Just to let you fucking Feminazi know that your hole isn’t any more special than any other whore’s hole. Sometime you’re not expecting it I’m going to grab hold of you in the dark and batter you with a knuckleduster and fuck you until you beg for mercy you cunt.

Gunnar tried to force a smile, trying to find some kind of levity inside himself that would allow him to laugh it off, dismiss it, but it didn’t work. The smile turned to a scowl and before he managed to stop himself, he had tapped in a reply and sent it:

So you know, you meatheaded idiot, your messages never reach the minister, so you can write whatever you like – everything goes from me straight to the police, so the only results you’ll see are the police knocking on your door when they’ve traced this. PS. Wash your mouth out. Soap helps. 112

Gunnar leaned back and felt the buzz that his reply had given him. He closed his eyes and conjured up an image of Fossi that he felt fitted the philosophy that came through in his messages: a sweaty badly shaved man with an inferiority complex, sitting in a tattered armchair with a laptop on his knees, wanking over torture porn.

He had hardly any time to enjoy his feeling of victory, as a reply appeared after only a few minutes.

What makes you think I’m frightened of the police? I’m not scared of the cops. Your whore who thinks she can be a minister is the one who should fear me, and you should fear me too, you fuckwit.

46

For the first time since returning to Iceland, Úrsúla had a clear feeling of being alive. Her daze had given way to a hot rush that swept through her body like lava spreading under a glacier, thawing her out and bringing her to boiling point as she thought of Thorbjörn and their meeting that day. The relief that she could still feel emotion was so powerful, it almost brought her to tears. It was as if the guilt was somewhere far away, somewhere downtown at the work meeting Nonni was having – it wasn’t something that troubled her right now, although she was pretty sure it would accompany him home.

But until then she was determined to enjoy feeling good for the first time in many months. As she sat in front of a cop show on the television, a stack of South Coast Highway paperwork on her knees, she knew it was a betrayal to be cultivating this relationship – it was completely wrong – but all the same, she couldn’t stop herself sending Thorbjörn a message:

It was good to see you… 113

Her heart fluttered as the message went on its way, and she wondered where he would be when it arrived. Maybe he was out at some bar with a beer in his hand – she knew he was a dedicated barfly – or maybe he was at work on an article. Or maybe he was sitting alone, as she was, on the sofa, trying to erase from his memory those kisses and their heaving sweaty delight in each other.