I think I’ll lie down again.
27
As she came to, Elín felt her wrist break, first the sound, a gut-wrenching snap, and then the pain that washed over her in waves – a tearing, screaming pain. Nausea enveloped her and she struggled not to vomit. Stay calm. Breathe. She had to keep her head, if that was even possible.
But she was still alive. She had survived the fall. She heard Valberg continuing his abusive tirade, and looked up to see him at the top of the stairs. Fury had screwed his face into an almost maniacal grin – insane, irrational.
It was fortunate that it was her right wrist that was broken, the same side as the injured shoulder, leaving her left arm and hand mobile.
She struggled to get to her feet. Every inch of her body ached from the fall, and she hoped that it was only her wrist that was broken. Bearing her weight on her good hand, she tried again and this time managed to stand up. Only just conscious, she had to hold the rail to stop herself falling again, from fainting. She fought to keep her balance, her eyes fixed on Valberg at the top of the stairs. She realised that she should have tried to escape the house the moment she had seen him, run out into the street, screaming and shouting, smashing the windows, anything that would have attracted the neighbours’ attention. It was probably too late now. She felt incapable of moving, let alone running, or making enough noise to raise the alarm. Trapped.
‘You’re bloody useless,’ he sneered suddenly. ‘There I was helping you up the stairs, and what do you do? Fall down. Lies, lies and more lies. You weren’t ever going to keep your word, were you? You’ve lied to me the whole time, from the moment we met. I can see that now.’
She could hardly gasp out a single word. It was enough of an effort to breathe and stay on her feet.
Valberg didn’t move.
‘Get out, you bastard. Get out of here. I never want to see you again,’ her voice was strangled, barely audible; she knew she was taking a risk, but was past caring about the consequences.
‘Go? Now?’ He moved down one step. ‘Are you nuts? This is just the beginning.’
Elín realised that that next few seconds would decide whether she lived or died. If she stayed where she was, there was little chance that she would escape with her life. She gingerly, tentatively shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Yes. In spite of her injuries, she might be able to walk, maybe even to run.
He inched down the stairs, stopping halfway and watching her as a cat eyes a mouse. How far could she get? She weighed up the options. There was no way she’d make it out. The living room? Yes. The kitchen? Probably. Of course, the kitchen. She remembered the long Japanese knife next to the chopping block, one of an expensive set bought on a whim a long time ago when she had liked the idea of preparing her own sushi. She had never got round to learning how to serve sushi, but she had used the knife to slice an apple that morning. It was only sheer laziness on her part that she hadn’t put it away. She would have to do something, and there weren’t many options.
She ran, pain and fear – pure terror – providing her with a sudden burst of energy. She could hear him taking the last few steps down the stairs somewhere behind her.
She reached the kitchen before he could catch up with her and didn’t waste time looking behind her. She saw the knife within reach, snatched it up and spun round. Valberg was only a couple of fractions of a second behind. He stopped dead at the sight of the knife.
‘Are you off your head? Put that fucking knife down. We don’t want anyone to get hurt, do we?’ he added, his face a mask.
His last, ridiculous words brought an unlikely smile to her face, which in turn sent darts of pain shooting through her skull. Everything hurt.
We don’t want anyone to get hurt, do we?
‘Fuck off out of here, you bastard!’
Valberg blanched as she threatened him with the knife. Regardless of whether or not it was genuine Japanese steel, as the salesman had suggested, it was sharp as a razor and had sliced through the apple that morning as easily as if through butter. She hoped desperately that Valberg wouldn’t notice that the knife was in her left hand; and hoped he wouldn’t remember that she was very much right-handed. She wasn’t sure she would actually be able to wield it if she needed to, but she waved it towards him, her knuckles white on the handle. She would have to focus his attention elsewhere.
‘Yeah, yeah. I’m going…’ he said, taking a step back. ‘But I’ll be back, darling. Maybe I’ll move up here. Is there a place to let in the street?’
‘Go to hell! I never want to see you again! Never! Understand?’
A grin crossed Valberg’s face – seductive and sincere. The type of smile that always won her over in the past, but never would again.
‘Maybe I’ll take you up on your offer after all,’ he said slowly.
‘What?’
‘Bed, of course. You and me, right now. Since I’ve come all this way. So what do you say? Or right here and now, on the kitchen floor? But you’d have to put that knife down first…’ Now he took a step forward. ‘Come on, give me the knife. Now!’
She felt a jolt of terror and reacted by taking a step towards Valberg, the knife pointed towards his chest. His expression changed to one of astonishment and then bewilderment, as he stepped back, catching his foot on the mat and slipping backwards as it slid out from under him. She heard the crack of his head against the kitchen table, and then there was silence.
Elín stood stiff with shock, the knife still in the air, staring at the man who had come so close to ending her life. He lay in front of her, defenceless, motionless. And she tried to make out if he was dead as she was overwhelmed by a strange feeling of calm. She edged towards him, the knife in her hand, wondering why she didn’t just take the opportunity to run, or to call the police.
Was he dead? His chest was rising and falling. He was alive. Her heart beat faster, so rapidly that she wrestled with dizziness, everything becoming dim, as she repeated his words first to herself and then aloud. I’ll be back. The words echoed and grew in her mind, and then in the chilly kitchen, as they beat out their unmistakable message. I’ll be back.
Where could she hide next?
He’ll be back! She had lost any capacity to think logically, and with an anguished cry, she thrust the knife away from her and covered her ears. She blacked out for a moment, and awoke to find herself sitting on the cold kitchen floor, watching the blood run in rivulets across the white tiles. She absent-mindedly thought that it took longer that she could have imagined for blood to congeal.
And then she felt herself tremble, her body wracked with uncontrollable shivers. The nausea swept over her and she vomited. Something terrible had taken place, something that could never be undone. Her body throbbed with pain, and her thoughts were a whirl of confusion. All except one, which was crystal clear. She knew, without a doubt, that she was free. Finally free.
I couldn’t sleep at all last night. Those wretched drugs. Breakfast didn’t agree with me either and it ended up back on the plate, much to the disgust of those present. Their reactions only made things worse and I went into a rage again. Nobody was hurt, thankfully, but it was close. I don’t know what came over me. I’d like to blame the circumstances, or the medication…
Two of them sat on top of me, until I had calmed down. Now I’m under supervision. Maybe I was always under supervision. Maybe I always should be.
28
Elín waited before calling the police, giving herself a few vital moments to collect herself. She needed to think things over carefully.
There he lay, the bastard, stone dead. She felt nothing but pleasure, a warming glow that suffused her senses. The shock would undoubtedly come later, and it had to come. There was nothing everyday or normal about killing a man. But the relief she felt was so uplifting, she felt almost elated. She shook her head, as if to waken herself to the reality of the situation.
She had to face the fact she had killed Valberg. But was it murder? It would have b
een so much easier if his fall had finished him off. She idly picked at a loose thread on the mat – the same mat she’d nearly thrown away, just days ago, because of its tendency to slip on the polished white tiles.
She was keenly aware of the need to focus.
Whatever she had done, she felt no guilt. She could live now. Live in peace. He would never have given up without achieving what he set out to do. Sure, he might have gone to prison for a while for breaking into her home, and for the violence, but it wouldn’t be a heavy sentence and she would have spent the rest of her life on the run from him. No life.
There was justification for this. He could just as easily have been killed by the blow to his head as it hit the tiles. Secondly, she had acted in self-defence – perhaps not in the strictest sense of the word, but it was self-preservation, and that was just as valid.
She hadn’t been herself when she stabbed him, that much was clear. She couldn’t remember the act itself, and Elín clung tightly to the thought that this might be her salvation. This could be her private justification, her licence to sleep at night and live a normal life as a person and not as a killer.
While these thoughts tumbled over each other in her mind, she fetched her mobile phone. She punched in the number but didn’t make the call, not right away. What was she going to say to the police?
The truth? That she had murdered the man in cold blood but didn’t remember doing it? Would they believe her? Maybe they would, but after a long trial and public scrutiny. She couldn’t spend time in prison. That was out of the question.
That would, of course, be an injustice. Valberg had broken in, threatened her, beaten her, shoved her down the stairs and set out to rape and then probably kill her. The tables had been turned in her favour, not his. It was actually unbelievable that she had managed to get away with her life, and that bullying monster wasn’t going to drag her down to hell with him.
There could be no doubt about what had happened before the end, and she bore the marks to prove it.
She made the call.
I can trust nobody here. I was asked if I’d like to go out into the garden with the others this morning, but I didn’t feel like it. How long has it been since I last went outside?
Nobody has come to visit me, and that’s my penalty. Dad doesn’t let that kind of behaviour go unpunished. In my household nobody tries to commit suicide. Bad form.
The days pass slowly here, possibly because I flatly refuse to take part in any social activities. I have no common ground with these people, nothing!
The inmates sit and play cards, drink coffee and smoke. Yes, exactly, smoking. There’s a thick fug of tobacco smoke in the common room and the television lounge. I rarely smoke myself and neither of my parents did (both suicide and smoking are frowned upon) so I’m not used to this dreadful air. Inmates get their tobacco allowance every day and make full use of it. The end result is that I feel even worse, and things weren’t great to start with.
Maybe the best way to fight it is simply to start smoking. Coffee is now my dearest friend, so it shows you can get used to almost anything. But not everything, or I wouldn’t be here.
29
The front door stood open. They stepped cautiously inside, Tómas taking the lead and Ari Thór close behind.
The call had come while Ari Thór was still at home. The emergency call centre had immediately directed the call to the Siglufjördur police, which was then diverted to Ari Thór’s mobile.
Elín had stated her name, panting for breath and sounding confused.
‘You have to come right away! He’s dead!’
‘Who’s dead, Elín?’ Ari Thór had asked in a level voice.
‘Valberg, my ex. He … he … broke in. Tried … tried … tried to kill me. You have to come, right now!’
The man lying on the kitchen floor was certainly dead and the blood that had pooled around him left no room for doubt. The sight made Ari Thór’s stomach turn, not helped by the long kitchen knife buried in the man’s chest. Then he saw Elín, crouched on the floor, her wrist hanging at an improbable angle.
Ari Thór glanced at Tómas, who nodded and went over to her.
‘Elín,’ he said cautiously. ‘Elín.’
She looked up at him and tried to rise to her feet. There was something odd about how she struggled, using only one hand, one arm, while the other hung uselessly at her side. Ari Thór saw the vivid marks of a blow on her cheek.
‘It hurts so much,’ she pleaded, when she was at last on her feet. ‘He threw me down the stairs. I need to get to hospital.’
‘Can you talk to us for a few minutes first?’ Ari Thór asked.
An ambulance crew had arrived and they made their way across the kitchen, taking their place next to Ari Thór.
‘He hit me. Again and again,’ Elín breathed. ‘Then he pushed me against the table and I can hardly move my arm…’ She sighed and took a deep breath. ‘And then … he threw me down the stairs. I think … I think my wrist is broken. It’s horribly, terribly painful.’ A whimper escaped her lips.
‘Any head injuries?’ one of the ambulance crew asked.
‘Yes, I think I lost consciousness when I hit the floor.’
‘We’ll have to get you out of here right away.’
But Ari Thór wasn’t quite ready to let her go. He switched on his recorder.
‘Elín, can you tell us briefly what happened here?’ he asked, his voice gentle, urging her on.
‘Of course I can! He tried to kill me!’ she yelled, before dropping her voice. ‘I’m sorry…’
‘That’s all right. Carry on if you can.’
‘He was here when I came home,’ Elín’s breathing was short and shallow. ‘He climbed up on the balcony and broke in. I tried to defend myself but he was too strong. He dragged me up the stairs … and pushed me down from the top.’
She sighed, exhausted.
‘We need to be quick,’ one of the ambulance crew said, but Ari Thór wasn’t quite finished. ‘How did he receive the knife wound?’
‘I managed to get to the kitchen and grabbed the knife … he was so quick … I turned round and as he rushed towards me he was … he must have landed right on the knife,’ she said between sobs. ‘I didn’t mean to do it … I loved him once. But I had to, had to defend myself.’ There was a short silence, as she suppressed a howl. ‘Don’t you see?’ she wailed. ‘He was going to kill me.’
Why is it so gloomy in here?
Dark-grey lino, dark doors, everything’s miserably colourless, except the maniacal orange in my bedroom.
The food tastes foul, and I feel like shit.
I want to get away from here, but I have no desire to go home.
I remember when I first saw Dad hit my mother. Of course it wasn’t the first time he hit her, just the first time that I was present; the first time he lost his temper in front of his only son.
It was Christmas Day and I sat in a corner with a toy that I had been given as a present. I looked up when I heard the smack. It was a heavy blow. I have no idea what prompted it, as it hadn’t been preceded by any argument. My mother never argued. She had undoubtedly said something that he disliked. That was normally enough.
He acted as if I wasn’t there. I sat stock still, watched without understanding what was happening. It was as if I were viewing complete strangers. There were more blows. I don’t know exactly how many, but more than a person should ever put up with.
I felt each blow as if it had landed on me.
Worst was the silence, the silence that preceded each blow like the lull before a storm.
I remember the glint in Dad’s eyes when he finally noticed me there, and I’ve never seen anything like it. I was terrified. I wouldn’t go so far as to say I saw evil in his eyes, that would be too dramatic. What’s the best way to describe it? Anger? No … Fury, unbridled fury. That’s the word; unbridled. He had no control over himself, and that’s the most shocking thing, how an otherwise gentle man, strict with me, yes,
but pleasant enough, could become such a monster.
A monster. I have never used that word before to describe Dad and I’m ashamed of myself for using it now, but there’s a feeling of liberation in being able to write it down on paper, with repercussions. No one can touch me here.
30
Kristín had received an unexpected phone call that evening. The doctor who had been having an unsettling effect on her these last few weeks called her from Akureyri. There was a suitably innocent reason for the call, of course; a request to take a relief shift the following day. But it was unusual to get a call of this nature from a colleague; normally this was the province of senior staff. Daydreams were innocent enough, she rationalised, as she let herself hope that he had used this as an excuse to call her, that he had wanted to hear her voice.
Their conversation had lasted longer than was strictly necessary. Stefnir was asleep and Ari Thór on duty, as always, so it wasn’t as if she had anything better do than take part in a little light flirtation over the phone. It was harmless. She found it hard to believe that they had talked for almost an hour, but the evidence was there on her phone. Fifty-seven minutes had passed by the time the call had ended.
They had talked about everything and nothing, how he enjoyed living in Akureyri, what he did outside work, in the cold and the dark. He confided that he hadn’t yet started to see women after his divorce. It took time to recover, even when it had been obvious from the outset that the relationship could never last.
Those fifty-seven minutes had provided her with a more interesting conversation than she had experienced with Ari Thór for months. He gave more of himself than Ari Thór did, and – she had to admit it to herself – she was more open and positive with him than she had been with Ari Thór for some time.
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