‘Don’t you do anything at all to mark the occasion?’
She shook her head, then said: ‘Well, I did get a nice visit.’
‘I’d have brought you a present if I’d known.’
‘I don’t want any presents, thanks. Like I said, I never celebrate my birthday. I don’t really go in for Christmas either.’ She hesitated, then said: ‘It’s not exactly my favourite day, not any more.’
‘Any more?’
He had picked up on it, and now she knew she would have to tell him.
After a weighty silence, she said: ‘It’s linked to my dad.’
Thór nodded without speaking, as if he didn’t want to interrupt her story.
‘He was a doctor. Not in a hospital, though … not that kind of doctor. He wasn’t interested in people, in patients, just in research. His friends from medical school all became specialists and bought themselves big houses and four-wheel drives, but Dad always lived in the same house; he wasn’t interested in money. He was brilliant, absolutely brilliant at what he did, but all he wanted was to teach … Well, not even to teach, he couldn’t be bothered with that. Like I said, he wasn’t really interested in people.’
Again Thór nodded, but when Una showed no immediate signs of breaking the silence, he remarked: ‘You never wanted to study medicine yourself?’
‘Sure, I started a medical degree. Spent far too long on it. I waded through a ton of textbooks and put in a huge amount of effort but eventually I realized that I didn’t want to follow in his footsteps, I didn’t want to be a doctor. The other students couldn’t believe it when I dropped out. I haven’t stayed in touch with any of them.’
‘Oh, so I’m guessing you showed potential, then?’
‘Academically, yes. But I had no vocation. I became a teacher instead.’
‘Good for you, Una. You followed your heart.’
‘Dad was forty when he died,’ she continued, after a while. ‘I was only thirteen.’
She felt as if she had travelled back nearly twenty years, to their old family home, where she had grown up as the only child of loving parents.
‘God, that’s far too young,’ Thór said, with genuine kindness. ‘I’m so sorry to hear that, Una.’
‘He died today,’ she said, ‘on Christmas Eve. On my birthday.’ She felt a tear sliding down her cheek.
Thór moved a little closer and put a cautious arm around her shoulders. ‘That must have been tough. I mean … it must have been devastating.’
Una didn’t answer; she had to finish her story before she lost her nerve.
‘He killed himself,’ she said. Turning to Thór, she saw how taken aback he was.
‘On your birthday?’
She nodded.
‘Did you … was it you who found him?’
‘Yes. He was sitting at his desk, where he used to spend every evening, his medical books spread out in front of him, his green desk lamp lighting up the gloom, and everything covered in blood.’ Her voice threatened to give way and she broke off to compose herself. ‘I never entered the room again. Afterwards, we moved into a tiny flat, because Dad didn’t leave anything when he died except the mortgage on our house.’
‘But … why …?’ Thór left the question unfinished.
‘Why did he do it?’
He nodded.
‘I don’t know. Nobody does.’ She was silent, then said: ‘Why does anyone take their own life? On a day like that, too? Why would anyone want to kill himself on his daughter’s birthday … on Christmas Eve? You can’t imagine how often I’ve asked myself that, without finding any answers. He didn’t leave a note, just … all of a sudden he wasn’t there any more. The vicar they got me to talk to wanted to blame it on depression. An invisible illness, I remember him saying. You can’t see that people have it. Perhaps he was right – no, I’m sure he was right. But I blamed myself for years and thought it must be my fault somehow, because he chose that day, of all days, to do it.’
‘Of course it wasn’t your fault,’ Thór said.
He couldn’t possibly know, but she appreciated his saying it.
‘No, of course not, I know that now. But I didn’t then. Mum and I don’t talk about it any more, but I used to pester her with endless questions that she couldn’t answer. And then I started to wonder … later, when I grew up … I started to wonder …’
Thór didn’t say anything, just looked down at her face as he sat there with his arm around her.
She tried again: ‘I wondered if the same thing might happen to me, you know? That one day I might just sink into depression and … and decide to end it all. I thought it might be hereditary.’
There was complete silence in the house. Una found herself thinking about the girl who had sung to her in the night, who might be summoning Una to join her … in eternity.
‘I think that’s why I moved here, Thór; to break up the monotony of my life. I’d begun to worry about what was happening to me in Reykjavík. I was afraid I might get some crazy idea one day, when I was alone at home. I suppose that’s why I uprooted myself and came out here. But, to be honest, I don’t know if it was such a good idea.’
X
It was getting late.
Una had shed a few tears into her wine after telling Thór her story. He had listened so attentively, so earnestly. Underneath that slightly rough appearance, that shaggy beard, he had a kind heart.
She had drunk far more than she ought to, she was well aware of that, but it didn’t matter. Her behaviour was perfectly excusable, given that it was Christmas and her birthday too, and opening up the old wounds had been such a strain.
She knew it had done her good to tell someone about her father’s suicide. It was a long time since she’d spoken about it. Her mother had sent her to a therapist for a while in the aftermath and she had been forced to open up to him about what she had felt on that traumatic day; about her grief and feelings of rejection … But it hadn’t helped, not really.
She had been so taken up with her own problems that it hadn’t occurred to her until towards the end of the evening to ask Thór about himself, but by the time she eventually got round to taking an interest in his early life, her questions sounded superficial, and he quickly ended the conversation.
‘It’s late, Una.’ He smiled: ‘And the wine’s finished. Wow, did we really drink both bottles?’ He held one of them upside down over his glass to show that there wasn’t a drop left. We, he had said, though in truth she had drunk most of it.
‘Listen, Thór, why don’t you stay over? It’s so late, as you said, and, er …’ She was mortified to hear herself slurring. ‘And, er, I’m a bit scared all alone in this big house. The girl – she keeps me awake sometimes …’
Again he smiled, but he didn’t immediately answer.
‘You know, I think it would be best if you tried to ignore the ghost,’ he said at last, avoiding her question.
‘That’s easier said than done,’ Una replied, a quiver in her voice, though whether it was from fear of the nightmares or because she was waiting for his answer, she wasn’t sure.
There was an agonizing pause.
‘About tonight, Una … I think it’s best if I go home. For a number of reasons.’
She twisted her head to look up at him, but he wouldn’t meet her eye.
‘But this evening meant a lot to me. Honestly. It meant a lot to me.’
XI
New Year’s Eve dawned bitterly cold. Una had started the day with a walk down to the shore, where an icy wind had blown in from the sea, piercing her flesh to the bone. She would have given anything for some snow, even just a faint dusting; New Year was inextricably linked to snow in her childhood memories; to her father poking fireworks into drifts before lighting the fuses. This year she didn’t know if she’d get to see any fireworks at all. She hadn’t ordered any from the shop herself and didn’t know what the tradition was in the village.
Salka still hadn’t come home, but Una had learned from Gud
rún that Edda’s funeral was to take place on 2 January in the town of Egilsstadir, where most of their relatives lived. No one had said anything to Una about attending and, although it didn’t pay to mark yourself out as different in a place like this, she was reluctant to turn up to the funeral uninvited.
She had started spending more time downstairs, having grown bolder in Salka’s absence. It was several days since she had last slept in the attic. Instead, she had been sleeping on Salka’s sofa, making sure that she could easily remove all signs of her presence if her landlady came home unexpectedly. She felt guilty as if she was trespassing, because she hadn’t asked permission. And if Salka turned up in the middle of the night or early in the morning and found Una on the sofa, she had an excuse ready: she would claim it had been so cold in the attic that she had taken refuge downstairs, just this once.
At present she was sitting at the table in the downstairs kitchen, listening to the midday news on Salka’s radio. It was surprising how quickly she had got used to having this big house all to herself. Her lunch consisted of toast and a bottle of Coke – a bad habit, but she had always had a sweet tooth. Besides, her supply of booze had run out yet again and she had resolved to get through New Year without replenishing her stocks. Thór had invited her to dinner at the farm. Sadly, Hjördís would be there too, but with any luck they would have something to drink to welcome in the New Year.
The radio news generally went in one ear and out the other in a pleasant murmur, and she was sitting, half listening to the announcer’s deep tones reading the headlines, when she was brought up short by the first item of the main bulletin: ‘The police are appealing for help in finding a missing man, Patrekur Kristjánsson, who was last sighted in Reykjavík, three days before Christmas. Patrekur is thirty-three years old, with close-cropped hair, and is believed to be wearing a black leather jacket and jeans. Anyone who has seen Patrekur is asked to contact the Reykjavík police.’
Una was so taken aback that she shot out of her chair, seeing again the man who had appeared at Salka’s door three days before Christmas. Perhaps her mind was playing tricks on her – after all, she seemed to see apparitions in every corner these days – but the description matched. Of course, it could apply to any number of Icelanders, but she had such a clear memory of the man in the leather jacket.
She went straight to the phone in the hall, only to withdraw her hand at the last minute, realizing she didn’t know the number of the Reykjavík police. It was one of those supposedly easy to remember five-digit numbers, but she’d never had to call the police before. She would have to look it up in the directory, but, on second thoughts, she told herself it might be better to see a photo of the missing man before she made the call. It wouldn’t be a good idea to disturb the village during a holiday with a visit from the police, especially when she had no concrete information to report. What’s more, it occurred to her that if the police came in search of this Patrekur, the trail would end at the farm with Hjördís and Thór. The very last thing she wanted was to get them – or him, anyway – into trouble.
The police were bound to have published a photo of the missing man in the papers. She assumed they came out on New Year’s Eve, as it wasn’t a holiday; in fact, she had a clear memory of reading Morgunbladid at home in the old days on 31 December. And although today’s edition was unlikely to have reached the Co-op yet, no doubt it would turn up in the next few days.
Yes, it would be better to wait until she had seen his picture; better to be absolutely sure before doing anything drastic like involving the police.
XII
It was past one o’clock when Una nipped out to the Co-op to check if it was open. If anything, it was even colder than it had been that morning, and the wind was now gusting strongly. Her thick anorak provided little protection against the weather: just as well it was only a short step between the houses.
The shop was indeed open. The bell emitted its familiar jingle as Una stepped into the warmth. Gudrún looked up from her knitting and smiled at her.
‘Una, dear. Are you after something for your New Year’s Eve dinner?’
‘Hello,’ Una said cheerfully. In spite of Gudrún’s bossiness over the concert, she was one of the only friendly faces in the village, and Una was grateful for that. ‘I wasn’t expecting you to be here today.’
‘I’m always open until two on New Year’s Eve, as well as on Christmas Eve. There’s quite a … well, quite a holiday atmosphere, I always feel. Not much to do, but people often drop in for a chat and to buy last-minute things they’ve forgotten, like something for the gravy, or peas to have with dinner, that kind of thing.’
Una nodded. ‘Actually, I just wanted to see which newspapers you had.’
‘Oh? Any one in particular?’
‘Today’s Morgunbladid, if you have it.’
Gudrún laughed good-naturedly. ‘Today’s Morgunbladid ? No, dear, no chance of that. We never get the papers the day they come out and, what with it being a holiday tomorrow, I’m not expecting deliveries until the second of January at the earliest.’
‘Oh, OK. I thought as much, but I just wanted a quick look at it, just …’
‘Was it something urgent, dear?’
‘Well, I heard something on the lunchtime news. About a man who’s gone missing.’
‘Oh?’ Gudrún said, stretching out the sound, her gaze narrowing almost with suspicion. ‘Oh?’ she repeated. ‘Somebody you know?’
‘What? No, nothing like that,’ Una replied, wondering if she should tell Gudrún the truth, then decided that it couldn’t do any harm. ‘It’s just that the description reminded me of the man who knocked on our door shortly before Christmas. It was quite strange. Did you hear about him?’
Gudrún shook her head. ‘No, I didn’t hear anything about that.’
‘Well … Anyway, I wanted to see if there was a photo of him in the paper before I contacted the police.’
‘The police?’ Gudrún drew her brows together in a frown.
‘Yes, or, I thought … you know, the police might want to know … that he was here, I mean. If it was him.’
‘I find it very unlikely that it could have been him,’ Gudrún said, her tone dismissive. ‘What are the chances? I think you’re letting your imagination run away with you.’
‘I suppose you’re probably right,’ Una said, thinking about the ghostly girl. Perhaps her stay in this isolated place was having a peculiar effect on her mind, making her prey to delusions and diminishing her ability to think rationally.
She must be careful not to lose touch with reality.
‘Was there anything else?’ Gudrún asked, with a brusqueness that was unusual for her. She glanced at the clock on the wall. ‘I’m closing in a minute.’
‘But it’s only a quarter past one,’ Una muttered under her breath, then said more loudly: ‘No, there’s nothing I need … Not today.’
Gudrún nodded. ‘Not even another bottle of wine?’ she asked acidly, and Una shrank from the insinuation.
‘No wine today, thanks anyway.’ Una forced herself to smile. ‘But could you possibly do me a favour?’
Gudrún waited without speaking.
‘Could you keep back a copy of Morgunbladid for me when it arrives? Put one aside for me?’
‘Put a copy aside? Of course, Una dear, of course.’
XIII
There it was again: that song, the same tune, same lullaby.
And this time she could see her distinctly. It wasn’t Edda; it was the girl in the photo, wearing the same white dress, inside the house this time, standing there in the downstairs sitting room.
The girl paused in her song and a remote smile touched her lips, but her eyes were profoundly sad.
This time it wasn’t fear Una felt so much as an overpowering sense of curiosity. She wanted to speak to the child and ask what had happened and why she kept appearing like this.
The girl finished her lullaby and stood there, quite still, staring into space
, her eyes empty, then blinked once, and Una had a momentary confused impression that it might be Edda, but then the feeling passed. She had missed Edda’s funeral. No one had reminded her about it or asked if she was coming, though she assumed most of the villagers had gone along.
Una waited without daring to breathe, she didn’t know what for, unless it was for the girl to speak or move. Perhaps she would sing the lullaby again; perhaps she just wanted to draw attention to herself so she wouldn’t be forgotten … And then Una became aware of a mounting sense of dread, as if something ominous was brewing, something horrifying, that the girl couldn’t comprehend …
Her stare was so unrelenting that Una couldn’t take it any more.
She awoke with a gasp and opened her eyes to find herself wrapped in darkness. With part of her mind, she registered that she had kicked off the duvet. And then it came back to her that she was lying on the sofa downstairs. She hadn’t seen any need to leave the lights burning, as up to now she had been left in peace in Salka’s rooms, but now a paralysing fear prevented her from getting up to switch on a lamp. Far from reassuring herself that she was alone in the house, she was convinced it would only confirm that she wasn’t. The apparition hadn’t felt like a dream at all; the girl’s presence had been almost palpable. Una had been looking straight at her, though her eyes had been closed and she had been lying there in the limbo between sleep and waking. Yet, even through her fear, she was aware again of an overwhelming curiosity and knew instinctively that the girl didn’t wish her any harm.
After this unsettling experience, sleep was the last thing on her mind. She wasn’t sure she would be able to drop off again, even if she tried. Instead, she lay there, not moving a muscle, her heart thudding in her chest, until the cold got the better of her and she forced herself to reach down to the floor for the duvet, half-expecting someone to clutch at her hand. Snatching up the duvet, she spread it over herself again and waited for the warmth to steal back into her body.
She closed her eyes.
The Girl Who Died Page 13
