Someone to Watch Over Me (20 page)

‘Why does this lawyer want to talk to you? Can’t they just leave you in peace?’

‘You’d have thought so, but apparently not. I have no idea why she wants to meet us. Maybe she’s speaking to all the parents.’

‘Maybe she thinks Tryggvi started the fire.’ Lena regretted her words as soon as she’d spoken them, but now there was no turning back. ‘Maybe she knows he liked fire.’

Her mother opened and shut her mouth twice before saying: ‘Finish your apple. You don’t have to waste the whole thing for one mouthful.’

Lena wondered whether she should let her mother get away with this, or whether she should repeat the question. ‘I’m not hungry.’ Nonetheless, she picked up the apple, brought it to her lips and sucked juice from it. ‘When is this woman coming?’

Her mother glanced at her watch, which hung loosely from her wrist. She’d always been slim, but Tryggvi’s death had deprived her of her appetite for several months and she still hadn’t regained her former weight. ‘In half an hour. You should get dressed.’

Lena looked down at her checked pyjamas. ‘Me? I’m not going to meet any lawyer,’ she retorted, then immediately regretted it, because of course she was dying to know what the woman had to say. It was unlikely that she’d be able to persuade her mother to tell her anything about what they discussed, and if their home life was about to turn to shit again, she wanted to know why. The sooner the better.

‘Don’t be silly. Of course you’re not, but she doesn’t need to come to the house and see a teenager hanging around here in her pyjamas in the middle of the day.’

‘I’m almost twenty-one, Mum. I finished puberty several years ago, in case you hadn’t noticed.’

‘Of course I noticed. Everyone noticed.’ Her mother grew angrier with every word. Lena was well aware that it had nothing to do with her; she was simply a conversational punchbag her mother used to calm herself down. When Fanndís spoke again she was calmer; her ear was even almost a normal colour again. ‘Seriously, Lena. Change your clothes.’

‘Jesus.’ Lena stood up and took the apple with her. She’d been planning to jump in the shower and get dressed anyway, but had been stubbornly putting it off just because of her mother’s pushiness. Lena had long since grown used to the fact that everything had to look good, no matter how much grief or anger might be simmering underneath. When she was seven she’d dropped a full tin of biscuits on her foot on the Feast of St Þorlákur and crushed the nail of her big toe, but she’d still had to wear patent leather shoes on Christmas Eve even though the pain made her eyes water with every step. Tryggvi had always been well dressed and groomed even though it hadn’t mattered to him. Once Lena had suggested that she and her mother go to the Kringlan Shopping Centre and buy Tryggvi a tracksuit, which he’d find so much more comfortable than stiff blue jeans. Her mother had got extremely annoyed with her – tracksuits were for gymnastics, she’d said, not for everyday wear. Maybe her mother had been completely different before Tryggvi had come into the world; Lena didn’t know, because she was younger than him.

The shower perked Lena up; she’d made it slightly too cold to be comfortable. Her lethargy was washed away, leaving behind a clear, alert mind in a body that broke out in goose bumps when she emerged from the shower – everywhere except on her calves, where she’d had a skin graft. The patch was just as smooth and shiny as when the skin had been fixed there. She’d been ten years old at the time. She didn’t know whether it was because the new skin didn’t react to cold or whether goose bumps simply didn’t form there. Maybe it was a combination of both. Lena hurried to dry her calf. She didn’t want to remember it, didn’t want to relive being burned, didn’t want to think that because of it she wouldn’t ever be able to wear a short dress on a night out like her friends. And least of all she didn’t want to remember how Tryggvi had liked fire; fire that had hurt her so badly. Her parents had forbidden her ever to mention his fascination with it. That ban must still be in place. It had been introduced when the community residence caught fire.

Downstairs the doorbell rang. Lena hurriedly wrapped a large, full-length towel around herself. Of course the lawyer couldn’t see through the ceiling, but any protection was good. The woman mustn’t find out about this. For Lena’s sake, and for her parents’, but most of all for the sake of their memories of Tryggvi.

Margeir tried hard to hide his desperation but it was difficult to rein it in, and the tiny beads of sweat he could feel forming on his forehead weren’t helping. ‘But might you be making changes soon? A new schedule for the spring, which could open up the possibility of moving the show?’

The station manager’s face showed no sign of sympathy. Behind him hung a poster that declared:
It’s never too late to become the person you could have been
. Underneath the text smiled a toothless old man, a thick textbook in his arms. Even though it would be a few decades before Margeir was anything like as old as the subject of the picture, he felt compassion for the old man nonetheless. It would probably be simpler to take a college course than to deal with his boss; at school at least you dealt with lots of different teachers, not one person who controlled everything. The small, private radio station had a monarch, who now sat before Margeir and didn’t seem inclined to do him any favours. If his proposal found no favour with the manager, there was no higher court to which he could appeal.

‘You were offered an earlier time slot when I hired you. You didn’t want it then.’ The manager shrugged. ‘The early bird catches the worm.’

‘I certainly
did
want it. I just couldn’t take it, because I had another job besides the radio show. But I gave that up ages ago, so things have changed now. It would make such a difference if I could have a morning or afternoon slot. Since I was offered as much last winter, I thought I’d ask whether the offer was still open.’

The manager scowled. ‘It’s not quite that easy, mate. Things have changed a lot since you started.’

Margeir knew he meant the recession, which had swallowed everything in its path. But it was unfair to use it as an excuse; unlike other industries, radio had actually been positively impacted by the financial crisis. ‘Listenership is up. Advertising sales have increased.’

‘Exactly.’ The scowl was gone, replaced by a contented smile. ‘That’s exactly what I meant. People listen to us now because we offer independent talk radio. National issues keep us afloat. Your show is more like …’ The manager stared at the ceiling as he searched for the right words. ‘Gossip, froth, pop songs. These days people want to quarrel and fight, not sing along.’

‘Have you listened to my show recently?’ When it looked as if the manager wasn’t going to answer him, Margeir continued hurriedly. He didn’t need the humiliation of hearing him say no. ‘The show might have started off on a lighter note, since it was primarily music, but it’s completely different now. I do exactly the same as the others during the day – take calls from listeners who are furious about the country’s situation. So the schedule is more or less the same all day and all night. People are just as angry at night as they are in the daytime.’

‘Precisely.’

Margeir hadn’t expected this reply. Was the manager agreeing with him? His tone of voice suggested otherwise. ‘What do you mean?’

‘From what I’ve heard, your show is practically a variation on what we’ve got on during the day. A lamer version of the primetime shows. I’m not about to reshuffle my most popular DJs to make room for someone who doesn’t have the same spark.’

‘What do you mean, spark?’ Margeir knew exactly what he meant, but he couldn’t think of a way to defend himself. He’d often thought the same thing. His passion was dis-appearing, his enthusiasm waning. He answered calls out of a sense of duty and took the path of least resistance, saying as little as possible instead of expressing strong opinions or deliberately disagreeing with the caller. In fact, he often agreed with them, which usually put them off. The people who called in were more used to being contradicted and provoked, and didn’t know how to respond when the radio host simply said:
Yes, you’re right, I see your point
.

‘You know what I mean. I heard a repeat of your show the other day and it was crap. You could almost feel how bored you were with your listeners. I was this close to calling you and telling you not to bother showing up again.’ As he said this, the manager brought his index finger to his thick thumb until they nearly touched. ‘Luckily for you, I didn’t want the hassle of having to find a stand-in, so it’s thanks to my laziness that you still have your job. But as long as you go on like this, you can forget about me moving your show up. Daytime hosts need to be sharp and motivated. Not half asleep or bored out of their skulls. Who do you think would advertise for that kind of host?’

‘If I just had the chance to try out an earlier slot, maybe I could convince you that I’d do really well with it? I’m very interested in engaging with national issues, even though they weren’t originally meant to be part of my show.’ Margeir was lying; he found all the nonsense going on in Iceland these days deathly dull: just endless incomprehensible political entanglements and lunatic bank and business magnates. Why waste your energy wailing on about greed and dishonesty? ‘I read every newspaper I can get my hands on and I’m always online, so the show you heard wasn’t a typical one. I must have been under the weather. Everyone has off days.’

‘I don’t.’ His boss wasn’t joking, even though everyone at the station knew that he was no better than the rest of them; he always seemed to get the wrong end of the stick with the callers he spoke to, and ended up getting irritated by them. Maybe it was easy to think you were perfect if you were a dictator. ‘But it doesn’t make any difference; I see no need to mess with something that’s working fine.
If it ain’t broke, fix it
.’

Margeir was itching to correct him, but let it go for fear that it would bring this brief visit to a premature end. ‘How about as a sidekick to another DJ? I don’t mind playing a supporting role.’

The manager stuck out his lower lip and wrinkled his nose at the same time – quite a feat. ‘Nah.’ He thought for a moment, but then repeated: ‘Nah. It’s all running so smoothly right now that there’s no chance. All the shows that need two hosts already have them, and it would be crazy to have three. There wouldn’t be room for guests in the studio. Do you want to stand behind them, shouting to be heard?’

This didn’t merit a reply. ‘How about as a temp? Emergency cover, for when people get ill or go on holiday?’

‘What’s going on, Margeir? Have you got yourself a woman who wants you home at night?’

‘No.’ If only.

‘What is it, then? Until now you’ve been quite happy with your time slot, or am I mistaken?’

‘Yes. No.’ Margeir squirmed in his seat. Soon he would be politely shown the door. It was only ten minutes until the manager’s own show was due to start. ‘I mean, yes, up until now I’ve been satisfied and no, you’re not mistaken. It’s to do with something else.’ His mouth suddenly filled with saliva, and he swallowed hard. ‘This real weirdo has started phoning in and the idea that he might be the next caller is putting me constantly on edge. I think he’d be less likely to call during the day.’

The laughter this provoked was loud and hearty. ‘Dream on! Haven’t you learned anything? The loonies call whenever the lines are open, it doesn’t make a blind bit of difference what time of day or night it is. It’s just part of the job; most callers are all right, but there are always a couple that are … how shall I put it … different. You can’t take it personally.’

‘It’s not just a run-of-the-mill nutter. There’s something really disturbing about his calls, even though he doesn’t say much or stay on for very long.’

‘Then don’t answer. Simple.’ The manager raised his hands and moved them in circles above his head, as if conjuring ideas from the air. ‘I don’t know … put on a song, read from the newspaper, find something funny on the Internet for your listeners. Play some commercials.’

‘He calls from an unlisted number. But others do too, so there’s no way of weeding him out; if I don’t answer him when he’s still trying to get through, no one else can be put through either. It would help if we could just screen our callers.’ Margeir knew that it had long been in the pipeline to buy a machine that would make this possible.

‘Hmm, yes.’ The manager dropped his hands to his lap. There wasn’t much evidence of the station investing in anything; one of the studio headphones had been in need of new foam since September. ‘That’s something I’ve been planning on sorting out, of course, but with the króna the way it is, it would be well worth waiting, even just a few months. You must understand that, surely – your finances can hardly be in great shape.’ This was below the belt and the manager seemed to realize it, hurrying on. ‘But why does it bother you so much? We all get strange phone calls and they mean nothing, at the end of the day. They’re either from wannabe comedians or shrinking violets who don’t dare to speak once they’re on the air and just breathe into the receiver instead. I don’t know why you let it get to you.’

‘These calls are different. He’s not a joker or a breather.’ Margeir wanted to explain himself without going into precise detail. ‘This listener seems to know me. He says things that he knows will bother me.’

This was getting too personal, and the last thing the manager was known for was his powers of empathy. ‘What? You’re not going to let that get under your skin, are you? It’s just some coward who gets his kicks from knowing he’s got to you. Laugh at him and hang up.’ He leaned back, satisfied with his latest solution. ‘There’s no need to get worked up over nothing.’ It was clear he’d had enough of this topic. ‘Do you think you can manage that?’ He didn’t need to add,
Or should I start looking for someone else?
; it was clear to Margeir which way the wind was blowing.

‘Uh, yes, of course. No problem.’ But this was far from the truth. His words rang hollow in his ears. He had a
big
problem, but if he told the manager the whole story, he might as well quit. ‘Well, keep me in mind if anything changes, but until then, no problem.’ Margeir stood up and left the office, taking care to walk out with his head held high. As he went through the door it crossed his mind to turn around and get down on his knees. Maybe that was the way to get into the manager’s good books. But his hesitation was momentary and he let the door click shut behind him. It was just as pointless to humiliate himself that way as it was to imagine that carrying on with his show would be
no problem
. Nonetheless, he allowed himself to hope that his fears might not come true after all.