Girls Who Lie

by Eva Bjorg AEgisdóttir

  ‘It must have been extremely tough having to return her to her mother,’ Elma said. ‘You must have formed a bond with Hekla.’

  ‘Oh, it was tough all right,’ Bergrún said. ‘We had no idea what sort of state Maríanna was in. I had my doubts and was afraid of what might happen when they were alone together – when I wasn’t there to look after Hekla. The problem with these cases is that the authorities always give the parents the benefit of the doubt, not the children.’

  ‘But the arrangement was better than losing her altogether,’ Fannar added.

  Elma sympathised. She couldn’t begin to imagine how hard it must be to send a child back into a situation, knowing it might be unsafe. Or even downright dangerous.

  Sævar had his notebook in his hands and his eyes trained on Bergrún. ‘As we’ve already mentioned, you rang Maríanna repeatedly in the days leading up to her disappearance. In fact…’ he held out a printout of Maríanna’s phone records on which Bergrún’s number had been underlined ‘…you rang every day that week except on the Friday.’

  Bergrún quickly skimmed the printout, then put it down on the table. ‘As I explained, we had a … disagreement about Hekla’s football tournament that weekend. Did I mention that she’s a very promising player? Anyway, Maríanna wouldn’t let her go. Strictly speaking, it wasn’t our weekend, but I just couldn’t understand how Maríanna could deprive her of the chance. She didn’t seem to care. She wasn’t prepared to make a single sacrifice for Hekla.’

  ‘Why didn’t you call her on the Friday?’

  There was silence in the kitchen, apart from the humming of the fridge, which seemed to grow louder with every second that passed.

  ‘I…’ Bergrún glanced at Fannar. ‘I can’t remember. I’d probably just given up.’ She clutched at her gold heart pendant again.

  ‘Where were you on the Friday Maríanna vanished?’ Sævar asked. ‘I don’t think we asked you at the time.’

  ‘I was here. At home. Actually, I was at work until three o’clock.’

  Elma shifted her gaze to Fannar. ‘What about you? Were you at home too?’

  ‘That was the weekend I had to go to Egilsstaðir, wasn’t it?’ Fannar asked, adding, before Bergrún had a chance to answer: ‘Yes, of course, I remember receiving the phone call about Maríanna and feeling awful that I couldn’t be there with you and Hekla.’

  Sævar turned his attention back to Bergrún: ‘So you were alone when you drove over to Borgarnes to fetch Hekla on the Saturday?’

  ‘Yes. She rang and I got straight in the car, but…’ Bergrún was still fiddling with the pendant. ‘I feel as if you’re…’ She broke off, let go of the pendant, then looked from Sævar to Elma, her expression firm: ‘Maríanna and I didn’t always see eye to eye, but I didn’t wish her any harm. I just wanted her to … to recognise what was best for Hekla. Maríanna wasn’t a good mother. She was ungrateful and selfish, and never stopped to think about Hekla’s wishes or needs. We were the ones who bought her clothes, who gave her a phone and a computer, and all the things other kids have. Do you know what Maríanna gave her for her birthday?’

  They shook their heads.

  Bergrún leant back in her chair and folded her arms. The pressure of her necklace had left a red line on her chest. She smiled scornfully. ‘A towel. She gave her a towel for her fifteenth birthday.’

  ‘Getting a towel’s not so bad,’ Sævar remarked as they were driving away from Bergrún and Fannar’s house. ‘I mean, it’s something everyone uses. Something that lasts. I’d be very happy to get a towel for my birthday.’

  ‘Even when you were fifteen?’

  ‘Especially when I was fifteen. I was forever forgetting my towels in the changing rooms at the swimming pool or gym. I was always needing a new one.’

  ‘Well, it certainly wasn’t top of my wish list when I was that age.’

  ‘Do you reckon we should take a closer look at her … at Bergrún, I mean?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Elma. ‘Yes, I do.’

  Bergrún had good reason to want to murder Maríanna, she reflected. They’d been quarrelling all week, and no doubt for years before that, about everything relating to Hekla. Elma wasn’t in any doubt that Bergrún loved Hekla. Perhaps she’d reached the end of her tether. The business of the football tournament could have tipped her over the edge, reminding her of all the ways Maríanna had failed Hekla over the years and driving her to violence. Elma could feel herself growing angry when she thought about the bewildered three-year-old, left all alone at home for days.

  ‘We could talk to the Child Protection Agency,’ Sævar said. ‘Find out more about Maríanna’s relationship with Bergrún and Fannar. And about how Hekla and Maríanna got on. Personally, I can’t see Bergrún attacking Maríanna, but that Hekla’s a dark horse. She’s hiding something. What was your impression of her?’

  Elma emitted a loud groan. ‘I wanted to scream. Talk about having to drag everything out of her – literally every single word.’

  Sævar laughed. ‘Teenagers … I was never one of them.’

  ‘Oh no?’

  ‘Or maybe I never stopped being one. At least, not a lot has changed … Anyway, I don’t buy that she was at home all evening.’

  ‘We examined Hekla’s phone records without finding anything,’ Elma recalled. ‘But the thing is, kids hardly make any calls nowadays. They mainly use social media, and it’s much harder to access that. Take Snapchat, for example: the messages vanish after a certain length of time, which makes life difficult for us. So, although there was no sign that Hekla had rung anyone on the Friday evening, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’

  ‘Did we check whether her phone had moved around at all?’

  ‘No,’ Elma said. ‘No, I don’t think we did. She was never a suspect, so there was no reason to check her movements.’

  ‘Was she already fifteen when Maríanna went missing?’

  ‘Yes, she’d recently had a birthday.’

  ‘Meaning that…’

  ‘That she is – and was – old enough to be held criminally responsible,’ Elma finished.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘I agree,’ Elma said. ‘We need to take a closer look at Hekla. It’s like she’s hiding something. Maybe we should pay a visit to her old school while we’re about it.’

  ‘Wouldn’t that mean another trip to Borgarnes?’

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ Elma said. ‘Do you think Hekla was telling us the truth about the boyfriend?’

  Sævar snorted. ‘Not a chance. And I’m not convinced by the story that she caught a bus. We need to find out who her boyfriend is and establish whether he gave her a lift that day.’

  Sævar parked in front of the police station.

  ‘OK, so that’s yet another thing we need to look into.’ Elma unfastened her seat belt, but instead of getting out of the car straight away, she leant her head back and said: ‘It all adds up to so little, though. We’ve got no proper leads. Far too much time has passed since Maríanna’s murder.’

  ‘Maybe that’s a good thing.’

  ‘In what way?’

  Sævar shrugged. ‘Maybe we’ll have a better chance of working out who’s lying. It’s hard enough to remember things that really happened seven months after the event, let alone to remember lies after all that time.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose there’s that.’ Elma took hold of the door handle.

  ‘By the way, what was on your wish list?’

  ‘What?’ She let go of the handle and turned to Sævar, puzzled.

  ‘When you were fifteen. What did you want for your birthday?’

  Elma laughed. ‘God, I can’t remember. Probably a Walkman or whatever was popular at the time.’

  ‘Walkmans were popular when I was fifteen.’

  ‘Oh, well, in that case, maybe an mp3 player. Weren’t they popular once?’

  It was Sævar’s turn to laugh. ‘I expect so. Oof, we’re getting old, Elma. The kids today don’t even know what
an mp3 is, let alone a Walkman.’

  ‘Speak for yourself,’ Elma said, getting out of the car. ‘I’m still young.’

  Three Years Old

  As I’m leaving to go to work I notice that there’s a letter in the post box. The envelope is dark pink and my name is written on the front in black pen. Not my full name, just my Christian name. It’s not from my parents – there’s no stamp on it and no sender’s details written on the back. The moment I’m sitting in the car, I tear open the envelope and pull out a pink card with an old-fashioned doll’s pram on the front. A christening card.

  I stare at it in disbelief. That can’t be right. My daughter’s three years old and although I had her christened, there was no party. No fuss. All I did was scrawl her name on the relevant forms. I open the card and my heart misses a beat when I see what’s written inside:

  Congratulations on your little girl. Now I know where you live, I might pay you a visit.

  It sounds like a threat.

  I put the card on the passenger seat and start the car. I find myself scanning my surroundings as I drive off, half expecting the sender to jump out of the bushes by our block of flats. There are quite a few possible candidates. When I left, a lot of people were angry. I sometimes picture their faces and wonder if they remember me or ever think about me. I bet they do. Those small-town types do little else but wallow in other people’s business. They live off it. Feed on gossip and sleaze. They’re no better than the chickens who peck at the head of the weakest hen in the flock until she is lying dead in the grass in a mass of bloodied feathers.

  I don’t care if they find me. In fact, I’d love the chance to laugh in their faces. It’s my daughter I’m worried about. Unlike me, she’s sensitive and fragile. But I’ve come to care for her, in spite of that. I don’t know quite when it happened, but now, whenever she smiles, something happens inside me that I can’t explain. The feeling makes me want to smile and cry at the same time. I don’t want to share her with anyone. It’s not like I need to worry about her father, since he’s long dead, but his family are still alive. They don’t know she exists but they would only have to look at her – she’s the spitting image of him.

  The thought of the card preys on my mind all day until I’m sitting with a glass of red wine after work, nibbling at a piece of bread and butter. It’s the first time I’ve been out since my daughter was born. For three years I’ve made do with drinking a bottle of wine alone at home in front of a film. Then, several days ago, the only woman among the lawyers at our practice suggested we go out to supper the following Friday to celebrate her birthday. As usual, I assumed I wouldn’t be able to go along, but that day I spotted a notice from a teenage girl pinned to the cork board in the supermarket. I tore off a strip with her phone number on it and rang her, and now she’s sitting in my flat, stuffing her face with snacks, guzzling down Coke and no doubt rooting around in my wardrobe too, but I don’t care. At long last, I’m having an evening out.

  Later, we move on to a crowded bar with pounding music. The city hasn’t changed. Only the music is different from four years ago, when I last had a social life. I’ve limited myself to two glasses of wine and done my best to keep up with the conversation, but as soon as it touches on anything work-related, my mind wanders. I only work on reception, so don’t really have a clue what goes on in the office. They keep bandying about legal terms and quoting clauses, as if they’re terribly clever and important.

  When the waiter comes over they order another round, and this time I ask for a gin and tonic. We’re at a place frequented by an older crowd – the over-thirties. Yet there’s the odd teenage girl among them who doesn’t look old enough to be allowed in. They attach themselves to men twice their age, who paw at them and buy them drinks. Was I ever one of those girls? All of a sudden a memory surfaces of panting breath and a sweating face. I push it away at once and take a big slug of my gin.

  For the last three years I’ve done my best not to think about the past. I no longer feel like the girl I was then. She’s just a distant memory now. My life is so different from how it used to be. No one knows me here, but the letter is an unsettling reminder that I’m not invisible. Someone has found me. Someone knows where I live. I knock back another mouthful of the G&T and grimace. It’s very strong.

  In this new life of mine I’ve recreated myself from scratch. If anyone asks, I tell them that my parents live abroad, but I don’t explain why they went. Instead, I say they’re both doctors who work in war zones. I’ve even listed exactly which countries they’ve visited, writing it all down in a file on my computer so I won’t forget anything. The most common questions I get are about my daughter’s father, and they’re easy enough to answer. I tell them he was killed in a motorbike accident when I was eight months pregnant. I see this imaginary baby-father clearly. His name was Snorri and he was tall and dark (just like our daughter). With chocolate-brown eyes and a cleft chin. We’d just got engaged when the accident happened. The story has come to seem so real to me that I even wonder if I should tell it to my daughter later on. But of course she would want to see pictures and get to know his family, and all sorts of other things that wouldn’t be possible, so it’s probably best to stay silent. Tell her the truth: that she hasn’t got a father. That her father never knew she existed and never will.

  Since moving, I haven’t met a single person who’s recognised me, and so, with every year that has gone by, I’ve relaxed and let down my guard a little. I no longer scan places for familiar faces the moment I walk in. Anyway, I’m sure they wouldn’t recognise me these days. My hair’s dyed dark brown and I’ve changed; not just my hair and clothes, but I’ve put on a bit of weight too, and my skin’s not as tanned as it used to be. Mainly because I no longer go on beach holidays twice a year but am stuck here in this wretched climate all year round. But now the letter is weighing on me like a nightmare, and I find myself constantly glancing around, scanning the faces of the other customers.

  ‘Want another?’

  ‘Sorry?’ I look up to see the waiter standing over us again. Dropping my eyes to my glass, I realise it’s empty. Did I really down it that fast? How much time has passed since I got it?

  ‘Want another drink?’ my colleague repeats.

  ‘Yes, please,’ I say. ‘Perhaps the same again.’

  The waiter nods, collects the empty glasses and returns almost immediately with more drinks. I down mine fast. Without meaning to, I can sense myself getting drunk and suddenly feel an overwhelming urge to pee. I stand up and gesture towards the toilets, but no one takes any notice. They’re all too busy talking about something that’s way over my head.

  The toilets are upstairs, and a queue has formed outside the ladies. The floor is moving up and down, and the music is so deafening that I can hardly hear myself think. As I’m waiting in the queue, a man comes over and starts talking to me, but I can’t hear a word. He’s even drunker than me, his hair’s all over the place and the top buttons of his black shirt are undone. On a whim, I pull him towards me and start kissing him. When it’s my turn, I drag him into the cubicle with me, in spite of the other girls’ protests. I lean over the toilet and pull down my trousers. Prop my hands against the wall as I feel him entering me. The sex is brief and rough. He tears at my hair and rams against my hips, almost knocking me off balance and I narrowly avoid banging my head against the wall. I moan loudly, but the music drowns out most of the noise. Afterwards, I shove him out of the cubicle and sit down on the toilet to pee. My fingers are shaking and the floor seems to be moving even more sickeningly than before.

  When I emerge, girls are standing in front of the mirrors, putting on lipstick. They’re slim, with tiny breasts and far too much make-up, and skirts so short that their knickers are almost visible. One of them gives me a look of such contempt that it’s as if I’ve offended her personally, but that’s impossible because I’ve never seen her before. Perhaps she heard us in the cubicle. I smile at her, but she drops her eyes and walks o
ut.

  I get a shock when I see myself in the mirror and burst out laughing because it’s so absurd to think this is me. I didn’t have a chance to go home and change, as we went out straight after work. I’m wearing my see-through black blouse. My hair is loose, and I haven’t been to a hairdresser in so long that it reaches below my shoulder blades. After my little adventure in the toilet, it’s messed up at the back, my eyes are red and watering, and my cheeks are covered in scarlet blotches. I stop laughing and try to comb my hair with my fingers, but really I couldn’t give a shit. It feels almost like being in disguise. As if I’ve ended up in someone else’s body and can do whatever I like without anyone recognising me.

  I start down the stairs just as a group of people are coming up. Not one of them looks at me twice. People always used to look at me twice. I still remember what it was like to walk into places and see people looking up, even half turning to stare at me. I never needed to buy my own drinks; a constant supply used to keep coming as long as I wanted them, and when I was on the dance floor there was always someone eager to partner me. Always someone I could pull towards me or push away.

  As I start to descend, lost in memory and already picturing my next drink, I suddenly feel someone push me so hard that I lose my footing and go flying down the steep staircase. My head bangs into the wall and I land on my shoulder, experiencing an agonising pain and tasting blood.

  There are people all around me. Someone sits me up and another fetches a towel to press against the wound on my head. My heart is racing. Not because I fell or because I’m bleeding, but because I was pushed. I clearly felt hands on my back, giving me a violent shove. All of a sudden my colleague is there: the woman whose birthday we’re celebrating.

  ‘What on earth happened?’ she asks, bending over me.