The Darkness

by Ragnar Jónasson

  IV

  Darkness had fallen in earnest now. After he had joined her at the top of the slope, they had walked over level ground for a while before pausing briefly to fix torches to their heads. Now, she could see clearly where she was placing her feet, but all else beyond the narrow cone of light was shrouded in darkness. When she asked if they were anywhere near the place where they were to spend the night, he shook his head. ‘Still a way to go,’ he said.

  The snow was so perfect, glittering in the light of her head torch, that it seemed like sacrilege to tread on it and break the pristine crust. Never before had she experienced such an intense connection to nature. The icy fetters seemed to cast a mysterious enchantment over their surroundings. Focusing on the elemental beauty, she did her best to forget her reservations about the trip.

  Before long, the hard, icy surface gave way to deeper, softer going. Stopping for a moment, she switched off her head torch and waited for her eyes to adjust to the dark. The faint outlines of snowy knolls and mounds could be glimpsed all around them, and it came home to her more starkly than ever that without her guide she would be utterly lost; she hadn’t a clue how to find the hut they were making for or retrace their steps to the car. Without him, she would almost certainly die of exposure out here.

  She shuddered at the thought.

  Switching on her torch again, she put her head down and set off doggedly in his wake. A gap had opened up between them and, picking up her pace, she tried to close it. She became reckless in her haste and, next thing she knew, the ground was giving way beneath her feet. Feeling herself sinking into soft snow, she started panicking that she had fallen into a hole and would never be able to get out. It turned out not to be as deep as she’d feared, but extricating herself from the clutches of the drift proved impossible, especially when weighed down by the backpack. She called out, first in a wavering voice, then louder, until he heard and, turning back, came to her rescue and heaved her out. On she went, trailing in his wake, hearing now and then the sound of water trickling under the snow, its gurgling providing a comfortingly familiar note amidst the inhuman silence of the mountains.

  Abruptly, he halted, head turning this way and that, as if working out the lie of the land. She could just distinguish the dark shape of a mountain in the distance, its gully-scored slopes blurred by a layer of white.

  She listened out for the river, but its gurgling had fallen quiet. Now, there was nothing but silence.

  V

  ‘Looks like you’re in luck,’ said the duty sergeant, who had introduced himself as Ólíver. He was tall, without an ounce of spare flesh on his lanky frame. ‘Very lucky. Because that Syrian girl’s still here. We were going to put her on a plane this morning, but her lawyer kicked up a stink. You know what it’s like.’

  ‘Her lawyer’s not Albert Albertsson, by any chance?’ Hulda asked.

  ‘Albert? No, don’t know him. The lawyer handling the Syrian’s case is a woman.’

  ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘I can’t remember what any of these lawyers are called.’

  ‘No, I meant the asylum-seeker.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Ólíver frowned. ‘What was it again?… Amena, I think. Yes, Amena.’

  ‘Why are you deporting her?’

  ‘Some official’s made a decision. Nothing to do with me. I’m just responsible for seeing her on to the plane.’

  ‘Could I speak to her?’

  Ólíver shrugged. ‘Don’t see why not. Though I don’t know if she’ll agree to meet you. I can’t promise anything. Unsurprisingly, the Icelandic police aren’t her favourite people right now. Why do you want to speak to her?’

  He must have been thirty years younger than Hulda, but neither by his voice nor his manner did he display the slightest deference to her seniority. It was often like that these days and it never failed to rile her, the way the younger generation were taking over, rendering her redundant, as if her experience no longer counted for anything.

  Hulda sighed impatiently. ‘It’s in connection with a case I’m investigating – an asylum-seeker found dead on the coast near here.’

  Ólíver nodded. ‘Yes, at Flekkuvík. I remember. Me and my partner were called to the scene when the body was found. A foreign girl, wasn’t it? Couldn’t handle the waiting.’

  ‘She was Russian.’

  ‘Yeah, that was it.’

  ‘What do you remember about the scene?’ Hulda asked.

  Ólíver frowned: ‘Nothing in particular. It was just another suicide, you know. She was lying there in the shallow water, obviously dead. There was nothing we could do. Why are you looking into this?’

  She resisted the urge to tell him to mind his own business. ‘New information. I’m not at liberty to go into details.’ Leaning towards him, she whispered confidentially: ‘The whole thing’s a bit delicate.’

  He merely shrugged again. His interest in the case clearly didn’t go very deep and Hulda also got the distinct impression that he had little faith in the ability of an old bag like her to handle a police inquiry.

  ‘All right, I’ll let you speak to her, since you insist,’ he said, as if addressing a naughty child.

  Hulda had to bite back an angry retort.

  ‘But both our interview rooms are in use,’ he continued. ‘Would you mind talking to her in her cell?’

  That brought Hulda up short. She was on the point of thanking him politely and walking out, abandoning this line of investigation, when she thought better of it. ‘Yes, all right, I suppose that’ll do.’ Might as well try to achieve something worthwhile during her last few hours in the police.

  ‘Be right back.’

  He disappeared, returning almost immediately.

  ‘Come with me.’

  He led her to a cell, opened the door then locked it again behind her. A shudder ran through Hulda as she was shut in. Whenever she’d committed some misdemeanour as a child, her grandmother used to send her to the store cupboard to reflect on her sins. The cupboard had been dark and poky and, to make matters worse, her grandmother had always locked the door. Neither Hulda’s mother nor her grandfather had dared to stand up for her over the business of the naughty cupboard. Perhaps they’d thought it wasn’t so bad, but for Hulda it had been a torment which left her with a lifelong phobia of being confined in narrow, enclosed spaces. In an effort to distract herself now, she cast around for something positive to focus on: the upcoming evening with Pétur, that would do. She told herself she had to be strong, for her own and Elena’s sake.

  The Syrian girl was a thin, wan figure, hunched in misery.

  ‘Hello, my name’s Hulda.’ The girl didn’t react, though Hulda had spoken in English. She was sitting on a bed that was bolted to the wall. There was no chair in the cell and, guessing that it would be unwise to sit down next to her at this stage, Hulda stayed by the door, respecting her personal space.

  ‘Hulda,’ she repeated, slowly and clearly. ‘Your name’s Amena, isn’t it?’

  The girl glanced up, meeting Hulda’s eyes for an instant, before lowering her gaze to the floor again, her arms folded protectively across her chest. She was so young, not yet thirty, perhaps closer to twenty-five, and her manner was anxious, even fearful.

  Hulda continued: ‘I’m from the police.’

  Just when she had begun to wonder if Ólíver had misinformed her about the young woman’s knowledge of English, Amena answered gruffly: ‘I know.’

  ‘I need to talk to you, just to ask a few questions.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You want to send me out of country.’

  ‘That’s nothing to do with me,’ Hulda assured her, keeping her voice slow and gentle. ‘I’m investigating a case and I think maybe you can help me.’

  ‘You trick me. You want to send me home.’ Amena glared at Hulda, visibly seething with impotent rage.

  ‘No, this has nothing to do with you,’ Hulda reassured her. ‘It’s about a Russian girl who died
. Her name was Elena.’

  At this, Amena became suddenly animated. ‘Elena?’ she said, then added with vehemence: ‘I knew it. Finally.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When she die, there is something strange. I tell police officer.’

  ‘The police officer? Was it a man? Was his name Alexander?’

  ‘A man, yes. He don’t care,’ Amena said. Although her English was halting, she was perfectly capable of getting her message across.

  Yet again, Hulda mentally cursed Alexander for his incompetence and prejudice. What else had he ‘forgotten’ to write in his report? The case had supposedly been solved, yet she felt she was fumbling her way in the dark.

  ‘Why did you think there was something strange about her death?’

  ‘She get permission to stay. Stay in Iceland. She get a yes.’ The Syrian girl was emphatic.

  Hulda nodded to show she understood.

  The girl carried on: ‘Nobody who get a yes do this. Jump in the sea. She was very happy, sit downstairs, in reception, talk all evening on the phone. Very happy. We were all very happy. She was a good girl. Warm heart. Honest. Have a difficult life in Russia. But then … next day she is dead. Just dead.’

  Hulda nodded, while taking the description with a pinch of salt, suspecting that this rosy view of Elena might be coloured to some extent by their friendship, and by the Syrian girl’s own feelings about what it must be like to be granted asylum.

  The enclosed space was beginning to get to Hulda, affecting her ability to concentrate. She had broken out in a sweat, her hands were slippery and her heart was beating unnaturally fast. She had to wrap up this conversation quickly and get out of here. ‘Is it possible that she was brought to Iceland to work as a prostitute?’ she asked.

  The question seemed to take Amena completely by surprise. ‘What? Prostitute? Elena? No. No, no, no. Not possible.’ She seemed to be groping for words, for a way to refute the tiny seed of doubt that Hulda’s question had sown in her mind. ‘No, no, I am sure. Elena was not prostitute.’

  ‘A man was seen picking her up in his car. He was short and fat, and drove a four-by-four – a big car. I thought maybe he was a client…’

  ‘No, no. Perhaps her lawyer. He drive a big car.’ Amena thought for a moment then qualified this: ‘But he is not fat. I don’t remember name. He is not my lawyer; my lawyer is a woman.’

  ‘Do you have any idea who the man in the big car could have been? Could he have been someone Elena knew?’

  Amena shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  Hulda decided to bring their conversation to an end. Her claustrophobia was so bad now that she was drenched in sweat and mentally exhausted. But before she could say another word, Amena forestalled her: ‘Listen, you must help me. I help you. I cannot go home. I cannot!’ The raw desperation in her voice elicited an instinctive rush of pity in Hulda.

  ‘Well, I don’t suppose … but I’ll mention it to the police officer on duty. OK?’

  ‘Ask him to help me. Tell him I help you. Please.’

  Hulda nodded again, then, changing the subject, asked: ‘Do you have any idea what really happened to Elena? Did anyone have a reason to murder her and, if so, who?’

  ‘No,’ Amena replied instantly. ‘No idea. She only know this lawyer. She have no enemies. Very good girl.’

  ‘I see. Well, thanks for talking to me. I hope things work out for you. It was good to meet someone who knew Elena. What happened to her was very sad. Were you close friends? Best friends?’

  ‘Best friends?’ Amena shook her head. ‘No, but we were good friends. Her best friend was Katja.’

  ‘Katja?’

  ‘Yes, also Russian.’

  ‘Russian?’ Hulda was so startled that she momentarily forgot her feeling of suffocation. ‘Were there two Russian girls?’

  ‘Yes. They come here together. Katja and Elena.’

  Hell, Hulda thought: Katja had probably left the country months ago, which was frustrating, as Hulda would definitely have liked to talk to her. She needed to get closer to the victim, get a better sense of what had been going through her mind, who she associated with, whether she was afraid of someone, and whether she had really been trafficked to work in the sex industry.

  ‘Do you know where Katja is?’ she asked, assuming the answer would be no. ‘Was she granted a residence permit, too?’

  ‘I don’t know. Nobody know.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Hulda felt her heart beating faster, though with excitement now, rather than panic.

  ‘She disappear.’

  ‘She disappeared? How do you mean?’

  ‘Yes, disappear. Or run away. She is hiding, maybe. Or leave country. I don’t know.’

  ‘When did this happen?’

  The girl wrinkled her brow. ‘Before Elena die. Some weeks before. Maybe one month. I am not sure.’

  ‘Weren’t you worried? How did the police react?’

  ‘Yes … yes, sure. But she just run away. I should have done same … And nobody has found her, I think.’

  ‘What about Elena, how did she take the news? You say they were best friends?’

  ‘Well … At first she is angry. She think Katja is stupid. Think they both get permission to stay. But then…’ Amena’s face grew grave. ‘Then she is worried. Very worried.’

  ‘Was there any explanation for her disappearance?’ asked Hulda, not really expecting an answer.

  Amena shook her head. ‘She just go, she don’t want to be told to leave country. People here are…’ She searched for the word. ‘Desperate. Yes, we are all desperate.’

  ‘What was Katja like?’

  ‘Nice. Friendly. Very beautiful.’

  ‘Is it possible that it was her, not Elena, who was working as a prostitute?’

  ‘No. No, I don’t believe it.’

  ‘I see.’ Hulda had been completely absorbed in the interview, but now the feeling of claustrophobia gripped her with renewed force.

  Thanking Amena profusely for her help, she rapped on the door and waited, twitching with nerves, for Ólíver to open it and let her out.

  ‘You remember,’ Amena said, breaking the silence. ‘You will help me.’

  Hulda nodded: ‘I’ll do my best.’

  At that moment, the door opened.

  ‘Get what you wanted?’ Ólíver asked, without any real interest.

  ‘You and I need to talk. Now,’ Hulda snapped, her tone that of a senior officer addressing an underling.

  She stole a single backward glance before Ólíver locked the cell again, and saw the Syrian girl framed for an instant by the doorway, her face the picture of despair.

  VI

  The river had emerged on to the surface now and they were walking along its banks in the middle of a narrow valley surrounded by mountains.

  ‘Look,’ he said suddenly, gesturing into the darkness. ‘There’s the hut.’

  She strained her eyes in the direction he was pointing, peering through the light haze of snow, but only when they drew closer was she able to make out a tiny black dot that gradually began to take shape against the backdrop of white, revealing itself as a pitched roof on top of dark wooden walls; a tiny hut, far from civilization.

  When they reached it, they found the windows and door covered in snow. He scraped the drift away from the door, but it turned out to be frozen shut and opened only after a protracted struggle. Once inside, she took off her rucksack, relieved to be free of its dragging weight. It was pitch dark, but the beams from their head torches illuminated the interior wherever they fell, revealing bunks with sleeping places for four people, maybe more. She sank down on one of the thin mattresses to catch her breath.

  The hut was primitive in the extreme. It contained nothing but a small table, a few chairs and the bunks. The idea was presumably to provide basic shelter for travellers – a way to survive the Icelandic wilderness – rather than any level of comfort.

  ‘Could you fetch us some water?’
He handed her the empty bottle.

  ‘Water?’

  ‘Yes. Go down to the river.’

  Although daunted at the thought of having to go back outside into the night, alone this time, she obeyed, armed only with the head torch. The hut stood on a slope and the descent to the little river was steep. She edged her way down, taking tiny steps, as it was treacherously slippery and she was no longer wearing crampons: they had taken them off once the most difficult section of the route was behind them. The last thing she wanted was to take a tumble and slide down the slope, landing in the cold, wet snow at the bottom.

  Having arrived safely on the river bank, she dipped the bottle into the icy water and waited for it to fill, then lingered a moment, sneaking the first drink. The water was pure, clear and bitterly cold, straight from the glacier, wonderfully refreshing after the long hike.

  Back inside the hut again, she took off her jacket, still sweating from the climb up the slope from the river. Her companion was busy lighting candles: he had explained that there was no electricity or hot water in the hut. She joined in and soon there were ten small, flickering flames helping to dispel the gloom, though they didn’t give off much warmth.

  ‘You should put your coat back on,’ he said, ‘or you’ll soon start feeling chilled. It’s the same temperature in here as it is outside.’

  She nodded but didn’t immediately obey. She couldn’t face pulling on the bulky jacket again, not quite yet.

  He took out a stove that he called a sprittprímus in Icelandic, saying he didn’t know how to translate the name, lit it and heated up some baked beans. She wolfed hers down. They were delicious accompanied by cold water from the river, and brought a warm glow to her insides, but the effects didn’t last long. Little by little, the cold began creeping into her bones with the inactivity. They might as well have been sitting outside in the snow as in this unheated hut.

  By the time she put on her coat again it was too late, the cold had well and truly got its claws into her. Teeth chattering, she paced to and fro in the small space, doing her best to get the circulation back in her fingers and toes.