Gunnar quickly grasped the situation and nodded, just as slowly. It was as if they were both held back, so that their movements were hampered and speech had been slowed right down.

‘I understand,’ Gunnar said in a relaxed voice that had an everyday tone, as if he was listening with one ear to something else that was mildly interesting.

He took one step into the kitchen, and then another, so that it was clear he was placing himself between Óðinn and Úrsúla.

‘I think you should go out to the car, Úrsúla,’ he said, still in the same measured voice as he took one more step.

Óðinn seemed to realise what was happening, as determination replaced the indecision in his eyes and he leaped forward, pushing Gunnar aside so that he lost his balance for a moment. Before Úrsúla could move from the stool Óðinn had snatched a handful of her hair, making her wince, and a strong smell of onion filled her senses as she saw the carving knife had vanished from the chopping board, leaving the pile of chopped onion that Nonni had obviously intended to have with the fish that still lay on the table.

Óðinn stood behind Úrsúla, and she felt the cold blade of the knife against her neck. She wondered if death would come quickly if he cut her throat, or if the blade would have to be higher up to 258open an artery. It was sharp, regularly and carefully steeled, like all Nonni’s kitchen knives.

Óðinn loosened his grip on her hair and took hold of her head, but his hands were so slippery with sweat that they slipped from her forehead as he tried to hold her at the same time as he wielded the knife.

‘Relax, Óðinn,’ Gunnar whispered. ‘Let’s not get carried away, eh? Let’s calm down and think things over? OK?’

Gunnar stood perfectly still opposite them, and Úrsúla found herself thinking that even if Óðinn were to cut her throat, he wouldn’t get Gunnar as well. He would hardly be a match for someone so powerful. She felt some relief at the thought that someone would be left to tell her children how she had lost her life, to recount exactly what had happened in her last few moments. Gunnar would be the witness who accompanied her in those final seconds of life. It was odd that she had never before thought this through. She had never considered that the children could be left with the same deep-felt uncertainty, the same gap left by the loss of a parent in circumstances that could not be accounted for. In Liberia she had only thought that Nonni would be devastated if she were to die of Ebola; she had never imagined that it would make much of a difference to the children.

They had become so accustomed to being alone with Nonni, she had always imagined that their lives would hardly change much without her. But now she suddenly saw everything in a new light. Her father had been absent from home for so long before he died, but all the same, the sorrow of his passing had been the single most momentous event of her life. Her compulsion and desire to create order where there had been chaos, to do what she could to help people in need, more than likely had its roots in her father’s death. Because she couldn’t save her father, she had spent her life giving aid to others.