The Creak on the Stairs

by Eva Bjorg AEgisdóttir

  The doorbell rang shortly after midday. Magnea sighed under her breath when she saw her mother-in-law standing outside. When they had told Ása about the pregnancy the night before, her attitude to Magnea had undergone a transformation; it was as if they were suddenly best friends. Magnea was surprised that Ása couldn’t see for herself how transparent her behaviour was, but instead of confronting her with the fact, she merely put on a smile and opened the door.

  ‘I thought you might be hungry,’ Ása said, wiping her shoes on the mat. ‘Bjarni told me you were off sick today and I’ve just baked some bread.’

  ‘It smells delicious,’ Magnea said, accepting the loaf. There was a few seconds’ awkward silence until it dawned on Magnea that Ása was waiting to be invited in. ‘Would you like to have some with me? … Or have you already had lunch?’

  ‘Oh, no, thank you, I wouldn’t want to disturb you,’ Ása said, from force of habit.

  ‘Of course you’re not disturbing me,’ Magnea assured her, well trained in her role. ‘Why don’t we have lunch together? I could do with some company.’

  Ása followed her inside and took a seat at the kitchen table. She always sat as if she were uncomfortable, poised to get up in a hurry, her hands folded in her lap and her elbows pressed to her sides. Ása’s primness and inability to relax never failed to get on Magnea’s nerves.

  She laid the table for them both, then cut some slices of the warm bread and arranged them neatly in a napkin-lined basket. They exchanged polite small-talk as they ate. Although Ása wasn’t the chatty type, if there was one thing Magnea was good at it was making conversation. Bjarni used to say she’d be capable of keeping up a conversation with a broom handle. Once they had finished eating, Magnea cleared the table, noticing out of the corner of her eye as she did so that Ása had opened her bag and was taking out something pink. Naturally she knew that her mother-in-law was always knitting – she’d seen the wicker baskets full of yarn and half-finished knitting projects in the sitting room but had never mentioned the fact. Never asked who they were for. She knew, like everyone else, that they weren’t for anyone except Ása herself.

  ‘I … It occurred to me that you might like to have this,’ Ása said. Her lips trembled slightly as she smiled and Magnea felt a little moved in spite of herself, sensing the pain behind the smile. ‘I made this for Sara.’

  Magnea gasped. ‘I couldn’t…’ she began.

  Ása forestalled her. ‘Of course, I don’t know the child’s sex, but if it’s a girl, I’d like her to have it.’

  Magnea took the jumper from her. Although it was a little worn, and had obviously been used, it was still soft and pretty.

  Ása stood up, smoothing down her skirt. ‘It would mean the world to me to see the jumper used again.’

  Magnea nodded without a word. She accompanied Ása to the door and said goodbye to her. As soon as she had gone, she opened the wardrobe and put the jumper behind a pile of bedclothes where no one could see it.

  A little over forty minutes after leaving Vilborg, Elma pulled up in front of Ása and Hendrik’s house. On the drive back from Reykjavík she had made up her mind. In spite of Hörður’s orders, she simply had to speak to Ása. She couldn’t let Hörður’s relationship with Hendrik’s family get in the way of the investigation. She had to find out if her suspicions about Hendrik were correct.

  She was struck by the beauty of Ása and Hendrik’s house with its cream-coloured walls and the large dormer windows with their distinctive dark frames. It was situated at the bottom of a cul-de-sac with a view of the Höfði Old People’s Home and, beyond that, of the beach at Langisandur and of Reykjavík on the other side of the bay. There was no car in the drive in front of the double garage and the lights were off, but in spite of that Elma took hold of the brass knocker in the middle of the mahogany front door and let it fall twice.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said a high voice behind her, making her jump. ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you,’ Ása added.

  ‘Oh, that’s all right,’ Elma said, hurriedly extending her hand. ‘My name’s Elma and I’m from the local police. I wondered if I could have a quick word.’

  ‘What about?’ Ása asked, regarding her in astonishment.

  ‘Elísabet Hölludóttir. You knew her, didn’t you?’

  Ása hesitated before inserting the key in the lock and beckoning her wordlessly to come inside. Elma followed her into an attractive sitting room with high windows that looked out over the garden. Ása invited her to take a seat on the dark-brown leather sofa, then sat down opposite her and waited, her red-lipsticked mouth no more than a thin line in her pale face. Ása was unquestionably a lady; the type who knew all about table manners and who went to the hairdresser every two weeks, judging by the way her short white hair had been elaborately blow-dried. Elma’s gaze, travelling around the room, fell on a wicker basket beside the sofa, which was overflowing with balls of wool and what appeared to be baby clothes.

  ‘What a beautiful home you have,’ she began, smiling.

  ‘Thank you,’ Ása replied, with no answering smile. ‘We haven’t lived here that long. I preferred our old place; I had such a lovely garden there. We used to win prizes for it.’

  Refusing to let herself be thrown by Ása’s coolness, Elma continued in a friendly tone: ‘As you probably know, we’re investigating Elísabet’s death. I … we’re trying to build up a better picture of her.’ She paused. ‘To be honest, we don’t have much to go on and the investigation’s not making much progress, so we need to make sure we examine every angle as closely as possible. She was a friend of your daughter Sara, wasn’t she?’

  Ása merely nodded, but her expression changed infinitesimally at the mention of Sara. The corners of her mouth twitched faintly and her body tensed. Elma sensed that she was on her guard.

  ‘Were they close friends?’ Elma asked.

  ‘They were inseparable, believe me. I tried…’ Ása gave a slight shake of her head.

  ‘Why did you want to separate them?’

  Ása took a deep breath. ‘I once went round to Elísabet’s house. Of course I’d heard the rumours, the gossip. I was aware that Halla was one of the … Well, she hung around with the town’s undesirables, but I’d never have dreamt it was possible to live in such squalor. Cans and bottles all over the place, rotting food, the floor black with dirt. But the worst thing was the smell – a repulsive stench of cigarette smoke mixed with the reek of all the rubbish and other filth.’ Ása wrinkled her nose at the memory.

  ‘Did it never cross your mind to report the situation to social services?’

  ‘Of course I reported it,’ Ása shot back. ‘For all the good it did. I think she was given some second-hand clothes. That was about it.’

  ‘What was Elísabet like as a girl?’

  ‘She was just a child. A little girl who’d never been taught any manners or discipline, and was allowed to run wild. It was as if she couldn’t stay still. She always struck me as a bit strange. Of course, she was stunning but she was … odd. As if something wasn’t quite right.’ Ása paused, choosing her words with care. ‘The worst thing about Elísabet wasn’t her mother or her home life, it was that she … how shall I put it … she had a wicked streak. She was beautiful, that’s true, but there was something evil there. That’s what I always sensed.’ Ása didn’t look at Elma as she talked but focused on the shrubs outside the sitting-room window as their branches swayed gently in the breeze.

  ‘Evil? What do you mean by that?’

  ‘Once we had some friends visiting. They brought their two-year-old daughter with them and we let her play in Sara’s bedroom with the girls. Next minute the child was screaming her head off and we ran in to find out what was wrong. When we got there, she had an ugly bite mark on her arm. It was bleeding. Of course, Elísabet wouldn’t admit she’d done it, but it was obvious: she’d been alone with the child at the time.

  ‘So your daughter wasn’t in the room when it happened?’


  ‘No, she’d stepped out for a minute,’ Ása said. ‘After that, I wouldn’t let Sara play with Elísabet anymore. I used to collect her from school myself and made sure they didn’t spend any time together. I told Sara to play with the other girls, who weren’t such a bad influence.’

  ‘And did it work?’

  ‘Elísabet didn’t come round to our house again, you can be sure of that.’ Apparently realising how cold this sounded, Ása added: ‘Please, don’t get me wrong. I felt very sorry for her, given her situation, but I had to put my own children first. I was thinking of Sara. I was only trying to protect her.’ The final words emerged in a whisper.

  ‘Is it true that Elísabet’s mother, Halla, rented her house from you and your husband?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask Hendrik about that. I had very little to do with the business side of things. But yes, we owned the house, and I assume she must have been paying rent. Though, having said that, I never understood how she could afford such a big place. I know she worked at the fish factory before her husband died, but after that she was on benefits. I didn’t get involved, though.’

  ‘I see,’ Elma said. How, she asked herself, had Halla been able to pay the rent on a large detached house if she’d had practically no income? ‘Did you ever see Elísabet after Sara died?’ she asked.

  Ása smoothed invisible creases from her skirt. Elma noticed that her hands were shaking slightly and when she spoke her voice was hoarser than before. ‘She turned up to the memorial service. That’s the last time I saw her. She was sitting with Sara’s school friends at the reception afterwards and I remember being amazed at how calm she was. She just sat there, completely expressionless, and didn’t shed a single tear.’

  Ása seemed so small and vulnerable as she sat there facing Elma. Her dainty hands were hardly more than skin and bone. Her hair was thin, despite the bouffant style, and her face was drawn. Perhaps it was her imagination, but Elma felt as if she was still marked by the loss of her child; as if it had been slowly but steadily eating away at her all these years.

  ‘Sara was afraid of water,’ Ása said suddenly, meeting Elma’s eye. ‘Terrified, ever since she was tiny. It was difficult even getting her into the bath. If she got water in her eyes, you could hear her screams next door.’ She smiled reminiscently but the smile vanished when she added: ‘She would never have got on that raft voluntarily.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Elma asked, regarding Ása in surprise.

  ‘I told them. But nobody believed me.’ Her voice was so low now that Elma had to lean closer to hear her.

  ‘What do you think happened?’

  Ása looked out of the window again. ‘What do I think? When has it ever mattered what I think?’

  Akranes 1992

  ‘I fancy Beggi or Palli, how about you?’ Magnea leant against the rough wall, hands in her pockets, her eyes fixed on Sara.

  Sara pulled her sleeves down over her fingers, avoiding Magnea’s gaze. ‘I don’t know,’ she said so quietly that the words were almost inaudible.

  ‘And your brother’s totally fit.’ Magnea emitted a heartfelt sigh. Sara’s brother, Bjarni, was several years older than them but they sometimes bumped into him in the school corridors. Magnea always did everything she could to attract his attention.

  Sara glanced up at her with a grimace. ‘But he’s so old.’

  ‘I know, that’s why I’d rather fancy Beggi. Or Palli. Do you know who you fancy, Elísabet?’ There was something about Magnea’s smile that made Elísabet uneasy. She shook her head. She’d never been particularly interested in boys, unlike Magnea, who could talk endlessly about who was fit and who wasn’t.

  ‘Do you fancy weirdo Andrés then?’ Magnea said mockingly. Andrés was a boy in their class who most people wouldn’t be seen dead with. He was tall and thin with sticking-out ears and his trousers were always too short for him. He tried to compensate for his height by walking around with his shoulders hunched, which made him look even more of a freak.

  ‘No,’ Elísabet said. It was a week since the two girls had invited her to hang out with them and she was already fed up with Magnea. What’s more, she could have sworn that Sara was too.

  ‘Hi, Andrés!’ Magnea called, waving to him as he stood in the playground, boring his toe into the gravel. When Andrés waved uncertainly back, Magnea grinned at the other girls. The bell rang and the children ran into the classroom.

  By the time second break began, Elísabet had made up her mind to talk to Sara. She was going to ask if they could meet up later – just the two of them, like they used to. But she had no sooner set foot outside than he came running up to her, flung his arms round her, held her head in a tight grip and kissed her on the face. Again and again. Elísabet wasn’t sure what happened after that – everything was hazy. She struck out as hard as she could, not stopping even when he fell to the ground and put his arms over his head. She didn’t stop until someone seized her from behind and dragged her away.

  The sand was black in Krókalón bay. Seaweed swayed at the water’s edge and there was a sharp tang of salt in the air. As Elma walked slowly along the beach, a chilly breeze ruffled her hair. She zipped her coat up to her neck, shoved her hands deep in her pockets and gazed out over the surface of the sea. How far out would she have to wade before the current swept her away? The water was almost black now, like the sand. On the horizon, she could see the faint, dome-shaped outline of the glacier rising from the sea at the end of the chain of peaks that marked the Snæfellsnes Peninsula. Every year, its white cap seemed to shrink. A few more and the glacier would have vanished altogether.

  Had Sara been playing here twenty-seven years ago? Had she found a pallet on the beach and built a raft out of it? Alone?

  It was getting on for four o’clock and the sun that had been shining brightly all day was setting. The light was already fading and Elma gradually became aware of a skin-crawling sensation that she wasn’t alone. She stole a quick glance around. The beach was empty but there were lights on in the houses lining the shore and she could hear the distant drone of traffic.

  Elma was still trying to work out her next move. She had wanted to believe Ása when she said that Sara would never have gone out on the raft voluntarily, but at the same time she was aware that children could be drawn into various escapades with their friends that they wouldn’t dream of if left to their own devices. It was this that convinced her that Sara couldn’t have been alone. Elísabet had almost certainly been there with her.

  Elma turned to look at the house that had once been home to Elísabet and her mother. It was clearly visible from the beach. The lights were on, so the mother and son who lived there now must be home. Could the house have been the catalyst for the whole chain of events? Had Elísabet seen the advert on the estate agent’s website and been overwhelmed by memories? Elma pictured her standing there, staring at the house while everything came back to her with a brutal clarity. She wondered whether all Elísabet’s memories had been bad or if her life had been better before her father died. Would everything have turned out differently if he hadn’t gone out to sea that day?

  Elma knew these questions were unanswerable. She had wasted far too much time going over her own life and asking the same kind of thing: would everything have turned out differently if only…? She knew it was utterly futile.

  Without warning, the sea seemed to wake from its slumbers and a large wave came rolling up the beach, scattering Elma’s thoughts. It left behind a layer of scum on the sand after it had retreated again, and Elma realised that she was cold. At that moment the last rays of the sun disappeared below the horizon and darkness closed in. There were no lights on the beach and Elma shivered. She walked rapidly back to the road without looking over her shoulder, conscious all the time of that feeling of being watched.

  The photographs were in a white envelope that had been pushed through the letterbox. There was no stamp, no sender, nothing but her name: Ása. All the envelope contained were the photograp
hs of two little girls.

  One of them was her daughter.

  The moment Ása realised, her hands began to shake so badly that she dropped the pictures on the floor. Overcoming her reluctance, she bent down to retrieve them. She recognised the other girl too: it was the dark-haired woman who had come to see her recently. Ása had never forgotten the squalor of the house where she had lived as a little girl.

  She could feel herself growing hot and cold in turn. Her whole body seemed to have gone numb, as if she were no longer part of this world. She didn’t even stop to wonder who had sent her the photos; there was no point.

  She started pacing around the empty house, pausing by the window to stare out at a world that had suddenly changed. The sitting-room wall was covered with family photos, taken on various occasions. She lifted one of them down and gazed at the face of the little person whose presence she had only been allowed to enjoy for a few brief years. She remembered what beautiful fingers she’d had as a baby, long and delicate like the hands of a future pianist. Ironically, she had never been particularly good at the piano, though Hendrik had insisted she take lessons and practise for an hour every day. And she had done so, as she had done everything, with a good-natured smile on her face. Sara had been such a cheerful child. Happy by nature. When the change came, Ása had put it down to her age. It was only natural for children to become moodier as they neared adolescence; an inevitable consequence of growing up and losing their innocence. Or so she had consoled herself.

  She hung the picture back on the wall and walked into the kitchen as if in a daze. When she had found what she wanted, she went into the bedroom. There she sat down on the bed they had shared for the last forty years and waited.