She started throwing dirty sheets from the large pile into the washing machine as if flinging her enemies into the fires of hell, angry with everything and everyone, though mainly with herself. The sight of the bedlinen revolving in the machine soothed her slightly. It didn’t matter; there was little she could do to change other people’s opinions. But Hákon had got to her. He was right; there was no reason to hang about. She’d saved up enough to support herself for several months, if she was careful, while looking for a new job. Too bad inflation was so high: in the time since she’d started work here and begun paying into a savings account, prices had shot up. The rooms for rent were far more expensive than when she’d begun looking, and there were fewer advertised every day. She needed to get a move on, the sooner the better. Her earlier plan of waiting until spring, then looking for work in the good weather seemed foolish now. What did it matter if it was cold or hot? The earlier she left, the earlier she’d end up where she wanted to be. Not here, and not in her home town.
Outside in the dark, her resolve weakened slightly. It was only just 8 p.m. but she couldn’t see the hand in front of her face. She heard a low chirrup from the bird overhead; it was probably letting her know that it was time to top up its food. Well, it would just have to wait until morning. Or perhaps it was simply reminding her it was there. If she moved to town, the poor creature wouldn’t stand a chance. No one else at Krókur would bother to look after it. Perhaps, after all, it would make more sense to stick to her original plan and wait until spring. It wasn’t only the thought of the bird: she didn’t like the winter darkness; it was so desolate somehow, and wouldn’t be any more bearable if she was living on her own in Reykjavík. Though at least they had street lighting there: here the only light came from a few windows where people were still up and about. Once everyone had gone to bed it would be like the dark side of the moon.
The damp cold pierced her to the bone. She’d pulled on a cardigan to pop out to the laundry, which was on the ground floor of Lilja and Veigar’s house, but now she regretted not having taken the time to put on her anorak. Sleet began drumming on the corrugated iron and she broke into a run. Halfway to the little house, she saw that the door to the main building was open. It swung gently to and fro in the wind, but all was dark inside. Aldís slowed her pace, wondering if she should pretend not to have noticed, but the thought of the soaking floor and the mess that would await her in the morning if she didn’t close it made the detour worthwhile. She was wet anyway. She ran over, ducking to shield her face from the wind and sleet. Not until she was under the eaves did she look up and shake the flakes from her hair. The front door swung back and forth, and now she could hear the low squeaking of the hinges that were long overdue an oiling. Only as she was reaching for the doorknob did it occur to her that she’d been the last to leave that evening. And she had closed the door behind her. Definitely.
‘Hello? Is there anybody there?’ Aldís withdrew her hand. There was no answer. If she listened hard she could hear the ticking of the grandfather clock just inside the entrance. She wanted to run over to the little house and fetch Hákon, who must have gone back to his room after finishing the repair job. He could come with her to check that everything was all right. After supper no one had any business in the dining room: Veigar and Lilja had a private kitchen, and the bunkhouse Aldís shared with the workmen had its own small facilities with a kettle. One of the boys must have sneaked inside. Or maybe more than one. Glancing over, she saw that a light was still burning in their dormitory. On the other hand, Hákon wouldn’t be too pleased at being dragged out in the cold and wet. She tried calling again. ‘If anybody’s in there you’d better come out right now. I’m about to lock the door. It won’t be funny when Lilja opens up tomorrow morning.’ She didn’t in fact have a key since the door was never locked, but the boys weren’t to know that. Still no one answered, and there was no sound. Perhaps the door had been left on the latch. She stood there, rigid, staring into the gloom.
There appeared to be wet footprints on the floor. Aldís edged closer to make sure. Yes, there was no doubt. Someone had walked inside – and not long ago, either, since the floor had been dry when she’d gone over to the laundry after finishing the washing up. It was impossible to tell if the prints belonged to a member of staff or one of the boys, several of whom had large feet. But the tracks were clear enough to show that they were pointing inwards. Whoever it was had not come back out. ‘Hello?’ Aldís’s voice sounded shrill and timid, not strong and fearless as she would have liked. The person hiding inside would know now that there was nothing to fear. The door swung inwards again and Aldís pushed it further open, revealing the hall and empty corridor. Having made sure that there was no one lurking just inside, she entered cautiously and reached for the light switch.
The yellowish glare of the dirty ceiling light briefly dazzled her. ‘I know you’re in here.’ The brightness had boosted her courage, lending conviction to her voice. ‘Come out or I’m coming in to get you.’ She had gone too far. She wasn’t at all sure she wanted to search for this uninvited guest alone. From inside the house she heard a noise but couldn’t work out what it was. It was too faint to tell if it was speech or just mumbling or moaning, but she’d heard enough to realise that it wasn’t in the least frightening. It was far too pathetic for that. Aldís inched her way inside to hear better. Perhaps it was an animal, a feral cat or dog that had sought shelter in the dining room.
But animals didn’t open doors or wear shoes.
A whining outside warned that the wind was picking up. As if to confirm it, the door banged into Aldís, and, while she was still rubbing her sore arm, it slammed shut behind her. She bit her cheek. This was silly: there wasn’t any danger; she was just working herself up into a tizzy. The person inside wished her no harm; all she had to do was find him and chase him out. It couldn’t be simpler. The footprints belonged to one person, so there was no reason to fear encountering a whole gang of boys – unless they were in their socks. Hard as she tried, she couldn’t remember if she’d seen any shoes in the porch. Having the advantage of age, she might be able to take on one of the boys, but never two or more together. Conscious of this, she walked down the corridor and turned on another light. Her steps, short and hesitant, gave the lie to her supposedly restored confidence.
‘Where are you?’ No reply. Aldís wondered where to begin her search, then realised it was obvious. The wet footprints led along the corridor. They faded the further in they went, but nevertheless it was clear that they led to the dining room. What was the attraction there? It contained nothing but tables and chairs, and a sideboard for storing threadbare tablecloths and the like. If it was a thief in search of silver he’d chosen the wrong house: there were no valuables here.
Aldís found that she was tiptoeing as she approached the dining-room door. At least she would have a small head start if she took the person by surprise. If it turned out to be one of the older boys up to no good, she’d probably have time to whirl round and run for it before he caught her. Five steps, four steps, three. The lights dimmed but didn’t go out. Aldís emitted a loud gasp and all her plans of a stealthy approach were ruined. Anyone waiting inside must have heard her, but then he couldn’t have failed to notice when she turned on the light. She paused, waiting for her heartbeat to slow, and at last heard a sound from the owner of the footprints. It was the same strange throaty noise she had heard before, but now she was closer and could hear more clearly. It sounded like one of the boys, but his voice was so strangely hoarse that she didn’t recognise it. Perhaps he’d hurt himself, banged his head and wandered in here in his confusion. But there was no sign of any blood on the floor.
The noise came again and this time Aldís could make out words. She thought she heard the boy pleading: ‘Go away, go away.’ Did he mean her, or could he conceivably be talking in his sleep? No one had mentioned that any of the boys were sleepwalkers, but then so much was kept secret from her. The words were repeated and this t
ime there was no mistaking them: ‘Go away, go away.’ The boy had raised his voice; he sounded terrified. Was there someone else in there with him? None of the boys were exactly in awe of her and, since she had called out several times, there could be no doubt who she was.
The lights flickered again. Aldís steeled herself to take the two remaining steps to the door. She had no wish to stand there in the dark, not knowing who was behind it. The light switch in the dining room was nowhere near the doorway, so Aldís wouldn’t be able to turn it on when she looked inside. The light spilling in from the corridor would have to do. Though weak, it was sufficient to show Aldís a boy sitting in the gloom at the furthest table. He had his back to her, so she couldn’t see who it was, but she could tell that he was one of the youngest. A chill ran down her spine when he spoke again, without turning, as if he had eyes in the back of his head. ‘Go away. Leave me alone.’
‘Come on. You shouldn’t be here.’ Aldís spoke gently, fairly sure now that the boy must be delirious. Confused, rather than dangerous.
He turned, slowly and deliberately, and she glimpsed black eyes in a pale face. ‘I wasn’t talking to you.’
The instant he had spoken, Aldís realised they were not alone. The lights in the passage dimmed and a moment later everything went black.
Chapter 10
‘If you compare how you feel now to how you felt before you started looking after your daughter, what comes to mind? Do you feel happier, more anxious, more irritable – anything like that? Sometimes people experience all of these emotions at once.’ The therapist, whose name was Nanna, gazed into Ódinn’s eyes, as if his answer really mattered to her. Either she was a consummate actor or possessed of extraordinary empathy. Her business card said Child Psychologist, but she seemed to know a thing or two about adults as well. When Ódinn rang her, she had been keen to take on Rún’s case but insisted on meeting him first. She said she needed some background information, but he found her questions pretty similar to those the grief counsellor had asked him six months ago. He decided to put up with her probing of the tender places in his psyche, though he’d rather they were left undisturbed. You had to hand it to the woman: she was very clever at disguising the interrogation as a conversation between equals. And it was a definite plus that Nanna was young and attractive. He really couldn’t complain about spending an hour in her company. Ideally, he would have liked more time to prepare his answers, but she’d had a free slot the day he rang.
‘I think I’ve calmed down, generally. But I haven’t really thought about it.’ Fearing this sounded rather brusque, Ódinn tried to elaborate. ‘I’m not anxious about anything specific, except perhaps what I’ll do when Rún’s a teenager and starts bringing boys home. Apart from that, I reckon we’ll be OK. But it’s hard to tell right now whether I’m happier or sadder because you could say we’re both still going through a process of adjustment.’
‘Were you happier before, in general?’
‘I just felt different; I had nothing to worry about but work and my own backside. It’s not hard to please yourself in that situation. Actually, I was under far more pressure at work then than I am now. But I had no problem coping. Perhaps because I only had myself to think about.’
‘This has been a huge upheaval for you both. Your daughter’s whole world’s been turned upside down, while in your case it’s a new job, changed home life, bereavement.’ For the first time Nanna didn’t end with a question. She gave him a friendly smile, tucking her curly hair behind her ears. Ódinn noticed that she had a deep dimple in one cheek when she smiled, while the other remained perfectly smooth. As if one side of her was not as amused as the other.
‘It sounds worse than it was. I think. To be honest, it all happened so quickly that my memory’s a bit patchy. I haven’t been able to talk about it properly with Rún, so I can only guess what it was like for her. I have tried, but with limited success. It’s my fault; I’m always relieved when she changes the subject, and I never pressurise her to go into detail about what happened. Wouldn’t know how, and I’m afraid it’ll only make her more confused.’
‘There’s no need for you to try and guess how she feels, or felt. I’ll find out from her. But tell me, did you sleep badly while all this was going on?’
‘Yes, quite badly.’ Although it wasn’t long ago, the memory was hazy. ‘I haven’t thought much about that time but recently I came across some sleeping tablets I was prescribed and remembered the problem I had with insomnia after Rún moved in. I never used them, though. Don’t like taking pills. I just put up with sleeping badly. Maybe it was a mistake.’ He didn’t say so aloud, but it suddenly occurred to him that all that sleep deprivation might have damaged some nerve centre in his brain, leaving him with an overactive imagination. He might be stuck with hallucinations for the rest of his life. He swallowed and felt his Adam’s apple move up and down.
‘No, not at all. It was very sensible of you.’ She smiled and he felt as if this was an interview and he had just been told he’d got the job. ‘The body uses sleep to fix information in the memory – to file it away, if you like, so you can retrieve it later. That’s why it’s so important to sleep after revising for an exam; if you study all night your brain doesn’t have a chance to process the information. It’s stored somewhere in the memory but you don’t know where. It’s a bit like absent-mindedly laying down some papers instead of filing them in the correct place, then not being able to find them when you need them. By lying awake like that, you’ve prevented the memories of that period from remaining clear.’ Again Nanna smiled and again he felt as if he were a model client. Perhaps everyone who saw her felt like that. ‘Am I right? Do you have a clear memory of that period?’
Ódinn stopped to think before answering. Hitherto he’d made no attempt to recall that time in any detail. He’d never seen the point of dwelling on things that went wrong or were difficult. Brooding on the past, worrying about the future – it didn’t achieve anything. Not in his experience. ‘No, I can’t say I remember it well – the main events, obviously, but not exactly what I was thinking or feeling.’
Ódinn was aware of how feeble this sounded but it was the best he could do. He looked away and stared out of the window at the traffic. He didn’t really want to say more in case her questions strayed into territory he was keen to avoid. She might ask him how he’d felt on learning of Lára’s death, and he didn’t want to go into that.
When Lára smashed onto the rock-hard ground, he had just got back from a bender, so tired and off his face that he couldn’t even recall how he’d got home or where he’d spent the previous few hours. Though he did have a vague memory of engaging in a heated discussion with a young man on his stag do, who had been as drunk as he was. As Lára raised her arms in a vain attempt to break her fall, he had been snoring off his drunkenness in bed. He tried not to betray his disgust at his own behaviour; he didn’t want to rouse Nanna’s curiosity. If he admitted what he had been doing, her lovely smile would turn sour, and he didn’t want her to despise him. Besides, he wasn’t like that any more. ‘If I’ve managed to mislay the bad memories, is there any point raking them up and filing them away in the right place?’
The young woman’s smile grew rather fixed, but she carried on smoothly. ‘Well, maybe not. I’m just trying to get a picture of what happened. That way I’ll be in a better position to help your daughter. And perhaps you as well. You mentioned that you’re suffering from strange sensory perceptions that you believe may be connected to your ex-wife’s accident. That’s quite unusual, so I’m trying to get a sense of the circumstances. What you describe suggests that you’re still struggling to assimilate what’s happened and that it’s manifesting itself in this way. Just because you’re not always conscious of things doesn’t mean they’re not there in the background. I strongly advise you to seek help for yourself while Rún’s coming to me. The therapist you saw originally is very highly thought of.’
Ódinn hadn’t expected that. He stole
a glance at the huge minimalist clock on the wall. ‘Excuse me, but what could he do to stop these delusions? I’m fed up with them, to put it mildly, so I’d be extremely grateful if you could just give me some advice now.’
‘It’s not that simple, I’m afraid. I don’t have any magic solutions. If you’re adamant that you won’t see a therapist, I could ask your GP to prescribe tranquillisers. That class of drug has proved effective for people suffering from the sorts of fears you describe. The point is that we manage to shut out all kinds of noises and movements in our environment because we’d go mad if we responded to all these stimuli. It’s part of the defence mechanism that we humans developed after we started living in communities, such as the towns and cities we live in today. We stopped registering the noises around us. What I believe is happening in your case is simply that you’re suffering from a mental disturbance that results in anxiety and a state of constant alertness. You’re picking up sights and sounds you never noticed before. Tranquillisers would mitigate the effects. But a talking cure could provide the same relief.’
The Undesired Page 9