Úrsúla closed her eyes and for a moment was back at the staff hostel, where the infection specialist sat in a corner, sketching a diagram linking patients in the hope of finding patient zero, to trace the source of the epidemic. Jean-Pierre sat on the sofa, weeping, having stopped himself administering a lethal dose of morphine to a young woman to alleviate her suffering, while 186Martina, the Spanish nurse, was on her knees, praying to God in his mercy not to let any of the patients survive. Úrsúla opened her eyes and watched the report continue. It was somehow strangely calming, some kind of confirmation that she hadn’t dreamed it all, that the Ebola epidemic hadn’t just been a horrendous nightmare of bodies glistening with fever as they were brought in, to be carried out later as twisted corpses, but that this had genuinely been her life for a few weeks.

Kátur shifted on the sofa, making himself comfortable on her chest as if he was trying to absorb the sorrow that he knew was deep in her heart, but which she couldn’t feel.

187

Thursday

81

The last thing she expected to do was break down in tears in front of Thorbjörn. Maybe it was the shock of being attacked by Pétur the day before, which she had suppressed to prevent Nonni and the children becoming even more concerned about her, or it could have been the news Thorbjörn had given her – that the media had got wind of the Tinder profile. As it was Thorbjörn, she could hardly refute, with an aggrieved expression on her face, the suggestion that she could be unfaithful to her husband, so instead she burst into tears.

‘Hey, don’t cry,’ he said, stroking her hair, which magnified her sadness so much that she wanted to throw herself into his arms and spend what was left of the day crying. His sympathy was tender and hugely comforting, but she was keenly aware of her betrayal. It wasn’t right for her to accept solace from any man other than Nonni. It was no better than cuckolding him.

She got to her feet, reached for a tissue and wiped her face.

‘It’s a stalker who registered a profile under my name,’ she said. ‘The police are searching for him. This is supposed to be typical stalker behaviour.’

Thorbjörn’s eyes followed her around the office. She wondered whether he had found her display of sensitivity embarrassing.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, taking out a lipstick as she went over to the mirror. She applied a thick layer to her lips.

‘There’s nothing to apologise for, Úrsúla. I’ll spike the story so we don’t use it, and I’ll see that it doesn’t leak out to the rest of 188the media. And if it does get out somewhere, then we get a scoop about the stalker. OK? That would explain it all. “Stalker Puts Minister’s Profile on Dating Site”.’

Thorbjörn sketched quote marks in the air as if he was casting an invisible spell.