I Remember You

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Instead of agreeing to this or mumbling a protest, Garðar looked for a second into Katrín’s eyes before turning and going back out to get the pot he’d left behind. Despite the warmth, Katrín felt a familiar chill pass through her. She had the feeling Garðar also suspected something bad was about to happen. But who knew what it might be?

  Chapter 20

  Freyr fell asleep before the plane took off and didn’t stir until an embarrassed flight attendant shook his shoulder lightly, after all the other passengers had alighted. He hadn’t been very sleepy during the night; exhaustion and his vivid imagination had played games with him. He’d heard all kinds of noises in the house, as if someone were wandering around in the basement. He couldn’t persuade himself to get up, dress and go down to have a look; it wasn’t the cold outside that stopped him, but rather the image of his son he’d seen in the hospital corridor. He was convinced that something similar awaited him downstairs. When he forced himself to get up, he saw dark rings under his eyes in the mirror, and although a cold shower should have made him feel better, he looked worse than he would have liked. He’d toyed with the idea of saying hello to some old colleagues at the National Hospital or even dropping in to see Sara. He would have enough time to do so between his meeting with the forensic pathologist and the departure of the afternoon flight, even if he also met up with Lárus Helgason. Now he wasn’t so sure this was how he wanted to spend the day; he flinched at the thought of his former colleagues thinking his unkempt appearance meant that he was losing his mind, and speculating that it wouldn’t be long before they heard news of his taking indefinite sick leave. Anger, paranoia, slander; he could handle most things, but he couldn’t bear pity. There was no way to respond to it; anything he did or said would only make matters worse, and possibly even serve to further convince them of his decline. No, it was better to avoid his colleagues and leave Sara be.

  Now the forensic pathologist was telling him, ‘The weirdest thing about it is that I vaguely remembered similar injuries in other cases, which led me to do a little research. And it appears that most of them were scarred on their backs in precisely the same way.’ The man spoke through a white paper mask. Little could be seen of his face behind that and his clunky safety goggles. Freyr would have had trouble recognizing the man out on the street, since he didn’t even know his hair colour; the doctor had greeted him with a green surgeon’s cap on his head, and had then pulled the mask up from his chin and pushed his glasses down onto his nose. ‘I find it very strange that this didn’t find its way into the woman’s medical records, since the scar seems to have been created over a long period of time. Although the cross is fully formed, it was made from many different wounds that healed at different times; the last one rather recent.’

  Freyr stared at Halla’s bluish-white back. He’d been asked to wear the same sort of protective garments as the pathologist and was finding it hard to resist ripping the goggles off his face, as he found it hard to see through them clearly. ‘Did she do this herself, in your opinion? Inflict all these wounds to form a cross?’ Up along her entire spinal column lay a tight row of white and pink vertical scars of various sizes. In some places they’d run together and many of the lines were far from straight, though they looked that way from just a short distance. Beneath her shoulder blades a similar collection of scars ran perpendicular to the other, forming a cross. It was clear which of these scars were the newest: those located at the end of the perpendicular line on Halla’s left side were redder than the others.

  ‘It’s difficult to see how most of them could be self-inflicted.’ The pathologist pointed with his gloved hand at the area in the middle where the lines of the cross met. ‘She could have done it with some sort of sharp implement, but considering the precision – none of the scars lies outside the cross itself – she would have had to use two mirrors as well. It would be very hard to concentrate properly under those circumstances, I would imagine.’ He removed his hand from Halla’s back and stuck it in the pocket of his gown. ‘I would guess that she had help, if you can call it that. Or maybe this was done against her will, but for some reason she didn’t put up a fight.’

  ‘How did it look in the other cases you mentioned? Did the victims inflict the wounds themselves, or did someone else?’

  ‘They were never sure.’ The doctor pulled the white sheet back over the body. ‘It was two individuals, a woman and a man, but I didn’t handle either of their cases so I don’t know all the details.’

  ‘Who were they?’ Freyr looked at the white lump that now constituted Halla’s earthly remains. She was to be sent back west on the afternoon plane, her funeral scheduled for two days later. He never failed to be struck by the sight of what a person left behind; where before a heart had beaten and a ceaseless torrent of thoughts had poured out, now there was nothing but dead flesh on white bones. And in time, only the bones would remain.

  ‘The first was the body of a man who’d died in a car accident, and the second, the woman, came to light at the funeral parlour. I was on my summer holiday when the first one came up, so I first heard of it just recently when I started asking around for you, but photos were taken and reports were filed. Someone from the funeral parlour told me about the other case, but the coroner who autopsied the first one had also heard about it.’ The doctor pulled off his rubber gloves and dropped them into the shiny steel rubbish bin. ‘Counting our friend here, these three deaths occurred over a period of just over two years. It makes me wonder whether it was some sort of religious ceremony, some cult that keeps far enough under the radar for no one to have heard about it.’

  Freyr pulled off his own gloves, rather clumsily. ‘Halla was religious, but her husband didn’t mention any cult. She helped with relief work for the church in her home town. I suppose there’s no chance the other two lived in Flateyri?’

  The doctor shook his head. ‘No, the woman lived in Reykjanes if I remember correctly, and the man was from Ísafjörður. He paused as he leaned over to scribble something on a form lying on the desk. ‘The three of them may not have lived in the same town but they did have one thing in common: they were all born in 1940. I don’t know whether that means anything, but I made a particular note of it.’

  Freyr licked his lips beneath his mask. ‘What were their names, might I ask? Could the name of the man who was run over be Steinn?’

  The doctor’s safety goggles shifted slightly as he raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’

  It was a strange feeling to be a car-less visitor in the city where he’d been born and had lived most of his life, as well as to have no place to go and lie down for an hour or so. He didn’t want to visit his family, since that would just make them worry about him more; it had been bad enough telling them he was moving out of town. Neither his parents nor his brother had understood, and had taken it as a sign that he was ill. They were probably right. So, instead of sitting over a cup of coffee with his family, Freyr found himself yawning in the back seat of a cab on his way to Sara’s. He was determined not to have a repeat of what had happened in the plane, and fought to stay awake. Of course he would have preferred to walk the short distance to her place on the west side of town, but he was worried about being even more tired by the time he arrived. It would be enough of a trial as it was. Sara had actually sounded stronger than usual on the phone, as if this time she might not burst into tears. Hopefully this meant she was coming to terms with the past, but Freyr knew he mustn’t get his hopes up based on one short phone call. Of course he should have told her his plans the night before, but things hadn’t gone the way he’d intended. He hadn’t wanted to call Sara while Dagný was there, and by the time she left after midnight he’d felt it was too late to do it. Nor had he known when, or even if, he could meet up with Lárus, who hadn’t answered his calls. He’d called Sara when he’d exhausted his other options; not very courteous of him, which was probably the reason why she’d responded so unenthusiastically.

  But his
thoughts were mainly dwelling on his meeting with the forensic pathologist. Freyr had asked him to find out whether the other two members of the group who were already dead had exhibited the same wounds when they died. Of the five deceased he already knew three had been marked in this way, which made it plausible that the other two, Védís and Jón, had been too. This could easily be verified now that he had given the doctor their names. Once he had, the doctor had quizzed him concerning the relationship between the individuals and how Freyr himself was connected to the case. Freyr had answered his questions conscientiously and not held anything back, since he saw no reason to do so. He told him that he thought perhaps these people had believed in the prophetic power of dreams, or that ghosts had played some part in their lives – and their deaths. The man had listened attentively, and said finally that of all the branches of the medical sciences, Freyr’s specialism was one of the few that were no better at diagnosing the dead than the living. He personally had little experience of mental illnesses; he saw only their consequences and never their causes, despite being able to work his way unhindered through the parts of the body and the organs that couldn’t offer an easy diagnosis in the living. Therefore, he conceded, he was in no position to judge what Freyr said; he would simply have to believe him. When they parted, the doctor asked to be allowed to follow the progress of the case, hinting that he might consider writing a paper about the scars and their origins. Freyr had his doubts that a paper on such a peculiar case would be published in any self-respecting medical journal, but promised to stay in touch nevertheless.

  The cab stopped outside the beautiful wooden house where Sara lived. The apartment was on the middle floor and Freyr could see in through the living room window, where she was standing and watching him. He paid the driver and stepped out, but when he looked up again Sara was gone. He drew several deep breaths on his way up to the house and found he was walking more slowly than usual. He felt terribly apprehensive about seeing her, and asked himself why he was doing it; it would be best for them both if they ceased all communication. That was easier said than done, though, based to no small extent on the guilt he still felt over having abandoned her when she’d needed him most. Before he rang the doorbell he reminded himself that his hand had been forced by self-preservation, one of the strongest human instincts.

  He’d barely rung the bell before the door opened and Sara stood in the entrance. She was even thinner than last time, down to nearly nothing. It made her head look abnormally large, like that of a PEZ dispenser. Yet even though her body appeared frail, there was something in her face that made her look healthier than he’d seen her in a long time: her eyes were sparkling and full of emotion, but not the one he’d expected. Sara seemed furious. ‘Hi.’ He leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek as usual, but she turned away and beckoned him in. Freyr tried to act unconcerned, though he felt uncomfortable. He took off his shoes and followed her inside. Everywhere he looked he saw familiar furniture and ornaments from when they’d lived together. To him they seemed lost in their new location, as if they were still waiting to be moved back to their original home.

  ‘This is my friend, Elísa.’ Sara indicated a woman sitting on the living room sofa, which they’d put so much effort into choosing. They greeted each other, and he suddenly thought that Sara was going to tell him she’d realised she was gay. ‘Elísa is a medium, and she’s been helping me recently. You can spare me the moralizing, because she’s been much more use to me than you have, as a supposed expert in other people’s well-being.’ Following this introduction, Sara sat down on the sofa and patted it to indicate that he should sit as well. ‘I’m glad Elísa was able to drop by, given it was such short notice. I wanted her to meet you.’

  ‘Sorry, Sara.’ Freyr chose a chair facing the sofa. ‘I was only expecting to see you. It’s not really any excuse, but I’ve had a lot on my plate, and I haven’t exactly been at my best recently.’ He turned to the medium, who was blushing, obviously wishing she could get up and leave. Sara probably hadn’t planned this meeting in advance; she wasn’t usually that organised. ‘Just so you know, although I’m not much of a one for mysticism or spirituality, I think everyone is entitled to their own opinion – and it would be a boring world if everyone believed the same thing. If you’ve helped Sara, that’s great, and I would never oppose any treatment that works.’

  Elísa smiled at him, clearly relieved. She was dressed in very ordinary clothes: jeans, shirt and jacket. The garments were all clean and ironed, but on closer inspection had been worn a great deal: her shirtsleeves were threadbare at the edges and her jeans lighter-coloured at the knees. Nothing about her fit the stereotype of a medium; perhaps she took steps to counter this by avoiding long, colourful skirts and making sure to straighten any curls out of her long hair. ‘Thanks. Sara and I are making good progress and I’m hoping that by working together we can help her get past what’s bothering her.’ She looked at Sara and gave a little smile. ‘But from what Sara has told me, her problem seems to be connected to you somehow. I know this might sound strange to you, but I don’t know exactly how or why it concerns you. Contact with those who are no longer among us isn’t like a conversation between two people; there may be a few words here and there, but it’s often more like a kind of . . . effect on a person, which that person might not necessarily understand.’

  ‘Is that really so different from the kind of work you do, Freyr?’ His ex-wife’s voice had softened slightly, which woke memories of the Sara he once knew. ‘Doctors might understand how muscles and organs work, but you actually have no idea what causes a person to be happy or sad. Do you? You can’t explain what an emotion is, yet you assume they’re there and don’t doubt their existence.’ Freyr nodded to acknowledge this, not wanting to irritate them by explaining psychiatry’s theory on emotions. Science’s investigations and definitions of well-documented phenomena were worlds away from the simplified explanations of occultists.

  ‘What are you expecting me to say? Or do?’ He felt even more exhausted as soon as the words were out; by asking this he’d become a participant in Sara’s latest desperate attempt to cure herself, and given her the green light to continue on this course. It could only end one way, with more disappointment.

  ‘You appear again and again, both in Sara’s dreams and in conversation. It’s no coincidence; it happens repeatedly, and even more frequently in recent days.’

  ‘And what would you like me to do about that?’ Freyr longed to lean his head on the soft back of the armchair, shut his eyes and ask to be left alone for half an hour.

  ‘I don’t know.’ Well, you couldn’t say Elísa wasn’t honest. Freyr had to concentrate on not laughing out loud. The woman, who seemed to realize he didn’t think much of her, added: ‘When people die without coming to terms with their end, they get trapped between worlds. They can’t move on to the next level of existence, because the ones they leave behind are still too connected to them and want justice to be done, or for a reckoning to take place. If that doesn’t happen, these wayward souls try to find a way to tell their loved ones what happened, but that’s not always achievable – often they can’t manage to make contact with the living. This stage is most evident while family members or close friends of the deceased are still alive, and more often than not the dead give up when there’s no one left with an interest in resolving the matter. The soul can get stuck in limbo, its demand for justice turns into an obsession and that’s when you get hauntings in old houses or cemeteries.’

  Freyr was finding it increasingly difficult to keep his attention on the conversation. ‘Do you have any coffee, Sara? I slept badly, so I’m having trouble following this.’

  She stared at him, her expression impenetrable, but then stood up and walked into the kitchen. Elísa continued: ‘The longer the soul remains at this stage, the harder it becomes to deal with. In extremis, even the best and brightest soul can experience a total reversal and become extremely dangerous. We need to prevent such a thing from
happening to your son. You wouldn’t want to have to deal with him if things went the wrong way.’ This last thing she whispered, to ensure that Sara didn’t hear.

  ‘And how do we stop that from happening?’ Freyr wanted that coffee so badly that it took a huge effort for him not to get up, abandon the woman mid-sentence and run into the kitchen.

  ‘Find him. Solve the puzzle of what actually happened to him and bury him with his relatives. Free him from the torment of knowing his mother is living in a hell of uncertainty, and you as well.’

  Freyr couldn’t play along any more. ‘Don’t you think we’ve done everything we possibly can, spirits or no spirits? Believe me, no stone was left unturned.’

  ‘Nonetheless, you have to keep trying.’ Elísa stared at him, her dark blue eyes steady beneath her overplucked eyebrows. ‘If it’s not too late.’

  ‘Too late?’ Freyr could hardly keep up. The only thing he knew for certain was that this woman wasn’t helping Sara – quite the contrary. Her methods were working against Sara’s recovery, enabling Sara to put off accepting the tragic fact that they would probably never know what happened. Maybe Sara seemed a bit better right now, but it wouldn’t last long.

  ‘I sense your son’s presence. Very strongly. But I also sense a tremendous anger that is disproportionate given how little time has passed since his disappearance. I have no explanation for it, but I know there’s not much time left.’ Elísa glanced quickly towards the kitchen door. ‘You simply must resolve this. If you think the situation’s bad now, I can assure you you’ll soon be looking back on this time as the best you had since your son disappeared.’

  Sara walked in with coffee and Freyr was genuinely relieved to see her. It wasn’t simply that he would now get his long-desired dose of caffeine, but also that he was saved from the medium’s doom-laden prophecies. He didn’t think he had the strength to argue with her or even comment on what she’d said, though he certainly didn’t agree with her. He reached out to pick up the cup Sara had placed in front of him, but started when the medium placed her cool hand over his. He gave her a puzzled look.