Silence Of The Grave

by Arnaldur Indridason

"Of course, you're so young . . . wait, how old are you anyway, Simon?"

  "I'm 14, I'll be 15 soon."

  "You're almost an adult, so maybe you understand what I'm talking about. Everyone hears about how all the Icelandic girls just throw their legs over the soldiers. It's like they lose control of themselves when they see a man in uniform, and you hear about what gentlemen the soldiers are and how they open doors for them and they're polite and want to dance and never get drunk and have cigarettes and coffee and all sorts of things and come from places that all the girls want to go to. And us, Simon, we're crummy. Just yokels, Simon, that the girls won't even look at. That's why I want to know a bit more about this soldier who goes fishing in the lake, Simon, because you've disappointed me."

  Simon looked at Grímur and all the strength seemed to sap from his body.

  "I've heard so much about that soldier on the hill here and you've never heard of him. Unless of course you're lying to me, and I don't think that's very nice, lying to your dad when a soldier comes here every day and goes out for walks with your dad's wife all summer. You don't know anything about it?"

  Simon said nothing.

  "You don't know anything about it?" Grímur repeated.

  "They sometimes went for walks," Simon said, tears welling in his eyes.

  "See," Grímur said. "I knew we were still friends. Did you go with them maybe?"

  It seemed that this would never end. Grímur looked at him with his burnt face and one eye half closed. Simon felt he could not hold back much longer.

  "We sometimes went to the lake and he took a picnic. Like you sometimes brought in those cans you open with a key."

  "And did he kiss your mother? Down by the lake?"

  "No," Simon said, relieved at not having to answer with a lie. He had never seen Dave and his mother kissing.

  "What were they doing then? Holding hands? And what were you doing? Why did you let that man take your mother for walks down by the lake? Didn't it ever occur to you that I might object? Didn't that ever occur to you?"

  "No," Símon said.

  "No one was thinking about me on those walks. Were they?"

  "No," Símon said.

  Grímur leaned forward under the light and his burning red scar stood out even more.

  "And what's the name of this man who steals other people's families and thinks that's okay and no one does a thing about it?"

  Simon did not answer him.

  "The one who threw the coffee, Simon, the one who made my face like this, do you know his name?"

  "No," Simon said in a barely audible voice.

  "He attacked me and burned me, but they never put him in the nick for that. What do you reckon to that? Like they're holy, all those soldiers. Do you think they're holy?"

  "No," Simon said.

  "Has your mother got fatter this summer?" Grímur asked as if a new idea had suddenly entered his head. "Not because she's a cow from the dairy, Simon, but because she's been going for walks with soldiers from the barracks. Do you think she's got fatter this summer?"

  "No," he said.

  "I think it's likely though. We'll find out later. This man who threw the coffee over me. Do you know his name?"

  "No," Simon said.

  "He had some strange idea, I don't know where he got it from, that I wasn't treating your mother properly. That I did nasty things to her. You know I've had to teach her to behave sometimes. He knew about it, but he didn't understand why. Couldn't understand that tarts like your mother need to know who's in charge, who they're married to and how they ought to behave. He couldn't understand you have to push them around a bit sometimes. He was really angry when he was talking to me. I know a bit of English because I've had some good friends at the barracks and I understood most of what he was saying, and he was very angry with me about your mother."

  Simon's eyes were transfixed on the scald.

  "This man, Simon, his name's Dave. I don't want you to lie to me: the soldier who was so kind to your mother, has been ever since the spring and all summer and well into the autumn, could his name be Dave?"

  Simon racked his brains, still staring at the burn.

  "They're going to sort him out," Grímur said.

  "Sort him out?" Simon didn't know what Grímur meant, but it couldn't be nice.

  "Is the rat in the passage?" Grímur said, nodding towards the door.

  "What?" Simon did not catch on to what he was talking about.

  "The moron? Do you think it's listening to us?"

  "I don't know about Mikkelína," Simon said. That was some kind of truth.

  "Is his name Dave, Simon?"

  "It might be," Simon said tentatively.

  "It might be? You're not sure. What does he call you, Simon? When he talks to you, or maybe he cuddles you and strokes you, what does he call you then?"

  "He never strokes . . ."

  "What's his name?"

  "Dave!" Simon said.

  "Dave! Thank you, Simon."

  Grímur leaned back and moved out of the light. He lowered his voice.

  "You see, I heard he was fucking your mum."

  At that moment the door opened and the children's mother came in with Tómas following behind her, and the cold gust of wind that accompanied them sent a chill running down Simon's sweating back.

  22

  Erlendur was at the hill 15 minutes after talking to Skarphédinn.

  He did not have his mobile with him. Otherwise he would have called Skarphédinn and told him to keep the woman waiting until he arrived. He felt sure it had to be the lady that Róbert had seen by the redcurrant bushes, the crooked lady in green.

  The traffic on Miklabraut was light and he drove up the slope on Ártúnsbrekka as fast as his car could manage, then along the road out of Reykjavik where he took a right turn for Grafarholt. Skarphédinn was about to drive away from the excavation site, but stopped. Erlendur got out of his car and the archaeologist wound down his window.

  "What, so you're here? Why did you slam the phone down on me? Is something wrong? What are you looking at me like that for?"

  "Is the woman still here?" Erlendur asked.

  "What woman?"

  Erlendur looked in the direction of the bushes and thought he saw a movement.

  "Is that her?" he asked, squinting. He could not see well from that distance. "The lady in green. Is she still there?"

  "Yes, she's over there," Skarphédinn said. "What's going on?"

  "I'll tell you later," Erlendur said, walking off.

  The redcurrant bushes came into focus as he approached them and the green figure took shape. As if expecting the woman to disappear at any moment, he quickened his pace. She was standing by the leafless bushes, holding one branch and looking over towards Mount Esja, apparently deep in thought.

  "Good evening," Erlendur said when he was within earshot of her.

  The woman turned round.

  "Good evening," she said.

  "Nice weather tonight," Erlendur said for the sake of saying something.

  "Spring was always the best time up here on the hill," the lady said.

  She had to make an effort to speak. Her head dangled, and Erlendur could tell that she had to concentrate hard on every word. They did not come of their own accord. One of her arms was hidden inside her sleeve. He could see that she had a club foot protruding from her long, green coat, and her shoulder-length hair was thick and grey. Her face was friendly but sorrowful. Erlendur noticed that her head moved gently on reflex, with regular spasms. It never seemed to stay completely still.

  "Are you from these parts?" Erlendur asked.

  "And now the city's spread all the way out here," she said without answering him. "You never would have expected that."

  "Yes, this city crawls everywhere," Erlendur said.

  "Are you investigating those bones?" she suddenly said.

  "I am," Erlendur said.

  "I saw you on the news. I come up here sometimes, especially in spring. Like now,
in the evenings when everything's quiet and we still have this lovely spring light."

  "It's beautiful up here," Erlendur said. "Are you from here, or somewhere nearby maybe?"

  "Actually, I was on my way to see you," the lady said, still not answering him. "I was going to contact you tomorrow. But it's good that you found me. It's about time."

  "About time?"

  "That the story came out."

  "What story?"

  "We used to live here, by these bushes. The chalet's long gone now. I don't know what happened to it. It just gradually fell apart. My mother planted the redcurrant bushes and made jam in the autumn, but she didn't want them only for jam. She wanted a hedge for shelter where she could grow vegetables and nice flowers facing south at the sun, wanted to use the chalet to block off the north wind. He wouldn't let her. It was the same as with everything else."

  She looked at Erlendur, her head jerking as she spoke.

  "They used to carry me out here when the sun shone," she smiled. "My brothers. There was nothing I loved more than to sit outside in the sunshine, and I used to squeal with joy when I came out into the garden. And we played games. They were always inventing new games to play with me, because I couldn't move much. Due to my disability, which was much worse in those days. They tried to include me in everything they did. That they got from their mother. Both the brothers, at first."

  "What did they get from her?"

  "Kindness."

  "An old man told us about a lady in green who sometimes comes here to tend the bushes. His description fits you. We thought it might be someone from the chalet that was here once."

  "You know about the chalet."

  "Yes, and some of the tenants, but not all. We think a family of five lived here during the war, possibly the victims of violence from the father. You mentioned your mother and both brothers, two of them, and if you're the third child in the family, that fits the information we have."

  "Did he talk about a lady in green?" she smiled.

  "Yes. The lady in green."

  "Green's my colour. Always has been. For as long as I can remember."

  "Don't they say that people who like green are down-to-earth types?"

  "That could be true," she smiled. "I'm terribly down-to-earth."

  "Do you know of this family?"

  "We lived in the house that was here."

  "Domestic violence?"

  She looked at Erlendur.

  "Yes, domestic violence."

  "It would have been . . ."

  "What's your name?" she interrupted Erlendur.

  "My name's Erlendur," he said.

  "Do you have a family?"

  "No, yes, well, a kind of family, I think."

  "You're not sure. Do you treat your family well?"

  "I think . . ." Erlendur hesitated. He had not anticipated being questioned and did not know what to say. Had he treated his family well? Hardly, he thought to himself.

  "Maybe you're divorced," the woman said, looking at Erlendur's tatty clothes.

  "As it happens, I am," he said. "I was going to ask you . . . I think I was asking you about domestic violence."

  "Such a convenient term for soul murder. Such a harmless term for people who don't know what lies behind it. Do you know what it's like, living in constant fear your whole life?"

  Erlendur said nothing.

  "Living with hatred every single day, it never stops no matter what you do, and you can never do anything to change it, until you lose your independent will and just wait and hope that the next beating won't be as bad as the one before."

  Erlendur did not know what to say.

  "Gradually the beatings turn into sadism, because the only power that the violent man has in the world is his power over the one woman who is his wife, and that power is absolute because he knows she can do nothing. She is totally helpless and totally dependent on him because he doesn't just threaten her, doesn't torment her only with his hatred and anger for her, but with his loathing for her children too, and makes it clear that he'll harm them if she tries to break free from his power. All the physical violence, all the pain and the beatings, the broken bones, the wounds, the bruises, the black eyes, the split lips – they're nothing compared to the mental torment. Constant fear that never goes away. For the first years, when she still shows some sign of life, she tries to find help and she tries to flee, but he catches her and whispers to her that he'll kill her daughter and bury her on the mountainside. And she knows he's capable of that, so she gives up. Gives up and commits her life into his hands."

  The woman looked over towards Esja and to the west, where the outline of Snaefellsnesjökull glacier could be seen.

  "And her life becomes a mere shadow of his life," she continued. "Her resistance ebbs and with it her will to live, her life becomes his life and she is no longer alive, she's dead, and she goes around like a creature of darkness in an endless search for a way out. A way out from the beatings and the torment and his life, because she no longer lives her own life, but only exists as the object of his hatred.

  "In the end he destroys her. And she's all but dead. One of the living dead."

  She became silent and stroked her hand across the bare branches of the bushes.

  "Until that spring. During the war."

  Erlendur said nothing.

  "Who passes sentence on anyone for soul murder?" she went on. "Can you tell me that? How can you charge a man for soul murder, take him to court and have him sentenced?"

  "I don't know," Erlendur said, not altogether following.

  "Have you got down to the bones?" she asked, almost as if her mind was elsewhere.

  "We will tomorrow," Erlendur replied. "Do you know anything about who's buried there?"

  "She turned out to be like these bushes," the woman said faintly.

  "Who?"

  "Like the redcurrant bushes. They don't need tending to. They're particularly hardy, they withstand all kinds of weather and the harshest winters, but they're always green and beautiful again in the summer, and the berries they produce are just as red and juicy as if nothing had ever happened. As if winter had never come."

  "Pardon me, but what's your name?" Erlendur asked.

  "The soldier brought her back to life."

  The woman stopped talking and stared into the bushes as if transported to a different place and a different time.

  "Who are you?" Erlendur asked.

  "Mum loved green. She said green was the colour of hope."

  She snapped out of her trance.

  "My name's Mikkelína," she said. Then she seemed to falter. "He was a monster," she said. "Full of uncontrollable hatred and rage."