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CHAPTER 1

I sink down into my seat on the midnight Flybus and wish the Icelandic passengers would stop staring at me. I'm sure they don't mean to make me feel uncomfortable, that would be a negative thing to do. But the subtlety they're attempting simply isn't working. I've seen their multiple side-glances, gazes roaming the carpeted aisle only to pass over me. Too many people have pretended to look out my window — though at what I don't know. It's the early hours of the morning and there's nothing but black outside. Probably, they're just curious. They want to know if I'm one of them, and, if I'm not, to assure me that I should be. Still, I wish they'd stop. They're not the reason I'm here.

Please Mark, be okay.

I rest my forehead against the window's cold glass and clear a circle in the condensation as a shadowy white cabin flashes past. Mark travelled along this dark road recently; all visitors arriving in Iceland do. So for miles I watch for something more. Occasionally I cup a hand between my face and the glass. But it's no use. There's nothing more to see. The night is so dark it's like a black hole sucking at my body's warmth.

So with a shiver, I turn instead to re-check my seat pocket is clear of belongings. We're getting closer to Reykjavík. There's an artificial brightness that wasn't outside before and, as soon as the Flybus stops, I need to hit the ground running. My connection to Höfkállur leaves soon after this one arrives in Reykjavík, and I have to get up North tonight. Mark hasn't been in contact for days now. I'm sure he has his reasons, but I need to know them, otherwise the one Director Úlfar offered me yesterday morning on the dive boat will be all that's left. And it mustn't be. This mustn't be anything other than one big misunderstanding — a misunderstanding that's resulted in my flying hundreds of miles to see my brother, whom of course will be okay. He has to be okay. He's been urging me for months to visit him in Iceland, to experience the effects of the Heimspeki firsthand, as he's been doing. But I've been too busy.

I should have come earlier. I should have come when he first invited me. Now I have to face all these strange people alone. Why didn't Mark tell me how ridiculously serious the Icelanders have become about their new ideals?

I shift upright. A few heads bob up as I move, looking to see if they can offer me any assurances. I just want to check my smartphone. I log into every application and scan to see if Mark's sent me a text, a tweet, a post, a chat or an email and I haven't heard the ping alert for some reason.

There's nothing.

When I dial his number again, it goes straight to voicemail. Taking a deep breath, I grip onto the phone and will some message, any message, to appear on the phone's display. Of course none does. The screen fades with inactivity. Still I stare at it, until the Flybus takes a sharp right turn and swings through a well-lit set of tall iron gates.

We glide past a sign welcoming visitors to Reykjavík's Central Travel Depot then jerk to a stop beside a glass-walled tourist information centre. Stiff-limbed from travel, I ease myself down the Flybus's steps, glad to be moving again, albeit into a pre-dawn breeze so icy it bites at my face and shoulders. If this is Iceland's summer, maybe I'm glad I didn't join Mark earlier after all.

The driver points me towards the raised tarmac oval where I can wait for the Austurleid SBS to Höfkállur, then she passes me my suitcase and climbs back inside. By the time I reach the oval, the Flybus has disappeared down some distant street, taking all its rumbling resonance with it. Even so, it isn't until I sit on the oval's sheltered bench that I realise how deserted it is here. I know it's the middle of the night, still, shouldn't Reykjavík's Central Travel Depot have some travellers passing through other than me?

I look around. Five wooden shelters are spread throughout the depot offering passengers refuge, but no one is using them. Pools of pale yellow lamplight burn circles directly into the damp tarmac, yet no travellers huddle under them and no one hurries between them. Where is everyone? I scan the fluorescent brightness of the information centre and notice the top of someone's head bowed behind a reception desk. Given how cold it is out here, perhaps everyone's inside? I reach for my suitcase's handle to walk over.

"Rebecca Dales?" someone yells from the depot's gated entrance, their tone as crisp as the air.

I seek out a person or movement to accompany the voice but there's none. Maybe I misheard?

After waiting a moment I head along the oval towards the information centre, until a car door slams and a man in a long grey coat emerges through the shadows and strides in my direction. I search for a face but he's hunched into his collar against the night air. He also carries no luggage with him. Perhaps he's an official with a message about Mark? Perhaps Director Úlfar's realised he's made a mistake after all and really Mark is okay? I stop and wait.

As the man nears, I think of all the people who know I'm transiting through Reykjavík tonight. Mum and Dad. My boss. Director Úlfar. The guesthouse in Höfkállur where I'm staying tonight. They all have my phone number though, so why would any of them send someone to find me? Unless ... maybe my phone isn't working?

I pull it out and activate its screen. There's nothing wrong with it, and now the man is stepping onto the oval, raising his face to greet me. It takes me a second, but when I recognise him I'm not sure how to react.

Director Úlfar Finnsson looks larger in person than he did over our video conferencing connection yesterday, when he called with the news about Mark. He's taller too, more sturdy. A roundness presses against his coat where his stomach sits. I don't know how he can bear it — doesn't he realise people can see?

"Velkominn, Miss Dales," he says, offering me a nervous half-smile before dropping his chin into the warmth of his upturned collar.

"Director Úlfar." I nod him a greeting.

"How are you? Do you need anything?" He glances around the depot, nods to himself as if in approval of something. "It can be a challenge, já, travelling alone?" He pulls a gloved hand from his coat pocket and smooths flat his bouncy brown hair while assessing my expression.

"Not at all, Director Úlfar." I smile. Travelling alone honestly doesn't bother me. "It's nice to have some peace and quiet. Why are you here?"

"I wanted to see that you are okay." He gestures at the shadows around the depot. "It is very late to be sitting alone in the dark."

"I'm fine thank you." Although, why does he care so much?

He shrugs, looks pleased with himself. "Still, when we spoke yesterday I said I would explain some things. There are twenty minutes before your transport to Höfkállur. So I was thinking, I will buy you a coffee, já, and we will chat a little?"

"Um, is now really the best time for chatting?"

"You said you are fine." He removes his gloves.

"That's not what I meant." I glance at my Seiko.

"Please, it will only take a few minutes." He gestures towards the information centre with firm presumption. "Shall we?"

I re-angle my suitcase and step off the oval. A cool hand closes around mine. Director Úlfar's touch is dainty yet sweaty.

"I will take it for you?" He means my suitcase.

"Thank you, but I've got it."

"Watch your step then."

I want to tell Director Úlfar to watch his own bloody step, but when I hear the echo of our footsteps across the depot, the emptiness of the sound silences me. Úlfar Finnsson is the director and press secretary of Iceland's information and intelligence bureau, or MUR. If he wanted to chat with me about something, check on me even, he wouldn't need to do it in person. So why is he here?

It had better not be because of what I said yesterday. I'm not in the right frame of mind to go through all that again. I just want to get to my brother.

Automatic doors whoosh open as we approach the information centre and we step inside through a heated wall of air. It smells of new carpet in here, fresh paint. A lanky blond receptionist stands to offer us a smile so broad it's almost inappropriate for the middle of the night.

"Director Úlfar!" he says, jogging over to greet us. "Gott kvöld!"

I can't help but smile back at him. He has that jolly kind of demeanour that's infectious.

Director Úlfar, also grinning, doesn't make a secret of looking him up and down. As they mutter in Icelandic, chuckling in a way that makes the whole exchange sound like flirting, I feel like I should leave them to it. When the receptionist swats the air before him and Úlfar flings a hand out to grasp at him, I go to move away.

I don't even manage a single step before the director places a hand on my shoulder. Still grinning, the receptionist mumbles something and Director Úlfar nods.

"Takk fyrir, Rut," Director Úlfar adds before ushering me toward a staircase. "This way, Miss Dales." His hand lingers on my shoulder as we walk, sending a shiver bristling down my spine.

I shake off his delicate fingers with a flick of my hair, only to notice we're passing a noticeboard of advertisements for government-sponsored Heimspeki seminars. Graphics of churches, mosques and synagogues indicate that the venues are all former places of worship.

Of course they are.

Each notice is adorned with a Heimspeki symbol: electricity bolts zapping out of a circle supposed to represent the brain, a ring for the cyclic nature of energy. The largest notice is in English — a local litrúmtheology group invites passing theology-tourists to join next week's discussion topic: Has the science behind the Heimspeki made God and religion obsolete? I scan the guest speaker list, half expecting to see Mark's name on it. Then again, he's been so busy with his research in Höfkállur these last few months he's probably had little time for trips to Reykjavík, however pertinent the discussion to his doctoral studies.

At the foot of the staircase, a flat screen displays archived front pages from several Icelandic newspapers. As we walk towards it I check the English subtitles that report landmark headlines:

Crime Falls Wherever Heimspeki Rises.

Höfkállur Trials Sannlitró-Völva System.

Politicians and Lawyers Fear Positivity Tests.

I frown while trying to remember the reports. I know about Iceland's low crime rates. Who doesn't? The whole world's heard about the influence of the Heimspekion Icelanders. But the other headlines haven't been reported online, I'm certain of it. Mark's not mentioned anything about them either, and Höfkállur is the town in northwest Iceland where he's been staying.

"So, Miss Dales," Director Úlfar says, waiting for me to lug my suitcase up the first step, "again, please accept my sincerest condolences for your loss. I cannot imagine how awful it must feel to have such terrible news. Really, I ..." he shakes his head, "I have a brother and every time he goes overseas, I dread something like this happening to him. For you to receive a phone call like mine yesterday ... please, if there's anything I can do to help, please let me know."

"I will."

"I'm absolutely serious. There is no worse news for a sister to receive. I am so sorry."

"Thank you."

"No, thank you for coming so quickly."

"You make it sound like I had a choice."

"And you were right to take my advice. You have saved your parents a very long plane flight, and much distress. It is also incredibly difficult for a parent to identify their own child, not that identification is really necessary in your brother's case. As I explained yesterday, the two of you look exactly alike — same blonde hair, same face, brown eyes — his jaw is wider perhaps. Did your parents have any questions after you told them the news? Anything I can help with?"

I swallow to stop my throat tightening. Until I've seen the body they say they have in Höfkállur, I can't let myself believe Mark might be dead. There has to be some mistake. Director Úlfar has only seen an image himself, and an image is hardly conclusive. At least, that's what I've told Mum and Dad. "Thank you, but what was it you wanted to chat about, Director Úlfar?"

"I, um," he clears his throat. "I have a proposal for you."

"About Mark?"

"Not exactly." He climbs a few steps before waiting for me again. "Miss Dales, there's another reason I hoped you would come, rather than your parents." He chuckles nervously. "I'm afraid I wasn't being entirely honest when I said yesterday I had no idea why you lived in London instead of Australia."

"You weren't?" Not that I remember him saying so. It must have been when I zoned out. The minute Director Úlfar said Mark had had an accident — that my brother had been hiking, alone, at the Jötunnsjökull Glacier and that his body was found at the Skepnasá River on Sunday — I couldn't think straight anymore. Director Úlfar kept talking, it all went in my ears, but then disappeared somewhere. Nothing about that conversation made any sense. It still doesn't. Mark doesn't even like hiking.

"Put it this way," Director Úlfar shrugs, taking off his coat and folding it neatly over his arm. "I know there can't be much work in Australia for someone like you."

"Someone like me?"

"A specialist in researching new court systems and procedures. Europe would be much better for that."

"Sounds like my LinkedIn profile has finally been good for something."

"No, no — I heard about you last year, when you wrote that editorial on Jersey's intranet usage: Technology Versus Justice? How was the Caribbean by the way? I understand you've been in the Cayman Islands finishing off some research. Was that for Dictum or for the British Law Commission?"

"Director Úlfar, it's late. Given the circumstances, why don't you just tell me your proposal?"

"Of course. Miss Dales, I believe you're in a position to help my country, if you're feeling ... up to it." Waiting for me to ask the obvious, he raises a sculpted eyebrow so high on his forehead it actually creases his shiny taut skin.

"Help with what?"

"Our recent discoveries."

I meet his eyes as I continue to climb the stairs. "You want me to help with your discoveries when my brother may well be lying dead in a morgue?"

He squirms slightly but carries on. "I know how this must sound. Believe me, I've been in two minds as to whether to ask you at all. But your brother was an advocate for the Heimspeki, was he not?" he asks, well aware of the answer. "He did some work last month with Iceland Tourism. Don't you want to know what he was doing, finish what he started so to speak, get involved on his behalf? Not with the Heimspeki of course, but with the new legal technology we're developing alongside it. It is your speciality."

"Yeah, but here's the thing, Director Úlfar — I'm not here in a professional capacity. I'm here to see this ... this body you seem to think is my brother, even though you haven't seen it yourself, then I'm going home. Perhaps I can return to report on your legal technology another time?"

"Seem to think? Ah, does this mean you've now heard from your brother?"

"No. Have you? Or have you physically seen this body in Höfkállur? Because you do know that striving to avoid negativity won't somehow prevent your countrymen from making mistakes, it doesn't make them immune from human error. And believe me, there's been some error."

Director Úlfar huffs in the same impatient way he did yesterday morning when I also resisted the news about Mark. But he just doesn't get it. Mark can't be dead. If he were, I would have sensed it. I would have felt some disturbance in my universe or something. Mark didn't even mention wanting to hike over any glacier. And if he did suddenly decide to go hiking, he would have rescheduled our weekly phone call first.

Also, Mark would never be so stupid as to hike over a glacier alone. Who did that?

Which is why I've every reason to believe he's alright, that this is simply a big mistake. He's probably just lost his phone or something. Besides, I'm acutely aware of the fact that hoping for a mistake is the only thing keeping me from breaking down right now. I need to function. I need to walk and talk. If believing Mark's okay gets me through that, so be it.

Anyway, Mark will be alright. I know he will.

Director Úlfar and I climb the rest of the stairwell in silence.

As we emerge into a multi-stationed computer room, he gestures towards a black leather sofa cornering a metallic table under the far window. "Take a seat," he says, turning to the coffee machine. "Espresso, no sugar, já?" Not waiting to see if he's right, he pushes the espresso button.

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Excerpted from "Towards White"
by .
Copyright © 2017 Zena Shapter.
Excerpted by permission of IFWG Publishing International.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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