The Undesired

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Diljá appeared to be the only person unmoved by the mention of Róberta. She sat absent-mindedly picking imaginary fluff from her red nail polish. ‘If she’d known her time was up, I reckon she’d have chosen somewhere else to pop her clogs. It’s kind of sad to die at your desk.’ She didn’t seem to notice that her words only deepened her colleagues’ discomfort. Even Ódinn felt a pang. He wondered if the first people on the scene had assumed Róberta was asleep, perhaps even prodded her, only to discover that she was unnaturally stiff. There was a pop as Diljá blew a bubble in her chewing gum. ‘So, in other words, her work wasn’t completely useless?’

  Ódinn pushed away the mental image of the dead woman, lying back with her eyes fixed on the Artexed ceiling panel and fluorescent lights. ‘Yes. There’s nothing wrong with what she did so far.’ He tried in vain to meet his boss’s eye. ‘As well as sifting through the documents, she made a list of all the boys ever admitted to the home and drew up a table for their details. I’m not sure Data Protection would approve, but what do you think, Heimir? Can I carry on filling it in?’

  Heimir’s attempt to look as if he’d thought long and hard about this issue didn’t deceive his subordinates for a minute. ‘I’d need to consult my notes but as far as I remember we went into it very thoroughly at the time and decided there was nothing illegal about it.’

  ‘If you went into it at the time, there’s no need to look up your notes. You must have okayed it or Róberta wouldn’t have adopted that approach. She’d never have gone against orders. So I’m assuming I can carry on gathering the information?’ Ódinn tried to look nonchalant. Heimir was too slow-witted to work out how he could veto this approach without revealing his complete ignorance of the matter.

  ‘What kind of information are we talking about here?’ Diljá folded her arms under her breasts, causing them to jut out even further than her Maker – or bra designer – had intended. Ódinn’s neighbour drew in a sharp breath as if he’d been punched in the stomach. Diljá’s lips twitched as she observed the reaction of her former one-night stand. She went on: ‘You know – is it sensitive stuff about the inmates or just the sort of info you could look up in the telephone directory?’

  ‘Bit of both.’ Ódinn noticed that the woman minuting the meeting had nodded off. He couldn’t blame her: no one read the minutes and in her place he’d have been tempted to add all kinds of rubbish just to prove the point. ‘There’s a list of all the boys’ names, as I said, with their date and place of birth, the reason they were sent to the home, current address and occupation, and, where relevant, date of death. The table also contains a column for their family circumstances, but that’s blank. The question is whether Róberta intended to fill it in with the situation at the time or as it is today. The only columns she’s fully completed are the names and dates of birth. There are still gaps in the other columns, though the amount of information missing varies.’

  ‘How do you know there’s no one missing?’ Evidently Diljá had not forgiven him for being so cool with her last week. ‘I mean, she might have had another hundred names to add. You can’t be sure the list’s complete.’ She smiled mockingly at him. There was a glimpse of white teeth between the lips she’d painted scarlet to match her nails. She reminded him of an extra in a vampire movie. His neighbour was still squirming in his chair, just waiting for an opportunity to escape.

  ‘I compared it to the records and the number’s consistent. I also did spot checks on the names and they match, like all the other information I’ve tested.’ Ódinn’s wet feet itched and he longed to go to the gents and remove his socks.

  * * *

  Ódinn was feeling quite pleased with his day’s work. He’d filled in a large number of boxes in the table and the remaining blanks mostly related to boys who had moved abroad as adults. Until it was clear whether further action would be necessary, there was no point searching for their original addresses. Why waste time on that if everything turned out to have been above board? He hadn’t yet uncovered anything suspicious. Admittedly, he still had to go over the documents in detail, but so far he’d found no indication that the state would be liable to pay compensation. No doubt the poor boys had found life there pretty tough, but the home didn’t appear to have been nearly as bad as similar institutions that had already been investigated.

  The Krókur boys, unlike their counterparts at other institutions, hadn’t been sent to the home because of difficult family circumstances but because they had all committed some minor offence. The rationale had been that it would be good for them to cool their heels at the residential home, which was intended to be, as one document of the time put it, ‘a detention centre for adolescent boys who have gone off the rails’.

  Other homes had taken in children whose families were judged incapable of caring for them; children who had done nothing wrong but were simply the victims of circumstance. It seemed rather perverse that the system should have meted out gentler treatment to young offenders. But his view of how humanely Krókur had been run might change. He hadn’t yet spoken to any former inmates; the paperwork represented the points of view of everyone except those on the receiving end of the care. Nevertheless, he thought it unlikely that anything much would emerge from the interviews that he intended to conduct at random. When the committee set up two years ago to investigate care homes had advertised for former inmates of state institutions between 1945 and 1978 to come forward and testify, none of Krókur’s old boys had taken advantage of the opportunity. Yet Krókur’s operations had fallen within this period, and the inquiry had been widely publicised. The assumption was, therefore, that none of them were burning with a long-held sense of injustice.

  He could afford to be optimistic. What’s more, ugly stories had long been circulating about the other homes, without the need for any public inquiry to expose them. But Krókur was different; few were even aware of its existence, though that could be because the home had only operated for a relatively short time, and the residents had been older, more hardened and therefore less likely to complain of bad treatment after it closed down.

  In other words, he couldn’t rule out the possibility that the place had been badly mismanaged, despite the lack of rumours. He had yet to obtain information, for example, on the two boys who had allegedly died in an accident. According to what he had uncovered so far, they had suffocated in a car belonging to the home. The engine had been left running and they’d failed to notice that the exhaust pipe was blocked by a snowdrift. Ódinn hadn’t been able to find much information on this. He’d trawled the internet for old news reports but 1970s journalism had been sketchy compared to what he was used to nowadays. The articles were so circumspect, so careful to show consideration for the next of kin, that they revealed next to nothing. Doubtless it had been considered a disgrace that the boys were at a home for delinquents, so the incident was glossed over. After a brief press release about the tragic accident, the story was dropped. There weren’t even any obituaries. All he had was a copy of a letter from the local magistrate that had been buried in one of Róberta’s files. In it, the magistrate stated that the investigation had concluded that the boys’ death was an accident which could not be attributed to neglect by the managers of the home or any other individual responsible for them. Their presence in the back seat of the car was unforeseen, and it would have been unreasonable to expect the managers to monitor every single boy in the place twenty-four hours a day. Nor was it possible to predict what boys like that might get up to. They had enjoyed a certain degree of freedom on the property and in this case had used it for a foolish prank that had cost them their lives.

  It was hard to tell how much credence should be given to official statements of this type from the period, yet Ódinn could see no reason to doubt its veracity. Admittedly, the tragedy was described in rather unfeeling language, but perhaps that had been the official tone in the seventies. After all, what motive could a magistrate have had for covering up for the couple who ran the place? Then agai
n, one never knew what might go on in a small community, so he resolved to track down the police files on the accident, if they still existed.

  If the official reports had been lost or destroyed, it was always possible that relatives of the deceased might still have copies. So far this was the only untoward incident he had dug up on Krókur, so it was vital to get hold of the paperwork. Otherwise his report wouldn’t be fit for purpose. His task was to assess whether the state was liable to pay the former residents compensation for lasting damage. It was hard to imagine more lasting damage than death.

  Although he agreed with the magistrate’s view that the home was never intended to be a high-security prison, it nevertheless bothered Ódinn that the place had been closed down shortly after the accident. It occurred to him that the two events might be linked, though he had no evidence. And without evidence, his conjectures were no better than fantasy, so tomorrow’s task would be to get hold of the police files and comb through the press coverage – if any more could be found.

  He still had the police reports on Lára’s death hidden away in a cupboard. Lára’s mother had obtained them with the help of a lawyer and, after reading them herself, had passed them on to him. At the time he hadn’t wanted to know what they contained, but he had hung onto them anyway. He couldn’t understand why the woman had gone to the trouble, though later he saw the sense in it. He would have to force himself to read through the files eventually, but he was mainly keeping them for when Rún grew up and wanted to know more about her mother’s death. That reminded him that he had intended to take the shirt box containing the papers down to the storeroom where Rún was less likely to stumble across it. She was still far too young for its contents. At present the box was sitting on one of the top shelves in his wardrobe and, although he very much doubted she’d go rummaging around in there, he couldn’t be sure what she might get up to. It wasn’t that she was a naughty child, but he didn’t yet know her well enough to judge whether his shirts and suits might prove of interest to her.

  If he got round to moving the files, who knows, he might even take a glance at the contents himself. But he would have to go through them when there was no risk of being interrupted by Rún and having to shove them hurriedly under a chair. The real reason for his reluctance, though, was not concern about where he read the reports but what they might contain. He was afraid that once he had acquainted himself with the details of Lára’s death, he wouldn’t be able to get them out of his head. Perhaps the boys’ next of kin had felt the same when they received the reports of their deaths: they might still be gathering dust on the top shelves of two separate wardrobes. He hadn’t yet found out whether their parents – they would all be in their eighties by now – were still alive, but it was perfectly possible.

  Ódinn picked up the half-empty coffee cup, switched off his monitor, went along to the staff kitchen and put the cup on top of all the others in the sink. His shoes were chafing his bare feet and he wanted to go home. And yet he didn’t. It was hard to deceive himself: ever since they’d been met by the smell of smoke and the open window, he had been assailed by an increasing sense of apprehension in the flat. The most innocuous background noise or slightest movement could be enough to make him jump. It was all very silly and he’d never mention it to anyone, but he couldn’t rid himself of the feeling that he, Rún and the old lady were not alone in the building. He knew this was absurd but that did nothing to diminish his fears. He’d even refused when his brother Baldur offered to have Rún for a sleepover at the weekend, though previously he would have jumped at the chance. It would have allowed him to hit the town with some mates or have them round to watch the footie, but equally it would have meant spending two nights alone in the flat. When they were both home he could attribute any unexpected noises to his daughter; he didn’t want to hear the same noises when he was alone.

  Ódinn retraced the steps he had taken that morning through the slush. The temperature had dropped sharply and a frost was forming. His feet were freezing and without his socks he was intensely aware of the hard pavement and wet snow underfoot. His irritation was so excessive that he wondered if it was a sign that his anger was finally finding an outlet. The grief counsellor he’d been encouraged to see had warned him that Lára’s death and the changes to his own circumstances might have this effect. Unable to concentrate on what the man was saying, Ódinn had felt he was wasting his time. When the counsellor suggested he make further appointments, he had left, promising to think about it. How could a complete stranger advise him on coping with the upheaval in his life? Life was constantly changing. And everyone adapted to new situations in their own way. He thought once again of how that same counsellor had strongly advised him to send Rún to a child psychologist, and of how he had been even less receptive to that idea. She was his child and he was perfectly capable of looking after her. She wasn’t mentally ill, she was just grieving for her mother, and there were other cures for that besides specialist help.

  No, that definitely hadn’t been a very intelligent decision. Either for himself or Rún. So much was unresolved: his daughter was seething with repressed anger and insecurity, and he himself was still in shock although the accident had been six months ago. Perhaps they would both have made better progress if he’d accepted help; perhaps Rún wouldn’t keep asking him what would happen to her if he died; perhaps everything would be clearer if he’d followed the counsellor’s advice. The last few months had passed as if he were in a fog and he suspected that the same was true for Rún. He had inadvertently deprived her of closure, refusing to speak about her mother’s death, changing the subject, trying to stop her even thinking about it. Of course it had been doomed to failure. As a result they were both neurotic and emotionally numb. That was probably why she dreamt about her mother so often, and why those dreams were becoming ever more bizarre and frightening.

  He couldn’t undo the past. The question now was whether he was going to continue to ignore the obvious or pull himself together. He owed it to his daughter and her late mother to try at least to put their lives in order, in the hope that Rún’s nightmares would cease and he himself would stop imagining that something was lurking in every dark corner of their flat.

  Ódinn reached the car and fumbled with numb fingers for his keys. He got in and closed the door. As he sat there breathing out clouds of steam in the icy interior, he decided that this evening, after Rún had gone to sleep, he would begin his campaign of self-improvement by reading the reports on Lára’s death. It would be a start. Then he would search for the card of the child psychologist he had been recommended and make an appointment. Together they would work their way through this.

  He smiled and started the car, never suspecting what awaited him in the unread police files in his shirt box.

  Chapter 6

  The block of flats stood on the edge of the development, exposed to the elements. Beyond it lay nothing but barren moors and gravel flats. Ódinn had settled himself on the sofa with the curtains drawn. They stirred in the gusts of wind that buffeted the windows, as if someone were standing behind them, pushing them out. The gale had been raging for over an hour and showed no signs of abating. At this time of year it was as if the weather forecasters were paid extra for storm warnings; no sooner had one gale passed than they were warning of another, even worse. The wind usually got on Ódinn’s nerves, but in the circumstances it seemed eerily appropriate.

  Although the sheaf of papers on the sofa looked modest enough, the thought of leafing through it was daunting. He had intended to read the whole thing carefully, starting at the top, but after the first paragraph of the post-mortem report he couldn’t face any more. Judging by this brief summary, the full report of the injuries to Lára’s body would make gruesome reading. The detail about the broken bones protruding through the skin of both her arms was almost more than he could bear, but even worse was the information that the fractures indicated she’d tried to shield herself as she fell. Obviously, she couldn’t have die
d before she hit the ground, but he’d never stopped to think exactly how her death had come about. She fell. She died. Determined as he was to confront the facts, he hadn’t been prepared for this. As a respite from the report, he calculated on his phone how long the fall would have lasted, using a simple equation for a free fall that he remembered from sixth form: one and a half seconds, if Lára had fallen in a vacuum, which unfortunately did not apply in this case. He guessed at two. Two seconds was a long time if death was waiting at the end of them.

  The document lay patiently beside him, waiting for him to steel himself to read on. Phone in hand, he stared distractedly at the TV. He had the volume on mute so as not to disturb Rún, so whatever problems the grim-faced actors had meant nothing to him. Ódinn lowered his gaze from the screen back to the innocent black letters on the white paper. He ran his fingers lightly over the page but couldn’t feel any palpable imprint. Yet they had scoured his soul. Why couldn’t the report simply have said that she died instantly, or even on the way down? As a child he’d been told that people who fell from high-rise buildings perished before they hit the ground, unable to breathe due to the speed of their fall. Of course, a three-storey, corrugated-iron-clad house didn’t really count as a high-rise, but perhaps it was the memory of this explanation that had stopped him from giving any thought to Lára’s death until now. The last thing he wanted was to imagine how she must have felt as she fell. It was easier and less painful to believe that her end had been mercifully quick.