The Doll

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  ‘We need to comb the banks. And interview the summer-house owners. The choice is yours.’ She was avoiding eye contact.

  ‘I’ll comb the banks.’

  ‘We’re talking three kilometres. At least.’

  ‘Fine.’ It would do him good to go for a walk and concentrate on what was immediately in front of him. Nothing complicated, nothing messily emotional or intangible.

  ‘Then take that guy with you – the one you were smoking with. The rest have got their hands full.’

  Erla didn’t give him a chance to protest. Instead of the peaceful walk he had envisaged, Huldar was now doomed to trek all the way round the lake, being bombarded by pointless speculation and questions. Unless he got lucky and the guy was taken by the nykur.

  Erla was watching the lake over his shoulder. Huldar turned to see the men struggling to lift Rósa onto the stretcher. The conditions were challenging and nobody seemed to have come suitably dressed for the job. The men carrying the stretcher appeared unhappy about the fact their boots weren’t high enough to keep their feet dry, whereas the others had got used to the icy water and had no doubt lost all feeling in their toes some time ago.

  They succeeded in the end, and the murmur of talk fell silent as Rósa’s stiff body was carried to the ambulance.

  It was impossible not to be reminded of the scene when Binni’s body had been brought out of his container; too short a time had elapsed in between.

  Huldar had found that scene bleak enough but this was worse, so much worse. Binni had at least lived to adulthood. And although you couldn’t envy his lot, he could theoretically have taken charge of his own life. Rósa, on the other hand, had been the plaything of fate; nothing she said or did could have changed the situation she was in now. It was impossible to know how she would have turned out, but Huldar thought she would probably have made a go of it. Gone to university and become a scientist, wielding a test-tube in search of a cure for cancer. Or trained to be an actress and trodden the red carpet in a low-cut dress. Or followed in Lína’s footsteps and ended up as Police Commissioner.

  Or simply have been happy, without needing to be at the pinnacle of whatever profession she chose for herself.

  ‘I want to find the person who did this and I want to find him now.’ Erla was speaking through gritted teeth. ‘We’ll work day and night until we do. If necessary, I’ll drag that lot back from holiday by their bloody ears.’

  ‘You can count on me.’ Huldar’s words sounded hollow, even to him. What good was his contribution? Did he think he was going to trip over the murderer’s ID lying about on the shore of the lake? Solve the crime during his ramble? Sadly, there was no likelihood of that.

  Huldar tried to catch Erla’s eye to convey the tacit message that she could also count on him with regard to her pregnancy. If there was anything he could do to make life easier for her, of course he would do it. Finally, she met his gaze. She knew him well enough to guess what he was going to say even as he opened his mouth.

  ‘No. Not a word. I’m not discussing it with you.’

  ‘Discussing what?’ Playing the role of the innocent, Huldar hurriedly pulled something else out of his hat. ‘I was just going to say that Freyja’s found evidence in the Child Protection Agency records to suggest that Rósa knew Bergur, the care-home manager, before she was placed with him.’

  ‘How?’ Erla’s curiosity was roused.

  ‘I don’t have any details. The information’s subject to confidentiality. But it might be relevant to …’ He jerked his chin towards the ambulance.

  Erla frowned. ‘I don’t see how. But who knows? Get hold of the information. I don’t give a shit about confidentiality. The girl’s dead.’

  Huldar nodded without speaking.

  Erla stood up. ‘One more thing.’

  ‘What?’ Huldar was ready to do anything. The only way of getting over the grimness of this tragedy was to work. To keep on slogging away until they found some answers. Find an outlet for the rage that was seething inside him and already pushing the sadness aside. ‘I’m ready to do anything.’

  ‘Good. I need you to attend the post-mortem. It’s happening on Monday and my sickness is worst in the mornings. I can’t have people finding out that I puked up in the middle of it.’

  Huldar forced his frozen facial muscles into a smile of acquiescence. He nodded. He had no choice.

  Chapter 24

  Sunday

  Tristan peered at his phone. The screen was covered in a spider’s web of cracks but he couldn’t afford to replace it, let alone buy a new phone. As soon as he got a proper job, the first thing he’d do was go out and get one, even if it cost every last króna of his pay.

  But in the circumstances, he couldn’t get a full-time job – he found it hard enough taking the few shifts he was offered at the pizza place. He had other, more important duties, which operated on a quite different timetable.

  He had to look after his mother.

  Tristan avoided thinking about how unfair it was. There was no point. Only sometimes he couldn’t help it: most of his contemporaries were so lucky that the comparison really hurt.

  Their parents fussed over them, not vice versa.

  There was nothing of interest visible between the cracks on his screen, just notifications of likes and comments on his recent posts. No message from Rósa, as he had been expecting. But that was nothing new. She went her own way and refused to be pushed around, as intractable, in a way, as his mother’s addiction.

  ‘Drink this.’ Tristan handed his mother a smoothie. He had blended skyr with some frozen berries that had been on special offer. ‘It’ll make you feel better.’

  ‘Thanks.’ His mother sat up, took the drink and sipped it. Then she put the glass down on the coffee table and lay back on the sofa, spreading the blanket over herself. The glass would remain there until evening when Tristan took it to the sink. ‘What about …?’

  ‘I couldn’t find any painkillers.’ Tristan was lying. He knew exactly where he had hidden them. They weren’t supposed to be addictive but it didn’t pay to take any chances if his mother was to stay clean. It wouldn’t be the first time something had happened to make her relax her vigilance and lose sight of her goal. ‘Or any cigarettes either.’

  His mother looked up and met his eye. Her face was red and her eyes were unnaturally bright, as if she had a fever. ‘Would you mind going to the newsagent?’

  ‘There aren’t any newsagents around here any more, remember? Only the supermarket, and they don’t sell fags.’ This was a lie too but it was more likely to work than telling the truth. They couldn’t afford to smoke – either of them.

  ‘Are you going out this evening?’ The question was supposed to sound innocent but Tristan knew exactly what she was doing. She wanted him out of the way so she could get her hands on something. She’d done it only the other day. Come home so off her head that she’d forgotten to hide what she’d been up to. He had flushed the rest of the pills down the toilet while she was sleeping it off.

  ‘No. I’m staying in. We can watch Netflix together.’

  ‘Oh. OK.’ She did her best to hide her disappointment. ‘Have we got any Valium? It would help me sleep. I need to rest.’

  ‘No. We haven’t got any.’

  ‘Flunitrazepam?’

  Tristan shook his head.

  ‘Imovane?’

  ‘No. We haven’t got anything. Not even ibuprofen. I told you.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Tristan turned away. If he started to feel sorry for her, he would only end up relenting and fetching her a sleeping pill. Pretending he’d discovered it at the back of the cupboard. ‘Drink the smoothie. It’ll make you feel better and then you’ll be able to get to sleep.’

  His mother nodded but made no effort to reach for the glass. Instead, she pulled the blanket up to her chin. It wasn’t cold in the flat, in fact it was too hot for him, but his mother was so painfully thin that she was perpetually freezing. If she went outside
, she had to be well wrapped up or her fingers, and sometimes her face, would literally turn blue, even in summer.

  ‘I’m just going online for a bit. Will you be OK?’

  ‘Sure.’ There was no conviction in her voice. ‘Could you turn on the TV for me? Just whatever’s on.’

  He did as she asked. They only had the state broadcasting service and Netflix, but his mother’s English was so poor that if she was alone, she found it hard to watch programmes or films without subtitles. The state channel was showing sport but that would have to do. With any luck she’d find it so boring that it would send her to sleep. He put the remote control on the coffee table beside the glass, knowing she wouldn’t touch it any more than she would the smoothie.

  Tristan went into his room and threw himself down on his bed. It was time to wash the sheets but he had prioritised his mother’s bedding when he’d put on a wash the day before. They had been stained with blood from a bad coughing fit.

  He pulled over the battered laptop given to him by a friend who’d received a smart new one as a confirmation present. Tristan had found it excruciatingly embarrassing to have to accept the gift of the clapped-out machine, but his longing for a computer had outweighed even his embarrassment. Nevertheless, casually enquiring what his friend intended to do with the old one had been one of the most difficult questions he’d ever had to ask – and he’d had to say a lot of pathetic, humiliating things in his life.

  He opened the laptop carefully as the hinges on the screen were on the point of giving way. Tristan didn’t know what he’d do when the machine finally conked out. It couldn’t be long now. It already had to be permanently plugged in as the battery had died. The next thing to break might not be so easy to get around. But seeing as he couldn’t afford to replace the screen on his phone, he would hardly be able to scrape together the cash for a new laptop. He even had to use his neighbour’s wi-fi because he and his mother couldn’t afford an internet connection themselves. He’d struck a deal with the guy next door that he would take his turn at cleaning the stairwell in return for the password to his wi-fi. This was an excellent bargain for the neighbour, whose data allowance was almost unlimited. It worked out well for Tristan too, since no one bothered to clean the communal areas properly anyway.

  It would have been far better to have their own internet connection and avoid this hassle but they lived on his mother’s benefit payments, which didn’t stretch that far. Not even when supplemented with the peanuts he earned at the pizza place. Rent, food, electricity, heating, clothes, phone, bus, doctors and related costs. School books for him and cigarettes for her when things were good. Which they rarely were. If he watched every króna they could survive February, but months with thirty-one days were harder. Somehow, though, they just about managed. Except when his mother fell off the wagon. Then everything went to pieces.

  The small amount of money they had went nowhere near satisfying her need for drugs. These burnt through krónur faster than a woman with a shopping addiction let loose in a shoe emporium. He knew how she went about keeping herself in drugs when their bank account was empty but he preferred not to think about that. There were limits. He just prayed that those days were over.

  Tristan waited while the laptop booted up. It took so long that his mind wandered. He hoped Rósa had got in touch and it was just that his useless phone hadn’t received her message. She was the best friend he had, because she understood him. All the other people he knew lived a life wrapped in cotton wool, but not her. If anything, she had been dealt an even worse hand in life than him. At least he still had his mum, whereas Rósa was alone in the world. However flawed his mother was, she was better than nothing. Anyway, she was going to get her act together, one of these days. It couldn’t be that far off. She had to stay clean for six months before she could undergo treatment for hepatitis C and she knew that it was now or never. She would do it for herself and for him. She had shown before that she was capable of it. If only her fellow addicts would leave her alone – not to mention the people who had a vested interest in keeping her hooked on drugs. Tristan hated them. More than he could possibly express. At times the hatred was so overpowering that he thought it would burn him up. Everything else faded into the background and, while it lasted, the fury was so violent that it felt as if it was hammering on the inside of his skull, demanding to break out.

  Rósa had helped him cope with it. As she had with so many other things. Although she was younger than him, she was in many ways more mature and steady. She was very clever too and did well at school. It was she who had encouraged him to continue with his education and helped him when he couldn’t make any sense of his homework. Thanks to her, he’d managed to struggle through a whole term’s worth of credits.

  The advice Rósa gave him for dealing with his fits of violent rage was to concentrate on breathing and revel in the certainty that the targets of his hatred would get their comeuppance in the end. That was life. He just had to sit back and wait. Of course, the alternative was to help the chain of events along a bit – or a lot. It was his choice. Either do nothing. Or do something.

  Rósa herself had chosen to do something.

  After going from pillar to post, trying in vain to get the authorities to re-open the inquiry into her mother’s death, Rósa had taken matters into her own hands. She had given up on the useless authorities and the adult world when her search for justice had hit a brick wall. Her eyes glowed every time she spoke of her plan, yet she didn’t seem able to focus on anything while she was talking. Her pupils darted back and forth, up and down, from side to side, as if she was watching a drunken fly. Perhaps that was why he found it so hard to discuss the business of her mother with her. Things didn’t improve when her father got dragged into the story and the logic became even more warped. By pretending to listen, and changing the subject whenever possible, he managed to cling to the belief that she knew what she was talking about. That was good enough for him. Friends stood by each other, through thick and thin. Rósa had said that too.

  The computer emitted its stupid chime to inform him that it was ready. Tristan went straight to his messages but Rósa hadn’t been in touch. He stared at the screen, unable to shake off the unsettling feeling that something was wrong. She had been her usual self when they’d said goodbye on Friday evening, and promised to get in touch. The plan had been to meet up at the weekend, but it was Sunday now and he still hadn’t heard from her. It was typical of her to drop out of contact from time to time, but not at all like her to break a promise.

  To distract himself, Tristan checked his social media accounts. It was how he kept track of what was going on, both in his circle of few remaining friends and in Iceland and the outside world. He couldn’t be bothered to read the news sites with their endless reports about politicians breaking promises, eruptions that didn’t happen, negative stuff about tourists, wittering on about which paint colours were ‘in’ and the latest Trump scandal.

  Noticing that he had been tagged in a discussion that had received a lot of comments from his friends, he opened the thread and read the first post. His heart missed a beat and he slammed the laptop shut. Then he opened it again, after recovering enough to be able to breathe normally. He could hear Rósa’s deep, husky voice saying: Just breathe. In, out. In, out. Nothing else matters.

  But she had been wrong. There was so much else that mattered apart from breathing. Like the fact that, according to the news, she was dead. That mattered to her and it mattered to him. Whereas breathing meant nothing to her now.

  Tristan clicked on the link to the news report containing Rósa’s name. He ignored the question from the person who had posted the entry: Tristan, isn’t that your weird friend who’s dead? That Rósa? Nor did he read the comments below, since they might contain anything from sympathy to jokes about her death. He couldn’t face that.

  The news confirmed in detail what he had read in the post. Rósa’s body had been found and the police were treating her death as murder
. There couldn’t be many sixteen-year-old girls called Rósa Thrastardóttir, could there? He tried sending her a message, in spite of their tacit understanding that it was always Rósa who instigated any contact. But of course there were exceptions, and what better time for that than now?

  He stared at his computer screen and phone in turn, hoping against hope for a reply. Nothing happened.

  His breathing grew increasingly fitful and laboured. His ribcage rose and fell as if he were surfacing after spending too long underwater, yet he felt as if he were suffocating. He saw his room in its true light again and closed his eyes to avoid having to see his soulless, ugly, empty surroundings. The desk from the Good Shepherd charity shop that had been scrawled all over with marker pen by its former owner in a fit of madness, with the drawer you couldn’t open. The yellowing light bulb dangling from the ceiling. The World Cup poster, a present from his mother, that he had stuck on the wall to please her, although he had no interest in football, let alone the national team. She had waited in such suspense to see his reaction that he’d had no choice but to fake gratitude.

  He had to get out of here. Away from the laptop and the news that had knocked the ground out from under his fragile happiness. He flung the machine aside, not caring that it couldn’t withstand any further damage. Then he stood up and waited a moment, until he was sure his knees wouldn’t buckle, before walking to his bedroom door. One step at a time. Breathing in, breathing out.

  That way he would make it to the sitting room and his mum.

  She needed him. Every day. Always.

  But now the tables had been turned: she had to be there for him. There was nobody else. He clung to the door handle, feeling a tear running down his cheek, followed by another. He could taste salt.