2012
As the day wore on, it began to snow.
It was the first snow Helgi had seen that winter since leaving Akureyri.
He had stepped out of the office to visit his old neighbourhood of Laugardalur, an area of attractive residential streets close to the centre, known for its beautiful green spaces.
Today, though, everything was subtly transformed.
It was incredible how the whiteness of the snow could lift one’s surroundings on a dark winter’s afternoon.
Helgi hadn’t liked to park directly outside Bergthóra’s place, so he had found a space at a discreet distance and walked the last stretch. Halfway there, the heavens had opened.
Oh well, perhaps the snow would provide him with a bit of cover.
He had pictured Bergthóra sitting at the window, keeping an eye on everyone who passed by, but of course she wouldn’t be doing that. She had never been that interested in other people. She was much more likely to be in the sitting room, weighing up whether to have another glass of red wine.
He had done it; he had moved out.
They had never actually discussed it, or indeed any other aspect of their break-up.
Helgi would rather Bergthóra had left and he had got to keep the flat, but in the event he was the one who had walked out under cover of darkness, taking his most precious possessions – not least his beloved books.
He had asked a friend to drop by the following morning and pick up some other objects that were important to him.
Inevitably, a lot of other things had been left behind, but that didn’t matter.
The moment he was out of there, it had felt like being released from prison, and he had sworn to himself that he would never see Bergthóra again if he could possibly avoid it.
She had verbally humiliated him and physically attacked him, always when she was drunk.
Helgi had put up with it as long as he could – he didn’t know why – but he’d finally realized that he’d hit a wall and couldn’t go any further. That life couldn’t go on like that.
He remembered the police knocking on the door one evening after a noisy row, obviously suspecting that he had laid hands on her , not vice versa.
The relationship had been so toxic that it had taken him weeks – no, months – to get back on an even keel, and then he’d only been able to do it with Aníta’s help.
Yet in spite of his vow to himself, here he was, standing in the falling snow, staring at the house across the street.
There was their old flat, where Bergthóra lived now.
A warm glow shone from the windows and he noticed movement inside.
It was her. He shrank back. Was he scared?
No, and yet… suddenly the old poison seemed to be at work inside him again.
The painful memories came flooding back thick and fast.
He tried to imagine how the conversation would go.
She would never take a reprimand lying down.
She knew how to get under his skin, how to hurt him.
He became aware of a vein throbbing in his temple and realized that he would have a headache for the rest of the day.
He wasn’t frightened exactly, just full of a sick trepidation.
He didn’t want to encounter her, but he had no choice but to knock on the door.
He had already surrendered his key, passing it on to her new boyfriend.
He reminded himself why he was here. Bergthóra had turned up uninvited at Aníta’s office, and that in itself was unacceptable.
It counted as nothing less than menacing behaviour.
No one should be allowed to get away with that sort of thing.
Clearly, Bergthóra hadn’t laid down her weapons: the incident had been carefully planned.
Aníta gave the appearance of dealing with it well – she was quite a tough cookie – but Helgi wasn’t fooled: she’d been shaken. That first stunt of Bergthóra’s had been so crazy that the mere thought of it made him burn with rage.
But he had meant to let it go.
Until the incident on the bus.
Of course that had been no coincidence. Of course Bergthóra was stalking Aníta; she knew exactly what she was doing.
And the sinister part was that Bergthóra had almost certainly been completely sober on both occasions.
It was a cold-blooded, calculated act of revenge, or hatred, or both.
Her target was obviously him, not Aníta.
She intended to go on making his life unbearable, poisoning the very air until he was struggling to breathe.
Helgi wasn’t cold, despite the thickly falling snow; not yet, anyway.
The air was scintillatingly fresh, reminding him that Advent was just around the corner.
Although the day was dark, there was beauty in the softly falling snow in the streetlights.
The horror wasn’t out here, it was lurking indoors, in Bergthóra’s shadow.
What the hell was he supposed to say to her?
He drew a deep breath and glanced quickly both ways, though there was no traffic, before crossing the road.
He was the only person around, and, looking over his shoulder, he saw that he had left a trail of footprints in the snow, leading to this door.
Here he was out of sight – she couldn’t see him from the windows – and this gave him a temporary breathing space.
But he had a nasty feeling he’d seen the curtains twitching in the upstairs flat: could the neighbour have spotted his approach?
He remembered how the man had reported him to the police after a particularly bad argument with Bergthóra.
What was he going to say to Bergthóra?
How could he express his anger in words? Would it make any sort of impression on her? Would she react verbally or with her fists?
Underneath, he knew that the correct response was to go to the police. Make a formal complaint.
There had been two incidents now, and it was vital that they should be properly reported.
Then the police could go round and speak to her, without Helgi having to be there.
Yes, that would have been the sensible reaction.
He ought to trust the system, given that he was part of it, and from his training he knew that it never paid to get into an altercation with a violent individual.
Yet he hadn’t done the sensible thing, not yet.
Deep down, he knew why. The complaint would have to be accompanied by detailed descriptions of Bergthóra’s previous behaviour; only then could he provide proper proof that the police might need to intervene.
But Helgi simply couldn’t face it, even if it was a matter of life and death; couldn’t face sitting down in front of one of his colleagues to explain how he, a fit young police officer, had been subjected to domestic violence, then driven from his home by his girlfriend.
He was ashamed of the fact.
And ashamed of his shame.
That was why he was standing here in the snow, trying to muster the courage to knock on the door. And, if he was honest, he did want a chance to vent his rage too.
Things couldn’t go on like this. Bergthóra had to leave Aníta in peace – and Helgi too.
They had only been registered as cohabiting, they weren’t married, and now they were separated for good.
No special financial settlement was required; all they had to do was balance the final payments on the flat.
The rental agreement was in his name, but it had taken him a long time to do anything about the situation, at which point he had realized that the contract had only six months left to run.
That time was now coming to an end and Bergthóra would have to move out, unless she had taken the initiative and renewed the contract herself.
They had taken it in turns to pay the rent ever since he left.
Helgi had been digging into his savings to cover the payments.
Bergthóra would have to reimburse him eventually, but he hadn’t come here to call in his debts.
That could wait. Besides, he doubted Bergthóra would ever pay him back in full or that he would have the willpower to chase her for the money.
He was still standing at the door.