I Remember You

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Freyr paused for a moment before replying as he tried to remember the name of the childhood friend who was still alive. ‘Obviously, the most direct course of action would be to ask the only one of them left about what actually went on.’ Freyr flipped through the book a bit in search of entries concerning the man. ‘Lárus. The one who appeared to Védís with his guts hanging out.’

  ‘What sort of death do you suppose awaits him?’ Dagný rested her glass on her leg and swirled the wine in it like an experienced wine taster preparing to sip and spit.

  ‘No idea. Maybe stomach cancer.’ Freyr pushed back thoughts of accidents and illnesses that could do serious damage to one’s abdomen. ‘Perhaps I’ll try to find him tomorrow, since I’ll be in town. He lives in Reykjavík.’

  Dagný looked at the kitchen clock. ‘I’d forgotten that you’re heading south in the morning. I’d better get going.’ She put down her glass and stood up. ‘I like the idea of you trying to reach Lárus; I’d prefer this not to get mixed into the investigation with things as they are. I don’t want to have to explain all this spooky stuff to my boss or the police down south. It can wait.’

  When they were at the front door Freyr wished he could ask her to stay the night, but was afraid she would say no. Dagný herself seemed unsure how to say goodnight, and she appeared relieved to remember a detail that she’d forgotten to ask him about in their conversation concerning the diary. ‘Do you remember how Védís wrote near the end that she’d started being woken by noises in the basement and that it disturbed her dreams, so that she couldn’t finish them?’ Freyr nodded. ‘Have you noticed anything, heard a knocking like she describes or any other noises?’

  ‘No, not that I recall.’

  ‘Too bad.’ Dagný smiled. ‘Not that I want you to be haunted or anything. I was just hoping that if the noises were still occurring, they might be coming from broken pipes or something in the house itself, and that way we could solve at least one part of the puzzle.’

  Once Freyr was under the covers he listened for noises from the house, instead of falling asleep to music on his iPod as he usually did. It wasn’t long before he regretted it.

  Chapter 19

  The night had passed without any trauma; either they’d been too tired to notice anything, or their move to the doctor’s house had had the desired effect. The hammering sound, which had nearly frightened them to death, had stopped just as abruptly as it had begun, and Katrín and Líf had managed to persuade Garðar not to rush outside. They’d subsequently checked all the windows and doors to reassure themselves that no one could get in, and propped chairs under the knobs of the front and back doors for added security. Reasonably satisfied with this arrangement, the three of them had then settled themselves on the upper floor and huddled together on the biggest bunk they could find in the hope of keeping warm. Nevertheless, Katrín was so cold when she woke up that she doubted the situation could have been worse, even if she’d slept out on the porch, alone. At first she found it difficult to use her hands, but then returning circulation slowly worked its way out to her extremities. Her joints were stiff and her entire body ached from her injuries, and the few bruises that weren’t covered by clothing were larger and darker than they’d been the day before. She didn’t dare look beneath her clothing and examine the rest because of the cold. Every breath and every word left behind a little white cloud and magnified the chill that seemed to have settled into her battered body. In the faint light that came in through the loose window shutters she could see Líf and Garðar’s deathly pale faces, their eyes swollen and their noses bright red. Their hair was oily and dirty, since they’d given little thought to washing themselves in the confusion of these past days.

  It was as if Líf read from Katrín’s expression how she looked. She scratched her scalp, which only served to mess up her hair and make her look even scruffier. ‘Jesus, I’m looking forward to getting home and having a shower.’ The good old spa had clearly now become too remote an idea in her mind for her to think of it any more. ‘Can’t we heat some water and rinse most of the dirt off ourselves? I’m getting sick of the smell of my hair.’ She wrapped her arms around herself in the hope of increased warmth. ‘And I don’t want to be found looking like shit if we die here.’

  Garðar snorted, but when he spoke he ignored her pessimism. ‘If you’re willing to go up to the house with me I can heat water there. It’s no problem.’ He pulled his trousers up over the woollen underwear he’d bought specially for the trip. ‘The food is there so we need to go anyway, unless we’re planning to starve to death. And when we go we can try to continue with some of the repairs. We’re better off doing something apart from hanging around here getting freaked out. I promise you time will pass quicker that way. We know now that the child is just as likely to turn up here as there.’

  Katrín reached for the woolly jumper she’d taken off before crawling into her sleeping bag, but missed very much when she woke half frozen. The garment was ice-cold to the touch. ‘You want us to go and paint? I can’t say I’m wild about the idea.’ Putti looked as if he agreed with her. He probably didn’t want to go out into the snow at all, and would happily have continued to lie on the mattress at her feet.

  Líf was still shivering. ‘I want to walk further up the fjord.’ She finally looked as if she were going to put on more clothing. ‘Maybe, maybe we’ll find a boat that we can take to Ísafjörður. I’m not talking about going far, just far enough to give us a better view of the fjord. Remember the big chimney and the remains of the whaling station, or factory, or whatever it is, just near here, that we saw from the boat on the way? Can’t we go there?’

  ‘Do you even know how to pilot a boat?’ Garðar seemed irritated by their negative reaction to his idea about continuing the repairs and Katrín found this rather silly; he could hardly have expected them to leap eagerly to their feet. ‘I wouldn’t want to risk it.’ His voice was slightly shrill with agitation.

  ‘If there’s a boat here, there’s probably a radio or a phone in it.’ Líf wasn’t giving up.

  Not for the first time, the negotiator in Katrín stirred. ‘I suggest we go up to the house, have something to eat, perk ourselves up a bit by washing our hair, work for a while and then go for a hike when it’s light enough.’ She had no idea if it was pitch-dark outside or whether the sun was shining brightly. Nor did she know whether she could walk for any distance, although the aching in her body had subsided somewhat. ‘Of course it depends on the weather, but it sounds to me like it’s quietened down outside.’ They couldn’t hear the wind moaning; silence seemed to dominate outside as well as in. ‘Is that a plan?’ She looked at Líf, who shrugged her shoulders, then at Garðar, who stared sadly at her. Why he should be sad, she didn’t know; perhaps it was dawning on him that this was going to end badly. They would probably make it home okay, but then the struggle would begin all over again, not helped by their worsening financial problems. A guesthouse in an abandoned village, whether it was dilapidated or newly renovated, wouldn’t change anything. She smiled sweetly at him but he looked away. Líf, however, seemed thrilled with her proposal; they could walk further up the fjord after all. In search of a boat that didn’t exist.

  The water was far too hot, or did it just seem that way in the cold out on the porch? Katrín felt her scalp contract as Garðar poured water from an aluminium pot over her head, and the throbbing of the bruise there nearly killed her. She was facing the mutilated woodwork and the black soil beneath the gaping hole that they still had to repair. She was surprised there was no snow on the soil, despite the area all around being covered in white. Maybe the black soil was warmer than the surrounding ground and had melted the snow as soon as it fell. Black objects were generally warmer to the touch than lighter-coloured ones on sunny days. Luckily Garðar had covered over the fox skeleton immediately after they found it, so she didn’t have that staring up at her. That would have been the icing on the cake. Another wave of water cascaded over her head, getting s
oap in her eyes but diminishing the pain in her warm, sore scalp. ‘Shit.’ Katrín rubbed her eyes but that just made things worse. ‘Hand me the towel.’ She bent down, opened her eyes, and gasped when she thought she saw little filthy feet on the porch, directly below her face, as if a child were standing close in front of her. She shut her eyes again, but when she reopened them she saw only the wet planks of the porch. She straightened up so quickly that her head spun, and water from her hair flew in all directions.

  ‘What’s up with you?’ Annoyed, Garðar used the towel to dry off the water that had splashed on him, before handing it to Katrín. ‘You two are so messy!’

  Líf had been the first to wash and had managed to splash water everywhere when she also claimed to have got soap in her eyes. Putti had received an unwanted shower this way; he’d jumped off the porch and now didn’t dare step back onto it. Katrín wondered now whether Líf had experienced the same hallucination but she didn’t want to ask, since she didn’t know what answer she was hoping for. Nor did she want to bring up the boy, since they’d managed to avoid talking about him for three whole hours as they worked on repairs. On the other hand, it was no secret that he was on their minds. They’d started working through the wooden planks on the lower storey that had been stacked there by the former owner, although he hadn’t lived long enough to finish laying out the new wooden floor. This meant, they could all work in the same place and be comforted by each other’s presence. Although the house wasn’t big, none of them wanted to end up alone in a closed room. ‘Let’s see how you handle it.’ Katrín wrapped the towel around her wet hair. ‘How much water is left?’

  ‘Not enough.’ Garðar showed her what remained in the pot. ‘I’m going to get more; the stove is still burning and it won’t take the water any time to warm up. I’m tougher than you two, I don’t need to have it that hot.’

  ‘Sure. Sure you are.’ Líf stood up from the kitchen stool that she’d dragged outside. She’d also wrapped her hair in a towel, like a white turban. She looked a whole lot better simply after a hair-wash and she seemed relaxed. ‘You’re so much tougher than us.’ She took the butt of the cigarette that she’d just finished and stuck it back into the packet, frowning. Her tobacco inventory seemed a greater cause for concern than arguing with Garðar over which sex was braver when it came to hair-washing. ‘Did you see any more packs of cigarettes in the doctor’s house?’

  ‘No.’ Although Katrín was unhappy that Líf had taken them, everything was a lot calmer since she’d been able to burn off some of her stress with cigarettes. She suspected that the atmosphere wouldn’t be as relaxed once the pack was finished. ‘We’ll take a closer look through the cupboards tonight.’ They’d already decided to spend another night in the doctor’s house. ‘Maybe we’ll find more cigarettes.’ Líf beamed, making Katrín worry that she was about to light up again and finish the pack in the expectation of finding some more. ‘Don’t get your hopes up, though,’ she warned

  Garðar had gone down to the stream, and although Katrín would have liked to wait for him on the porch she was too cold; the ends of her hair where they poked out from beneath the towel felt stiff and icy. ‘Shouldn’t we go inside?’

  ‘God, yes. I’m frozen.’ Líf shook herself. ‘Can you imagine how cold it must have been when that woman and her kid fell through the ice? I wouldn’t have thought it could get much colder here, but the fjord isn’t even frozen over yet. How low does the temperature actually have to be for the sea to freeze?’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Katrín didn’t want to know. She had the feeling that if they spoke too much about it they would somehow conjure up even colder weather. And then the boat wouldn’t be able to dock at the pier – in fact, a rubber dinghy wouldn’t even make it up to the beach.

  Líf shuffled her feet on the porch, but made no move to go inside. ‘Can you imagine her desperation when she realised she wasn’t going to be able to save her child?’ Katrín’s goose bumps had returned. She wished Líf would change the subject. ‘How she must have flailed around in the water, trying to get a strong enough grip on him to lift him out? I suppose she didn’t give a damn about herself in the end, as long as he was saved.’

  ‘Stop talking about it.’ Katrín couldn’t take any more. ‘We both know it was a horrible way to die, without having to go into all the details.’

  ‘Do you think the child we saw is the drowned boy?’ Líf spoke so softly that she was almost whispering. ‘Something hit the house from the outside when Garðar was telling us what had been written about them. If it’s a ghost, it would explain a lot.’

  ‘No,’ said Katrín sternly. ‘He’s much older; the little boy who drowned was five. And this child is definitely alive, not dead.’ Her voice wavered; she wasn’t even convincing herself. ‘Let’s go in.’ The warmth from the wood stove met them at the door. Putti came up as close to her as he could manage and lay down at her feet, delighted to get some warmth into his little body. The sensation of stepping in from the cold was the best Katrín could recall since their arrival in Hesteyri, and she was filled with indescribable longing for the warmth of her own home in Reykjavík. It didn’t help that she had the sneaking suspicion something bad was about to happen, since they were all feeling so good. She felt like crying, but restrained herself.

  ‘I really want to crawl in there.’ Líf stood in front of the wood slot on the stove, holding her hands as close to it as she could stand. ‘I’d forgotten how it feels to be warm.’

  Katrín followed her example. She watched her hands redden, from her fingertips up along the backs until the redness disappeared beneath the arms of her jacket. Her pain seemed to have subsided; her body no longer ached. ‘Me too. I’ve already started to worry about it cooling down again.’ She didn’t get any further, since a terrible cracking sound came from behind them, almost like gunfire. Líf screamed and grabbed Katrín. Putti had shot to his feet and was looking around, bewildered. ‘What the hell was that?’ Katrín tried to shake off Líf but in the commotion she’d bumped into the towel on her head, nearly knocking it off. She managed to get Líf off her and grab the towel before it fell to the floor. She could still see the child’s filthy feet too vividly in her mind to dare turn around to look. The sound of Garðar’s rapid footsteps came from the porch and she decided to wait and let him see what was in the room with them, since he thought he was such a great hero.

  ‘What was that noise?’ Garðar sounded breathless. ‘I was so startled when I heard you two screaming that I almost lost all the water. What happened?’

  There was clearly nothing weird in the room, since Garðar seemed calm enough. Katrín turned around and fought the desire to squint so that she’d be able to shut her eyes quicker if there was something there. She didn’t tell him it was only Líf who’d screamed, as she wasn’t entirely sure that was the case. It was quite possible that she’d cried out too, without realizing it. ‘We heard some sort of terrible noise, like a loud cracking sound, inside the house. Then you came. I have no idea what happened.’

  Garðar looked around and Katrín followed suit. Líf, however, was still facing the wood stove, her back to the room, her face buried in her hands. ‘Tell me when you’ve figured out what it was.’ Then she added: ‘Just make stuff up if it’s something awful. I really can’t take any more.’

  ‘No one needs to make anything up.’ Garðar walked into the room and towards the rotten patch in the wooden floor. ‘I can see what happened.’ He leaned over and picked something up. When he straightened up he handed Katrín a broken floorboard. ‘The parquet cracked.’ He seemed puzzled. ‘Maybe we nailed it down too forcefully and it expanded in the heat from the stove.’ He reached down for another piece of wood that also lay against the wall. ‘Or else it has something to do with this rot.’ He examined the wood as if it held the answer. ‘I guess we’ll have to take out all the boards in this part of the floor. There are several there at the front that the former owner laid down.’

  ‘Isn’t that a r
eally big project?’ Katrín longed to toss the plank she was holding into the fire, and if she had her way, the leftover floorboards and the rest of it would all go the same way. ‘We can’t even finish what we’ve already started, let alone add new projects to the list.’

  Garðar stared at his feet as if in a trance and didn’t answer immediately. ‘There’s something about the state of this floor that’s making me sure we need to fix it. I feel like it could spread throughout the entire house if we don’t do something, and then it’ll all be ruined.’

  ‘The stain hasn’t got any bigger since we last saw it. Why would it start spreading now?’ Katrín peered at the mark. Was she right? To her it appeared not to have changed at all, although she hadn’t exactly memorized its outline. ‘Isn’t it weird that it’s so square?’ Now as she looked at the floor she found the edges of the affected area abnormally straight, the corners almost sharp. ‘Could something under there be causing it?’

  ‘Like what?’ Garðar knew about as much about damp and rot as Katrín did. ‘If that’s the case, ripping up the floorboards will expose it.’

  Líf came over to stand between them, staring at the spot. She hadn’t said anything until now and it was clear that her interest in the topic was limited. ‘I think we should hurry if we’re going out for a walk. Let’s bring the water over so you can wash your hair, Garðar, and then let’s get going. Otherwise it’ll be dark before we’re even halfway there.’ Garðar opened his mouth as if to say something, but Líf interrupted. ‘You promised, Garðar. We’re going to the factory.’