ‘I’ll make a transfer to your account,’ he said as he buttoned his shirt.

  She stepped closer and helped him with the top button and knotted his tie for him.

  ‘Not too much,’ she said. ‘You always pay me too much.’

  ‘I’m grateful,’ he said.

  ‘You’re still in a state when you make the transfer, so you make it too much.’

  ‘It’s no more than you deserve,’ he said, kissing her cheek.

  ‘Now you be a good little worm and do as you’re told.’ She smiled and winked as she teased him. ‘Otherwise you’ll feel it…’

  He gave her an exaggerated bow.

  ‘Yes, madame!’

  They understood each other instinctively. She knew precisely when it was safe to inject a little humour into the game they played, and when things had to be kept serious as it was crucial to not lose the momentum.

  ‘Call me whenever you want,’ she said, holding the front door open for him.

  He blew her a kiss on his way down the steps, and as was so often the case, he was astonished at the change he’d undergone since he had turned up here a couple of hours ago. He had walked in tense with stress and with his mind in overdrive, but now he was relaxed and his thoughts had clarified, as if his soul had been cleansed.

  He started his car and turned up the heater. It wasn’t particularly cold, but a whipping always left him with a chill that lasted a few hours. His phone showed one missed call and two text messages, all from the same number. He opened the first message. It was a long one, from an investigative journalist called María. He sighed. He knew who María was: a former investigator at the special prosecutor’s office who had fallen badly out of favour and who now ran her own online news outlet, an effort driven forwards more by determination than ability. She was the type who saw conspiracy everywhere she looked and who could make the most innocent thing look suspicious. The message was a series of questions concerning himself and Agla, and any business connections they might have.

  That was something he could answer easily. Right now there were none. They had ended their joint business affairs some years before and since then had taken care to avoid each other.

  He opened the second message and the flood of questions continued. This demonstrated an incredible optimism on her part. Surely she didn’t expect him to answer all these questions by text message? Normally he kept clear of journalists and wouldn’t have hesitated to delete these messages right away.

  But the last question in the series troubled him:

  What is the nature of the business conducted by yourself and William Tedd with Icelandic aluminium producers?

  5

  If she had imagined during the weeks before she’d sat down in front of the radiator with the noose around her neck that she couldn’t possibly have felt worse, she was wrong. Those days had been a walk in the park compared to waking up after trying to kill herself.

  The pain of renewing her acquaintance with life, having already waved it a final goodbye, was so unreal, she wasn’t even able to feel angry with herself for making a mess of it. She opened her eyes and saw that everything around her was white, which told her she had to be in hospital. She closed her eyes again and hoped that she might slip back into unconsciousness. But it was hopeless. She was awake and a prison officer she knew was called Guðrún was in a chair at her side, leafing through a magazine.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Guðrún asked, ringing a bell.

  Under the circumstances, this was a bizarre question, and there was only one possible reply: bad. Agla tried to form the word but all that came out of her throat was an indistinct growl that could have been made by a wild animal. That would have to be a wounded, angry animal.

  A woman in white scrubs came in and looked her over.

  ‘Don’t try to talk,’ she said. ‘Just rest and drink cold water. Your throat is still swollen and you’ve not long come off the ventilator, which will have left your throat sore as well. I’ll get you some water and painkillers, and the doctor will be along to talk to you.’

  She looked into Agla’s eyes, and laid a hand on her arm, squeezing it briefly. Then she smiled and left the room. This tiny sign of human warmth was like a punch to the stomach, and Agla could feel tears flowing from her eyes and down onto the pillow. Self-pity wasn’t something she made a habit of, regardless of how tough things might be, but somehow this was pushing humiliation to a new level. A screwed-up attempt at death had become the perfect summation of a screwed-up life.

  The nurse returned with a painkiller that she pumped through the cannula in the back of Agla’s hand. Then she spooned up an ice cube from the water glass at Agla’s side and lifted it to her lips. Agla opened her mouth like an obedient child and took the ice cube just as she felt the morphine take over. In a second, everything became a little better. The tears stopped flowing from her eyes, and she felt there was a security in having Guðrún at her side, again deep in a magazine.

  Agla came round to the sound of the doctor’s deep voice, which somehow had seemed to grow louder inside the void of her unconsciousness. Maybe he had been standing there talking for a while.

  ‘You were lucky,’ he said. ‘You were extremely fortunate that the rope stretched almost enough to let you sit; it meant your bodyweight wasn’t concentrated entirely on your neck. Otherwise you’d have broken it, and damaged your spinal cord too. But as the rope stretched and you weren’t hanging there for long, we’re only looking at damage to your airway, and some swelling and bruises. Even your larynx is in pretty good condition. So you’ll be in here overnight and then you should be able to go home tomorrow,’ he said. Then he glanced at Guðrún, who coughed gently. ‘I mean, you can be discharged tomorrow.’

  Agla blinked slowly instead of trying to nod her head, as her neck was still too stiff.

  The doctor turned to leave.

  ‘There’ll be a psychiatrist coming to see you later today. That’s the rule when this kind of thing happens,’ h
e added from the doorway.

  When this kind of thing happens, Agla thought to herself. Why doesn’t he just say when people try to kill themselves?

  6

  Júlía tiptoed up to the school steps, where Anton stood with his back to her, and slipped her little finger into his hand. He responded by twisting his little finger around hers. This was their special thing, an expression of what passed between them and their main physical connection. Anything further had been forbidden, which in itself had been unbelievably embarrassing, but hadn’t actually changed things much. They could still spend all the time they wanted together, her father had said when he had visited Anton’s father to ‘talk things over’, and they could go to each other’s houses and see each other, just as long as their bedroom doors remained open.

  Anton had seen how his father had been taken by surprise by this visit, and how he had tried to hide it. To begin with he had used small talk, and had filled the old man with coffee and biscuits to stifle any serious conversation. Then, much to Anton’s surprise, he had agreed with Júlía’s father. Anton had expected him to go along with what his son was doing without saying a word. But instead he had announced to Anton in his grave voice that if he was serious about the girl, then he could wait. And Anton could wait. Everyone at school knew they were together, so none of the other boys dared go anywhere near her, which meant that he could be sure she was his; the prettiest girl in the school. In fact, she was easily the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Of course they broke the rules; they kissed and cuddled when nobody could see them, but it wasn’t often, as he could sense that she was uncomfortable with disobeying her father, and he didn’t want to pressure her. As his father had spelled out to him, if he wanted to hold on to the girl, then he would have to behave in a way that made her feel safe around him.

  So he tried to do everything he possibly could to make sure that she had a feeling of security when she was near him.

  He gently squeezed her little finger and turned his head towards her.

  She smiled.

  ‘Shall we go to the pictures tomorrow?’ she asked.

  ‘Dinner and a movie?’ he suggested with a wink. That had to mean a burger or a kebab, followed by a bus ride to the cinema. It would be her birthday soon, and he had decided he would take her out somewhere smart, a shirt-and-tie place, and he’d have to do a deal with his father to cover transport and some extra finance.

  By then he would also have given her the birthday present. This was what he had dreamed of for so many weeks. He was certain that it would be the best moment of their whole lives.

  ‘Talk to you this evening,’ she said as Gunnar cruised up to the school steps on his moped, which was still muddy from the night before.

  ‘Talk to you this evening,’ Anton said, squeezing her little finger again. There was no need to say it, as they talked every evening and sent each other endless messages and chatted online. As well as being the prettiest, she was the most fun girl he had ever met.

  He hopped onto the moped and held on tight to Gunnar’s coat as he set off. They had agreed to meet after school to find a better place to store the dynamite, and to think over the problem of detonators. He had been sure that they would find detonators in the shed as well, but there hadn’t been any. They had searched everywhere to be certain. They would just have to find some other way to set the dynamite off.

  7

  ‘If you get a call from a journalist called María, phoning from Iceland, then don’t give her any chance to ask you anything,’ Ingimar said once he and William had exchanged the usual greetings.

  The background music he could hear down the line told him that William was out enjoying himself somewhere. The man was a well-known party animal who never let a celebration or a gathering pass him by. He reminded Ingimar of a younger version of himself. Back in his younger days he had the same kind of energy that allowed him to spend a night on the town and be awake and ready for a tough day’s work after only three hours’ sleep. As far as he was concerned, that was now all in the past. But the same didn’t apply to William.

  ‘I’m at a friend’s birthday party,’ he said, his strong American accent coming across clearly. ‘You’d have had a great time.’

  Ingimar knew what that meant: fine wines and fine women. He leaned forwards and used the car’s mirror to inspect the grey in his hair. For a second he felt a touch of regret for that life – but in fact he did not miss it. These days he could knock back wine at whatever time of the day he wanted to without feeling it, and he had pretty much given up chasing women. She didn’t count. That wasn’t chasing skirt. That was something different.

  ‘Everything looks good,’ Ingimar said. ‘This María is just fishing, but I wanted to warn you anyway. She’s one of those annoying people who doesn’t understand when to lay off. She’s trying to connect Agla with our project, and we need to be careful, we don’t want her getting mixed up in this.’

  ‘Why? Don’t you like Agla?’ William laughed, and, as if to underscore the glamour of his party, an up-tempo salsa number struck up in the background.

  ‘It’s not that I don’t like Agla. Quite the opposite. It’s just that if she gets the slightest inkling of what we’re up to, before we know it half the profits will end up in her pocket,’ he said.

  William roared with laughter.

  ‘That’s her, right enough,’ he said. ‘Now get yourself to Paris, mon cher Ingimar. I’m on the trail of a sweet little thing here who has a twin sister. So we could be up for a memorable double date!’

  Ingimar smiled to himself. He enjoyed William’s zest for life. Americans were so delightfully shameless about their pursuit of pleasure.

  ‘Speak soon,’ he said, and ended the call.

  He would certainly have enjoyed a trip to Paris, where he could have had William entertain him. But over the last few years it was as if life itself had tracked him down, and responsibility, which was something he had never worried much about, had become an increasing burden. Anton needed him close by, especially considering what his mother was like.

  He took a deep breath and got out of the car. As he walked up to the house, his feet seemed unusually heavy. He slipped the key into the lock and opened the door silently. Inside there was silence, and all of his senses seemed to detect the stale aura of unhappiness that filled the house.

  8

  María felt the same stab of shame every time she entered the building where The Squirrel had its office, because on the other side of the corridor was her landlord, the nationalistically inclined Radio Edda, which played bad Icelandic music and appeared, according to the quality of its discussion programmes, to place a particular emphasis on removing rights for minorities. She would have preferred to locate The Squirrel somewhere else, but she couldn’t afford it. The rent at Radio Edda was well below the market rate for this central area of the city, but being here saved her a great deal of driving compared to an office somewhere on the outskirts. Still, even though it was cheap, she always felt the urge to hide her face every time she entered or left the building. Over the doorway hung the station’s slogan: Iceland for Icelanders.

  She was hardly inside the office when Marteinn came hurrying in behind her.

  ‘Brown envelopes, María. Brown envelopes, stuffed with cash that change hands at Freemasons’ meetings. Freemasons, María!’

  She stared at him questioningly. He had that peculiar glint in his eyes that made him look like a startled horse and that indicated he was heading for a psychotic episode.

  ‘My dear Marteinn,’ she said. ‘Don’t you think you ought to be on your way to the doctor?’

  ‘No,’ he said, sitting at his desk.

  It would have been an exaggeration to say that Marteinn was her colleague. He was more like an adopted pet who came and went, always on his own terms. She let him write a daily column in The Squirrel with the title ‘The Voice of Truth’, and in between he helped by digging out information. When his health was in good shape, he was rema
rkably skilled at searching out all kinds of oddities on the internet, although María suspected that he occasionally hacked into secure computer systems to get what he wanted. She had long since given up trying to manage him. He wasn’t exactly staff, as he never asked to be paid. Having someone on board who made an effort without invoicing for it was a real positive, though he wrote pleasantly barbed articles that often attracted attention, and it made a difference to not be a completely solo operation. It was almost like having a proper job when she sat down and had a cup of coffee with him while they talked over his latest conspiracy theory.

  ‘Don’t you think you ought to get your medication checked?’ she said now. ‘Shouldn’t you go to the clinic before they close for the day?’

  ‘No,’ he said with determination, hunching over the computer that sat among the piles of junk on his desk like a fledgling in a nest. ‘I need to write this article first.’

  ‘You’ve already given me enough for the whole of next week,’ she said.

  ‘But this is about the bribes that are paid to ensure that the pollution readings around the smelter are always within limits. This is what happens when the Freemasons meet, María. And people need to know about it!’

  She sighed. He seemed to come up with a new conspiracy theory twice a day, most of them involving the Freemasons in some way or other. She had to admit that most of the time she enjoyed his presence, and occasionally he would pick up something that wasn’t too far-fetched and that sparked her interest enough to make it worth checking out. But the sources of his theories weren’t always the most reliable.

  ‘Where did you hear about it?’ she asked.