Next time I’ll teach you how to die.
5
Kristín was at the eighteenth hole of the Akureyri golf course. She had arrived early, alone, but now the place was busy with golfers. There was something relaxing about golf that gave her an opportunity to put aside the stress of work and get some much-needed fresh air. It also allowed her to forget about Ari Thór and the whole mess their relationship had become.
The golf course had become a friend in the desert, an oasis where she could recharge her batteries before the rigours of the day.
The extent to which she found herself enjoying the game had been unexpected. She had taken a short golf course the previous summer and found that the skills she had learned years ago playing with her parents quickly returned. As the weather brightened, out came the clubs, and she soon became a regular on the golf course, usually early in the morning, before her shifts began.
She had rarely looked up from her books during her years as a medical student, but these days she had an increasingly urgent need for exercise, and found herself determined to keep in shape. The pressure of work had taken her by surprise; in comparison, studying had been child’s play. It was probably the increased stress of her job that was behind this interest in sport, although she suspected that it could also be because golf was one sport that Ari Thór abhorred. He had frequently made plain his opinion of their friends who played; in his eyes, the TV test card was more entertaining than a golf tournament.
All in all golf gave her the opportunity to kill two birds with one stone: doing something healthy and relaxing, while spending time somewhere there was absolutely no likelihood of encountering Ari Thór.
They hadn’t spoken for a year and a half, ever since the day he had told her, or at least hinted, that he had been unfaithful to her with some woman in Siglufjörður. She hadn’t asked for the details, but that was the last time that particular mobile phone was ever used, shattered to pieces as she hurled it to the floor. The depth of her own fury had astonished her; she was known for her even temper.
Their relationship had already been put under pressure when he had taken the decision to move north to Siglufjörður without bothering to consult her. But the admission of infidelity had come like a slap in the face; it was a total breach of trust. Although she’d never actually expressed it, she had always cherished the dream that they would spend their lives together in a comfortable house in one of the Reykjavík suburbs, with a couple of children and maybe a dog.
Kristín tried to convince herself that she had recovered from the shock, that she was over him and their relationship, but she knew that wasn’t the case. It would take time. Ari Thór had tried to contact her, but his dozens of phone calls and emails had gone unanswered. He didn’t deserve a reply.
It was the travesty of trust that had forced her to see how much she loved Ari Thór, and even now she struggled with the pain of their parting. She was almost relieved that she hadn’t asked for the details of his relationship with the woman in Siglufjörður, consoling herself with the fact that it was better not to know. But on the other hand, her imagination tended to take over when her thoughts drifted in that direction and she found herself brooding over a virulent hatred of a woman she had never seen and whose name she didn’t even know.
Apart from that, life was routine; work, work and then more work.
She finished her round at par. There had been better days.
Kristín was getting used to living in Akureyri. After that last conversation with Ari Thór, as she was trying to regain her bearings, she had called the National Hospital in Reykjavík, hoping to reclaim her summer placement, but it had by then been allocated to her friend, so she knew that there was no job to go to there. There was nothing for it but Akureyri; a city girl stranded in a small coastal town. She found a small apartment that she was able to furnish simply with colourful prints on the walls and the stacks of medical textbooks she had accumulated during her years of study piled on the floor, waiting for the bookcases she intended to get round to buying.
She knew nobody in Akureyri, apart from one young man, Natan, a student at the university there and a mutual friend of hers and Ari Thór’s. Occasionally they’d meet and chat over a coffee and while she suspected him of leaking news of her to Ari Thór, she decided against saying anything; it was just as well that Ari Thór was aware that she was doing fine on her own, that she had got over him easily. Perhaps that wasn’t quite true, but she was working on it and hoped that a man she had met on the golf course would help with the process.
She had made his acquaintance three weeks ago at the first hole, early one morning, a time when she had expected to have the course to herself. But he had been there at the same early hour, and with a warm smile, he’d asked if she was alone or if she’d like to play a round with him.
‘It’s so dull going round on your own,’ he had added cheerfully.
She nodded in agreement, but she didn’t share his sentiment. There was nothing like a solo round, with no interruptions. Just her, alone in the crisp morning air. But Kristín agreed; his good looks piquing her interest.
He told her he was self-employed, working in computers. He was a good few years older than she was, not that an age difference was a problem if they were to get along. Maybe Ari Thór had been too young for her? She preferred men who were slightly older, with a respectable touch of grey in their hair.
He suggested they meet again to play another nine holes.
After that, their first proper date was at a coffee house on a Thursday evening. She was punctual, but he was already seated at a corner table and had ordered hot chocolate and apple pie and cream for them both. Was this her perfect man?
Kristín told him that she was still trying to regain her equilibrium after ending a long relationship. He told her that he was in much the same position, although he later clarified this by telling her that his wife had actually passed away.
The following week, they met again for a lunch date at a fish restaurant in town, but this turned out to be less successful, as neither of them was comfortable trying to talk over the background clatter of cutlery and glasses. He wanted to take her out to dinner, but her rota at the hospital ruled out that possibility for the time being. The following week didn’t look any more promising.
She climbed into in her cheap old Japanese rust bucket – the luxury four-by-four would have to wait until her many years of study were further in the past – and thought about what the day might bring. The summer weather was beautiful, with the particular deep inland warmth Akureyri enjoyed, standing as it did at the head of a winding fjord. The summers were warmer here than anywhere else in Iceland, with hot, still days under cobalt blue skies, while the winters were usually gentler than anywhere else on the north coast, courtesy of the sheltered location between high mountains.
But she would be confined to the hospital wards – each day the same as the next. Medicine had failed to excite her enthusiasm, and she worried that she had spent too many years studying something that didn’t suit her after all. She shook her head as if to clear it and banish her unhelpful thoughts. Everything takes time, she told herself and these first years were always going to be the toughest. A doctor had once told her that medicine was a calling rather than a job, and that each day brought tiny miracles. That wasn’t something she had experienced so far, and she was never excited by at the prospect of work. Maybe Ari Thór had done the right thing in heading in a new direction, giving up his theology studies when he saw that he wasn’t suited to them. She smiled to herself, surprised at the direction her thoughts had taken: to Ari Thór, yet again. She reminded herself that wasn’t the way her life was going. She had chosen her path, and rarely went back on a decision once it had been made. She was just tired after those long shifts; it was nothing more than that.
It was proving difficult, however, to dislodge that man from her mind.
6
One year earlier
It had been a long day an
d I was exhausted. I had done my best to make a career out of psychology, but now I was back at work on the news desk and had been dropped in at the deep end. It was easier when I was a few years younger. Now I was approaching thirty, the decade in which ‘anything seems possible’ almost behind me and it looked like it was time to start growing up.
I sat over my laptop, letting the minutes meander past, and tried to put my thoughts in order. Then I lay back on the old blue sofa and closed my eyes. The sofa had come from a junk sale. While it was a handsome piece of furniture, it wasn’t particularly comfortable. All the same, I stretched out on it. The day at work had been so challenging, I lacked the energy even to make my way to the bedroom.
I’d have to get used to this new routine. I was more than aware that I hadn’t been myself recently: my blood pressure too high, my throat was sore, and feelings of stress threatened to overwhelm me. There was no such thing as a quiet day on the news desk. No matter what was going on in the world or in the personal lives of the people behind the scenes, the news was broadcast at exactly the same times every night and there was no room for error – or excuses. It had to be ready on time. Considering the pressure and the pace, it was an unbelievably poorly paid job. At the hospital there would be down time – mornings, sometimes even whole days without anyone chasing me for anything, days when it was possible to relax and recharge. The thought of having even a short break at the news desk was just laughable. Life was in the moment, the buzz of rolling news and covering events as they happened. One, two, three jobs allocated, a few phone calls, on the spot with the cameraman, interview done and edited, commentary written and recorded – all at high speed, keeping pace with breaking news. That was the pattern for every single day. But, despite the pressure, I really enjoyed it.
I was about to leave for a week’s holiday, intending to use the time to write an article about the grandmother I had never met. It would be published after the summer by a magazine – an account of a housewife in the years after the war. It was really more of a tragedy, and there were good reasons why I wanted to write the story.
I let my thoughts wander back in time.
I was a little girl, eight or nine, sitting on a chair behind my grandfather’s house in the countryside, in Landeyjar, by the shore, a couple of hours east of Reykjavík. The garden was an enchanting place in the golden summer sunshine, a playground full of old stuff that nobody had got rid of, even one ancient, rusty car with no engine. Grandad’s wooden shed with its little windows was home to folded-up garden furniture and toys, an old saddle, racquets and balls that had seen better days. It was warm, with something of a breeze. The fence that guarded the edges of the garden cried out to be fixed. The roses had seen no attention since Grandad Lárus had lost his wife, Ísbjörg, my grandmother.
It was a week-long visit to the old man. My parents had come as well, but had taken themselves off for a drive. I was alone in the garden when Grandad appeared with a large box.
‘There’s all kinds of stuff in here … your grandmother’s things,’ he said, looking at me quizzically. ‘I was stuff clearing out and found it. Your father or his sister must have packed it all away after she died. I suppose it’s best to throw it away, though. It’s probably not good to go hold on to someone’s private things.’
I was named after my two grandmothers: my paternal grandmother Ísbjörg, and my Faroese maternal grandmother, whose name was Heidrún. Ísrún was a combination of the two names and I’d always taken a secret pleasure at its pretty originality. Ísbjörg had passed away young, at not quite fifty.
‘Your grandmother smoked far too much,’ my father would remind me regularly. ‘It was cancer that took her.’
I have never smoked.
I had never had the opportunity to meet Ísbjörg. She died several years before I was born. And it was rare that I saw my Faroese grandparents. But Grandad Lárus in Landeyjar had always featured in my life. We often went to see him, and in the winter he’d come and stay with us or with one of my father’s sisters in Reykjavík.
I always felt an inexplicably close link to my grandmother Ísbjörg. People were always saying how alike we were, both in our looks and mannerisms. She was like a distant image, a vision I could see but barely make out, the woman I shared so much with but had never met. I often thought how wonderful it would have been to know her, and cursed the cancer that had taken her away from me.
My heart beat faster when Grandad appeared with the box. Ísbjörg’s things!
He had also brought a rubbish bag with him, and he opened it as he started to root through the box. A few bills went into the bag, and then there was an old exercise book.
‘Her recipes,’ he said. ‘Do you want them?’
I nodded eagerly, honoured to be given this little book of memories. I clutched it to my chest as if it was something rare and precious. Even now, having left home long before, that recipe book still had pride of place in my kitchen, and it had also come in useful.
A diary came out of the box next. It was beautifully bound, but worn and secured with an old-fashioned lock. There was no key attached, but that wouldn’t prove to be much of an obstacle.
‘Your grandmother kept a diary when she was young, and again after the illness took hold, right up until she no longer had the strength to hold a pen,’ Grandad Lárus said quietly, turning over the book in his hands.
‘May I have it?’ I asked. I wanted to snatch it from his hands and snap open the lock.
‘She never showed me what she had written,’ he said, his eyes still fixed on the diary.
‘May I have it?’ I asked again.
‘Have it? No. It’s going straight into the rubbish. She wrote it for herself alone, not for anyone else.’
Grandad dropped the diary into the rubbish bag. I quietly decided to steal it as soon as there was a chance.
‘I’ll take the bag to the incinerator,’ he said, when he finished examining the contents of the box.
I went with him, hoping he’d change his mind.
I had to have that diary. It was the only thing that could give me any insight into the thoughts of my grandmother, Ísbjörg.
The seconds crawled past, like a slow-motion replay, as Grandad took the bag and hurled it into the flames.
It was so final and so brutal. The opportunity to lay my hands on the diary was gone.
I saw it happen again and again in my mind in the following years, as I tried to work out for myself what might have been in that diary, which was now gone for good. That moment has never left me and neither have I stopped wondering what was in the diary, what details there were of my grandmother’s life, and what she might have written that could have brought us closer together.
7
News of the corpse’s discovery spread rapidly as one news site after another picked up the story, but none had reported that the victim’s legal address was in Siglufjörður, where life continued as usual.
It was going to be a sunny day, as if the weather had decided that the brutal killing of one of the townspeople was no reason for dropping a few grey clouds into the otherwise perfectly blue summer sky, untroubled by a breath of wind. The news from down south was all about the ash clouds from the eruption that were slowly poisoning Reykjavík, the tainted air brought to the capital by the easterly breeze. No ash from the volcano had reached Siglufjörður as it was too far north. But during the eruption, Ari Thór had heard from a friend of his in town that there were times when ash from volcanoes in the south had fallen over Siglufjörður: once in the nineteenth century and again in the big Katla eruption of 1918, and now people were afraid that the recent eruption of Eyjafjallajökull might wake old and powerful Katla from her century-long sleep.
Ari Thór had arranged to meet Hákon Halldórsson at a coffee house by the small marina. He knew that he was a foreman on the new tunnel that was being constructed between Siglufjörður and neighbouring Héðinsfjörður, as part of the new road link to Akureyri, the nearest large town. Once
the construction was finished, the two places, Siglufjörður and Akureyri, would be little more than an hour apart.
The coffee house overlooked the fjord, its deep-blue waters stirring gently in the warm summer breeze, as the brightly painted local boats nodded at their moorings. According to the information Ari Thór had been able to prise from Tómas, who had an encyclopaedic knowledge of the town’s inhabitants, Hákon was best known for having been the singer of a band called the Herring Lads. Their heyday had taken place long after the herring had departed, but they had been quite popular nonetheless, playing at dances around the country and producing three albums. Hákon was no longer a young man, but seemed never to have quite left his pop career behind. When the weather allowed, he drove around in an antique MG sports car that Ari Thór had noticed on more than one occasion, speculating that its owner might be clinging on to his youth.
Hákon rose to his feet as Ari Thór approached. The MG’s owner was a thickset gentleman with a protruding belly, dressed in jeans and a leather jacket over a knitted sweater, not quite ready to take summer on trust and careful to keep any chill wind at bay. He was short, with grey hair and an unkempt, full grey beard. He shook Ari Thór’s hand firmly.
‘Aren’t you the Reverend?’ he asked cheerfully.
‘No,’ Ari Thór replied with a sigh. ‘My name’s Ari Thór.’
Hákon dropped back into his chair outside the coffee house and waved Ari Thór to sit next to him.
‘Ah, sorry. I was told you’d studied theology. So what’s this all about?’
When he’d called earlier, Ari Thór had only revealed that he needed to talk about one of Hákon’s staff.
‘A body has been found over at Reykjaströnd in Skagafjörður.’
Hákon made no reply, his countenance as rugged and stern as the mountains under which he had been brought up. It would need more than a death to knock him off balance.
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