Girls Who Lie

by Eva Bjorg AEgisdóttir

  ‘We met five years ago, didn’t we?’ I said, then added, jokingly: ‘I have to say, that jumper suits you much better than my ex’s T-shirt did.’

  She smiled briefly, then put her phone down on the table.

  ‘Actually, we’d met before that,’ she said and took a mouthful of coffee. When I didn’t reply, she went on: ‘I used to live in Sandgerði, just like you. I’ve always remembered you because you used to be so smartly dressed. So pretty. I longed to be like you. I even asked my mum to buy me a purple, one-shoulder jumper just like yours. I used to try and copy the way you smiled and flicked your hair. So did all the other girls, probably.’

  I smiled and studied her, wary as always when someone said they were from Sandgerði. There was always a risk that people would remember the rumours, and I never knew what they would believe. Maríanna was several years younger than me and, however hard I tried, I couldn’t remember her there. But obviously I wouldn’t have paid her any attention when I lived in the town, as there was nothing remarkable about her.

  ‘You don’t remember me, do you?’ She glanced around. There was no one in the house except the two of us, and Tinna in her room. ‘No, I didn’t think so.’

  ‘Sorry, I just … It’s so long since I lived there.’

  ‘I loved living there. We were so happy in Sandgerði until … until my brother died. His name was Anton. Maybe you remember him.’

  When she said her brother’s name, I realised immediately who she was. The pregnant little sister. No wonder I didn’t cotton on that she was the person sitting in front of me. Maríanna had changed since she was fifteen. She always used to be overweight, like her brother, but now she was all skin and bone; so thin that her cheeks were hollow and her bony elbows poked through her thin cotton top.

  I stood up and got a glass down from the cupboard while I was thinking. I ran the tap, feeling her eyes on me while I was filling the glass. When I turned back to her, I was braced to encounter anger, but instead I saw nothing but sadness. Although I didn’t blame myself for what had happened to Anton’s family, I knew my lies had had repercussions.

  ‘Sorry,’ she said unexpectedly. Her voice sounded sincere. I sat down facing her. ‘I didn’t come here to blame you or to be angry. I just wanted to say sorry for the whole thing. For how we treated you and for not believing you. I’ve wasted years being angry. Anton was everything to me. He was my best friend, and when I heard what he’d done … I just didn’t want to believe it. But it was true, wasn’t it? He really did it. He raped you.’

  I emptied the glass down my throat before looking at her. It was nearly four o’clock, and I would have to go to work soon. Maríanna’s eyes filled with tears as she stared at me, waiting for my reply.

  It had been harder than I thought to bear the burden of the lie all these years. Anton’s face had appeared to me in my dreams, cold and accusatory, shocking me awake, soaked with sweat. But worst were the nights when I dreamt that I was caressing and kissing his body, and letting him do the same to me. I thought it might be a release to tell the truth at last and receive forgiveness. Perhaps I would be free of the dreams. So I made up my mind and told her. The moment I’d said the words aloud, I felt the relief. Everything that had happened in my life since the moment I first lied about it had been like a punishment. The birth, the child and all the years I had struggled, alone and humiliated. Now I would finally be free – free from the curse that had followed me ever since Anton died.

  But then Maríanna looked up, her eyes no longer humble and submissive but burning with fury and hatred. ‘I knew it,’ she said. ‘I knew you’d lied.’

  ‘But…’

  She laughed mockingly. ‘I’ve been watching you all these years. Seen how you’ve hidden away like a little rat.’

  ‘What do you mean you’ve been watching me?’ I found myself thinking about all the times when I’d felt as if I was being followed. About the anonymous letters I’d been sent. ‘Was that you?’ I asked, staring at her, shocked.

  She grinned derisively. The same spiteful grin as she had worn when I met her in Hafliði’s doorway. ‘Of course it was me,’ she said, her voice rising. ‘Do you think I’m going to let you get away with it? You destroyed my family. Because of you everything was ruined. For me, for my mum and dad. And for Anton. Just because you couldn’t admit you’d screwed him.’ Maríanna’s face was dark red and her hands were shaking. She was shouting so loudly now that Tinna was bound to hear her. ‘You don’t deserve to be happy. I sent you the letters to frighten you, and when I saw you with that man just after my mum died…’ She broke off, her jaws working strangely. ‘It wasn’t that difficult to go home with him. Not after…’

  ‘After what?’

  Maríanna didn’t answer, but something else had dawned on me.

  ‘The bar. The stairs. It was you I met in the toilets.’ I had a clear image of the girl who had stood, staring at me in the mirror. ‘It was you who pushed me.’

  Maríanna got to her feet and snatched up her phone.

  ‘Where are you going?’

  She shoved the phone in my face. ‘Now everyone will know who you are,’ she hissed.

  Her phone was recording. She had recorded every single word.

  As I listened to the playback, I saw my life crashing down around my ears. My job on TV, the fame I had earned and the family I had finally acquired.

  My only alternative was to stop her.

  It was lucky that Tinna wasn’t fifteen yet when I killed Maríanna. She came out of her room when she heard the noise. Stared speechless at the scene as I made sure Maríanna would never say another word. Of course I explained everything to Hrafntinna, and she understood why I had been forced to do what I did. Maríanna was bad. She’d been planning to hurt us. That was enough for Hrafntinna, because for her the world was still black and white.

  After all those true-crime documentaries, Hrafntinna knew exactly how to dispose of a body and get away with it. It was she who handed me the gloves and hat before we got in the car, and she who suggested Grábrók. After all our trips to the summer house, she knew every crack and fissure in the lava field. She told me to remove the plastic sack once we’d dragged Maríanna into the cave. That way her body would decompose faster and nature would eventually destroy all the evidence.

  Hrafntinna also understood why she would have to take the blame. Fourteen-year-olds are not sent to prison. No, they’re sent to a therapy centre for treatment, and even their names are concealed from the public. And Hekla was more than willing to testify in my favour after our talk at the summer house. I knew I would need another witness in addition to Tinna, as she was too closely related to me for her statement to be enough on its own. The cousins weren’t that dissimilar: Hekla was as desperate for a family and friends as my Tinna used to be. When I realised that this was something we could give her, the situation could hardly have been more perfect.

  As for Maríanna, she never worked out the whole story; never realised that Tinna was Anton’s daughter. The fool. I wondered if it would have changed anything. Would she have agreed to hand over the recording? Would she have been prepared to give up her vulgar plans for revenge?

  It doesn’t matter now. If Tinna and Hekla are good girls and stick to the story we agreed on, everything should be OK. Of course, I could be charged with concealing the body, but, according to my lawyer, the resulting sentence is unlikely to be long. When it comes down to it, my action was simply that of a good mother, concerned with protecting her daughter.

  Which is exactly what I’ve tried to be all these years – a good mother.

  II

  24 December

  This sun couldn’t possibly be the same as the one that cast its feeble rays on Iceland all year round. These sunbeams were warm and soft on the skin. Elma allowed them to wrap her in a sense of well-being as she lay on the sunlounger by the pool. She reached for her ice-cold beer and took a long swig.

  Coming to Tenerife for Christmas had been a brainwa
ve. More than that: a stroke of genius. Elma wasn’t sure she’d ever had a better idea. She drained her glass and turned over onto her stomach, letting the sun soothe away the stiffness in her neck muscles that had plagued her for the last year. Closing her eyes, she felt a pleasant numbness from the beer spreading through her body, while the shrieks of the children in the swimming pool faded to a background murmur that gradually died away.

  Next minute she was shocked awake by an icy touch on her back.

  ‘What are you doing?!’ She twisted round.

  Sævar blocked out the light as he stood over her, a bottle of sun lotion in his hand.

  ‘Your back’s on fire,’ he remarked. He was grinning evilly. ‘I was just going to save you from burning to a crisp.’

  Elma groaned. It was true, though. Her back was an angry scarlet. Her pale skin had gone without seeing the sun for so long that she had barely stepped off the plane before she began to turn red. And the freckles sprang out too; all those freckles on her nose and cheeks and forehead that now made a triumphant reappearance after spending years in hiding. She let Sævar anoint her shoulders with sun lotion, then turned over onto her back.

  ‘Do you miss being at home?’

  She couldn’t stop herself asking. It was Christmas Eve and they were far away from their families, from the snow and Christmas lights in Iceland. She still couldn’t fathom how it had happened. There had hardly been any notice. Only twenty-four hours following that moment of madness as they sat in the office, listening to the wind screaming outside the window. Elma had been hungover from her father’s seventieth birthday, and Sævar’s brother had rung earlier that day to ask if he could stay with his girlfriend over Christmas. Like a miracle, a special offer on flights to Tenerife had flashed up on screen and five minutes later they had booked the trip. For the two of them. Without even thinking. Without really knowing what they were doing.

  ‘Elma…’ Sævar lay down on the sunlounger beside her and closed his eyes. His skin had turned the colour of coffee after only a couple of days. ‘Do I really need to answer that?’

  Elma smiled and laid her head back. The garden around the pool was crowded with families, pensioners and couples. From there, it was possible to walk straight down to the beach. They had wandered down there the first evening after drinking rather too many cocktails over dinner. Had sat down, gazing out to sea and digging their toes into the sand in the balmy darkness. Elma had never before experienced such a strong sensation of being in the middle of a waking dream.

  Sævar propped himself up on his elbow and shielded his eyes with his hand. ‘What about you? Feeling homesick?’

  Elma smiled. ‘Do I need to answer that?’

  After a few minutes she got up and went over to the pool. She was so hot that the sweat was pouring off her. She dipped one exploratory toe into the water, which felt shockingly cold after the heat, then sat down on the edge and prepared to lower her feet in by slow degrees. Next moment, she felt a hand on her back and gasped as she plunged headlong into the icy pool.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  When I was a little girl I loved reading above everything else. As I got older I started to write my own stories, but to get published was a distant dream. Thanks to many wonderful people, this dream has come true.

  Thank you to my husband for being my number-one fan and for regularly taking on a job as my psychologist.

  Thank you to Pétur and Bjarni at Veröld Publishing for believing in a young writer that nervously came in with an unpolished manuscript.

  Many thanks to my agent, David Headley, and everyone at DHH Literary Agency.

  Thanks a million to Karen Sullivan and Orenda Books for taking me in, making me feel welcome and being the biggest cheerleaders there are. You are amazing!

  Thank you to Victoria Cribb for your seamless translation and a great eye for spotting every detail.

  Finally, I am so thankful to those who read and enjoyed my debut novel, The Creak on the Stairs. To all the wonderful people who have messaged me about the book – your words truly brighten my day. Thank you!

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Born in Akranes in 1988, Eva Björg Ægisdóttir studied for an MSc in Globalisation in Norway before returning to Iceland and deciding to write a novel – something she had wanted to do since she won a short-story competition at the age of fifteen. After nine months combining her writing with work as a stewardess and caring for her children, Eva finished The Creak on the Stairs. It was published in 2018, and became a bestseller in Iceland. It also went on to win the Blackbird Award, a prize set up by Yrsa Sigurðardóttir and Ragnar Jónasson to encourage new Icelandic crime writers. It was published in English by Orenda Books in 2020.

  Eva lives in Reykjavík with her husband and three children and is currently working on her fourth book. Follow Eva on Instagram @evabjorg88 and Twitter @evaaegisdottir.

  ABOUT THE TRANSLATOR

  Victoria Cribb studied and worked in Reykjavík for a number of years and has translated more than thirty books by Icelandic authors, including Arnaldur Indriðason and Yrsa Sigurðardóttir. Her translation of CoDex 1962 by Sjón was long-listed for the Best Translated Book Award and the PEN America Translation Prize in 2019. In 2017 she received the Orðstír honorary translation award for services to Icelandic literature.

  By the Same Author

  The Forbidden Iceland Series

  The Creak on the Stairs

  Girls Who Lie

  Copyright

  Orenda Books

  16 Carson Road

  West Dulwich

  London SE21 8HU

  www.orendabooks.co.uk

  First published in the United Kingdom by Orenda Books, 2021

  First published in Iceland as Stelpur sem ljúga by Veröld Publishing, 2019

  Copyright © Eva Björg Ægisdóttir, 2019

  English translation copyright © Victoria Cribb, 2021

  Eva Björg Ægisdóttir has asserted her moral right to be identified as the author of this work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of the publishers.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

  Paperback ISBN 978–1–913193–73–7

  Hardback ISBN 978–1–913193–80–5

  eISBN 978–1–913193–74–4

  The publication of this translation has been made possible through the financial support of