‘How are you feeling?’ he had asked. His voice was warm, and she had to swallow the lump in her throat as she recalled how understanding he had been when she had frozen, shrivelling up inside herself, in the middle of an interview about Liberia. That had been just after her return, after her time in the refugee camps in Syria, which would be any normal person’s vision of hell. It was supposed to have been a prominent interview, but she had put a stop to it, feeling that it was the wrong approach, in view of all the suffering she had witnessed. She was also sure she could not describe in words what her work was all about, and wasn’t convinced that anyone would be better off for reading about it. Some things were simply so terrible that it was better for people not to know about them; the results of an Ebola infection were exactly those things. Thorbjörn had said he understood her position and hadn’t applied any pressure, despite having spent two days gathering material and preparing himself, and even though Vefpressan had already flagged up the interview. 69

Ever since then, thinking of Thorbjörn had given her a warm feeling inside, and as he stood in her office, looked at her with concern in his eyes and asked how she was feeling, she felt the turmoil inside and her feelings coming alive.

‘I’m just fine,’ she had said, coughing awkwardly; but he shook his head, took her hand and pulled her to him, and for a moment Úrsúla let his lips rest on hers, until she pushed him away. She longed to rest her head on his chest, nestle in his strong embrace, mould herself to him and forget.

She finished sorting the stuff on her desk, and sat down again, shaking the mouse to wake her computer from sleep. She would have to recover her equilibrium before going home. The guilt that had been a sharp pain in her belly for more than a year had built up. It was no surprise: not only had she become bereft of feelings for her own family, she had allowed Thorbjörn to kiss her, and in all truthfulness, she had returned his kiss. That was completely wrong, whichever way you looked at it. But at the same time, her heart pumped faster than it had for a long time. Alongside her regular heartbeat was another beat, with a rhythm that sent waves of delight through her. She closed her eyes and relived the moment.

Thorbjörn was just as he had been the last time they had met: stocky, hair cropped close to his skull and two days’ worth of stubble on his face. He might well have been in the same checked shirt as when he was supposed to interview her.

‘You’re not all right,’ he had whispered, pulling her into his arms, and her heart filled with gratitude. It was so good to feel the understanding, to feel the sympathy. ‘You’re not all right,’ he whispered. ‘But I can heal you.’