The Creak on the Stairs

by Eva Bjorg AEgisdóttir

  ‘I remember Halla,’ Björg chipped in. ‘I hadn’t realised she was Elísabet’s mother. I knew she drank. She did nothing else after the baby died. Drank and partied till all hours. Everybody knew but no one did anything about it. I dread to think what that little girl must have gone through.’ Björg shuddered. ‘I’m afraid Halla must have neglected her terribly. But … in those days we didn’t like to interfere.’

  A silence fell. Outside the wind was growing stronger and there was a patter of small raindrops on the kitchen window. In the utility room off the kitchen, a washing machine began to spin with a loud rumbling.

  ‘Did you notice if Elísabet was picked on?’ Elma asked.

  Ingibjörn sighed. ‘I wasn’t aware of any trouble the first year. She had a friend and seemed happy enough. It wasn’t until the second year that I noticed she was spending a lot of time alone. Or was it the year after that? I can’t remember. But she wasn’t the only one. Some kids simply prefer to play alone and I can’t see what’s wrong with that. I myself have always enjoyed my own company. I regard being self-sufficient as a sign of intelligence and a healthy mind.’

  Elma nodded gravely and pretended not to see as Sævar looked down at his lap, struggling to keep a straight face. ‘So you didn’t notice any bullying?’ she asked, surreptitiously kicking Sævar under the table.

  ‘No, not in my classroom,’ Ingibjörn said with blithe confidence. ‘But if you want to know what went on in the playground, you’ll have to talk to the break supervisors. They kept an eye on things during play time. I concentrated on maintaining discipline during lessons – something I feel is sorely lacking in the school system these days. Now teachers have to mind their p’s and q’s if they don’t want a pack of parents on the warpath. It used not to be like that: pupils used to respect their teachers. But times have changed and not necessarily for the better.’

  ‘You’ve since transferred to the community college, haven’t you?’ Elma said.

  ‘Yes, many years ago. It must have been not long after Elísabet moved away. Yes, that’s right, in about 1992. The teaching at the community college suits me better. Those who want to apply themselves do so. The others, well … they have no place in my classroom. I don’t hesitate to throw them out. The students who want to learn shouldn’t have to put up with disruption from the rest.’

  Elma nodded. Ingibjörn had a reputation for being strict – strict and eccentric. According to Sævar, he made latecomers stand up in front of the class to explain and apologise. Students were rarely late. Absences were more common.

  ‘Who did Elísabet go around with?’

  ‘I didn’t pay much attention, to be honest. The girls were always forming little cliques. That’s how it is at that age. But they didn’t get to choose who they sat next to in my class. Lessons were for learning, not mucking around,’ Ingibjörn went on. He blew his nose vigorously into a handkerchief, as if to emphasise his words, then folded it neatly and put it away in his pocket. ‘Is all this really relevant to Elísabet’s death?’

  ‘Not necessarily. I’m just trying to get a better picture of what she was like as a child – how she got on here in Akranes. She doesn’t seem to have had very positive feelings towards the town, according to her husband. That’s why we’re interested in finding out why she died here. We’re trying to establish who, if anyone, she could have been meeting.’

  ‘Well, I doubt I can help you with that. Though there is one thing that springs to mind when I think about Elísabet.’ Ingibjörn scratched his head. ‘She was a vicious little thing. She got into a fight with a boy at school.’

  ‘A fight?’

  ‘Yes, apparently she just went for him. His name was Andrés; one of the special-needs kids. He works at the local library these days.’

  ‘Do you know why Elísabet went for him?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Though I seem to remember that it was unprovoked. As I said, you should talk to the break supervisor or headteacher. They handled the matter without involving me.’

  Elma nodded. She was surprised by how little Ingibjörn seemed to have cared about anything except imparting knowledge to his charges. She found it incomprehensible that a man like that would ever have applied to teach young children.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not much help,’ Ingibjörn said with a grunt when Elma was silent.

  ‘Is there any chance it could have been an accident?’ asked Björg, who had been listening quietly, examining her nails while Ingibjörn was talking.

  ‘We haven’t ruled anything out yet,’ Elma replied. ‘Was there no one in town who was close to the family or had any sort of dealings with them?’

  ‘No, no one,’ Ingibjörn said. ‘I didn’t meet Elísabet’s mother often, just once or twice at parents’ evenings. Then suddenly they were gone. I don’t remember getting any advance warning that they were planning to move and that Elísabet would be leaving the school. One day she just didn’t turn up.’

  ‘Was there any particular reason why they moved away?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Ingibjörn said, heaving another sigh, as if he was losing patience with their questions. ‘But I very much doubt Elísabet’s death has anything to do with the past. Surely it was just an accident? A tourist who was speeding in dangerous conditions, for example? It wouldn’t be the first time something like that had happened.’

  Elma found it extremely unlikely that a tourist would, after knocking Elísabet down, first attempt to strangle her, then dispose of her body in the sea in the hope that it would be washed away. But she decided to protect him from the details. Turning, she caught Sævar’s eye. He read her mind and they both stood up simultaneously and thanked their hosts.

  ‘So that was her teacher,’ Sævar said as they got back into the car. ‘What on earth made him want to work with young children?’

  ‘Search me.’ Elma shrugged. ‘He doesn’t seem to have enjoyed it much.’

  ‘Why do you think she attacked the boy?’ Sævar asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Elma said. ‘It needn’t have been for any particular reason – they were only kids, after all.’

  ‘I got into a fight once,’ Sævar said.

  ‘What, only the once?’ Elma grinned.

  ‘Yes, only the once. I was ten and another boy made fun of my headband.’

  ‘Your headband?’ Elma burst out laughing.

  Sævar nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. I have to admit it – I walked around in a headband and matching tracksuit and thought I was seriously cool.’

  ‘Well, if you think that’s bad, I used to wear popper trackie bottoms.’

  ‘Oof, now I’ve lost all respect for you.’ Sævar pretended to be scandalised.

  It was pitch-dark outside as it was getting on for seven o’clock. Elma’s mother had already sent her a message asking whether she’d be home for supper since her sister Dagný and family were coming round.

  ‘Are you … er … are you doing anything this evening?’ she asked, trying to sound casual.

  Sævar glanced at her, his eyebrows lifting slightly, then turned back to the road. ‘I’m going to dinner,’ he said, adding after a short pause: ‘With my girlfriend’s parents.’

  ‘Oh,’ Elma said. ‘No problem.’ She could feel her cheeks burning. They drove on in silence. It was a relief when Sævar said goodbye and got out. Somehow she had missed the fact that he had a girlfriend.

  On the way home, she wondered why he had never mentioned it; never said a single word about her. ‘What was I thinking of?’ Elma thought, embarrassed that she might have said something inappropriate. But she was even more mortified by her awkward reaction when he’d mentioned his girlfriend’s parents. She stopped the car outside her flat and looked up at the black sky. The glare of the streetlights and heavy banks of cloud blocked out the stars. Cold raindrops landed on her hot cheeks. For a few seconds she felt as if she could stand there like that forever. But the feeling didn’t last and she hurried inside when a car came past, breaking her reve
rie.

  Akranes 1991

  The child wasn’t yet two years old. A little girl who ran around the place giggling. She could hardly talk yet and the ice-cream she was holding dripped onto her clothes, but even so the grown-ups couldn’t take their eyes off her. They all wanted to cuddle and make much of her, and talked to her in baby voices, cooing about how adorable she was. They smiled and scooped her up in their arms, and Elísabet watched them sniffing her hair appreciatively and kissing her sticky cheeks.

  Elísabet was filled with loathing for her.

  They were round at Sara’s house and Sara’s mother had a friend visiting, a blonde woman with big curls who laughed at everything the little girl said and did – even when she threw the ice-cream on the floor and it made a big mess.

  Sara’s mother had called them over. ‘You’re such big girls now you’re seven. Won’t you take Vala to play in your room? You can show her your toys and practise babysitting.’

  Sara nodded obediently.

  ‘Make sure she doesn’t put anything in her mouth,’ the little girl’s mother said. ‘She’s so young, just a baby still.’ She picked up the toddler and set her on her feet, then gently wiped off the ice-cream that was smeared all over her face right up to her forehead. The child wailed and tried to push her mother away, then ran after the two bigger girls on her unsteady legs, giggling excitedly, as they went into the bedroom.

  Elísabet sat down on Sara’s neatly made bed and watched the toddler. She had no interest in babysitting. ‘Look at the doll,’ Sara said, handing the little girl one of her Barbies. The child took the doll and babbled something incomprehensible, then threw it on the floor and started pulling out the furniture the older girls had been arranging in Sara’s big Barbie doll’s house.

  Sara sighed and looked at Elísabet. ‘I need the loo,’ she said. ‘Can you make sure she doesn’t break anything?’

  Elísabet nodded. She was still lying on the bed, her eyes resting broodingly on the toddler. She thought of the little girl’s mother laughing all the time. It was as if the child could do no wrong. As if she could get away with anything and no one would mind. Elísabet got up off the bed and went over to her. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘it’s a doll.’

  ‘Do’,’ the little girl repeated, revealing her tiny front teeth in a smile. She grabbed at the doll with her sticky fingers. She had soft, milk-white arms and her fingernails, though delicate, were intact. Elísabet compared them to her own bitten-down nails. The sores on her fingers were obvious now. She had spent the night in the cupboard. Lain there listening to the wind as it forced its way through the cracks in the wooden panelling, trying to distract herself from thinking about the people downstairs. Would this little girl ever have to sleep in a cupboard? Would she ever know what it was like to be frightened? Elísabet doubted it. She felt overwhelmed by the injustice of it all. She didn’t know why she was so angry. Taking hold of the toddler’s plump arm, she bent and, without even stopping to think, bit it as hard as she could.

  The child opened her eyes wide; she had probably never felt such pain before. Never known what it was like to be deliberately hurt. Elísabet recoiled as the deafening screams filled the room. Big tears poured down the fat cheeks. ‘Shh, it’s all right,’ Elísabet said, desperately trying to hug the child. She heard the door opening. Felt eyes boring into the back of her head and her cheeks beginning to burn.

  She glared at the little girl with an even fiercer loathing.

  ‘What was Davíð’s uncle called again?’ Aðalheiður asked. Elma was sitting at the table, chopping vegetables for supper; her mother was standing by the cooker. ‘You know, the politician,’ she added, almost managing to make the question sound casual.

  ‘Höskuldur,’ Elma answered, without looking up from the paprika she was slicing.

  There was a brief silence in the kitchen apart from the low hissing of the radio that no one had bothered to retune, although the voices were hard to hear through the interference. The kitchen was small, with dark-wood units, a fitted table and leather-upholstered benches. Elma’s parents had often talked about replacing the kitchen but they had never got round to it and Elma was glad. She had always loved sitting at this table. It was where she used to do her homework, her hair in pigtails and her yellow schoolbag beside her, while her mother was cooking. She had lost count of the waffles and the thick pancakes known as skonsur that she had eaten at this table, the quiet hours she had whiled away there, safe from the hustle and bustle of the world outside. It was usually peaceful in the kitchen at home and always cosy.

  ‘Have you talked to Davíð’s family at all?’ Aðalheiður asked, holding the pan by the handle as she broke up the mince with a spatula. Elma shook her head. ‘Elma, love,’ Aðalheiður said, without looking up from her task, ‘surely you can talk about him? You behave as if you’d never been a couple, as if he hadn’t been a part of your life all these years.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Elma replied in a clipped voice, feeling her chest tighten.

  ‘All right, darling. You take your time,’ Aðalheiður said. ‘But it often helps to talk to professionals. We’ve got some good therapists here in Akranes. If you like, I could…’

  ‘Mum!’ Elma interrupted. ‘No, thanks. The last thing I’d do is talk to a therapist, particularly here in Akranes.’

  Aðalheiður’s mouth shut in a tight line. Elma sensed how difficult her mother found it to say nothing. She was someone who stuck her nose into everyone’s business and felt compelled to sort out everyone’s problems. It must be destroying her that she couldn’t help her own daughter.

  Elma sighed. She really hadn’t meant to sound so rude. ‘It’s not that I’m in denial or anything,’ she said after a moment, ‘I just don’t see how it’s supposed to help. It happened and nothing can change that. He left me. He betrayed me and all his promises to me. I just … I just need a bit more time.’ She smiled at her mother, who returned her smile, though she still looked troubled. Aðalheiður was about to say something else when the front door opened and a child’s voice called out:

  ‘Granny! Granny, do you know what?’ Alexander came tearing into the kitchen in his wet boots and gazed at his grandmother with big eyes.

  ‘No, I don’t know what,’ Aðalheiður said cheerfully, bending down to him.

  ‘Alexander, shoes off!’ Dagný bellowed from the hall.

  ‘I’m getting a spaceship for Christmas,’ Alexander announced, ignoring his mother.

  ‘A spaceship? Do they sell them at the toy shop?’

  ‘Yes, you can get it at Toy Story,’ he said, opening his eyes even wider.

  ‘Alexander,’ barked his mother, ‘it’s called Toys ‘R’ Us and I don’t know if you can buy spaceships there. Take your shoes off right now. You’ll make Granny’s floor all wet.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Aðalheiður said, smiling at Alexander as she helped him off with his boots. ‘And I’m sure they sell spaceships at Toy Story. Don’t they sell everything there?’

  Alexander beamed and nodded eagerly.

  ‘Today it’s a spaceship; yesterday it was a dinosaur and the day before that it was a flying car like the one in Harry Potter.’ Dagný rolled her eyes. ‘He’s not asking for much this year!’ She gave her mother and sister quick kisses. Viðar, Dagný’s husband, followed her in with Jökull in his arms.

  Alexander was five and Jökull was one. They were polar opposites: Alexander had a blond mop and blue eyes like his father; Jökull had his mother’s light-brown hair and plump cheeks that showed no signs of disappearing, although he was now one and a bit.

  ‘Do you want to come to Auntie Elma?’ Elma held out her arms to Jökull who spread his own and reached out to her. She kissed his round cheeks and cuddled him, but the moment Aðalheiður put the toy box on the floor, he started struggling to get down.

  ‘That smells good, Mum,’ said Dagný, sitting down at the kitchen table. ‘Is there any coffee?’

  ‘Work wearing you out?’ Aðalheiður asked
, putting a cup under the coffee machine.

  ‘No, not really. It’s just the shifts I find so knackering.’ Dagný accepted the coffee. In the glare of the ceiling lights Elma noticed the dark circles under her eyes, which she had tried to disguise with concealer.

  Dagný was only three years older than her but in spite of that they had never been close. They were very different and Elma always had the feeling she was getting on Dagný’s nerves, without being able to put her finger on why. Elma had envied her sister ever since she could remember. Dagný had always been popular, effortlessly drawing people to her with her genuine smile and easy manner. She also had the knack of putting people at ease and of appearing interested in everything. When listening, she would lean forwards, hardly blinking, and nod eagerly. Though, here, Elma was the exception. Dagný always looked at her as if she was her little sister, not with affection but as if she thought Elma was a bit slow. The sister who never understood anything. The sister who had to be prevented from embarrassing her. Who needed to be told that her top didn’t go with her skirt and that her eye-make-up was uneven. Elma had lost count of the times she’d had to listen to what a ‘beautiful girl’ or how ‘lovely and clever’ her sister was. She doubted Dagný had ever been forced to listen to similar praise of her.

  They had never played together, as far as Elma could remember. When Dagný had her friends round, they used to shut themselves in her room, all leaning against the door to keep her five-year-old sister out. Elma could remember standing, crying outside and banging on the door until her mother came and found some way to distract her. Later, she wouldn’t have dreamt of wanting to hang out with Dagný and her friends – a bunch of girls whose reaction to everything, however funny or horrible, seemed to be to giggle foolishly.