The Girl Who Died

by Ragnar Jónasson

  Some time passed before the phone was picked up and, inevitably, it was Hjördís at the other end of the line.

  ‘Hello, Happy Christmas, it’s Una here,’ Una said in a small, diffident voice, immediately regretting the impulse to call.

  The silence at the other end was crushing. Una could guess what it meant: how dare you bother us on Christmas Eve?

  Una went on, trying to stop her voice from trembling: ‘Could I speak to Thór?’

  ‘Just a moment,’ Hjördís said tonelessly.

  ‘Hello, Happy Christmas!’ Thór, in contrast, sounded friendly and not in the least put out by her call. ‘It’s good to hear from you.’

  ‘Yes, er, yes, you too,’ Una answered, flustered. ‘I was just feeling a bit lonely, what with Salka not being around, you know. I just wondered how you were doing. And wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas.’

  ‘I was thinking of you earlier,’ he said. ‘We should have invited you to dinner. It was very thoughtless of us. No one should be alone at Christmas.’

  ‘Oh no, really, there was no need. I cooked chicken. It was … fine.’

  Thór laughed and Una was surprised by what a relief it was to hear laughter again.

  ‘We had ptarmigan,’ he said. ‘I always shoot a brace for Christmas. That’s proper seasonal food. I’ll bring over some leftovers for you.’

  ‘Oh, er, great, it would be lovely to taste it, but only if you’ve got enough. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your dinner.’

  ‘There’s plenty left. I’ll drop round in, say, ten minutes, if that’s all right?’

  She could hardly believe it. She hadn’t even had to ask him to come, and she’d almost certainly have chickened out. Inviting a man round for an evening visit would have sounded bad enough, even if it hadn’t been Christmas Eve. Yet, although she was attracted to him, her impulse had also been motivated by a craving for company, a chance to talk to someone who knew how to listen.

  ‘That would be lovely,’ she said, trying not to make her happiness too obvious. ‘I look forward to it. I’ve got half a bottle of red wine to go with the ptarmigan.’

  ‘Half? That won’t do for Christmas. I’ll bring one with me.’

  She felt a flutter in her stomach at the thought, and it hit her that she hadn’t only been afraid of being alone but also of the drink running out.

  VII

  Una had no idea where the evening might lead, but she wasn’t getting her hopes up for anything other than some much-needed company.

  She and Thór had taken a seat in the sitting room downstairs, among the old books and antique furniture. The chandelier threw a soft illumination over the scene, and Una had lit some candles as well. She didn’t feel guilty about making herself at home down there since she knew Salka wouldn’t be back any time soon and there was no need for her ever to know about Thór’s visit.

  ‘It’s terrible news about Edda,’ Thór said, once they were seated a polite distance apart on the sofa. The bottle of red he had brought with him was open on the coffee table and they had filled two of Salka’s special crystal glasses. It had felt a shame not to use them, seeing as it was Christmas.

  Una had laid the table too, helping herself to the contents of Salka’s cupboards and taking out the best seagull china. The ptarmigan looked delicious and seemed very generous for leftovers. Clearly, Hjördís and Thór had done themselves proud.

  ‘Yes, it still hasn’t sunk in,’ Una replied. ‘And no one seems to have any idea what was wrong with her.’

  ‘No, so I heard. You must have been quite close to her after teaching her and living in the same house all these months?’

  ‘Yes, quite close, though it takes a bit longer to really get to know your pupils, even when there are only two of them.’ Una smiled dully. ‘She was a very open-hearted, lively little thing. Talented too.’

  ‘Unlike Kolbrún, I imagine,’ Thór remarked drily.

  Una hesitated, reluctant to speak ill of a pupil. Choosing her words carefully, she replied: ‘She’s, well, a bit more reserved, a different type altogether. I have to admit I don’t feel I know her at all, despite having taught her all autumn.’ After a pause, she asked: ‘Do you … do you think Salka will come back?’

  Thór pondered a moment. ‘I’m not sure, to be honest. She’d only moved here fairly recently, but on the other hand the village seems to exert a strong pull on people, and those with roots here stick together and look out for one another.’ There was a faraway look in his eyes. ‘It’s almost like they don’t let people leave, if you know what I mean?’

  Una understood all right. Her thoughts immediately flew to Gunnar and Gudrún. It was obvious that Gudrún would have liked to live somewhere else but that Gunnar wouldn’t hear of it. And then there were Kolbeinn and Inga, always on the point of leaving, of starting a new life somewhere else, but would they ever actually do it? Eventually Una nodded. ‘That just leaves us two, as the guests in the village.’ She smiled and raised her eyes to his. ‘The migrant workers.’

  He looked away. ‘I expect I’ll be here longer than you,’ he said. ‘I don’t really have anywhere else to go.’

  ‘Oh, come on, you could work anywhere …’ She broke off. She didn’t want to come across as bossy or inquisitive. Perhaps there was something going on between him and Hjördís, or there had been once and he still had hopes of reigniting the embers …

  ‘It’s not such a bad place,’ he said, sounding as if he felt he had to justify himself to her. ‘We make jokes about it, you know? About living in the back of beyond, that sort of thing, but it’s peaceful, there’s a good atmosphere, nature on your doorstep, and it gives you time for your hobbies …’

  A silence fell. Una didn’t know how to fill it.

  Thór saved her the trouble by saying: ‘I’d like … actually, it’s my ambition to study history one day.’ She could tell from his voice that he was serious and, from the way he said it, she got the impression that he hadn’t confided this dream to many other people. ‘I’d probably write a dissertation about the war years here in Skálar. I’ve been giving it a bit of thought, making notes of various facts and stories I’ve come across. And I do a lot of reading about the 1940s, about what conditions were like in this area, and so on. I’ve even sat down with the old blokes here and made a tape-recording of them reminiscing about those days. It’s important to preserve sources like that for posterity.’

  His eyes were oddly bright, though whether from sorrow or happiness, Una couldn’t tell. Both, perhaps.

  ‘You should go for it,’ she said. ‘Go south to university in Reyk-javík.’ Then she realized that she didn’t even know if he had finished his school exams.

  ‘Ah, it’s not quite that simple,’ he said, so perhaps that was the problem. ‘There’s the cost and the hassle of having to find somewhere to live, giving up my job here, all that kind of thing.’

  Although these sounded like excuses to her, she decided not to comment on the fact. ‘You’ll do it later, when the time’s right,’ she said instead, and smiled at him. ‘But don’t give up on the idea. Promise me that.’

  ‘I promise,’ he said, embarrassed.

  She took a mouthful of wine; it was far better than the cheap bottle she had bought. Thór and Hjördís could obviously afford the more expensive stuff. She tried the ptarmigan. Its strong, gamey flavour wasn’t what she was used to, but she said: ‘Delicious food, really delicious. Thanks so much for rescuing my evening.’

  He smiled but didn’t say anything.

  Una sensed that it was time to change the subject. Talking about his dream of studying history seemed to have left him depressed.

  ‘Listen, Thór …’

  He turned and looked at her, his eyes kind above his thick beard. She had never fancied men with facial hair, but it seemed Thór was the exception.

  ‘There’s something I’d like to ask you.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Have you heard any ghost stories about the village?�
��

  ‘Ghost stories?’ Thór smiled again, his warm, amiable smile. ‘As far as I can tell, people have always told ghost stories about this area. But then, what do you expect from such an isolated spot? The most innocent things can appear sinister in the darkness and solitude, Una.’

  She smiled at his tone, although she didn’t find it amusing. ‘I know all that. My stay here has been one long nightmare.’

  He shifted closer to her on the sofa. ‘Surely it can’t have been that bad? I know what you’re fishing for, though: the story of the girl in this house.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Where did you hear about it?’

  ‘Kolbeinn told me.’

  ‘Oh, Kolbeinn loves telling ghost stories, but you shouldn’t take him too seriously. He likes to exaggerate. And … and that’s not his only little quirk, from what I hear.’

  Una nodded, but resisted the opening he had provided. She didn’t want to ruin a wonderful evening by talking about Kolbeinn. ‘So you don’t think there’s any truth in the tales?’ she asked instead.

  It took Thór a moment to answer: ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve only heard the stories, like you. They’re passed down the generations. But I’ve read a thing or two as well.’

  ‘You’re always reading.’

  He laughed. ‘It is ironic, really, because I never used to read anything. Reading makes you a better person.’

  ‘As a teacher, I can hardly contradict you there,’ Una said. Then, unable to resist the temptation, she asked: ‘What kind of stories?’

  ‘Are you sure you want to hear them? I wouldn’t want to be responsible for keeping you awake at night. It’s bad enough that you’ve got a ghost upstairs in your flat.’

  ‘Thór, don’t joke about it, OK?’

  ‘OK, OK.’ He thought a minute, then said: ‘Well, there’s the “mare”, of course.’

  ‘The mare?’

  ‘Yes, you know, the “nightmare” who supposedly rides you in your sleep and gives you bad dreams.’

  Una nodded.

  ‘There’s a hair-raising story about the mare going for a man here in Skálar at the turn of the century. She attacked him and trampled him so mercilessly that he couldn’t move. And it happened more than once.’

  ‘Did he survive?’

  ‘He bellowed some curse, from what I can remember, and after that it stopped.’ Thór grinned, and it was evident from his manner that he took all this talk of the supernatural with a pinch of salt. ‘Then there was the sea monster. That’s quite a story.’

  ‘Oh? Go on, tell me.’

  ‘A monster with a great long tail once crawled out of the sea and attacked some poor farmer who lived here. He defended himself with an axe he happened to be carrying, but the fight lasted most of the night before the monster finally gave up.’

  ‘So it all ended well?’

  ‘Far from it,’ Thór said gravely. ‘Afterwards the farmer became a leper!’ He chuckled. ‘You’ve got to laugh at these old tales.’

  ‘You’re not very receptive to that sort of thing, are you?’ Una said. ‘The down-to-earth type, I take it?’

  His answer was a while in coming and, when it did, his manner was unusually grave. ‘The thing is, as I’ve learned from bitter experience, the world is difficult, dangerous and unfair enough without needing to believe in ghosts and monsters.’

  Una nodded again. This was a truth she knew only too well.

  She couldn’t remember exactly when she had started seeing the events, visualizing the murders of Hilmar and Hannes as if she had been there.

  Hilmar, who she hardly knew, and Hannes, her boyfriend.

  The police had described the circumstances in vivid detail, assuring her that she had been there, under the influence of drink and drugs. The reason she hadn’t been able to remember at first, they explained, was that she had been drunk or high at the time.

  But now she could remember, or thought she could, the deaths of both men, because the police had insisted that she could, and it was so much easier to do as she was told.

  She couldn’t bear the thought of being locked up in prison much longer. A confession would mean being convicted, of course, and yet she had gone ahead and confessed, because the uncertainty was even more unbearable, and solitary confinement worst of all.

  Locked up alone in her cell, she had experienced a darkness of the soul like nothing else she had ever known.

  The police had mentioned some dates, told her where she had been and what she had done, and in the end she had confessed.

  She also remembered going round to Hannes’s in the evening to look for him. She hadn’t had a key as their relationship hadn’t yet reached that stage, so she had knocked on the door and waited awhile, then peered in the window before giving up and going away again. They’d had a date, but it wasn’t the first time he’d let her down like that. She had told the cops this story, and at first they had believed her, but later they had told her that it hadn’t happened, not then at any rate, because on the evening in question she had taken part in murdering Hannes. And not just Hannes but Hilmar too. Afterwards, their bodies had been disposed of in the lava-fields and she was supposed to tell the police where. That was the only thing the bastards didn’t seem sure about.

  The trouble was, she couldn’t tell them because she couldn’t remember anything except what they had ordered her to remember.

  Deep down she had her doubts, but perhaps they were right. Perhaps she had drunk too much, taken too many drugs, blocked off the memories. And now here she was, sitting in solitary confinement, in her lightless cell, despite having confessed. They assured her it was only temporary; that the nightmare was ending, that it must feel so good to come clean and tell the truth.

  The only problem was that she had been telling the truth all along, right from the beginning; the truth as it had appeared to her, and it was a long time before she had come round to seeing things through their eyes.

  In spite of their assurances, she kept asking herself again and again: why would she have wanted to kill Hannes? And his friend too? The police couldn’t give her any satisfactory explanation for that. They just said that the two men had been caught betraying their associates in a drug-smuggling ring. Since she had known that Hannes was no angel, it wasn’t that much of a stretch to believe that he had been involved in something dodgy.

  But that she could have had anything to do with killing him …? She would never have believed that – not until the police insisted she had.

  VIII

  ‘Have you seen her?’ Thór asked.

  They were still sitting on the sofa, on their second bottle now, and Una could feel the alcohol going to her head.

  ‘Her who?’ she asked, though she knew perfectly well what he meant.

  ‘The girl in the attic, the girl who died?’

  ‘Yes,’ Una said. ‘Or, I don’t know, I feel as if I have … I’ve dreamt about her. And …’

  He waited, not saying a word.

  ‘She seemed so real and yet I can’t really remember what she looked like. And it’s possible … it’s possible I saw her standing at the window on my first evening here. I assumed it was Edda, but I wasn’t quite sure, and then Edda flatly denied that she’d been awake at the time.’ It was an effort to talk about it, but Una didn’t want to stop. There was a relief in being able to tell someone, to share the story with Thór and try to work out what had been her imagination and what hadn’t; to establish what was within the bounds of possibility.

  ‘And then I heard the piano playing in the middle of the night, after Edda … you know, after they’d gone and I was left alone in the house. It was uncanny – terrifying, really,’ she said, feeling again the shiver down her spine, the horrifying certainty that she wasn’t alone in the house. She couldn’t bear the thought of being on her own there tonight. But with Thór at her side, it wouldn’t be nearly so bad.

  ‘Did she speak to you?’ he asked, and from the way he said it Una sensed that he migh
t be starting to believe; that he had temporarily muted the doubting voices in his head.

  ‘She sang me a lullaby,’ Una said. ‘But the first time I sensed her presence the feeling was vaguer, more as if she was summoning me.’ She immediately regretted saying this, knowing that Thór would ask her about it and that she might be tempted to tell him the whole story. She wasn’t used to talking about it – the subject was too private and painful.

  Perhaps it was the alcohol that had taken over and made the decision to let him come so close, or perhaps she had always intended to tell him about it this evening – of course this evening – because she knew it might just save her life.

  IX

  ‘Did you … did you know it was my birthday?’ Una asked, letting the words filter in, then dissolve in the silence.

  ‘Your birthday? What, today? Are you serious?’

  She nodded.

  ‘No, you’re joking! On Christmas Eve?’

  ‘Uhuh,’ she said, trying to smile. ‘A Christmas baby.’

  ‘Seriously? Why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘I don’t celebrate it,’ she said.

  ‘Shouldn’t you have been given some sort of Christmas-related name, like Natalía? Isn’t that what usually happens when babies are born at this time of year?’

  ‘No, I’m just Una.’ She explained: ‘It means “the happy one”,’ and didn’t even try to hide the mockery in her voice.

  ‘The happy one.’ He smiled. ‘Well, happy birthday, Una.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Her mother had rung earlier that day from abroad to wish her a combined happy birthday and Christmas. Their conversation had been brief, due to the cost of international phone calls – as a rule, her mother could hardly bring herself to make calls to other parts of Iceland – and the connection had been terrible too. But it wasn’t as if they needed to say much; it had all been said before, in one way or another.