The Creak on the Stairs

by Eva Bjorg AEgisdóttir

‘That arsehole,’ the old woman burst out, startling Elma. ‘That pathetic bastard can rot in hell for all I care. But Dísa won’t listen to me. Won’t even discuss it. So I told her she could pack her bags. If she won’t listen, she can get out of my house.’ The old woman turned without warning and took hold of Elma’s arm. ‘But I can’t talk – I’ve always been a soft touch myself, so she probably got it from me. I can’t throw her out, not after what’s happened. But maybe you can get through to her. She’s in there, in her old room.’ She pointed down the hallway with a knobbly, brown-splotched hand, then shuffled off and left them to it, muttering under her breath.

  Elma and Sævar stood there for a moment, trying to work out which door she had meant. There were four rooms opening off the hallway and Elma wondered how the old woman could afford such a large house when, as far as they knew, she usually lived there alone. After a moment, Sævar tapped tentatively on one of the doors. When there was no response, he opened it warily.

  The girl sitting on the bed was considerably younger than Elma had been expecting. She was hunched over the computer in her lap but raised her head as they entered. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, and her dark-blue hoodie and white pyjamas with a pink pattern contributed to the impression of youth. Her eyebrows were pencilled black and looked much darker than her brown hair, which was scraped back in a lank pony-tail. But it was hard to take in anything apart from her battered face. Her lips had split and the swelling round her eyes was mottled blue, green and brown.

  ‘May I?’ Elma asked, gesturing to the office chair at the end of the bed. She and Sævar had agreed beforehand that she would do most of the talking. The girl was bound to find it easier to speak to a woman after what that man had done to her. When the girl nodded, Elma sat down.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ she asked.

  ‘No, how should I know that?’

  ‘I’m from the police. We’re assisting the prosecutor with the case against your boyfriend.’

  ‘I’m not pressing charges. I told them that at the hospital.’ Her voice was firm and uncompromising. As she spoke, she sat up a little straighter.

  ‘I’m afraid it’s out of your hands,’ Elma said, trying to sound friendly, and explained: ‘When the police are involved, they have the power to investigate the incident and prosecute if they deem it necessary.’

  ‘But you don’t understand … I don’t want to prosecute,’ the girl said angrily. ‘Tommi’s just … he’s been having a hard time. He didn’t mean to do it.’

  ‘I see, but that’s still no excuse for what he did to you. Lots of us have problems but we don’t all react like that.’ Elma leant forward in her chair, holding Ásdís’s gaze with her own. ‘Has he done it before?’

  ‘No,’ the girl answered quickly, before qualifying in a low voice: ‘He’s never hit me before.’

  ‘The doctor found old bruises on you. Bruises from about a month ago.’

  ‘I don’t know what can have caused them, but then I’m always falling over,’ Ásdís retorted.

  Elma studied her searchingly, reluctant to put too much pressure on her. She looked so small and vulnerable as she sat there in bed, in clothes that seemed far too big for her.

  ‘He’s almost forty years older than you, isn’t he?’

  ‘No, he’s sixty. I’m nearly twenty-nine,’ the girl corrected her.

  ‘It would really help if you’d come down to the station with us so we could take a formal statement from you,’ Elma said. ‘Then you’d get a chance to put your side of the story.’

  Ásdís shook her head, stroking the initials embroidered on the duvet cover. They looked to Elma like Á.H.S.

  ‘You know, there’s all kinds of help available to women in your situation,’ Elma continued. ‘We’ve got a counsellor you could talk to and there’s a women’s refuge in Reykjavík that’s helped lots of…’ Elma trailed off when she caught the look on Ásdís’s face.

  ‘What does the H stand for?’ she asked instead, after a brief pause.

  ‘Harpa. Ásdís Harpa. But I’ve always hated the name. My mother was called Harpa.’

  Elma didn’t pursue the subject. There must be some reason why Ásdís couldn’t stand being named after her mother, even though the woman was dead. And why, at nearly thirty, she was still living sometimes with her grandmother, sometimes with a much older man who treated her like a punch bag. But sadly Elma had seen many worse cases and could tell straight away that there was little to be done until Ásdís was prepared to take action herself. Elma just hoped she wouldn’t leave it too late. Ásdís had turned her attention back to her laptop as if there was no one else in the room. Elma raised her eyebrows at Sævar with a defeated look and got to her feet. There was no more to be said.

  Nevertheless, as they were leaving she paused in the doorway and turned: ‘Are you going back to him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ásdís replied, without looking up from the screen.

  ‘Well, good luck. Don’t hesitate to call if … if you need us,’ Elma said, putting out a hand to close the door.

  ‘You lot don’t understand anything,’ Ásdís muttered angrily. Elma stopped and looked round again. Ásdís hesitated, then added in a low voice: ‘I can’t press charges; I’m pregnant.’

  ‘All the more reason to stay out of his way, then,’ Elma said, meeting her eye. She spoke slowly and deliberately, stressing every syllable in the hope that her words would sink in. But she didn’t really believe they would.

  It was past four and already getting dark outside when Elma wandered into the kitchen. The coffee in the thermos turned out to be lukewarm and tasted as if it had been sitting there since that morning. She tipped the contents of her mug down the sink and started opening the cupboards in search of tea.

  ‘The tea’s in the drawer,’ said a voice behind her, making her jump. It was the young female officer Elma had been introduced to earlier that day. Elma struggled for her name: Begga, that was it. She looked quite a bit younger than Elma herself; well under thirty, anyway. She was tall and big-boned, with shoulder-length, mousy hair and a nose that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a Roman emperor. Elma noticed that she had dimples even when she wasn’t smiling.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ Begga said. She pulled open a drawer and showed Elma a box of tea bags.

  ‘Thanks,’ Elma said. ‘Would you like some too?’

  ‘Yes, please. I may as well join you.’ Begga sat down at the little table. Elma waited for the kettle to boil, then filled two mugs with hot water. She fetched a carton of milk from the fridge and put it on the table along with a bowl of sugar-lumps.

  ‘I know you from somewhere.’ Begga studied Elma thoughtfully as she stirred her tea. ‘Were you at Grundi School?’

  Elma nodded. She’d attended the school, which was on the southern side of town.

  ‘I think I remember you. You must have been a couple of years above me. Were you born in 1985?’

  ‘Yes, I was,’ Elma said, sipping from her steaming mug. Begga was much older than she’d guessed; almost as old as her.

  ‘I do remember you,’ Begga said, her dimples becoming more pronounced as she smiled. ‘I was so pleased to hear there was another woman joining us. As you may have noticed, we’re in a serious minority here. It’s a bit of a man’s world.’

  ‘It certainly is. But I like working with these guys so far,’ Elma said. ‘They seem really easy to get along with.’

  ‘Yes, most of them. I’m happy here anyway,’ Begga said. She was one of those people who appear to be perpetually smiling, even when they aren’t. She had that sort of face.

  ‘Have you always lived here?’ Elma asked.

  ‘Yes, always,’ Begga replied. ‘I love it here. The locals are great, there’s no traffic and everything’s within reach. I’ve no reason to go anywhere else. And I’m absolutely sure my friends who’ve moved away will come back eventually. Most people who leave come back sooner or later,’ she added confidently.
‘Like you, for example.’

  ‘Like me, for example,’ Elma repeated, dropping her gaze to her mug.

  ‘Why did you decide to move back?’ Begga prompted.

  Elma wondered how often she would have to answer this question. She was about to trot out the usual story when she paused. Begga had the sort of comfortable manner that invited confidences. ‘I was missing my family, and it’s good to get away from the traffic, of course, but…’ She hesitated. ‘Actually, I’ve just come out of a relationship.’

  ‘I see.’ Begga pushed over a basket of biscuits, taking one herself as she did so. ‘Had you been together long?’

  ‘I suppose so – nine years.’

  ‘Wow, I’ve never managed more than six months,’ Begga exclaimed with an infectious giggle. ‘Though I am closely involved with a gorgeous guy at the moment. He’s very fluffy and loves cuddling up to me in the evenings.’

  ‘A dog?’ Elma guessed.

  ‘Nearly.’ Begga grinned. ‘A cat.’

  Elma smiled back. She had taken an instant liking to Begga, who didn’t seem to care what other people thought of her. She was different, without making any conscious effort to be.

  ‘So, what happened?’ Begga asked.

  ‘When?’

  ‘With you and the nine-year guy.’

  Elma sighed. She didn’t want to have to think about Davíð now. ‘He changed,’ she said. ‘Or maybe I did. I don’t know.’

  ‘Did he cheat on you? The guy I was seeing for six months cheated on me. Well, he didn’t actually shag someone else, but I found out he was using dating sites and had a Tinder profile. I came across it by chance.’

  Elma caught her eye. ‘So you were on there yourself?’

  ‘Yeah, but only for research purposes. It was purely academic interest,’ Begga said with mock seriousness. ‘You should try it. It’s brilliant. I’ve already been on two Tinder dates.’

  ‘How did they go?’

  ‘It worked the second time – if you know what I mean.’ Begga winked at her and Elma laughed in spite of herself. ‘But I’m not actually looking for anyone,’ Begga went on. ‘I enjoy the single life. For the moment, anyway. And my heart belongs to my liddle baby.’

  ‘Your baby?’

  ‘Yeah, my boy cat,’ Begga explained and burst out laughing.

  Elma rolled her eyes and smiled. Begga was one of a kind all right.

  Akranes 1989

  The baby came in May. The day it was born was beautiful and sunny, with barely a cloud in the sky. When she went outside the air was damp from the night’s rain and the spicy scent of fresh greenery hung over the garden, tickling her nose. The sea stirred idly and far beyond the bay she could see the white dome of the Snæfellsjökull glacier rising on the horizon. Closer at hand, the reefs peeped up from the waves every now and then. She was wearing a pair of snow-washed jeans and a yellow T-shirt with a rainbow on the front. Her hair was tied back in a loose pony-tail but her curls kept escaping from the elastic band, so she was constantly having to brush strands of hair from her face.

  It was a Saturday and they had woken early, then eaten toast and jam for breakfast while listening to the radio. The weather was so good that they decided they would go for a walk on the beach to look for shells. They found an empty ice-cream tub to take with them and she sat on the swing while waiting for her mummy to finish her chores. As her mummy hung out the washing, she swung back and forth, reaching her toes up to the sky. They were chatting and her mummy was just smiling at her and stretching her arms to hang up a white sheet when suddenly she clutched at her stomach and doubled over. She stopped her swinging and watched her mummy anxiously.

  ‘It’s all right. Just a bit of a twinge,’ her mummy said, trying to smile. But when she stood up, the pain started again and she had to sit down on the wet grass.

  ‘Mummy?’ she said anxiously, going over to her.

  ‘Run next door to Solla’s and ask her to come over.’ Her mother took a deep breath and made a face. Drops of sweat trickled down her forehead. ‘Hurry.’

  Without waiting to be told again, she ran as fast as she could across the road to Solla’s house. She knocked on the door, then opened it without waiting for an answer.

  ‘Hello! Solla!’ she shouted. She could hear voices coming from the radio, then a figure appeared in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘What’s up?’ Solla asked, regarding her in surprise.

  ‘The baby…’ she panted. ‘It’s coming.’

  Several days later her mummy came home with a small bundle wrapped in a blue blanket. He was the most beautiful thing she had ever seen, with his dark hair and plump, unbelievably soft cheeks. Cautiously, she stroked the tiny fingers and marvelled that anything could be that small. But best of all was the smell. He smelled of milk and something sweet that she couldn’t put a name to. Even the little white pimples on his cheeks were so tiny and delicate that it was a sheer pleasure to run your finger over them. He was to be called Arnar, just like her daddy.

  But her beautiful little brother only lived for two weeks in their house by the sea. One day he wouldn’t wake up, however hard her mummy tried to rouse him.

  Saturday, 25 November 2017

  The only sounds in the house were the ticking of the sitting-room clock and the regular clicking of her knitting needles as they turned out the smooth, pale loops. The little jumper was almost finished. Once Ása had cast off and woven in the loose ends, she laid the jumper on the sofa and smoothed it out. The yarn, a mix of alpaca and silk, was as soft and light as thistledown. She tried out several different kinds of buttons against the jumper before opting for some white mother-of-pearl ones that went well with the light-coloured wool. She would sew them on later, once she had washed it. After putting the little garment in the washing machine, she switched on the kettle, scooped up some tea leaves in the strainer, poured the boiling water over them and added sugar and a dash of milk. Then she sat down at the kitchen table. The weekend paper lay there unopened, but instead of leafing through it, she cradled the hot cup in both hands and stared unseeingly out of the window.

  Her hands always got so cold when she was knitting. She wound the yarn so tightly round her index finger that it was bloodless and numb by the time she put down her needles. But knitting was her hobby, and numb fingers were a small price to pay for the pleasure she derived from seeing the yarn transformed into a succession of pretty garments. Pretty garments to add to the pile in the wardrobe. Hendrik was always grumbling about her extravagance. The yarn didn’t come cheap, especially the finest-quality soft wool, spun with silk. But she carried on regardless, ignoring Hendrik’s nagging. It wasn’t as if they couldn’t afford it. All her life she had been thrifty and watched every penny. It was how she had been brought up. But these days they had plenty of money; so much more than they needed, in fact, that she didn’t know what to do with it all. So she bought wool. She wondered at times if she should sell the clothes or give them away so others could make use of them, but something always held her back.

  She gazed out at the garden, where the blackbirds were hopping among the shrubs, attracted by the apples she had hung out for them. Time seemed to stand still. Ever since she had given up work, the days had become so long and drawn out that it was as if they would never end.

  Ása heard the front door open and close, then Hendrik walked into the kitchen without a word of greeting. He was still going into the office every day, and Ása doubted he would ever give up work entirely, though he was intending to cut down now that Bjarni was taking over. When not at work, he spent most of his time on the golf course, but golf had always bored her rigid.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ Hendrik sat down at the table and picked up the paper, not looking at her as he spoke.

  Ása didn’t answer but went on staring out of the window. The blackbirds were noisy now, singing shrill warning notes from the bushes. Ever louder and more insistent.

  Hendrik shook his head and snorted, as if to say that it
didn’t matter how she was feeling or what she was thinking.

  Without a word, she slammed down her cup so violently that the tea splashed onto the table. Then she stood up and walked quickly into the bedroom, pretending not to notice Hendrik’s astonished expression. Sitting down on the bed, she concentrated on getting her breathing under control. She wasn’t accustomed to losing her temper like that. She had always been so docile, so self-effacing, first as a little girl growing up in the countryside out east and later as a woman working in the fish factory in Akranes. She had moved young to Reykjavík and, like so many country girls, attended the Home Economics School. While boarding there she had soon discovered that life in the city offered all kinds of attractions that the countryside didn’t, like new people, work and a variety of entertainment. Shops, schools and streets that hardly ever emptied. Lights that lit up the night and a harbour full of ships. It was meeting Hendrik that had brought her to Akranes. He had been working on a fishing boat that put into Reykjavík harbour one August night. The crew had gone out on the town where Ása was partying with her friends from the Home Economics School. She had met him as he walked in through the door of the nightclub.

  Ása had known from the first instant that she had found her husband, the man she wanted to spend the rest of her life with – Him with a capital H. He was tall and dark, and the other girls had gazed at him enviously. This was hardly surprising as she had never been considered much to look at herself, with her ginger hair and her complexion that burst out in freckles at the first hint of summer.

  Thinking about it later, she was convinced it was her vulnerability that had attracted him. He had seen that she was a girl who wouldn’t stand up for herself. Instead, she smiled shyly and folded her arms meekly across her stomach; she always laid the table and never walked ahead of him when they were out; she ironed his shirts without having to be asked or ever being thanked. When she and Hendrik had first got to know each other, he had said that her timidity was one of the things that had captivated him. He couldn’t stand strident women, referring to them as ‘pushy cows’, but she was a girl after his own heart, who knew when to keep quiet and let others do the talking. Who was nice and submissive. Who would make a good mother.