The Girl Who Died

by Ragnar Jónasson

  The very first night after being told Kolbeinn’s ghost story, she had started hearing voices.

  Damn it, she thought to herself, it must have been my imagination.

  It was time to get up. She just hoped the cut would heal quickly. She would try to have a relaxing day and avoid going downstairs, even though Salka usually cooked a hot lunch on Saturdays. She wanted to allow herself the luxury of not doing anything at all, and hoped that the effects of her peculiar dream would wear off. She didn’t want to go outside either, as the very last thing she wanted right now was to bump into Kolbeinn.

  She got out of bed, taking care not to put any weight on her injured foot, and hobbled into the kitchen. Better start the day with some coffee. But even as she was making it, the high, eerie voice continued to echo in her head, singing that damned lullaby.

  She sat in the dark, trying to make herself breathe evenly, calmly. She mustn’t let her fear take control. If she did, she really would be lost in the darkness, in the fullest sense of the word. Fear was her greatest enemy right now, apart from the police, perhaps. The fear of being locked in, the fear of being deprived of her freedom, of not being able to breathe.

  She still wasn’t sure what had happened; it had all been so fast. Almost before she knew what was happening, she was sitting in prison, locked up in a windowless cell, no longer aware of the time, or even of what day it was. Everything had blurred together. She racked her brains to understand what could have led to her ending up incarcerated here, when she was completely innocent.

  They had come to her little basement flat in the middle of the night and started banging on the door, and when she’d opened up, still half asleep, they’d almost dragged her outside in her nightclothes. They had clapped handcuffs on her, although she’d made no attempt to resist arrest since she was so confused that it had taken her a while to work out what was going on.

  It was all connected to Hilmar and Hannes. She was supposed to have murdered them.

  Murdered Hannes? The man she loved … And Hilmar? She had barely exchanged two words with him.

  She had protested her innocence throughout, but the police thought differently. They insisted that she had taken part in the murders and helped dispose of the bodies in a fissure in the lava-field.

  They could be horribly convincing, but she had to resist the intolerable pressure they were putting on her to confess. She knew better; they would never get her to admit to such terrible crimes when she’d had nothing to do with them.

  It was so cold in the cell. She couldn’t get warm, but worst of all was the feeling of claustrophobia, the fear of suffocation, of not being able to breathe. Sometimes she screamed at the top of her voice, but it made no difference. Perhaps it just made matters worse.

  She huddled in the corner, in the pitch blackness, letting the time pass, trying not to fixate on the walls that were closing in on her, on the men who wanted to deprive her of her freedom. She told herself that she was still alive, still a young woman. She just had to get through this somehow.

  It was all a terrible misunderstanding and the only question was how long it would take the police to realize this.

  XVII

  Una’s attention was distracted by the lights which briefly swept across the room where she and Salka were sitting. They were unmistakably the headlights of a car.

  It was getting on for six on Saturday evening and, being the shortest day of the year, it had already been dark for three hours. The sun set noticeably earlier up here in the far north than Una had been used to in Reykjavík and, with Christmas nearly upon them, she found herself missing the lights and the festive atmosphere in the centre of town. Salka had taken out a few candles and other decorations in an attempt to dispel the gloom, but Una, who had long ago given up decorating her own flat at Christmas, was glad that she hadn’t gone the whole hog: no tree, fussy knick-knacks or fairy lights. In fact, the only lights to grace the streets of the village so far were on Guffi’s house: countless large, yellow bulbs, rather clumsily strung.

  Salka hadn’t mentioned any plans for the Christmas celebrations, but Una assumed she would be invited to eat supper with mother and daughter on the twenty-fourth, and thought she would probably accept. Given the choice, she would have preferred to spend the holiday alone upstairs with a glass or two of good red wine, but perhaps a bit of company would do her good.

  This evening, however, Una’s thoughts were preoccupied with the Christmas concert which was due to take place the following day. She had done her best to prepare for it, with staunch assistance from Gudrún. Or, rather, it would be truer to say that Gudrún had borne the brunt of the organization: she had chosen the carols, taken the rehearsals, selected the Christmas readings, baked the cakes to be served with coffee as refreshments, and overseen the decoration of the church. But Una’s brooding over Gudrún’s interference was interrupted by the novel sight of car headlights at this time in the evening. Most of the villagers went everywhere on foot since distances were short and few people had any business elsewhere, especially this close to Christmas.

  Una and Salka both glanced over at the window.

  ‘Is that a visitor?’ Salka wondered aloud. ‘I didn’t know anyone was expecting guests.’

  When she first arrived in Skálar, Una would have thought this was an odd thing to say, but by now she was aware that everyone knew everyone else’s business. There were no secrets here.

  Una heard the noise of a car, then suddenly all was quiet again: the engine had been switched off. ‘They can’t be coming to see us, can they?’ she said.

  ‘No, impossible.’

  They waited in suspense. After a few moments, sure enough, there was a knock at the door.

  Una and Salka both automatically shot to their feet, but Una hung back and let Salka go to the door before following.

  There was a young man of about thirty standing on the doorstep, with hair so short he looked almost like a skinhead, wearing jeans, a white shirt or jumper and a leather jacket. For a moment he looked at Salka without speaking, then his gaze flickered to Una, who instinctively dropped her eyes.

  ‘Sorry to bother you,’ he said politely. ‘I hope I’m in the right place. This is Skálar …?’

  ‘That’s right,’ Salka said curtly.

  ‘I’m looking for a woman I know who lives here. Her name’s Hjördís. I’m taking in the sights on Langanes and was hoping I could get a bed for the night at her place. I just knocked on your door because it’s the first house I saw and I noticed that the lights were on …’

  ‘Sorry, but she doesn’t live here,’ Salka said, with a quick glance at Una.

  ‘No, right … then maybe I should, er …’

  ‘She lives up at the farm. You need to turn round and take the track up the hill. You can’t miss it.’ Then she added, stressing the words: ‘You can get back to the main road to Thórshöfn that way too, if you change your mind.’

  The subtext was clear: leave our village.

  ‘Right, yeah. Thanks very much.’ He smiled, but Una thought she detected an underlying tension, perhaps even nervousness, in his manner.

  Salka said goodbye and shut the door firmly.

  ‘That was strange,’ Una muttered.

  Instead of answering, Salka went straight over to the phone in the hall. ‘I’m just going to warn Hjördís.’

  Una waited and watched. Perhaps she should have given Salka a chance to speak in private, but her curiosity got the better of her.

  It seemed to take a while before Hjördís answered.

  ‘Hello, it’s Salka. There was a man here just now, a stranger, looking for you. He said he knew you and needed somewhere to stay. He’s in a car, obviously, so he should be with you very shortly. He left us a minute or two ago.’ Silence. ‘No, I didn’t ask his name … Yes, yes … No, I don’t know what he wanted. That’s all he said.’

  Salka said goodbye and put down the receiver.

  ‘That was strange,’ Una repeated.

&n
bsp; ‘It may seem as if we’re being unnecessarily paranoid,’ Salka said with a rather hollow laugh, ‘but it’s not that we don’t like outsiders; we’re just not used to having visitors here, especially in winter. The village isn’t on the way anywhere and people don’t usually come out here in December without a very good reason. It’s a bit livelier in summer; we do get the odd tourist then – Icelanders mostly – who find their way out to us, mainly to see the ruins from the war – the old radar station, you know. That provides a bit of welcome business for the village shop and brings some money into the local economy.’

  Una nodded but was more interested in discussing the stranger.

  ‘Do you think he was really sightseeing? At this time of year?’

  Salka hesitated, then said: ‘I suppose we should give him the benefit of the doubt. People do some odd things. But you have to be careful out here in winter, as there’s not a lot of help available if anything goes wrong, except here and in Thórshöfn. There’s literally nowhere else. He must be the adventurous type.’ She smiled.

  ‘Oh well, if he’s staying over, he can always come along to the Christmas concert tomorrow,’ Una said, only half joking.

  ‘I don’t think that would be very appropriate. It’s not exactly open house. It’s meant to be a private celebration for us locals. How’s it going, by the way? Are the preparations on the right track?’

  ‘I think so. Gudrún’s been a great help, as you know. She’s absolutely tireless.’

  ‘You should watch it with Gudrún. Make sure she doesn’t eat you alive. She does tend to take over. You have to be firm with her.’

  ‘Oh, it’s quite nice having someone to help out. And I’m sure she’s done a good job. It should hopefully get people into the Christmas spirit.’

  And that moment the phone rang.

  ‘Hjördís again?’ Una said, and waited for Salka to answer.

  Salka shook her head, as a sign that it wasn’t Hjördís on the line. ‘Yes, she’s here. Yes, I’ll tell her. Yes, OK. Bye.’

  ‘That was Gunna,’ Salka said with a smile that contained more than a trace of sympathy. ‘She wants you to go over to the church – right now. She says she’s been waiting for you. Apparently, there’s still a lot to do for tomorrow.’

  XVIII

  Salka had cooked haddock for supper. They had a tacit agreement that Una was welcome to eat with Salka and Edda, in return for taking turns in buying groceries for the kitchen downstairs. Nevertheless, she always made sure that she kept her own cupboards stocked up too, for when she wasn’t in the mood for company.

  Una had spent two long hours in the church, watching as Gudrún made the preparations for the concert. Although the event was nominally her responsibility, she herself didn’t actually have any role in the proceedings. Gudrún had simply taken over, yet for some reason she liked to have Una at her beck and call. Perhaps to have someone to blame if everything went wrong, Una thought cynically. She smiled at the idea. What on earth could go wrong? Admittedly, it was one of the very few social occasions in the village calendar, but it wasn’t that complicated, surely?

  She sat down to a belated supper, in the mood for a chat with Salka to distract her thoughts. Luckily, Edda wasn’t there. No doubt she was over at one of their neighbours’ houses. She often skipped out at mealtimes. Her absence would give Una a chance to discuss the two subjects she had been putting off raising with Salka. One was Kolbeinn, and the other the ghostly girl who supposedly haunted the attic flat …

  ‘Everything ready for tomorrow?’ Salka asked, filling Una’s glass with water from the carafe. Una had learned that Salka never offered alcohol with supper.

  ‘Yes, it looks like it,’ Una replied. ‘Gudrún knows exactly what she’s doing. I just wish it would snow. Then everything would be perfect.’

  ‘Unlikely, I should think.’

  ‘Thanks for supper, by the way. This looks delicious,’ Una said. She was grateful to Salka for providing her with a job and a roof over her head, but most of all for her warm welcome. She needed a friend.

  ‘You haven’t tasted it yet,’ Salka said teasingly. ‘Don’t praise it too soon.’

  Una took a mouthful. The haddock was a little overcooked for her taste, but she didn’t let it show. ‘About Kolbeinn …’ she began, apropos of nothing.

  Salka looked up. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you know him well?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’ Salka sounded wary.

  ‘Oh, I was just wondering about him and his wife.’

  Salka didn’t say anything.

  ‘He came round to see me recently,’ Una went on. ‘About Kolbrún.’

  ‘Ah, I see … Is she OK?’

  ‘What? Oh, yes. He just wanted to talk to me, as her teacher. Just a general chat, you know. But then … then he …’

  Salka nodded. ‘He can … come on a bit strong.’

  ‘I got the feeling he was hitting on me. But I wasn’t quite sure …’

  Salka cut in: ‘Oh, you can be sure, all right. It’s not the first time and it certainly won’t be the last.’

  ‘Really? Are you aware of other times?’

  ‘I certainly am …’ Salka hesitated.

  Sensing there was more to come, Una waited.

  ‘He tried it on with me too,’ Salka said at last. ‘Shortly after I moved here. I think he was even quicker off the mark with me than he was with you.’

  ‘Wow. He’s got quite a nerve for a married man in such a tiny place.’

  ‘I don’t think he cares, to be honest.’

  ‘How did he react when you turned him down? Did he try again?’

  There was another lengthy silence.

  ‘I didn’t turn him down,’ Salka answered at last. ‘I was lonely and there aren’t many other good-looking men around here, so …’

  ‘Did you know he was married?’

  ‘Yes, I did,’ Salka answered, unabashed. ‘Frankly, I felt that was his problem, not mine.’ She smiled. ‘It may sound a bit cynical to you, but there you go. And we were incredibly careful. For God’s sake, don’t tell anyone, though. I trust you.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Una assured her, not knowing what else to say.

  ‘He told me his wife was involved with someone else, from outside Skálar; that it was a marriage in name only. And what do I know …?’

  ‘How … how did it end?’

  ‘It didn’t last long, just a few months. Then we both gradually lost interest. Maybe I thought better of it, if I’m being completely honest. It was uncomfortable knowing that his wife lived practically next door.’

  This certainly wasn’t what Una had been expecting to hear when she sat down to supper. Clearly, everyone had their secrets. ‘By the way, I heard an interesting story about this house, something about a ghost …?’

  An odd expression flitted across Salka’s face and Una sensed that the other woman didn’t find it remotely amusing.

  ‘Yes …’ Salka paused. ‘I wasn’t necessarily going to bring it up. I try to avoid the subject, especially with you, as you’re … well, as you’re living in the flat upstairs. Most of the stories seem to relate to that part of the house.’

  Una waited for her to go on.

  ‘Have you noticed, er, anything out of the ordinary up there?’

  ‘Why, should I have?’ Una asked, feeling suddenly spooked. It was one thing to tell ghost stories for a laugh, but she had a horrible feeling that Salka might actually believe in the haunting.

  ‘Well, it depends who you talk to, Una.’

  ‘I did have a bad dream one night, but that was right after my encounter with Kolbeinn, when he told me about the ghost.’

  ‘Bloody Kolbeinn,’ Salka said, with a sudden flash of anger. ‘He never could keep his mouth shut.’

  ‘I heard, or thought I heard, a little girl singing or reciting a poem. It woke me up and, to tell the truth, I was quite scared. It felt so real. But I’m pretty sure it was my imagination – just a dream or my mind playing
tricks on me.’ Yet Una was far from sure; it simply made her feel better to rationalize it away like this.

  ‘Yes …’ Salka said doubtfully, but didn’t comment any further on Una’s experience, and Una couldn’t bring herself to ask if anyone else had heard something similar.

  Eventually, Salka went on: ‘I’ve heard various stories and I was aware of them before I moved here, because the house was in my family, as you know. The girl died in 1927 and her room was upstairs in the attic. That’s to say’ – she made a face – ‘it was the room you’re sleeping in now.’

  As she said it, the high little voice started up again in Una’s head, singing the same haunting refrain:

  Lullaby, my little Thrá,

  may you sweetly sleep …

  She tried to banish it from her mind, watching Salka, focusing hard on what she was saying, but the voice seemed to grow in strength, becoming louder and louder, until Una was driven to her feet.

  You could have warned me, Salka, she thought.

  She sat down again, trying to control her trembling. ‘What, er … what kind of stories? About people seeing or hearing her, you mean?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know how much I should repeat,’ Salka said slowly. ‘I don’t want to frighten you, but, if you really want to know, I’ve heard various tales. There’s one story I’ve heard many times. A woman lived upstairs over the summer and got on fine at first, but then she woke up one night – the midnight sun was shining outside – to see a girl, dressed in white, standing at the foot of her bed and staring at her. Apparently, the woman screamed and ran downstairs and out of the house and refused to set foot in it ever again.’ At this point, Salka smiled, as if to lighten the tense atmosphere. ‘Of course, people have to decide for themselves whether they believe in that sort of thing or not.’