The Darkness

by Ragnar Jónasson

  The question threw Hulda, perhaps precisely because she had often, almost unconsciously, wondered the same thing, without coming to any definite conclusion. Had her childhood been happy? Not really; perhaps not at all. But there was no way of knowing if the grass would have been greener if she had been brought up by strangers. Did money matter? Had the poverty of her upbringing, the endless striving to make ends meet, had a lasting effect on her?

  She cast her mind back to her early years, trying to recall some happy memories. There was the one where she was sitting in her bedroom listening to a story; she couldn’t remember what the story was about, but the memory was vivid and warm. The person sitting next to her then had been her granddad, not her mother. She also recalled a trip, when she was maybe eight or nine, to the corner shop, which had been closed for many years now. She had gone there to spend her own money, a small fortune which she had saved up by working for her granddad in the summer, helping him with bits of DIY around the small flat. Everything was linked to her granddad, not her mother, and yet her mother had always been so kind to her.

  She took her time answering. ‘I have to admit, between you and me, and I’m holding the wine to blame if I regret this conversation later, that I could have had a happier childhood, though whether being fostered would have solved the problem is impossible to say. What I do believe, what I’m sure of, is that my life would have been better if I’d been allowed to stay with my mother from the beginning. I know children aren’t supposed to remember anything about their first few years, but remembering is one thing, sensing is another. I believe I picked up on the insecurity and that it’s affected me all my life. I also believe that my poor mother felt guilty from the moment she handed me over to her dying day. And guilt can be a heavy burden.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Hulda, I didn’t mean to be … intrusive.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I’m through being over-sensitive about the past. What’s done is done. No point crying over spilt milk, and all that. Though, inevitably, you do regret some things: they’re always lying in wait to ambush you in your dreams.’ Hulda allowed a silence to fall, her gaze wandering around the handsome living room, reflecting not for the first time that Pétur had never known what it was like to go without.

  He opened his mouth to speak but she got in first: ‘You’re always asking about me.’ She smiled to show that this wasn’t intended as a criticism. ‘Let’s talk about you now. Did you and your wife build this house?’

  ‘Yes, we did, as a matter of fact. It’s been a wonderful place to live. A good location, of course, a nice area. We came very close to selling it at one time, but I’m extremely glad we didn’t. I’m very attached to it. It holds so many memories – both good and bad, of course – and I have every intention of staying put, although it’s far too big.’ After a beat, he added: ‘Too big for one person, that is.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Why did you come close to selling it?’ Her detective instincts alerted, she had pounced unerringly on that hint of evasiveness.

  Pétur didn’t answer straight away. He got up and fetched another bottle, then settled on the sofa again, still at a polite distance.

  ‘It looked as if we were heading for a divorce at one point, about fifteen years ago.’ Hulda could tell that it was an effort for him to talk about this.

  She waited without speaking.

  After a lengthy pause and another sip of wine, Pétur elaborated: ‘She had an affair. It had been going on for several years without my having a clue. When I discovered by accident, she moved out. I sued for divorce, and it had almost gone through when she came round to see me and begged for a second chance.’

  ‘Did you find it easy to forgive her?’

  ‘Yes, I did, actually. Perhaps because it was her and I’d been in love with her all those years. That never changed. But I think it’s just my nature. I’ve always been quick to forgive. Don’t know why.’

  On hearing this, Hulda reflected that maybe they weren’t as well suited as she’d thought. Because she was certainly not quick to forgive.

  ‘You mentioned you used to live out on Álftanes?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Did you have a house there?’

  ‘Yes, it was…’ She paused to choose her words carefully. ‘It was a gorgeous spot, right by the sea. I still miss the sound of the waves. How about you? Have you ever lived by the sea?’

  ‘At one time. My father was a doctor out east, but I’m a city boy, really. Grew up to the roar of traffic rather than surf. Did you sell up when your husband died?’

  ‘Yes, I couldn’t afford the upkeep.’

  ‘You said he died quite young, didn’t you?’

  ‘He was fifty-two.’

  ‘Awful, just awful.’

  Hulda nodded.

  Despite the gloomy subjects they were discussing, the sitting room seemed like a haven of tranquillity. Outside, the night was as dim as it ever got in May. But at that moment her phone rang, shattering the peace with its loud, intrusive racket. With an apologetic glance at Pétur, Hulda scrabbled in the depths of her bag. It came as a surprise, to put it mildly, when she saw who was calling, especially since it was past midnight. It was the nurse who had knocked down the paedophile; the woman Hulda had given such a big break to by pretending that her confession had never taken place. She had hoped never to hear another word about the incident.

  Hulda cut off the call without answering it. ‘Sorry, never a moment’s peace.’

  ‘You’re telling me.’ Pétur smiled.

  Hulda put the phone on the table beside the new bottle of red. Clearly, they weren’t finished yet; there was plenty of wine left.

  Her phone rang again.

  ‘Damn it,’ Hulda muttered, louder than she’d intended.

  ‘Go ahead and answer,’ Pétur said kindly. ‘It doesn’t bother me.’

  But Hulda had absolutely no desire to speak to the wretched woman, who was probably still in a state about the crime she had committed and desperate to relieve her conscience by unburdening to the only other person who knew the truth. Hulda had no intention of acting as her confessor, especially not now. She was enjoying Pétur’s company and there was no reason to go and ruin the atmosphere.

  ‘No, it’s nothing urgent. In fact, I can’t understand why she’s ringing this late. So inconsiderate.’ Hulda cut the call again, and this time switched her phone off. ‘There, perhaps we’ll be left in peace now.’

  ‘More wine?’ Pétur asked, eyeing her half-empty glass.

  ‘I don’t mind if I do, thanks. It had better be my last, though. I’ve got to work tomorrow, remember.’

  Pétur filled her glass. There followed rather a long silence. Hulda had nothing to say; she was too tired, and the alcohol didn’t help.

  ‘Was it a deliberate decision on your part not to have any children?’ Pétur asked, a little unexpectedly. Perhaps it was a natural continuation of the conversation about Hulda’s husband.

  The question caught her unprepared, though she should have known that, sooner or later, she would have to tell Pétur; at least she would if their relationship continued along this path.

  She took a while to work out how to answer and Pétur waited with characteristic patience. He didn’t seem to let much bother him.

  ‘We had a daughter,’ she said at last, plumping for the simple answer.

  ‘I’m sorry, I thought…’ Pétur seemed surprised and a little confused. ‘I thought you said … I was under the impression that you and your husband didn’t have any children.’

  ‘That’s because I deliberately avoided the subject. You’ll have to forgive me – I still find it hard to talk about.’ Hearing her voice breaking, Hulda fought to stop her face from crumpling. ‘She died.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ Pétur replied hesitantly. ‘I’m terribly sorry to hear that.’

  ‘She killed herself.’

  Hulda could feel the tears sliding down her cheeks. It was true th
at she wasn’t used to talking about this. Although she thought about her daughter every day, she hardly ever spoke of her.

  Pétur didn’t say a word.

  ‘She was so young, only just turned thirteen. We didn’t try for any more children after that. Jón was fifty, I was ten years younger.’

  ‘God … You’ve really been through the wringer, Hulda.’

  ‘I can’t talk about it, sorry. Anyway, that’s what happened. Then Jón died and I’ve been alone ever since.’

  ‘That could be about to change,’ Pétur said.

  Hulda tried to smile but felt suddenly ambushed by tiredness. She’d had enough; she needed to go home.

  Pétur seemed intuitively to know how she was feeling. ‘Should we call it a night?’

  Hulda shrugged. ‘Yes, maybe. I had a very nice time, Pétur.’

  ‘Shall we do it again tomorrow evening?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘That would be lovely.’

  ‘Perhaps we could go out for a meal somewhere? Celebrate your retirement. I’ll buy you dinner at Hótel Holt. How does that sound?’

  This was generous indeed. ‘Gosh, yes, that would be wonderful. I haven’t been there for ages. It must be more than twenty or thirty years.’ The restaurant at Hótel Holt was one of the swishest establishments in Reykjavík, and Hulda did in fact remember her last visit there very well. It had been an anniversary dinner, with her husband and daughter, a happy occasion, expensive but memorable.

  ‘I can’t force my cooking on you every night. So that’s settled then.’

  Hulda stood up and Pétur followed suit, giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  ‘The lamb was excellent,’ she said. ‘I wish I could barbecue meat like that.’

  As they went into the hall Pétur asked abruptly: ‘What was she called?’

  Hulda was taken aback. Although she knew what he was asking, she pretended she didn’t, to win time. ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your daughter, what was she called?’ His voice was kind, his interest genuine.

  Hulda realized all of a sudden that it was years since she had last spoken her daughter’s name aloud and felt ashamed of herself.

  ‘Dimma. Her name was Dimma. Unusual, I know.’ It meant ‘darkness’.

  The Last Day

  I

  Hulda rolled over in bed, unwilling to get up. Burying her head in her pillow, she tried to drift off again, but the damage was done: it was too late to try to get back to sleep now. In the old days, she had been able to enjoy a proper lie-in but, with age, this ability had become ever more elusive.

  Nevertheless, when she looked at her alarm clock, she discovered to her chagrin that she had slept as late as the day before; too late, in other words.

  She needed to use every minute of the day if she was going to tie up the loose ends of her investigation but, as soon as she sat up, she was hit by a splitting headache. Wonderful though the evening with Pétur had been, she shouldn’t have drunk so much; she was out of practice. Normally, she had only the odd glass of wine with meals. Still, she would just have to ignore her hangover and focus on the case, though her interest in it was fast waning. Apart from a sense of duty towards the dead Russian girl, the only thing motivating her now was pure obstinacy. She simply couldn’t bear to let Magnús win. Having badgered him into granting her another twenty-four hours for the inquiry, she had to give it her best shot before turning in her report this evening and saying goodbye to the police for good.

  It struck her that what she was really looking forward to was her next date with Pétur. She was counting down the hours until this evening’s dinner at Hótel Holt.

  II

  She tried to rise to her feet on the slippery snow, but that was easier said than done with the destabilizing weight of the rucksack on her back.

  ‘Come down,’ he called.

  Obeying, she scrambled the rest of the way down and thanked her lucky stars when she made it safely to the bottom.

  ‘Give me the poles,’ he said. ‘We’ll put on the crampons and you can use your ice axe.’

  Better equipped this time, she tackled the slope again, her heart in her mouth.

  It was still an arduous climb but now, thanks to the crampons on her boots, she was able to get a better purchase on the snow. Inch by inch, she worked her way upwards, praying that she wouldn’t lose her footing again; keeping her gaze fixed on the ground in front of her, terrified of toppling over backwards at the steepest point. One laborious step at a time, until, noticing that her progress was becoming less of an effort, she realized she was past the worst and the way ahead seemed to be getting easier. Her knees buckling with relief, she sank down on to the snow to wait, feeling mentally and physically drained. The slope was so steep that she couldn’t see if he’d even started up it, let alone how far he had climbed, but she was afraid to call out to him, mindful of what he had said – half jokingly, it had seemed – about the danger of an avalanche. Why on earth had she let him talk her into this madness?

  III

  It was long past breakfast time and, anyway, Hulda couldn’t stomach the thought of eating. Deciding to take a quick breather instead, she walked round the corner to the local supermarket. The weather was gloomier than it had been yesterday, the sky obscured by a thick layer of grey cloud, and the wind was unseasonably blustery. Could spring really have come and gone in a single day?

  The weather had a dampening effect on Hulda’s mood. As a rule she didn’t let the unpredictable Icelandic climate get to her, but she found herself wishing that today of all days, the last day of her old life, could have got off to a more promising start.

  All night long, she had been haunted by dreams of Dimma, yet in spite of this she had slept well for once. Though the dreams had been shot through with sadness, at least she had been spared the recurrent nightmare that had plagued her for years. Maybe it was a coincidence, but she suspected that talking about Dimma had been beneficial, especially to a good listener like Pétur. Perhaps one day she would feel able to open up to him about her daughter, tell him stories about her, tell him what a dear, sweet girl she had been.

  Hulda roamed aimlessly up and down the aisles of the supermarket, seeing nothing to tempt her, before eventually emerging with the only items that had caught her eye: a bottle of Coke and a packet of Prins Póló chocolate wafers. Prins Póló – that took her back, reminding her of the days when Iceland used to barter with Eastern Europe, Polish chocolate in exchange for Icelandic fish. How the world had changed.

  Once she had pulled herself together, the first task of the day would be to drive out to the Reykjanes peninsula and try to kill two birds – more, if possible – with one stone. She needed to talk to the Syrian girl, if it wasn’t too late. Since the girl had been arrested yesterday, Hulda assumed she was being detained in the police cells at the airport, though it was equally possible that she had already been deported, sent home on one of the morning flights, which would mean Hulda had missed her chance to question her. For Christ’s sake, why hadn’t she made arrangements to interview her, or at the very least set an alarm this morning? She was really getting careless in the face of her imminent retirement.

  She would have to stop off at the hostel in Njardvík as well, to show Dóra the photo she had sneaked of Baldur Albertsson. If Dóra wasn’t there, she could always email her the picture, but she would rather witness her reaction first hand. It might be a shot in the dark but, at this stage, Hulda felt she had to keep all avenues open.

  It occurred to her that it would also be worth taking this opportunity to examine the cove where Elena had died or, rather, where her body had been found. There was always a possibility that she had breathed her last somewhere else.

  Hulda was behind the wheel and heading out of town before it dawned on her that she probably wasn’t in a fit state to drive, with all the alcohol that must still be sloshing around in her veins. It was years since she had last found herself in this position. At the next j
unction, she did a U-turn and went home to call a taxi.

  It was a relief to be able to slump in the back seat and relax for once, while somebody else took care of the driving, especially since the taxi was a new, luxury vehicle that purred along the Reykjanes dual carriageway with a smoothness and speed a world away from her old rust bucket.

  The black lava-fields unfolded before her eyes, seeming almost to flow past the car windows, majestic in their stark simplicity, yet monotonous as an endlessly repeated refrain. She remembered reading about how they had formed, recalling that some of the lava dated from before Iceland was settled in the 800s, some of it had been produced by later eruptions. Above the flat terrain, the clouds grew heavier and blacker the further they travelled from Reykjavík, until the odd drop of rain began to spatter the windscreen.

  The combination of lava and rain had a calming effect on Hulda and she let her eyelids droop, not to doze but to gather herself to face the day’s demands. A series of images played through her mind, but Elena no longer occupied the foreground, having retreated behind the sharpening figures of Dimma and, now, Pétur.

  She found herself dwelling more on Pétur than she’d expected, as if suddenly accepting the inevitable. Yes, age had crept up on her, taking her cruelly by surprise, but the changes it brought could be positive, too. Perhaps, after all, she deserved to be contented; to stay up late on a weekday evening, knocking back wine with a handsome doctor, without a bad conscience. Deserved a chance to forget the nightmare, once in a while. Deserved not to have to take orders from a useless boss who should never have been promoted above her.

  Lost in these thoughts, she nodded off in spite of herself and slept until the driver woke her by announcing that they were nearing their destination. It took her a moment or two to work out where she was: Keflavík police station.

  Falling asleep in the middle of the day was quite out of character, to say nothing of falling asleep in a taxi. There must be something in the air; everything seemed out of joint today. Hulda had a foreboding that something was about to happen, she just didn’t know what.