Margeir answered the phone cheerfully, certain that he was about to get some positive news; it wasn’t often that work contacted him. But the weary voice of the station manager crushed his hopes. Advertising revenue was slow and the number of sponsors was decreasing steadily, so he wanted Margeir to find some legal party to sponsor his show in return for advertisements and good publicity from the station. He added that Margeir should think about it carefully, since his job depended on it; he shouldn’t rule out any potential sponsors. Everyone was in need of publicity these days; times were hard and every customer and every penny was fought for. Nowhere could you find cheaper advertising that gave as much return, and the station’s listenership was constantly growing. His sales pitch was so convincing that Margeir was almost starting to consider advertising himself when the man said abruptly, ‘You can do it, right? Otherwise I’ll have to hire someone who can find his own sponsors. Times are tough, you know,’ he continued, when Margeir didn’t answer straight away.
‘I’ll see what I can do,’ was all he could think of to say. ‘Bye.’ He hung up and exhaled slowly. The wind had changed; Margeir gasped when it proved to be colder than his lungs had anticipated. He cursed his complacency. How did unemployment payments work? He had no idea. He vaguely remembered his mother nagging him to sign on when he’d lost his job just over a year before, but he’d completely forgotten where to go and what to do. He wasn’t particularly looking forward to bringing it up again, because he’d kind of implied that he’d already done it ages ago. He wouldn’t be able to convincingly explain to her why he’d been so unmotivated, and he suspected he’d get only limited sympathy from her about it, even though she always took his side.
He fully expected his right to full benefits to have expired after all this time, but surely he was entitled to something. The government could hardly expect him to go begging on the streets, could they? Wasn’t that against the law, too? He couldn’t afford to lose any more income, and the money he’d saved up by doing two jobs at the same time was long gone. Plus he could hardly cut back any further on household expenses. The apartment was owned by his grandfather, so he’d never find lower rent anywhere else. He’d stopped making calls from his mobile phone and had cancelled his accounts for his landline and Internet, along with everything else that cost money and wasn’t considered a necessity. His car was the only thing he was holding onto; no one would buy that piece of junk anyway, and it was good to have it for emergencies, even though the petrol tank leaked and he had to keep a can in the boot just to be on the safe side. He denied himself every other luxury and it was hard to think of further ways to reduce his expenses. He spent his money on little other than housing and food, and when you only ate noodles it was impossible to make cutbacks in that area. Pizza was a luxury he sometimes thought about but never allowed himself. The only proper meals he had were at his mother’s, usually on Sundays. She earned a huge number of brownie points from her son for not mentioning his ravenous appetite and the quantity of food he devoured. Once she had asked him if he was still growing even in adulthood, but otherwise she acted as if she didn’t notice anything unusual and simply started preparing bigger meals so that he could take the leftovers home with him. No, it wasn’t like the good old days when he’d had enough in his wallet. Of course there hadn’t been much left at the end of every month but he didn’t recall ever having lacked anything. He hadn’t had a clue about the hard times that awaited him.
He set off down the empty street, into the wind, and resolved to do the right thing. Nothing mattered any more but taking responsibility for himself and hoping people would see the truth. Even though it would be hard to pin all the blame on him, you never knew; fate was unpredictable. As far as he could see it lulled people into a false sense of security, getting them to believe that everything would be all right and then knocking their feet out from under them when they least expected it. He remembered all the news stories about poor people winning lottery jackpots, only to fritter them away and be left with the knowledge of what they’d be missing for the rest of their lives. He had considered himself to be on the upswing; his life had felt as though it had direction, even though he didn’t know exactly where he was heading or how he would get there. Now that feeling had disappeared and it was clear that his path lay along the baseline, not on an upwards trajectory. For the time being, at least.
Margeir pulled his hood up to protect himself against the cold. What was he whingeing for? There were loads of people much more unfortunate than he was and there was no reason to make things even worse than they actually were. If the worst came to the worst he could move in with his mother; unless, that was, he could actually find some sponsors. While he was pondering possible opportunities in that area his phone rang again and he pulled it hopefully from his pocket. Maybe the station manager had changed his mind, or maybe a sponsor had materialised and Margeir wouldn’t have to come up with one any more. But this wasn’t the case, and sponsorship was no longer Margeir’s biggest concern.
Thóra was in a foul mood. She had returned to her office after her visit to Sogn and had made calls all over town to speak to those who were now most important to the case. But it seemed as though they’d all conspired to ignore her. Ari didn’t answer – neither his office phone nor his mobile – and Glódís hadn’t even replied to Thóra’s first e-mail enquiring about who had been in charge of Tryggvi’s therapy, let alone her second message asking for the name of the surviving sixth resident. Nor had she managed to contact the former director by telephone; the Regional Office said that Glódís was busy and refused to refer Thóra to someone else who could answer her question about the girl in Room 6. The woman on the phone defended herself by claiming client confidentiality, and there was little that Thóra could say in protest. The Ministry of Justice also informed her that Einvarður was busy in a meeting and would not be in his office for the rest of the day. Thóra had intended to go through the list Glódís had given her but when she attempted to do so, she either reached the voicemails of former employees or no one at all. Two of the numbers were out of service.
To make matters worse, Bella had seized her chance to wangle some time off after Thóra had left that morning, so reception was empty. The secretary had left a large note on the table, saying: Gone to the dokter’s. Thóra and her partner Bragi had bought a spellcheck program as soon as they’d seen the first letters their secretary had typed up, and without a doubt it had been one of their best investments. Still, it was quite an achievement for Bella to have managed to squeeze two errors into the same word.
When her phone finally rang Thóra couldn’t work out which of the numbers she’d been trying to reach was flashing up on her screen.
‘My name is Linda, and I have a missed call from this number.’
Thóra reached for Glódís’s list and looked up the name as she explained who she was and gave a brief summary of why she had been calling. It really didn’t matter which of the employees it was, her sales pitch would always be the same. Just as she finished her final sentence she found the woman’s name and her scrawled-down job title, which Thóra had found in the phone book. To her satisfaction she read that Linda was a developmental therapist. Judging from her voice she was older than Thóra, and she sounded calm and measured.