Why Did You Lie?

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  In hindsight, she should have noticed something was wrong when Thröstur’s attitude to the garage changed almost overnight. When they’d bought the flat six months ago, his behaviour had been perfectly normal. At first he hadn’t been particularly keen on the property as prices in the west end of town were on the steep side. But when she managed to persuade him to view the flat, he was infected by her enthusiasm, and from what she remembered the garage had played no small part in that. At the time she had assumed he was planning to tinker with the car or start collecting tools, though he had no real interest in either. The garage had stood more or less empty for the first few months while they were busy doing up the flat. But from the middle of November Thröstur had taken to staring at it out of the window for long periods, as if he expected a figure to appear in one of the garage windows, or was afraid someone would try to break into it.

  Nína had assumed he was feeling daunted about having to start work on it just when they had finally got the flat straight. She’d told him she couldn’t care less if he left it for now, but her words seemed to have no effect. He would stand for long periods at the window, silently contemplating the building. A week before he did the deed, she had come across him standing in the middle of the garage, lost in thought. He pretended nothing was up when she nudged him and led him out, but was quiet and distant for the rest of the evening. Now, Nína kept wondering if he’d already made up his mind then; whether his evasive gaze had been nothing to do with the problem of how to make use of the building, but a sign that he was calculating the strength of the steel tracks that supported the hefty door. It was one of so many things she would never know. What they hadn’t told one another would never be put into words now. For example, she had never told Thröstur about her problems at work, for fear he would go ballistic. He would have been quite capable of beating up her colleague or – worse – writing about the incident in the papers. But now there was no question of changing her mind and confiding in him, as she would have done in the course of time.

  Nína watched the coffee drip down. With every drop the kitchen smelt more homely and she inhaled deeply in the hope that it could somehow invigorate her soul. Nína would never have admitted as much but she had a suspicion that the bloody garage itself had somehow planted the idea of suicide in Thröstur’s mind. She knew she wasn’t alone in thinking that there was some kind of curse on the building. Twice she had seen children from the neighbourhood dawdling along the street, only to break into a run as they passed the garage, eyeing it fearfully. No sooner had they reached a safe distance than they slowed down again, though some glanced round as if to make sure no one was following them.

  About a week ago a plastic ball had landed by the garage door as Nína was parking her car. The woolly-hatted heads of the neighbours’ children had popped up above the fence but the smiles were wiped off their rosy faces when they saw where their ball had fallen, and after exchanging glances, they had made themselves scarce.

  Reluctant as she was to pull back the curtains and let in the grey afternoon light, it would be worth it if the kitchen seemed more inviting as a result. The solo performance of Woman Making a Slow but Steady Recovery was to be staged here for the benefit of a single audience member – Berglind – but in the gloom with the curtains drawn it would be almost impossible to play a sane woman convincingly.

  Nína gathered up the post and newspapers she had been throwing on the kitchen table for weeks and flung the whole lot in the bin without so much as reading the envelopes. She put a few dirty plates in the dishwasher and set it going, and the low humming and sloshing it emitted sounded comfortingly mundane. Next she arranged some fruit in a glass bowl so the rotten bits wouldn’t show. Luckily there was an unopened milk carton that ought to be OK, though it was past its sell-by date. To be on the safe side she poured the milk into a cream jug and placed it with two cups on the kitchen table. Surveying the scene, Nína felt the overall impression still left something to be desired. Removing the Christmas candlestick from the top of the fridge made a slight improvement. After that she sat down and waited.

  Her eyes strayed to the window and a chill ran through her but she wouldn’t let herself look away. It was a garage. A square, concrete box that had stood there for decades. It wasn’t the building’s fault that Thröstur had tried to kill himself in there; the decisive factor had been the presence of a suitably sturdy support from which a rope could be slung. That was all. Nína continued to stare out of the window. The sooner she accepted that the problem had lain with Thröstur not the garage, the sooner she’d be reconciled to the building.

  As if to dispute this, the brightly coloured plastic ball was still lying there in the slush. But it wasn’t only the ball that made her uneasy: high up in the garage wall, two rectangular windows squinted like black eyes. On one of the sills was a flower pot, the shrivelled plant like a skeleton in silhouette. Nína tried to force herself to look at the windows but couldn’t, she was so afraid of seeing a movement inside. Perhaps Thröstur had felt the same when he stood here staring at the garage as if mesmerised. She pushed away the thought. She was not going the same way as him, that much was certain.

  The big, ugly cracks in the pebbledash wall put her in mind of the broken veins on the cheeks of the man who had shared a ward with Thröstur for the first week. In the end she had plucked up the courage to ask if her husband could be moved to a single room so she could be alone with him. To her surprise, he had been moved two days later and she no longer had to cope with other visitors or patients. But having her wish fulfilled turned out to be a mixed blessing. Now there was nothing to distract her, so she sat alone for the most part, listening to the beeping and sucking of the machines Thröstur was hooked up to. Occasionally one of the nurses would pop their head round the door, but otherwise they might have been alone in the world, Nína and the empty carapace that had once been Thröstur.

  Dusk slowly filled in the cracks in the garage wall. Her sister was already a quarter of an hour late. This was unusual, as normally you could set your watch by Berglind. But it didn’t really matter; she wasn’t going anywhere except up to the hospital, and Berglind only had home waiting for her. In spite of this, Nína was keen to get the visit over with as quickly as possible.

  She opened the kitchen window a crack. It was as if the wind had been waiting to pounce because instantly a violent gust blew the curtain in. Old notes and photos of her and Thröstur tried in vain to escape their moorings on the fridge door. Then all was still again. The faint rumble of traffic blended with the noise of the dishwasher and Nína felt a little better. Silence was a constant reminder of what she had lost. Thröstur used to turn on the football the moment he walked in the door. But it didn’t cross her mind to let the excited sports commentators loose in the room, any more than it did to lay the table for Thröstur and pretend he still lived here. The television sat unused in the sitting room and Nína averted her eyes from it on the rare occasions she went in there. If she gave it half a chance the reflection in the black glass screen would unnerve her by showing odd shadows and movements, just as the garage windows did.

  The doorbell rang shrilly and Nína stood up. At last. She paused briefly in front of the hall mirror and swore under her breath when she saw how haggard she looked. There was no point pretending she was in good spirits if she had black rings under her eyes and wild hair – Berglind would think she had finally tipped over the edge or was overdoing the meds. Nína had in fact refused all the pills she was offered, whether they were to help her sleep or stave off depression, though with every day that passed the thought of such solutions became increasingly attractive. She was held back by stubbornness and the certainty that dulling her senses wouldn’t help in the long run. Any more than drawing the curtains would cause the garage to disappear.

  Nína licked her fingers and wiped her eyes in a vain attempt to hide the signs of exhaustion. The image the mirror presented her with was unchanged: a familiar face imprinted with shadows. She slap
ped her cheeks to make them pink, which slightly improved the overall effect.

  The doorbell rang again and Nína hurriedly answered it. ‘Is the bell broken?’ People often said the sisters looked almost identical, but right now few would have thought so. Berglind was the picture of health, a natural glow in her cheeks. Her long blonde hair swirled around her head in the wind and she had to pull a thick strand from her lips. ‘Aren’t you going to let me in?’

  Nína stepped aside and Berglind entered the hall with a sigh of relief. Nína received an icy kiss on the cheek and watched as her sister tried to tidy her hair.

  ‘Should I just throw my coat on the floor?’ Berglind eyed Nína’s jacket. As she looked up her gaze encountered the Santa Claus and Nína regretted not having smashed the bloody thing after all. Berglind was regarding her anxiously. ‘You look terrible. Worse than last time, and that’s saying something.’ She frowned. ‘And what on earth’s wrong with your cheeks?’

  Clearly her attempt to bring a little colour to her face had misfired. ‘Nothing. I’m just tired.’ Nína led the way to the kitchen, eager to go in there as soon as possible so Berglind wouldn’t have a chance to look around. The kitchen was her stage and that was where the audience member was to sit. ‘Coffee?’ Behind her she heard Berglind say yes to a small cup. The element was on the blink in the coffee-maker and no steam rose from the cups when Nína poured them. She sat down facing her sister. ‘Sorry, it’s not very hot.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Berglind took a sip and put down her cup. She didn’t take another. ‘How are you doing?’ She glanced around, apparently more satisfied with the kitchen than the hall. Nína’s efforts hadn’t been wasted. ‘I haven’t heard from you for ages.’

  ‘I’m always up at the hospital. Or at work.’

  Berglind nodded. ‘I see.’ She opened her mouth to say something else but thought better of it. She looked down at the table as if for inspiration, then raised her eyes again, her expression sombre. ‘How long can you carry on like this?’ Nína could feel her own face hardening. Her sister took her hand. ‘I’m not suggesting you should stop visiting Thröstur. Only wondering if you could cut down your visits a bit so you can start living again – give yourself time to do something else apart from just working.’

  ‘It’s not as if he …’ Nína always had trouble finding the words for what Thröstur had done. If he had died it wouldn’t have been a problem, then she could say he had committed suicide, killed himself, taken his own life, topped himself, done himself in, passed away … But he was neither alive nor dead. ‘It’s not as if he’s been like this long. It takes time to get over it. To accept it.’ But Nína didn’t want to accept it. She wanted everything to go back to how it had been.

  ‘It’s been nearly eight weeks, Nína.’ Berglind squeezed her hand. ‘No one’s expecting you to be on top of the world but you’ve got to start looking to the future. A little bit at a time. You could start by breaking up your hospital routine in some way. If you just go on like this, working and sitting with Thröstur forever, it can only end one way. Try going to the gym, or swimming, or to the cinema. I’ll go with you.’ Berglind squeezed her hand again. ‘At least take some time off work – surely they’d understand? If you like you can stay with me and Dóri for a while. I quite understand that you can’t face being here. In fact, what the hell, why don’t you move in with us properly? Just because Thröstur chose death doesn’t mean you should give up on your own life.’ The superficial tidy-up had obviously failed to deceive her. ‘We can put you up in the den. It’s not as if we use it much.’

  ‘It’s very kind of you to offer. But there’s no need. I’m starting to get on top of things.’ Nína did her best to appear convincing: don’t smile too much or too little. ‘Please try not to worry about me. I’m in a horrible place right now but the end’s in sight.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’ Berglind knew her too well to be taken in.

  ‘Absolutely positive.’ Nína didn’t drop her eyes, didn’t give in to the temptation to look out of the window. Even the hateful garage was better than Berglind’s penetrating gaze. ‘I’m getting there. Honestly.’ She freed her cold hand from her sister’s warm one. ‘Anyway, can you imagine what it’d be like if I lived with you?’ Nína’s smile was suddenly genuine. ‘It would be a nightmare. Remember how furious you used to be if I went into your bedroom when we were kids? No, I really can’t picture it.’

  Berglind laughed. ‘I don’t have any posters for you to scribble on these days, so we should be OK. But no, perhaps it is a bad idea. At least let’s go to the gym together or something, though. It would do me good too.’

  Unlike Nína, Berglind was one of those people who loathe exercise. The fact that she was prepared to go to the gym for her sister’s sake spoke louder than words. While friends were quietly dropping off the radar, Berglind kept phoning and coming round. With her, Nína never felt as if she was ruining the atmosphere simply by being there. ‘Are you sure you want to go to the gym? Why don’t we just go to the dentist together and have our old fillings drilled out and replaced?’ Now it was Nína’s turn to squeeze her sister’s hand. ‘I suggest we do something else when I’m finally feeling more human – something you’d enjoy. And I promise it’ll be soon. Just not quite yet.’ For a moment Nína wondered if she should tell her sister about the old case she had come across in the police archives earlier that day; that as a seven-year-old Thröstur had been involved in an inquiry which apparently related to a suicide, and that she suspected this was the explanation for what he had done all these years later. Recently she had been racking her brain for a possible reason, without success, and this explanation was no more foolish than some of the others she had grasped at. She was no expert in psychology but she’d learnt enough about people through her job to realise that their behaviour could be governed by the most unexpected things.

  The problem was that Nína didn’t know what the old inquiry had been about. She had skimmed through other files in the archives in a vain search for further information but the page seemed to be the only one extant about the incident. She didn’t know whose suicide it was or even if the case was concerned with a suicide. The report could have ended up in the wrong folder by mistake, or perhaps the page had become separated from the rest and gone astray.

  ‘A penny for your thoughts?’ Berglind was frowning. They weren’t accustomed to sitting in silence. As far as Nína could remember, her sister hadn’t shut up since she’d first learnt to talk. When they shared a room as children she had even talked regularly in her sleep. At the time Nína had thought it was because the day wasn’t long enough for her to get everything off her chest. And because Berglind had talked non-stop when they were growing up, Nína had been forced to cut in every time she wanted to speak, which had left her with the bad habit of interrupting people. It had got her into trouble more than once when talking to her superiors at work.

  Berglind tried again: ‘Tell me what you’re thinking about.’

  ‘Nothing. Well, actually I was remembering how much you used to talk as a kid.’ In an attempt to appear casual, Nína took refuge in a mouthful of cold coffee. No, it would be a bad idea to mention the old case to Berglind – at this stage. She was bound to want to chew over it endlessly and Nína wasn’t ready for that; she needed more information first. To start with, she meant to have a word with Thröstur’s father, who ought to remember the incident, although it was a long time ago. His mother had died of breast cancer five years ago, so she wasn’t around to ask. But if Nína managed to extract some information from her father-in-law, she would probably be able to use it to find out more. Information was never far away, especially if you had access to various systems and national databases through the police. She hoped she wouldn’t be sacked or forced to take leave before she’d had a chance to try. ‘I’m just tired and sleepy. Let’s stop talking about me and my problems. I’m so bored of myself it would do me good to change the subject.’

  They re
mained chatting there for a while until it became glaringly obvious that Berglind was avoiding any mention of her own husband. Nína had noticed this tendency in others; it was as if women found it inappropriate to say anything in her hearing that might remind her that their husbands were alive and well. As if it might make her envious. It was typical that when Berglind finally showed signs of making a move, she was careful not to say she had to get home to Dóri but rather that ‘duty called’. It was kindly meant, like so many wrong-headed ideas. But in spite of this they hugged each other affectionately as they said goodbye on the front steps. Nína had promised that they would go out and have fun together some time in the next couple of weeks. Do something that wouldn’t result in stiff muscles.

  Berglind seemed satisfied and didn’t notice her sister’s expression as she released her. Nína’s eyes had accidentally fallen on the garage while they were hugging and she couldn’t help noticing that the plastic ball had vanished.

  She almost ran into the kitchen to close the window and draw the curtains again before heading off to the hospital. She had no wish to linger here any longer than necessary. Her stomach churned as she caught sight of the garage in the instant before the curtain fell into place. She wanted to be sick.

  There, beside the old flower pot on the garage windowsill, was the plastic ball.

  Chapter 5

  26 January 2014

  The fog closes in with alarming suddenness. One minute they can see ocean to the south and land to the north, the next nothing but a stony grey blankness that shifts and stirs in an oddly languid manner whichever way they look, as if the world has decided to consign the rock to oblivion by sweeping it under a carpet of cloud. The effect is so unreal that Helgi’s feelings veer back and forth between pleasure and anxiety as he is adjusting to the transformation. Although he’s no fan of classical music, it seems to him that the sound of violins would be peculiarly appropriate at this moment. But in the absence of plangent strings he has to make do with the roaring of the waves far below. In the fog the noise is oddly intensified, as if the sea wishes to remind them of its presence now that it’s no longer before their eyes.