Towards White Read online

  “I wanted to see that you are okay.” He gestures at the shadows around the depot. “It is very late to be sitting alone in the dark.”

  “I’m fine thank you.” Although, why does he care so much?

  He shrugs, looks pleased with himself. “Still, when we spoke yesterday I said I would explain some things. There are twenty minutes before your transport to Höfkállur. So I was thinking, I will buy you a coffee, já, and we will chat a little?”

  “Um, is now really the best time for chatting?”

  “You said you are fine.” He removes his gloves.

  “That’s not what I meant.” I glance at my Seiko.

  “Please, it will only take a few minutes.” He gestures towards the information centre with firm presumption. “Shall we?”

  I re-angle my suitcase and step off the oval. A cool hand closes around mine. Director Úlfar’s touch is dainty yet sweaty.

  “I will take it for you?” He means my suitcase.

  “Thank you, but I’ve got it.”

  “Watch your step then.”

  I want to tell Director Úlfar to watch his own bloody step, but when I hear the echo of our footsteps across the depot, the emptiness of the sound silences me. Úlfar Finnsson is the director and press secretary of Iceland’s information and intelligence bureau, or MUR. If he wanted to chat with me about something, check on me even, he wouldn’t need to do it in person. So why is he here?

  It had better not be because of what I said yesterday. I’m not in the right frame of mind to go through all that again. I just want to get to my brother.

  Automatic doors whoosh open as we approach the information centre and we step inside through a heated wall of air. It smells of new carpet in here, fresh paint. A lanky blond receptionist stands to offer us a smile so broad it’s almost inappropriate for the middle of the night.

  “Director Úlfar!” he says, jogging over to greet us. “Gott kvöld!”

  I can’t help but smile back at him. He has that jolly kind of demeanour that’s infectious.

  Director Úlfar, also grinning, doesn’t make a secret of looking him up and down. As they mutter in Icelandic, chuckling in a way that makes the whole exchange sound like flirting, I feel like I should leave them to it. When the receptionist swats the air before him and Úlfar flings a hand out to grasp at him, I go to move away.

  I don’t even manage a single step before the director places a hand on my shoulder. Still grinning, the receptionist mumbles something and Director Úlfar nods.

  “Takk fyrir, Rut,” Director Úlfar adds before ushering me toward a staircase. “This way, Miss Dales.” His hand lingers on my shoulder as we walk, sending a shiver bristling down my spine.

  I shake off his delicate fingers with a flick of my hair, only to notice we’re passing a noticeboard of advertisements for government-sponsored Heimspeki seminars. Graphics of churches, mosques and synagogues indicate that the venues are all former places of worship.

  Of course they are.

  Each notice is adorned with a Heimspeki symbol: electricity bolts zapping out of a circle supposed to represent the brain, a ring for the cyclic nature of energy. The largest notice is in English—a local litrúmtheology group invites passing theology-tourists to join next week’s discussion topic: Has the science behind the Heimspeki made God and religion obsolete? I scan the guest speaker list, half expecting to see Mark’s name on it. Then again, he’s been so busy with his research in Höfkállur these last few months he’s probably had little time for trips to Reykjavík, however pertinent the discussion to his doctoral studies.

  At the foot of the staircase, a flat screen displays archived front pages from several Icelandic newspapers. As we walk towards it I check the English subtitles that report landmark headlines:

  Crime Falls Wherever Heimspeki Rises.

  Höfkállur Trials Sannlitró-Völva System.

  Politicians and Lawyers Fear Positivity Tests.

  I frown while trying to remember the reports. I know about Iceland’s low crime rates. Who doesn’t? The whole world’s heard about the influence of the Heimspeki on Icelanders. But the other headlines haven’t been reported online, I’m certain of it. Mark’s not mentioned anything about them either, and Höfkállur is the town in northwest Iceland where he’s been staying.

  “So, Miss Dales,” Director Úlfar says, waiting for me to lug my suitcase up the first step, “again, please accept my sincerest condolences for your loss. I cannot imagine how awful it must feel to have such terrible news. Really, I…” he shakes his head, “I have a brother and every time he goes overseas, I dread something like this happening to him. For you to receive a phone call like mine yesterday…please, if there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

  “I will.”

  “I’m absolutely serious. There is no worse news for a sister to receive. I am so sorry.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “You make it sound like I had a choice.”

  “And you were right to take my advice. You have saved your parents a very long plane flight, and much distress. It is also incredibly difficult for a parent to identify their own child, not that identification is really necessary in your brother’s case. As I explained yesterday, the two of you look exactly alike—same blonde hair, same face, brown eyes—his jaw is wider perhaps. Did your parents have any questions after you told them the news? Anything I can help with?”

  I swallow to stop my throat tightening. Until I’ve seen the body they say they have in Höfkállur, I can’t let myself believe Mark might be dead. There has to be some mistake. Director Úlfar has only seen an image himself, and an image is hardly conclusive. At least, that’s what I’ve told Mum and Dad. “Thank you, but what was it you wanted to chat about, Director Úlfar?”

  “I, um,” he clears his throat. “I have a proposal for you.”

  “About Mark?”

  “Not exactly.” He climbs a few steps before waiting for me again. “Miss Dales, there’s another reason I hoped you would come, rather than your parents.” He chuckles nervously. “I’m afraid I wasn’t being entirely honest when I said yesterday I had no idea why you lived in London instead of Australia.”

  “You weren’t?” Not that I remember him saying so. It must have been when I zoned out. The minute Director Úlfar said Mark had had an accident—that my brother had been hiking, alone, at the Jötunnsjökull Glacier and that his body was found at the Skepnasá River on Sunday—I couldn’t think straight anymore. Director Úlfar kept talking, it all went in my ears, but then disappeared somewhere. Nothing about that conversation made any sense. It still doesn’t. Mark doesn’t even like hiking.

  “Put it this way,” Director Úlfar shrugs, taking off his coat and folding it neatly over his arm. “I know there can’t be much work in Australia for someone like you.”

  “Someone like me?”

  “A specialist in researching new court systems and procedures. Europe would be much better for that.”

  “Sounds like my LinkedIn profile has finally been good for something.”

  “No, no—I heard about you last year, when you wrote that editorial on Jersey’s intranet usage: Technology Versus Justice? How was the Caribbean by the way? I understand you’ve been in the Cayman Islands finishing off some research. Was that for Dictum or for the British Law Commission?”

  “Director Úlfar, it’s late. Given the circumstances, why don’t you just tell me your proposal?”

  “Of course. Miss Dales, I believe you’re in a position to help my country, if you’re feeling…up to it.” Waiting for me to ask the obvious, he raises a sculpted eyebrow so high on his forehead it actually creases his shiny taut skin.

  “Help with what?”

  “Our recent discoveries.”

  I meet his eyes as I c
ontinue to climb the stairs. “You want me to help with your discoveries when my brother may well be lying dead in a morgue?”

  He squirms slightly but carries on. “I know how this must sound. Believe me, I’ve been in two minds as to whether to ask you at all. But your brother was an advocate for the Heimspeki, was he not?” he asks, well aware of the answer. “He did some work last month with Iceland Tourism. Don’t you want to know what he was doing, finish what he started so to speak, get involved on his behalf? Not with the Heimspeki of course, but with the new legal technology we’re developing alongside it. It is your speciality.”

  “Yeah, but here’s the thing, Director Úlfar—I’m not here in a professional capacity. I’m here to see this…this body you seem to think is my brother, even though you haven’t seen it yourself, then I’m going home. Perhaps I can return to report on your legal technology another time?”

  “Seem to think? Ah, does this mean you’ve now heard from your brother?”

  “No. Have you? Or have you physically seen this body in Höfkállur? Because you do know that striving to avoid negativity won’t somehow prevent your countrymen from making mistakes, it doesn’t make them immune from human error. And believe me, there’s been some error.”

  Director Úlfar huffs in the same impatient way he did yesterday morning when I also resisted the news about Mark. But he just doesn’t get it. Mark can’t be dead. If he were, I would have sensed it. I would have felt some disturbance in my universe or something. Mark didn’t even mention wanting to hike over any glacier. And if he did suddenly decide to go hiking, he would have rescheduled our weekly phone call first.

  Also, Mark would never be so stupid as to hike over a glacier alone. Who did that?

  Which is why I’ve every reason to believe he’s alright, that this is simply a big mistake. He’s probably just lost his phone or something. Besides, I’m acutely aware of the fact that hoping for a mistake is the only thing keeping me from breaking down right now. I need to function. I need to walk and talk. If believing Mark’s okay gets me through that, so be it.

  Anyway, Mark will be alright. I know he will.

  Director Úlfar and I climb the rest of the stairwell in silence.

  As we emerge into a multi-stationed computer room, he gestures towards a black leather sofa cornering a metallic table under the far window. “Take a seat,” he says, turning to the coffee machine. “Espresso, no sugar, já?” Not waiting to see if he’s right, he pushes the espresso button.

  By the time I’ve lugged my suitcase up the final few steps and reached the sofa, he’s already following me across the floorboards with two disposable cups.

  “You know how I take my coffee too?”

  He passes me my coffee, taps the side of his nose as we sit opposite each other. “Don’t worry, I can’t read people’s minds, though I’d like to of course.”

  “Wouldn’t we all?” I take a guilt-free sip. There’s only one calorie in a cup of espresso. Since this is instant coffee, there could be up to four. So I add five to the mental count I keep each day, then savour another sip. Yesterday I ate well under my daily limit of 1,000 calories, so can relax a little today.

  Noting the size of Director Úlfar’s stomach again, I readjust my waistband until it sits directly on top of the bulge that rolls up my stomach and sides when I sit. Then I check my reflection in the darkened window opposite. As I’m straightening my back so my top skims over the right bits, I catch Director Úlfar watching me. “Imagine what you’d find out if you knew what other people were thinking,” I say, grateful my secrets are safe.

  “Well, we can only assume this is why your brother was in Höfkállur rather than Reykjavík.” Director Úlfar runs a fingertip over his eyebrows but doesn’t take his eyes off me. “To meet its people…and see the Sannlitró-Völva.”

  “The what?” I recognise that word from something Mark said recently. Every week he gives me an update on his progress with the Heimspeki. “Sannlitró-?”

  “Precisely.” Director Úlfar leans forward, squashing his thickened middle into a compact paunch and not caring—he neither readjusts his waistband nor moves an arm to hide it. “Now, I know you’ve only been in Ísland a few hours but you will have already noticed a difference in the people here, já?”

  Not wanting to commit to an answer, I sip on my coffee.

  “You met people on the plane, at the airport, on the Flybus?”

  “I didn’t meet anyone exactly.”

  “But you saw them. You saw their calm, perhaps a generosity of spirit? A trusting nature?”

  A too-trusting nature is what I saw. When I was walking to the baggage carousel, Icelanders left their possessions outside restrooms rather than take them inside. I couldn’t help but shake my head in disbelief. They gave me looks of pity in return, but were wrong if they thought I was judging out of ignorance. I’ve been following the development of Iceland’s Heimspeki online because of Mark’s theological thesis. I understand the theory behind why Icelanders do such things. I simply don’t believe a social philosophy can overcome human nature. Only deterrence and fear can do that.

  Unbidden, though, another scene flashes through my memory of the baggage claim hall. An old man’s duffel bag slid onto the baggage carousel, caught on a corner of the shoot and ripped open. Its contents splayed over the conveyor belt’s black folds. The distress on the old man’s face slipped into relief as his fellow Icelanders pitched in to gather his belongings.

  It’s the way things should be, Mark’s been saying a lot lately.

  Director Úlfar moistens his lips before continuing. “Icelanders are this way because of the Sannlitró-Völva,” he sounds proud, “our latest development in energy analysis.”

  That’s right, I nod, remembering. Mark emailed me about this machine, this Sannlitró-Völva. He said that seeing it in action made him rethink his entire thesis. We were going to discuss his conclusions this weekend—he said he wanted my professional opinion about something.

  “There’s way more to the Heimspeki than I originally thought, Becky,” Mark said the weekend before. “Energy. The numinous. It’s both, together. I told you anything was possible!”

  He made me promise to give him my full attention…this weekend.

  Another reason why this all has to be some huge mistake.

  “You see,” Director Úlfar continues, “the Sannlitró-Völva changes you. Once you see your brain’s electrical energy through it, once you see how closely your actions affect that energy and what your own individual life after death will be like, it makes you determined to do the right thing. Always.”

  “Always?”

  He nods.

  “So your asking me to report on your legal technology is the right thing?”

  He places his coffee cup on the table then heaves himself backwards to retrieve his phone from his pocket.

  “Miss Dales, Höfkállur is a very isolated town, much colder than here,” he glances at the darkness outside the window. “So it would be wrong of me to let you go all that way north when you could be my guest here in Reykjavík. We have the same technology, yet more Heimspeki followers live here because this is where history is being made. Your brother would have wanted you to witness what you can while you’re here, to see what made him so passionate about our theories. That is all I’m asking you to do—stay here. Then later, much later, when you’re ready, publish whatever report you want in Dictum, if only to tell your readers about the systems we’re proposing and give your brother’s work a wider audience. That is the right thing to do in these circumstances. Who knows when you might be in Ísland again? You have your phone?”

  He navigates through to a screen displaying his contact details, pauses to stare at them before handing the phone to me. I understand everything apart from the words under his name: Miðju Upplýsingar Ráðuneyti, not that it matters. I unlock my phone and tap his d
etails into its memory. I have absolutely no intention of helping Director Úlfar with his legal technology—I still can’t believe he’s asking me, and he most certainly has zero idea what my brother would want me to do right now. Still, I want Director Úlfar’s details. All of them. I pass the phone back.

  “I’d also like to be a sounding board for you, Miss Dales,” he says, re-crossing his ankles as if in a young lady’s etiquette exam. “I cannot answer any questions about our machine’s actual manufacture of course, but other than that,” he taps my forearm with a sweaty finger and grins, “all you have to do is ask.”

  I knock back my coffee to detach his touch, and somehow manage to hold my temper.

  “So,” he slaps his thighs before scooping himself up from the sofa and grabbing his coat, “to which hotel? As my guest, the choice is yours. Your brother’s body will be transported down from Höfkállur tomorrow before midday.”

  I clear my throat and pick my words carefully. “Thank you, Director Úlfar. But like I told you yesterday, I’m going straight to Höfkállur tonight.” I hold his look until my determination seeps through. “I’ve come to Iceland to see where my brother spent the last four months. Perhaps I can help you in a professional capacity some other time?” I stand and roll my suitcase towards the stairwell.

  “But,” he hesitates, then scampers to catch up, “why go all that way when I can have your brother’s body transported down here?”

  “Because I’m not going to Höfkállur to see just any cadaver,” I answer over my shoulder. “If my brother really is…” I can’t say the word out loud, “then I’ll want to know exactly what happened to him, and the only way I can do that is by going to Höfkállur.” I start down the steps.

  “At least wait until you’ve seen the body?”

  “It’s in Höfkállur, right?”

  “But why put yourself through travelling all that way alone?” He follows me down the stairs. “Weren’t you scared outside earlier?” His tone sounds…smug. “I have my car, I can drive you anywhere—the Hilton, Radisson—then you can wait in comfort until it…he, arrives.”