‘You shouldn’t worry about it. God loves you just as much as those who have done no harm. You simply need to work at realizing that and thinking about what you’ve done. When you recognize how wrong it was, you will repent, and repentance is the first step to letting God into your life.’ It was far too hot in the room, just the way Jósteinn liked it, and small beads of sweat had formed on the priest’s forehead.
‘You misunderstand me. I’m not searching for God. I asked how he came up with the idea of creating a man like me if he’s as perfect as you’re making out.’
‘No one is entirely evil, Jósteinn. We’ve discussed this before.’ The priest glanced sideways at the window and the freedom waiting outside. ‘But we don’t need to go over it again. You’re a smart man, and I know you remember everything I tell you.’
‘So you’re suggesting that your God created me?’ Jósteinn stared down at his lap, at the legs of his ripped velour trousers that had once been dark wine-red but were now almost pink.
‘Yes, I am.’ The priest laid his hands on his knees and prepared to lever himself up from the low couch. ‘Well, then…’
‘But if he has created me and I am the way I am, I don’t understand it.’ Jósteinn shut his eyes and listened carefully. He had read that if one of your senses didn’t work, the others made up for it. He couldn’t hear anything more clearly, just the faint sound of the cook’s radio from out in the corridor, water running in a bathtub further back in the house and the priest’s shallow panting as he suffocated from the heat. Nothing he hadn’t heard while his eyes had been open. ‘Your God is either kind of incompetent, or exceptionally unkind.’
‘We can discuss this when we next meet, Jósteinn. I wasn’t born yesterday and I’m fully aware that you’re trying to provoke me. But it’s completely normal for you to be pondering this and the fact that you are is a good sign, in my view. It shows me that you’re on the right track. Salvation harms no one, believe me, and your heavy burden will be lifted if you seek salvation wholeheartedly.’
‘Oh, I thought you knew. I don’t have a soul to save.’ Jósteinn opened his eyes again and tried pinching his nose. He neither saw nor heard more clearly as a result. ‘Either I never had one, or I lost it somewhere along the way,’ he said nasally. Maybe he would have to do this for longer to experience heightened perception.
‘What nonsense, Jósteinn. Of course you have a soul. Everyone has a soul.’ When there was no answer, the priest’s face lit up like someone who’s glimpsed his opportunity. ‘Well, I think I should visit you more often, Jósteinn. Pay more attention to you. And your soul.’ He stood up.
‘How do you know I have a soul?’ Jósteinn let go of his nose, but continued staring at his knees.
‘Because, Jósteinn, although you attacked your friend Jakob, I understand that you’re helping him, spending your own money to help him and his mother. That’s not the action of a soulless man.’
Jósteinn smiled but didn’t look up. ‘What that is, is a huge misunderstanding.’
‘How so?’ The priest was still standing by the sofa.
‘I’m not doing it to be kind to Jakob. It’s not compassion that motivates me. Far from it.’ He smiled again before trying to cover both his eyes and his ears simultaneously. ‘I’m only doing it in order to inflict pain. To… harm.’ The smile vanished. ‘It’s quite possible to do that without having a knife.’
The priest said nothing. Jósteinn wouldn’t have heard him anyway, now that he had his hands over his ears. He had seen a great deal in his work at Sogn, so Jósteinn’s peculiar behaviour didn’t surprise him, but he did find his declarations more difficult than normal.
‘Sometimes good is bad and bad is good.’ Jósteinn dropped his hands and glanced briefly into the priest’s eyes, for the first time since he’d arrived. ‘But there are also examples of bad being bad, and that’s how it is in this instance. I can promise you that I have only bad intentions.’
Thóra swore quietly as she waited for the man, not because of the location, which was far from ideal, but because of how upset she was by what had happened. The bustle in the packed café in the Skeifan shopping area wasn’t enough to distract her. It wasn’t until Ægir appeared fifteen minutes late that she managed to direct her thoughts elsewhere. He stood in the entrance, looking around for her, and when she stood up and waved at him, he smiled amiably and threaded his way between the densely arranged tables. Nothing in his bearing suggested a tyrant who might apply severe methods in his therapeutic treatment of autistic patients. On the contrary: he seemed rather gentle, apologizing for the inconvenience to everyone he slid past. His appearance, however, might inspire fear in particularly sensitive individuals, with his pitch-black hair and snow-white face. His eyes, also black, stared out from beneath his floppy fringe, and Thóra even caught the glint of a gold ring in one of his eyebrows.
‘Hi.’ He extended his hand. ‘I assume you’re Thóra.’ She nodded and he sat down at the tiny table that barely accommodated the two cups of coffee Thóra had ordered, assuming the man would turn up on time. Now her cup was empty and the other one had stopped steaming.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
‘No problem.’ Thóra gestured towards the cup. ‘I don’t know whether it’s still drinkable.’
‘Not to worry. I drink tea, but thanks anyway.’ Thóra seriously regretted not having drunk his coffee as well. ‘I understand you want to talk about Tryggvi? I’ve mainly come out of curiosity – it’s been more than a year and a half since he stopped having treatment with me, so I have to admit it’s been a long time since I gave him any thought. Of course I couldn’t stop thinking about him after the fire; that was horrendous. But why do you want to talk about him? Didn’t you say you’re a lawyer?’
Once again Thóra explained her connection to the fire at the residence. She had repeated the story so many times now that she could have done it in her sleep. ‘I particularly wanted to discuss the progress he was making. I can’t imagine anyone knows better than you what this consisted of and how signifi-cant it was. I’ve been hearing some quite contradictory stories about his condition.’
‘Okay, that shouldn’t be a problem.’ Ægir leaned back and folded his arms. ‘Though I do need to point out that in my opinion, he was only in the very early stages of improvement; he could have advanced much further if I hadn’t been asked to stop treating him. I don’t think I’ve ever been as disappointed, professionally.’
‘Can you describe the nature of the improvements?’
‘Oof, where do I begin?’ Ægir exhaled gently. ‘I don’t know how much you know about this level of autism, but broadly speaking, Tryggvi was suffering from a severe developmental disability that hampered his communication to such an extent that he was barely able to express himself to others. He had no social skills, so he played no part in what went on around him beyond that of an indifferent spectator. Few people are autistic to such an extreme degree; many can make themselves understood, even though their ability to communicate is always impaired in some way, as is their social behaviour. Tryggvi could stare at a fan, or anything mechanically repeti-tive, for hours at a time. He could also sometimes fall into patterns of movement for long periods, rocking back and forth or wringing his hands incessantly, for example.’
‘So were you able to overcome all this?’
‘Not to any miraculous degree, but I was able to significantly reduce his repetitive behaviour, and I got him to look people in the eye and accept their presence. As I said, he still had a long way to go.’