Outside her apartment building she took some notes from her wallet and weighed up whether or not to ask for a receipt, just to annoy him by forcing him to put it through his books. But instead she added an extra three thousand krónur on top of the fare and told him to keep the change. The boot clicked open, and she barely had time to take her luggage before the car swept away, its boot still open. She took out her keys, went to the shelter at the side of the building and dropped both box and case into the bin. Then she went upstairs with only the computer case on her shoulder.

This wasn’t the release day she had been expecting. She had indigestion and a headache, but she certainly wasn’t going to sit down and weep bitter tears because some fool of a junkie had let her down. What the hell had she been expecting? That the girl was genuinely fond of her? That a fumble and stolen kisses in the corner of a cell were the basis for something special? Bullshit!

She cleared her throat hard, stripped off, threw the clothes into the bin and opened the fridge. She had to use all her willpower to resist the sudden longing that gripped her when she saw the bottle of beer on the top shelf, reaching instead for a can of Coke, which she took with her to the bathroom, drinking it as the bath filled. There was no chance that she was going to risk her probation with a beer, or by being a second late for the evening meal or lights-out at eleven. She had no intention of breaking even a single one of the rules and regulations that were all part of being allowed out. She could pee into a bottle whenever they wanted and they wouldn’t find a trace of anything stronger than Coca-Cola.

She crushed the aluminium can and weighed it in her hand. She would have to focus her mind on aluminium over these coming days. She would systematically concentrate on this pale, lightweight metal that so many people seemed to want to own. The best remedy for mental turmoil, she reminded herself, was a complex problem to solve.

59

The yoghurt was wonderfully sweet; much sweeter than any she’d had before, and the obviously synthetic fruit taste was a clue that this was an American product. There were many brands of yoghurt in America that María had never tasted, but she had tried practically every one available in Iceland, and this one wasn’t familiar. She stretched her tongue as deep as she could into the tub and used her fingers to clean it out. She was going to keep hold of this and try to read the lettering on it the next time the door opened and some light was let in.