Grímur stood naked in front of the bathroom mirror and shivered. His skin was red and raw after shaving for the third time that day, so he had to gently dab himself dry with a towel, and avoid rubbing anywhere. His legs and arms were better, as if they were more resilient than his face, chest and genitals. He set the hair dryer to the hottest setting but one and used it to blow air on to his back and trunk to get rid of the worst of the chill. Once his skin was dry, he began applying ointment, the razor at hand just in case he encountered any stray stubble, some tiny and disgusting stub of hair curling out of his skin as if it were trying to fish for bacteria to draw into his body. It was a feeling rather than any kind of certainty. Grímur knew perfectly well that this obsessive shaving was doing him no good, and he was well aware that the doctor was telling the truth when he had explained that the skin would be much more susceptible to infection when shaved so frequently. But there was no way to explain to anyone the disgust that overcame him at the thought of hair, when he considered what each hair really was – an elongated thread of proteins composed of dead cells that made their way out through a tiny opening in the skin that was full of sweat and fat.

The ointment stung, and his skin felt so delicate that he pulled on a pair of tracksuit bottoms that were padded inside, and a soft, loose T-shirt that hardly brushed against his body. Then he sat at the computer and looked up Björn’s new woman on Facebook. She was called Kristín and she was easily found, as she had clicked the Like button on literally anything Björn had posted, whether it was something to do with football, lousy videos of people falling over or pictures of his dinner. She clearly thought Björn was the hottest ticket in town. Another innocent who had fallen for him, he thought; another innocent ready for slaughter. 88

He saved her profile picture to his computer, printed it out on good-quality paper and inspected it. The woman was a beauty; if anything, more beautiful than Ísafold. Her face was prettier, with a brighter expression. She was clearly younger and plumper. Ísafold had become all skin and bone. He opened the living-room cabinet and began removing the pictures of Ísafold that were clustered on the inside of the right-hand door, moving them carefully, one at a time, over to the left. As soon as Ísafold had been moved, the new woman’s picture would take its place at the top of the right-hand door. It was a big door, so there would be space for many pictures of her.

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