The Girl Who Died

by Ragnar Jónasson

  ‘Er … well …’ A small bottle of Coke and a packet of liquorice would hardly count as exciting, but she had bought them as a little treat for herself, to be enjoyed that evening as she curled up in bed with a good book. She was learning to read herself to sleep since there was no TV on offer.

  But Kolbeinn didn’t wait for an answer: ‘Everything going well with Kolla? She, er, she speaks highly of you.’ Judging from his tone, this was something of an exaggeration. Kolbrún was so unforthcoming in lessons that Una didn’t for a moment believe that the girl praised her teaching to her parents afterwards. Una was aware that she needed to concentrate on getting to know the child better and coax her into opening up a little. No doubt it would take time, but then she had the whole school year to achieve a transformation.

  ‘Yes, your daughter’s a credit to you,’ Una replied, before hastily correcting herself: ‘A credit to both of you, I mean.’ For a moment, she had forgotten Inga’s presence and felt as if she were talking only to Kolbeinn. His wife was standing there, a pale figure in her white winter coat, with her pallid complexion, melting into the background, not saying a word.

  ‘She’s special, Kolla is. I reckon it’ll do her a world of good to have an experienced teacher like you. There’s more chance she’ll make something of herself. I don’t think it’s healthy for kids to live in a place like this. We’re planning to move away sooner or later, maybe even go abroad. Perhaps spend a year in Denmark, something like that.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ Una said, a little shortly. She was feeling uncomfortable with Inga standing there silently watching, though at least Kolbeinn seemed like a nice guy.

  ‘I can’t spend my whole life at sea,’ Kolbeinn continued. Then he added, humorously: ‘I’ve eaten enough bloody fish to last me a lifetime. Breaded haddock, poached haddock, grilled haddock – God, I don’t know how I’ve stood it for so long. I hope you’re not having haddock for supper!’ He patted her shoulder and smiled again. ‘Anyway, see you soon.’

  Una nodded. ‘Nice to see you both.’ She hurried out of the little shop, hugging her white plastic bag full of unhealthy treats. But when she was outside on the pavement she heard the bell jingle as the door opened behind her and, looking round, saw Kolbeinn standing there.

  ‘Hey, Una,’ he said casually. ‘Maybe we should meet up some time and have a word about Kolla. The girl can be a bit shy. You need to approach her the right way. Could we find half an hour for a chat some time?’

  ‘Er, half an hour? Yes, sure, of course.’

  ‘Great. I’ll see you, then.’ He smiled.

  XIII

  Kolbeinn was sitting facing Una in Salka’s sitting room, where she had just finished teaching. He had sent his daughter home, closing the door firmly behind her, and now he was looking at Una with that easy smile on his face. ‘So, how do you like our village?’

  She would rather have got straight down to business, as she never had much patience with small talk, and the purpose of the meeting was supposedly to discuss Kolbrún and her schoolwork.

  When Una didn’t immediately respond to his conversational gambit, Kolbeinn answered himself: ‘It is a bit small, yes, I know. Crazy, really, even to think of living out here, but it’s possible to make a go of it, especially when the pay’s good.’

  ‘I’m only on a teacher’s salary.’

  ‘You’re not planning to stop here long, are you?’

  ‘Just for the one winter, I think.’

  ‘Oh, well, then you’ll be fine.’ He flashed his attractive smile again.

  ‘Is Kolbrún good about doing her homework?’ Una asked, trying to steer the conversation round to his daughter. ‘Does she take an interest in it? She always seems well prepared when she comes to class.’

  ‘Oh, yes. She’s very hard-working. Always has been conscientious. The girl’s quite clever, you know. But she’s not very outgoing – she takes after her mother in that. They’re both happiest when they’re alone. That’s why I’m not sure a community this small is good for her development. Of course, in some ways it’s perfect: there’s no pressure to make friends or fit in since there are only the two girls here and, well, they’re mates. Sort of. At least, they get on OK. But the thing is, Kolbrún can get away with being withdrawn and antisocial here. But I’d prefer it if she was in a bigger community, a bigger class, where she would be forced out of her comfort zone. Do you know what I mean?’

  Una nodded. She understood exactly what he was getting at. She hadn’t been so different herself as a child; paralysed by shyness until she had eventually changed schools and found herself in a class of friendly kids, where she had begun to emerge from her shell a little. But not long after that the cataclysmic blow had fallen and she had reverted to type, shutting herself off from the other kids. She’d had to learn all over again how to make friends and trust people.

  ‘Yes, I do. I’d thought maybe Kolbrún and Edda were friends outside school, but I gather that’s not the case.’

  ‘Well, there’s not much we can do about it. We can hardly force them to play together, and there’s the age difference too, of course.’ He got up and moved to a chair closer to Una, and lowered his voice confidingly: ‘I just wanted to share this with you and let you know that she needs special attention. If you think of anything …’ He laid a hand on Una’s shoulder.

  ‘Naturally, I’ll keep an eye on the situation. Not all children develop at the same pace, as I’ve learned from experience, but then you don’t usually have a chance to pay this much attention to individual kids. I have to say, it’s one of the advantages of having such a tiny class.’

  She was acutely conscious of his hand still resting on her shoulder.

  ‘I’ll try and meet you – you and Inga – from time to time to keep you updated,’ she went on. ‘I’ll organize a formal parent–teacher meeting before Christmas. Your wife didn’t want to come with you today?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’ll take care of this.’

  He removed his hand at last.

  ‘Are you sleeping OK in Salka’s house?’ he asked casually.

  The question confused Una. ‘What? Er, yes. Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh, because the house has a reputation for being haunted. I thought you knew.’

  ‘Er … No, I didn’t, actually.’

  ‘Salka was aware when she moved into the place, but she said she didn’t believe in ghosts and I reckon that’s what’s kept her going. It all comes down to your attitude, I suppose. What do you think?’ He smiled teasingly.

  Despite her reluctance to hear any more, Una couldn’t resist the temptation to ask: ‘Why, what happened here?’

  ‘A little girl died. Some time around 1930. People say she haunts the house and …’ He paused dramatically: ‘And they say the problem’s worst up in your room. It used to be hers.’

  ‘Seriously?’ Una was shaken, in spite of herself.

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard lots of stories from the old days about people staying there for one night, then never again. Of course, they’re only stories, and not necessarily first hand, but I believe there’s a grain of truth in them. I’m not saying I believe in ghosts, you know, but there’s no doubt people have had some odd experiences there.’

  ‘Like what?’ Una could feel herself breaking out in a cold sweat.

  ‘Oh, they see the girl. She appears in the room – dressed in white, of course.’ He paused to let the impact of his words sink in. ‘But you don’t need to worry, I shouldn’t think. Not if you haven’t noticed anything.’

  Far from having the desired effect, his words of comfort achieved the exact opposite. Una found herself remembering the dream in which Edda had appeared to her. And the girl she had seen in the window. Had it definitely been Edda?

  He placed his hand on her shoulder again, edging even closer.

  Next minute, his arm was sliding round her shoulders.

  She sat there rigid, not knowing how to react.

  ‘I can go upstairs with you now and ch
eck, if you like,’ he said, in a low voice.

  She stood up so fast her chair almost fell over backwards. ‘No, that’s fine, thanks. I need to … I think it’s best you go now.’

  He rose unhurriedly to his feet, then smiled at her. ‘Sure, I get the message. I’ll see you around, Una.’

  XIV

  Una sat without moving for a long time after Kolbeinn had gone.

  Although he hadn’t said so in plain words, there was no doubt in her mind that he had been coming on to her. He had put his arm round her and angled for an invitation to go up to her bedroom. There was no way she could have misunderstood him, was there? He was a married man, for God’s sake, and she was his daughter’s teacher. It could hardly have been more inappropriate.

  Eventually, she rose to her feet and put on her shoes and coat, desperate to get some air and clear her head. It was bitingly cold outside, even colder than it had been earlier, and the wind was gusting hard, but fortunately it wasn’t raining yet. Someone had told her it didn’t snow much in the village and at first this had sounded like good news – no chance of the roads becoming impassable or problems of that kind – but she had begun to realize that a bit of snow might not be a bad thing. Every day dawned darker and more depressing than the last, though it was still several weeks until the winter solstice. A snowfall would have brightened things up. In fact, it could have snowed to its heart’s content, because she wasn’t going anywhere. Even if she’d wanted to, she still hadn’t got round to sorting out the worrying clattering noise in her car. She shivered, and it wasn’t only because of the cold. Her encounter with Kolbeinn had become extremely uncomfortable by the end. How was she supposed to behave towards him next time they met? Would he try it on again? Should she simply act cool and pretend nothing had happened?

  As if his pass at her hadn’t been bad enough, there was the creepy story he had told of the girl who died. When Kolbeinn had hit on her, it had temporarily driven the story out of her head, but now it came back to her and she shivered. Was she really sleeping in a room where something terrible had happened? Or had Kolbeinn been pulling her leg? She would have to sleep there tonight, and not just tonight but all through the long, dark winter. Of course, she didn’t believe in ghosts, and yet she couldn’t help feeling a little spooked. She had heard so many folk tales over the years about unexplained forces, stories people had told each other down the centuries in this dark, forbidding country. And while she didn’t really believe in anything like that, you could never be entirely sure …

  Besides, the fact that a little girl had died up there was macabre enough on its own.

  Perhaps she should ask Salka about it and seek reassurance from her that there was nothing to be afraid of. They could have a good laugh over the silly story. Salka might be able to give her the lowdown on Kolbeinn too and tell her that he often behaved like this.

  Una scrambled the last few feet down on to the rocky beach. There was no one about and yet she always felt a little twitchy there, as if curious eyes were watching her. She avoided looking in people’s windows as she walked through the village because it was such a small place and the proximity to the other inhabitants could be uncomfortable. As a rule, she kept her eyes lowered, lost in her thoughts. Only when the sea appeared in front of her did she look up and marvel at its splendour. However grey and desolate it was at this time of year, however wild the waves that pounded the shore during the winter storms, the sea was the sole reason that anyone lived here.

  There were times when she felt unwelcome in the village, as if she should have stayed in Reykjavík and never have ventured out here. It was hard to work out whether the feeling was real or caused by paranoia. Apart from Guffi, no one had said anything to her face, yet there was something offputting, hostile even, about the place and its inhabitants. The only person who had actively welcomed her was Salka – and her daughter, Edda, of course. But her other pupil, Kolbrún, remained sullen. And although Gudrún and Gunnar seemed friendly, it was obvious that Gudrún had her own agenda.

  Then there was Thór, of course. She couldn’t work him out, but hoped she would get a chance sooner or later.

  Una stood there for a while, gazing unseeingly into the twilight, listening to the booming of the waves, wind-blown spray whipping her hair into a wet, salty tangle; her lungs scoured by the icy air. She hadn’t suffered much from homesickness, until this evening. She had needed a change of scene for a number of reasons. And although Skálar was cold and lonely, and the locals struck her as being on the chilly side, she felt oddly safe here, as if nothing bad could happen to her. And that in itself was positive. Or at least she had felt safe, until her encounter with Kolbeinn.

  The truth was that she didn’t miss much from Reykjavík. None of her friends had bothered to get in touch since she moved. Her mother rang from time to time, but she was busy with her own life, and Una had discovered that she was quite content with being this far away from her mother, for the moment, at least. There was so much that remained unsaid between them, so many difficult memories, yet when they met their conversations were superficial, as if neither of them dared to open the doors to the abyss of the past and face up to the darkness and grief.

  She had planned to sit down and have a chat with Salka but felt too restless to do so this evening. She wanted to be alone, to have a quiet, relaxing end to what had been a difficult day; cook a light meal in the kitchen upstairs or maybe just make herself some toast. Have a little drink; unwind by immersing herself in a book from Salka’s library.

  It had come as a pleasant surprise to discover how cosy it was to lose oneself in the world of fiction, forgetting time and place, helped along with a bottle of wine. Her evening stretched out before her, a vision of peace and calm.

  She would sit down over a coffee with Salka another time and ask her about Kolbeinn, and also, if she got the chance, about the girl who was said to haunt the house.

  Just not this evening.

  XV

  Una awoke with a jerk.

  She opened her eyes but couldn’t see a thing for the darkness pressing in all around her. For a panicky moment she couldn’t work out where she was, though she had the feeling she was in a strange place, not in her own bed. She stiffened with fear. She was so cold. By the feel of it, she’d kicked the covers on to the floor, and the room was freezing.

  She sat up slowly, experiencing a moment of dizziness, but the feeling soon passed as she remembered where she was.

  In Skálar on the Langanes Peninsula. In the little attic flat. Alone.

  And then she knew what it was that had woken her. Or thought she knew … It was hard to distinguish dream from reality with her senses still wandering in the vague borderland between sleep and waking.

  She had heard something. What, though? As the memory gradually came back to her, she felt the skin prickling on her arms. It had been a high little voice – the voice of a young girl, she thought. Yes, now she could hear it again in her head: a young girl singing a haunting lullaby.

  Unable to bear it a moment longer, she got out of bed and blundered across the pitch-black room towards the light switch on the wall. Not for the first time she cursed the fact that she didn’t have a reading lamp by her bed. Yet she felt a moment’s reluctance to turn on the light, for fear of what the retreating shadows might reveal.

  The high voice echoed eerily in her head, but she couldn’t recall the words of the girl’s song. It must have been a dream, however real it had seemed.

  Suddenly there was a loud crack, followed by a tinkling sound and a stabbing pain in her foot that caused her to stumble and fall heavily to her knees. What the hell?

  She bit back a scream, only for it to dawn on her a second later that she had trodden on the wine glass she had left on the floor the previous evening. Fumbling for her foot, she found a shard of glass sticking out of it and felt something hot and wet oozing from the wound. Gingerly, she extracted the glass. The pain was excruciating.

  It took all her willp
ower to force herself back on to her feet, then grope along the wall for the switch, but finally she found it and turned on the light. As the room sprang into view, she shot a glance around, half-expecting to see a small figure in there with her, while telling herself that she’d imagined the whole thing: the voice hadn’t been real, the lullaby had been an illusion, a trick played on her by her sleeping mind.

  Limping back to the bed, she sat down, drew up her foot and examined the cut, which, luckily, turned out not to be as deep as she’d feared. Now she had satisfied herself that she was alone in the room, she could feel her heartbeat slowing and returning to normal.

  Then, in a flash, the words of the girl’s song came back to her:

  Lullaby, my little Thrá,

  may you sweetly sleep …

  A chill spread through her flesh.

  XVI

  It had been a bad night.

  After stumbling around in the dark and treading on the wine glass, Una had managed to dress the wound herself. She didn’t think the cut was serious, although it had bled quite a lot at first. She had cleaned it with antiseptic, then closed it with a plaster. If she’d been in Reykjavík, she might have taken herself to hospital, but there was no doctor in the village and the last thing she’d wanted was to drag herself out in the middle of the night to drive thirty kilometres to Thórshöfn, only to be told that all it needed was a plaster. In the event, it had taken her ages to get back to sleep, and she hadn’t been able to bring herself to turn out the light. She had finally dropped off towards morning and only just woken up now. It was unusually late for her, but fortunately it was a Saturday.

  She glanced at the alarm clock to find that it was past 10 a.m., and the pale morning light was trying to force its way between the curtains – that fickle light which was quick to disappear at this time of year if it so much as clouded over. She could still remember the lullaby, or the first few lines of it, anyway, but by the light of day the night’s events seemed quite different. Yet a hint of doubt remained in her mind: the little girl’s voice had been so real, and Una was sure she had never heard the song before. Surely she couldn’t have composed a lullaby in her sleep?