Towards White Page 4

  It rained on our first date, as it’s raining outside the Austurleid now—though the drizzle in Sydney was warm. Running through the raindrops in the city, Riley said he refused to take an umbrella with him anywhere in summer, on principle—as ever the dramatic. Raising his face to the sky, he laughed and shook off the water, then gazed into my eyes and told me he could easily fall in love with someone who ran through the rain as I did. Our slippery palms squelched each time we readjusted our grip on each others’ hands.

  We stopped in a crowded restaurant in The Rocks, where the waiter wouldn’t let me eat from the children’s menu. Afterwards, we joined the late night Christmas shoppers in David Jones. When I went to find the restrooms, Riley got lost in the lingerie department but claimed he didn’t like it without me. There were so many people, especially in the toy department. He spent half an hour looking at old-fashioned tin soldiers, while I got bored with Garfield. On our way home, we stuffed ourselves full of jellybeans and coloured fairy lights danced above our heads, glistening in the wet streets.

  By autumn, we were spending every weekend together, bushwalking around Ku-ring-gai Chase National Park, past the fishermen at Bobbin Head, where it smelt as damp as this air is now, despite the Austurleid’s air conditioning.

  One Sunday, an old couple couldn’t get their collie out of the mangroves. Having bolted from the boardwalk after a crab, their dog was covered in mud and couldn’t be coaxed back out. Riley was amazing. He went in after her, couldn’t keep a hold on her slippery wet leash, so grabbed her and carried her out. Covered in mud and dog hair, he dried off in the café where we warmed up with hot chocolate and I told him I could easily fall in love with someone who rescued animals as he did.

  Remembering such good times, I feel myself smiling. There were such good times, and that’s why I fell so hard afterwards. I close my eyes and drift into a haze of memories, one shifting into another as the Austurleid rocks me. The hum of its engine, steady and rhythmic, reminds me of the buses I used to catch when taking my finals at Sydney Law College. I couldn’t wait to get to college and finish my exams— just as I can’t wait to get to Höfkállur tonight—because after my exams Riley was taking time off work to help me celebrate. I was so excited.

  What a summer that was too, my last month of freedom before starting work as a junior lawyer. I’d meet Riley at Manly Beach for fish and chips in The Corso. We’d throw Frisbees under the Norfolk Pines until the sun set, get drunk on schooners from Bacchus, before it became popular, and buy flavoured cider from the bottle-o to sip by the shore, snuggling close as the darkness grew cool. Of course that wasn’t real life. It was holiday. Still, I don’t know why Riley never thought back to that summer when tough times came.

  Staring out at the passing lava plains, I remember too how we made plans for when I started work, for a trip to the Red Centre that winter, and to Fiji the next year. My law firm was close to Riley’s, so we’d meet up at lunchtimes to browse through holiday brochures. If we both worked late, we’d have dinner together in the city and pick resorts. It was so good being with someone who understood the hours we kept, the clients, the conferences and the continual education. Riley even talked about moving in together and marriage. The gravity of marriage frightened me. Still I talked about saying yes. I was sleeping at his place so much as it was, practically living there already. Why not take a chance?

  But that was all before the lawyers at my firm made my life hell. At first I just ignored their snubs and underhanded comments about my being a pushover. They could think what they liked. I was no pushover; I was good at my job. Smiling and being polite didn’t make me weak, as they seemed to think. I negotiated with logic, not volume. My clients were happy. My boss was happy. It didn’t matter what my colleagues thought.

  After a while though, I still can’t put a finger on when exactly, I found myself wishing time away as I longed for Friday, then dreading Mondays. I couldn’t bear to be in the office anymore, so worked from home whenever I could. Even so, by Sunday morning, the dread would kick in.

  There were no more smiles for my colleagues to scorn. I didn’t have the energy for smiling anymore. I just wanted to be left alone. Going out at weekends distracted me, though I’d keep checking my watch—every hour was an hour closer to Monday morning and more put-downs. After a while, I doubt I was even the same person Riley first met.

  I pull my knees up towards my chest, balancing my body weight against the safety bar in front of me on the Austurleid, and remember sitting cross-legged on Riley’s sofa one Friday evening, almost a year after I’d started work. All I could do was stare at the plants on his balcony, just as all I can do now is stare at the lava plains ahead.

  That Friday, Riley had come home in a bad mood too. The new girl in his accounts department must have been going to watch his plays for some months by that stage. I told him I needed to get out, go have a drink or two. Riley had a set of excuses ready. He didn’t have enough money. He was still saving for Fiji. He was tired. He’d had a few drinks at lunchtime (probably with her), and wanted to crash out. He always had a good reason for not meeting up at lunchtimes anymore, and for not going out in the city at night. The new girl probably lived nearby.

  My smile fades as I remember Riley slamming his way around the kitchen cupboards, looking for the popcorn I’d forgotten to buy. It was only popcorn but, to him, it was as if I’d lost his only copy of an original script.

  “How could you have forgotten? I specifically texted you! Is there nothing in that brain of yours now but work?”

  Honestly, there wasn’t.

  So I sat there and listened to him complain about the day he’d had, about the fucking shit crap of a day that had fucked all over him and left him smouldering in a hell he didn’t deserve. All he’d been looking forward to was popcorn and a movie. Now he couldn’t even have that, thanks to me.

  He should have left his firm already, become a full-time actor. But me sitting there vacant, staring at plants, probably only reminded him of his own dread.

  “You’re not the only one with a stressful job, Becky,” he muttered. “I’d love to leave Sydney, go home to Brisbane and get away from all this.” He gestured around his apartment, finishing at me.

  I resisted reminding him that it wasn’t the stress of the job that bothered me. It was dealing with lawyers like him.

  “Do you know what?” he said, coming into the lounge. “You’re pathetic. Look at yourself, will you? Are you even there?” He pushed my forehead with a finger. “Pathetic.” Words followed, like ‘worthless’, ‘waste of space’ and ‘weak’. Words I heard at work too.

  Of course he knew how those words would get to me. He used them on purpose; kept going until I cried. He only ever mellowed after tears fell. My despair made him feel better about himself, I suppose. Some people are too scared to make a career change until it’s forced upon them. Riley was one such person. So was I.

  “You’re lucky to have me,” he said once I was a snivelling mess, “do you know that?” He put an arm around me, tutting to himself. “Who else would put up with all your crap, eh?”

  Later, I found out the new accounts girl was from Brisbane too. She’d acted in a local theatre there since she was sixteen. They had a lot in common.

  Squeezing my eyes tight, I cradle my forehead and push from my mind the thought that I might have to face such memories alone from now on, that my Saturday phone calls with Mark might be over. If I do have a somewhat tougher skin these days, it’s only because of my brother. I wish I could stop feeling bad about what happened with Riley, about what I did after I found out about his accounts girl, but I can’t.

  So I seek out my kernel of hope again and tell myself: this isn’t the end. Mark will be fine. In the meantime, going over and over the past will do nothing for me. I’ve got to get on with life and stop dwelling on things so much. Today, of all days, I have to stop.

  Determined,
I take a deep breath, stare out at the lava plains, and listen to the Austurleid’s engine until its gentle hum drowns out my thinking. Slowly the grey dawn eases into a rich sapphire sky, and I force myself to watch it lighten. It’s beautiful, as is all of nature—if only for what it brings me. It lifts me, helps me to focus on what actually matters. And all that matters right now is that pale cerulean whitening the horizon, and getting over that horizon to find my brother. He’s the one in trouble now.

  An aroma carrying the warming of bread drifts to the front of the Austurleid, giving me another much-needed distraction. It makes my stomach growl and sends a euphoric ripple of hunger through me. Inhaling the homely scent, I enjoy both the smell of breakfast and the feel of my stomach flattening as I expand my lungs. This is my favourite time of day—hungry and slim with it. Easing into the stretch, I examine my reflection in the window. I shouldn’t because I’m sitting down, so sure enough, there’s the wobble around my middle that looks as solid as always, bulging against my clothes as if it wants everyone to admire the fold of fat it’s become.

  By the time a breakfast circulates of warm bread rolls with cold cuts of salami and cheese, pickled herring, dried fruits and coffee, I don’t feel like eating anything, lest it bloats me even more. Then again, my head feels so light and spinny, I know what will happen if I get to Höfkállur without eating anything. I’ll sway as I step down from the transport. I may even have to steady myself when I duck underneath to retrieve my suitcase. I’ll grip my suitcase tight, though that won’t improve my shaky walk as I roll it over to a seat where I can cradle my hunger some more. People will talk to me and I’ll talk to them, but I won’t remember anything because my mind will be chanting its hunger pangs too loud and too constant. My writing may even take on the loose scrawl I’ve seen on pages written after letting my stomach gnaw for too long. But I don’t want any of that today.

  Today it’s all about Mark.

  So I discard the bread and let myself pick at the rest. Cutting small pieces, I relish each morsel, sucking and savouring the flavours until it’s time to swallow. This way the delight of eating lasts longer. Alternating between textures helps too—the rubbery thinness of salami followed by the crumble of cheese; the snap of dried banana, then the chewy tang of pickled herring…

  After a bite of each I start over again, until I’ve added a hundred and fifty calories to my mental count. Then I stop. My stomach growls at me for more but I ignore it. I know I’ve eaten enough to start my day, and don’t want to lose that feeling of tightness altogether.

  I do anyway, then feel guilty. I should have stuck to a hundred calories.

  Tutting, I bring unwanted attention to myself with a glance from the driver. When our eyes meet, I glare at him until he turns back to his driving. As he does so, he presses a key on his smartphone and pushes an earpiece into his ear. When whomever he’s calling picks up, he talks in whispers. Then he hangs up and nothing happens.

  Mountain ranges disappear with the hours, only to be replaced by new ones. Huge inky lava flows curl smoothly towards the coastline. The transport is so warm it’s both stuffy and snug at the same time. Happy with the food in my stomach, my body tires again, my eyelids grow heavy. Having snatched only a few hours sleep since Director Úlfar called me yesterday, I wriggle until I’m comfortable in my seat and stare at the view to keep my mind from straying back to Riley, only to jump when my phone rings. Its caller ID says ‘BLOCKED’.

  Mark?

  I bolt upright to answer.

  “Miss Dales?” A man hisses down the earpiece.

  “Yes? Rebecca Dales, speaking.”

  “You are going the wrong way.” The man has an Icelandic accent. There’s something about his voice too. His tone is staccato, like the jolted clatter of a Word2Word translator.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t quite catch that,” I say with a smile, in case my imagination is playing tricks on me again. “What did you say?”

  “Get off at the next town and go back to Reykjavík.”

  I’m not imagining anything. “Who is this?”

  “You’ve already been asked several times today, now I’m telling you. Stay away from Höfkállur.”

  “Who’s speaking?”

  “Tell the driver you’re getting off. Go on, tap him on the shoulder and tell him now. I know you’re close enough.”

  I shoot to my feet; search the Austurleid SBS for someone on a phone or speaking into a laptop.

  “Nei, Miss Dales. I am not on the Austurleid. Nor should you be.”

  I scan the windows. There are no vehicles either side of the transport, nothing in front. I swagger towards the back.

  “You’re going the wrong way. Maybe I’m not making myself clear?” He inhales a deep rasping wheeze before continuing. “We don’t want your kind in Höfkállur. Turn around, now. You don’t want to cause your parents any more pain, do you?”

  He hangs up as I spy a grey four-wheel drive roar around the back window and overtake the Austurleid with menacing acceleration.

  Shaking with rage, I stumble back to my seat. My thumb finds the ‘M’ key on my phone and automatically depresses it to speed-dial Mark.

  Please pick up, please pick up.

  But his phone is still turned off. I sink into my seat and, keeping my eyes on the driver, dial the only other person who knows I’m on the Austurleid SBS to Höfkállur at that exact moment. Director Úlfar sounds sleepy when he answers. I try to imagine him wheezing, the sound has kind of stuck in my mind. Did he just call me?

  “Director Úlfar, I have just been threatened.”

  “What? How?” He’s good at sounding sincere. “When?”

  I tell him what happened. The driver doesn’t react, not to my tone or volume.

  “Miss Dales,” says Director Úlfar, “I have no idea how that man got your number—”

  “I bet you don’t.”

  “But let me assure you that you are in no immediate danger. If he wanted to harm you, he would have already. He’s gone now, right?”

  “I thought Iceland was full of happy people living in a perfect society?”

  He sighs his reply. “It could be because you’re a lawyer.”

  “Ex-lawyer. Why does that matter?” Guilt plucks at my attempt to sound innocent. “I’ve never represented anyone from Iceland.” At least I don’t think I have. “What’s my ex-profession got to do with anything?” Apart from all the times I let my firm bleed clients of money, encouraging them to sue others when they had no possible chance of winning.

  “It could have everything to do with it.” Director Úlfar sounds almost as guilty as I feel. “The man never said you weren’t welcome in Höfkállur. He said your kind. Miss Dales, as well as developing the Sannlitró-Völva, we’ve also been developing a new legal system in which to use that technology. The system involves the exclusion of lawyers, and Höfkállur is the first town to trial that system. So I expect some Heimspeki followers in Höfkállur don’t want lawyers around right now. They believe lawyers are...not very good people.”

  So do I. “But I’m not in Iceland in a legal capacity—I’m here as a sister!”

  “I know.” Sympathy softens his voice. “But please understand, with every new idea comes passion. Sometimes that passion can be…misplaced.”

  “And this is why you didn’t want me going to Höfkállur, because you didn’t want me seeing this—what did you call it—passion?”

  “No.” His tone cools. “I simply wanted to show you what we have finished developing in Reykjavík, the technology we are ready to share with the world. Our trials in Höfkállur are incomplete. Maybe you should come back? I could send a car to meet you?”

  “Just tell me how this even makes sense—there are people in Höfkállur who know I’m on my way there, and what I used to do for a living, yet until we spoke today I didn’t even know about any trials?”
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br />   “Oh I’m sure you did know. You said you and your brother were close.”

  “He never said anything about any new legal system.” Although as soon as I say it, I realise Mark probably has, even if in passing. Then again, he’s never had much interest in anything even remotely legal. “Mark’s PhD is in theology, not law. And there have been no official announcements about any new legal system, not even a rumour of any trials. If there had been, Dictum would have sent me to investigate already.”

  “Still your brother, and people like him, know about Höfkállur. Are you sure you didn’t know?” There’s a hint of pride in his voice now. It grows when I don’t answer. “I suppose it is possible, given there are no lawyers in Höfkállur anymore. We did want to keep visitors to a minimum for now. Maybe in your country it is different, but here we do not like to announce developments until we have tested them thoroughly.”

  I close my eyes to still the whirl of questions in my mind. As I rub my forehead to concentrate, my stomach grumbles again. I should have had more breakfast, not less. Finally, a question rises to the top. “The man on the phone, he knew you’d asked me to stay in Reykjavík. How did he know that?”

  Director Úlfar stifles a laugh. “You think that man is somehow linked to me?”

  I let my silence answer him.

  “Miss Dales, you are very worried—the phone call was intended to scare you and it succeeded. But I will find the caller’s number from the phone company and trace him. I will also have one of my associates in Höfkállur meet you from the Austurleid to make sure you are safe. Our MUR representative in Höfkállur is J…oh, nei,” he pauses to rethink, “Ari, I will send Ari. He works at the Litrúm-Hús.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s what they call a courthouse now.”

  “Ah, yes.” Mark mentioned that in an email too. Maybe I know more about these legal trials than I realise.