There was hot coffee in the flask, as there always was when she came home from work, and a couple of biscuits in a bowl on the table. Omar was so good to her, much better than her own son had ever been. In some ways it was as if the fates had sent Omar to her, to make up for Jonni, who had lain transverse across the birth canal, starting his short life by giving her a dose of unbearable pain, and after that had always been somehow fighting against his own existence. Omar was the sticking plaster on her soul, the ointment that soothed her pain, which until recently she had assumed would never fade.

She opened her address book and found the number for NDM’s lawyer, who she always called without giving her own name when she enquired about Omar’s case. She waited a while for the phone to be answered, and then it was as if the lawyer snatched the phone from his secretary’s hand as soon as she answered.

‘Just as well you called,’ he said, sounding downhearted. ‘The appeal was rejected.’

Olga’s feeling wasn’t of disappointment, as she knew that if Omar were allowed a residence permit, he would be free to go where he chose and to do what he wanted, and would be unlikely to go on living with an old woman like her. She might have been more disappointed if he had been granted residence, as that would signal the end of their time together. But she felt a shiver of dread as the thought crossed her mind that it would be her job to give Omar the news.

‘What reasons were given for rejecting the appeal?’ she asked.

She would have to tell him why this had happened, give him the reasons again and again why he could not stay in Iceland. She 132would have to explain to him the rules she did not understand herself. She’d have to use the soothing tone of voice and be ready with a hot-water bottle and a blanket to wrap around him as he huddled shivering on the sofa, as he had the last time his application had been refused.

‘That’s the thing,’ the lawyer said. ‘The Directorate of Immigration’s investigation turned up another man with the same name and date of birth, registered in a refugee camp in Turkey. Omar Farki, Syrian national. He was found murdered in Istanbul last year. Stabbed, according to the police report.’

‘What? That’s strange,’ Olga said, failing to register what this could mean. ‘Couldn’t it be a coincidence there’s another man with the same name? After all, it’s a big world.’

‘No,’ the lawyer said. ‘Omar…’ he said, but hesitated ‘…or whatever his name really is, had the murdered man’s papers and used them to travel to Iceland.’