The Darkness

by Ragnar Jónasson

  ‘Of course you didn’t have a fucking clue! Because you didn’t bother to check with anyone first. It’s always the same problem with you – a total failure to collaborate.’ Magnús banged his fist on the desk. ‘Always the same bloody story.’

  Hulda bridled at this: ‘I didn’t always have a choice, you know. You and your mates, you haven’t exactly been eager to “collaborate” over the years. I’ve sometimes been forced to slog through cases alone because no one’s been willing to work with me. You boys stick together and shut me out. Oh, I’m not complaining – it’s too late for that and, anyway, it’s not my style – but I want you to know what it’s been like, before the next woman has to go through the same crap.’

  Magnús seemed astonished by her reaction. ‘I’ve treated you no differently from anyone else in this department. I don’t have to sit here and listen to this.’

  Hulda shrugged. ‘You know better than that, Magnús. But I’m leaving, so it’s not my problem any more.’

  ‘I think this meeting has gone on long enough. The case is closed.’

  This time, it was Hulda who slammed her fist on the desk. She kept taking herself by surprise, all her pent-up rage bursting forth: ‘No. I need more time to finish this. Surely you owe me that much, at least?’

  Magnús sat frozen at this outburst, his face expressionless.

  ‘I need a few more days, maybe a week. I’ll keep you informed so there’s no danger of my treading on my colleagues’ toes again. That was completely unintentional, as you know full well.’

  He sat and thought about it, before grudgingly conceding: ‘All right. You can have one day.’

  ‘One day? There’s no way that’s enough.’

  ‘Well, it’ll bloody well have to be. I’ve had it up to here with you. You’ll just have to get an early start. We’ll make a deal: I’ll leave you alone tomorrow, OK? But the day after that, you’re coming in here and clearing your desk. Then you can start getting used to your retirement.’

  XXIV

  The light was failing.

  After driving for a while, she had more or less got the hang of coping with the snow. The four-by-four answered well to the steering wheel and the hard-frozen crust bore up under their weight. The promised blizzard hadn’t materialized yet, though a few flakes had begun to fall, enough to justify switching on the wipers.

  He had been right after all: this was part of the package, part of the adventure she had signed up for. She regretted now that she had shrunk away from the challenge.

  Once she’d had a good go, he’d taken over the wheel again and driven at a cracking pace until a mountain loomed up ahead, at which point he took his foot off the accelerator and slowed to a stop.

  ‘This’ll do. We’ll leave the car here.’

  Stepping out into a light mist of snow, she surveyed their surroundings. ‘Are we going up there, up the mountain?’ she asked doubtfully, quailing at the sight of the sheer black crags showing through the white.

  He shook his head. ‘No, not all the way, just into the valley over the next ridge. The going’ll be a bit challenging, though.’

  Darkness was closing in with frightening speed and she only hoped they would make it to their destination while it was still twilight. The night would be impenetrable here: no distant glow from a town; nothing but mountains and snow.

  ‘Will … will there be any other people about?’

  ‘Nobody else comes out here,’ he said flatly.

  He had begun to unload the car and their rucksacks were already lying in the snow beside the other equipment. Reaching into one of them, he pulled out a thick jumper, a traditional lopapeysa, hand-knitted from Icelandic wool, with a distinctive zig-zagging pattern in white, brown and grey around the yoke.

  ‘Here. Put this on or you’ll freeze,’ he said, grinning. In the twilight, it was hard to see what sort of grin it was.

  She obeyed without protest, taking off her thick down jacket. A shiver spread through her body. Probably just the cold, she told herself, but on second thoughts, maybe … maybe it was fear.

  He handed her the rucksack and, staggering a little under the weight, she hoisted it on to her back. He helped her with the straps before fixing the ice axe to the outside.

  They hadn’t gone more than a few paces before she realized she’d forgotten to put on her gloves. In what seemed like moments, she had lost all sensation in her fingers and had to call him to ask for help with digging the gloves out of her pack. Once he had done this, they resumed their march, plodding onwards through the thickening snow until, finally, he halted.

  ‘We’re going to try and climb up here. Do you think you can make it?’

  Ahead, she saw a steep, white slope rising up to invisible heights, the top obscured by the failing light and the snowflakes stinging her eyes.

  ‘Do you think you can make it?’ he asked again.

  She nodded doubtfully and waited for him to lead the way.

  ‘You first,’ he prompted, after a short silence. She couldn’t believe her ears. There was no way she was tackling this slope alone and unaided.

  ‘Me? Why?’

  ‘I’m not sure how firm the snow is up there. If there’s an avalanche, I’ll be able to dig you out.’

  She stood there, rigid with fear, wondering if he was joking but afraid that he was deadly serious.

  He handed her the walking poles that had been fixed to the outside of her backpack and told her to get a move on.

  Since there was nothing for it, she set off, picking her way up with extreme caution. The incline wasn’t too steep at first, but it increased sharply the higher she climbed. She tried to concentrate on taking one step at a time, keeping her eyes down, trying not to lose her balance. Every now and then she peered up, but the white ground and falling snow merged into one and she couldn’t for the life of her see where the slope ended. It was becoming more and more difficult to lift her feet and ever trickier to find a purchase. Soon she was sliding backwards with every step, sometimes taking several attempts to gain a few centimetres in height. She tried to kick footholds in the snow using the toes of her boots, but with limited success, until in a moment of dizzying fear she felt herself losing her balance and slid halfway back down the way she had come.

  XXV

  A few clouds streaked the sky above the tall firs in Pétur’s garden, as if painted with broad brushstrokes on the blue vault of the heavens, and the sun was descending towards its late setting. Usually, it was a time of year that filled Hulda with vitality, but not today. She was utterly drained of energy following her meeting with Magnús, too weary to put any more work into the investigation: Elena would have to wait until morning.

  Pétur opened the door before she could knock, having no doubt been watching out for her from the kitchen window. She tried not to let her exhaustion show.

  ‘Hulda! Come in.’ His manner was as warm as ever, like a doctor talking to his favourite patient. He led the way into the sitting room that doubled as a dining room, where the table was already laid, with the most succulent-looking joint of lamb, obviously hot off the barbecue, as the pièce de résistance. It smelled so delicious that Hulda belatedly realized she was famished. Pétur had opened a bottle of red wine, too, as she’d hoped he would. Just as well she’d taken the precaution of dropping her car off at home and ringing for a taxi.

  ‘This looks good,’ she said.

  He offered her a chair and she sank into it gratefully, feeling the fatigue flowing out of her limbs. Pétur vanished into the kitchen. Sitting there felt a little strange, as if she didn’t belong, as if she were a gatecrasher. Yet, another part of her felt as if she had come home. Perhaps it was the garden that she could see from the living-room windows, reminding her a little of her old garden on Álftanes.

  Pétur’s place was warm but, more than that, it had a cosy, homely air. Yes, she could easily picture herself living here, enjoying Pétur’s company, cooking dinner with him, drinking wine into the night …


  ‘Long day?’ Pétur asked, coming back in with a bowl of vegetables. ‘Mine was pretty quiet. You’ll appreciate that once you’ve retired – a fit woman like you, with outside interests.’ He smiled.

  ‘I suppose so,’ Hulda replied ruefully. ‘Yes, you could say I’ve had a rather … trying day.’

  Pétur sat down. ‘Help yourself while it’s hot. It’s usually very good barbecued this way. Makes a nice change to have someone else to cook for.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She took a mouthful. The flavour was exceptional: Pétur was clearly an excellent cook. That was a definite plus.

  ‘What’s happened?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Today. Something’s happened, I can tell.’

  Hulda considered how much to share with him. Discussing the case wasn’t a problem, since she had complete faith in Pétur’s discretion, but she felt reluctant to describe her meeting with Magnús. This was partly out of shame at her blunder, however well intentioned it had been.

  After a silence that lasted a minute or two yet somehow never became uncomfortable, she surprised herself by saying: ‘I had a meeting with my boss. He wants me to drop the investigation.’

  ‘Immediately?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why? Are you going to?’

  ‘I interviewed a man I shouldn’t have. It’s a long story but, basically, my inquiry overlapped with another investigation. I hadn’t a clue it was going on, though I have to admit that was partly my fault for not keeping my boss in the loop. He had no idea what I was up to.’ She heaved a sigh. ‘The detective who originally handled the case is furious with me as well. To be honest, I’m in a bit of a mess.’

  ‘It’s bound to sort itself out. I’m sure of that.’ As usual, Pétur seemed unperturbed. ‘And if I know you, you won’t give up without a fight.’

  Hulda laughed. ‘No, I managed to squeeze one more day out of him. My last day.’

  ‘Then you’d better make good use of it.’

  ‘You can say that again.’ She raised her glass and took the first sip. ‘In other words, I’d better go easy on this superb wine.’

  ‘And once tomorrow’s over, you’ll be free. Congratulations!’

  ‘You certainly know how to look on the bright side.’

  ‘Shouldn’t we celebrate your retirement?’

  ‘If you like,’ Hulda said, her voice mellow. ‘This is quite a celebration we’re having already. It’s absolutely delicious.’

  ‘We could climb Esja,’ Pétur suggested. ‘What do you say to that? I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve been up there, but I never get tired of it. Not everyone’s lucky enough to have a mountain like that in their backyard. And the view of the city on a clear day…’

  ‘You don’t have to convince me – I’m in,’ Hulda replied, and for the first time in ages she found herself genuinely looking forward to something. Just for a moment, she toyed with the idea of abandoning Elena and putting herself first, giving in to Magnús’s wish for her to retire with immediate effect. She was on the point of suggesting they climb Esja tomorrow instead.

  The words teetered on the tip of her tongue.

  But when she did speak it was to say: ‘Right, the day after tomorrow it is. I’ll need one more day for the inquiry.’ And instantly she experienced a powerful, unsettling premonition that this had been the wrong decision.

  * * *

  For the second evening in a row, they overdid the red wine. Hulda was dreading the morning, worrying that she would oversleep again and be too hung-over to achieve anything useful. But Pétur seemed to like having her there, and she had to admit that she was enjoying his company. It was well past midnight; the hours had passed in a blur, conversation seemed to come so easily to them. Reluctant to put an end to a lovely evening, Hulda sat tight on his leather sofa.

  They were sitting side by side now, still a discreet distance apart. Pétur was obviously taking care not to get too close: he knew what he was doing.

  ‘You told me yesterday that you’d never met your father,’ he remarked.

  Hulda nodded.

  ‘Did your mother ever marry? Or did she bring you up on her own?’

  ‘No, she never married. We lived with my grandparents,’ Hulda said. ‘My grandfather and I were great friends – he was the person I was closest to. I think we must have been very alike in some ways. I suppose he was like a bridge to that side of my family. My mother and I were never that close, but thanks to Granddad I felt I belonged, if you know what I mean. I never met my relatives on my father’s side. Without Granddad, I don’t think my childhood would have been a very happy one.’

  Pétur nodded and she sensed that he understood.

  ‘I’d like to have met my father,’ she went on, in a low, disconsolate voice, feeling weepy all of a sudden. That was the wine: she knew she was tipsy but was enjoying it too much to stop drinking.

  ‘What was it like,’ Pétur began, considerately changing the subject, though without straying too far from what they had been discussing, ‘growing up with a single mother in those days? I know it’s taken for granted now, but I remember how people used to talk about one of my schoolfriends who didn’t have a father – I mean, no one knew who his father was.’

  ‘It was tough,’ Hulda acknowledged, reaching out for the bottle and refilling their empty glasses. ‘Very tough. She was forever changing jobs, from what I remember. It was unusual at the time for a woman to be a breadwinner, as you know, and she couldn’t always work as much as she wanted to because of me. It was a real struggle. We were quite hard up – I don’t think it’s any exaggeration to say that. The only reason we had a roof over our heads was because we were lucky enough to live with my grandparents. We always had food on the table but there was no money to spare for anything else; none of us could afford any luxuries. Growing up, I found that hard, as I’m sure you can imagine.’

  ‘Well, to be honest, I can’t really imagine what that’s like,’ Pétur said slowly. ‘My father was a doctor like me, so we were always well off. Luckily. The worst thing about poverty is the effect it has on the children.’

  ‘Actually…’ Hulda broke off, feeling a bit fuddled by the wine and wondering about the wisdom of what she had been about to say. How much ought she to tell this man? Could she trust him? Then again, maybe it would be good, healthy even, to open up about the past once in a while. She’d been bottling things up for far too long: maybe this was the chance she’d been waiting for. She had never been able to discuss personal matters at the office. None of her younger colleagues was remotely interested in hearing about the ups and downs in the life of a sixty-four-year-old woman. What’s more, she could count her friends, her real friends, on the fingers of one hand, on a good day. She decided to risk it: ‘Actually, things could have turned out very differently.’

  ‘Oh?’ said Pétur. His answer came so promptly, with no sign of slurring, that Hulda wondered hazily if she had knocked back more of the wine than him.

  ‘My mother put me in an institution when I was a baby – a home for infants, almost like an orphanage. I heard the story from Granddad; my mother never breathed a word about it to me. It was considered the right and proper thing for unmarried mothers to do in those days. From hints Granddad dropped, I think he and Grandma must have pressurized her into it and that, later, he came to regret it. He said I was taken away from my mother shortly after I was born. Do you remember those homes?’

  ‘Not personally, though of course I’ve heard about them.’

  ‘Apparently, my mother visited regularly, which is only natural, I suppose. Granddad said he was proud of her. As soon as she’d managed to save up enough money, she went and claimed me. She had every right to, though I think the babies in those institutions were usually fostered or adopted.’

  ‘Were you there long?’ asked Pétur.

  ‘Nearly two years. And as if that wasn’t bad enough, in all that time my mother was never once allowed to touch me or hold me. I gather parent
s were only allowed to see their babies through a glass partition. The staff thought that if the parents got to cuddle them, it would be too hard on the children when they left.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you remember…?’ Pétur left the question hanging.

  ‘No, I don’t have any memory of that time,’ said Hulda. ‘I was far too young. But I did once visit the building where the home used to be. This was donkey’s years ago. Walking through the door was such a weird feeling. I had this overwhelming sensation of déjà vu. The glass partition had gone, but I’ve seen pictures of it. And as I was walking along the corridor I instinctively stopped dead by one closed door and asked the woman showing me round whether the children used to sleep in there. She nodded and said I was quite right, and the moment she opened the door it hit me. I knew, I just knew, that I’d slept in that room. You don’t have to believe me, but it was a peculiar experience.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Pétur. As ever, he answered without hesitation and said exactly the right thing.

  ‘I do have one genuine memory from early childhood,’ Hulda continued. ‘There were plans to have me fostered – this was after my mother had taken me back and we were living with my grandparents. A couple were interested in adopting me. Again, I heard this from Granddad, not from my mother, though I have no reason to doubt what he said, and this time I actually remember something about it. I remember the flight – it must have been to the east. That would fit in with the location because the couple lived between the glacial sands in the Skaftafell district and it used to be quite a palaver to get there in those days. I’ve never forgotten that journey, though I was only a toddler at the time. We never used to leave Reykjavík, so I suppose I’ve retained memories from the trip because it was so unusual.’

  ‘Tell me…’ Pétur hesitated, as if unsure whether to continue. ‘Perhaps it’s an inappropriate question…’

  ‘Fire away,’ said Hulda, and immediately regretted it.

  ‘Well … If you could choose now, in retrospect, would you have wanted to grow up with your mother?’