I Remember You

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  ‘There’s nothing wrong with the locks, either on the front or the back door. No one’s getting in here unless they force them open.’ Garðar didn’t sound particularly convincing. However, there was more determination in his voice when he went on: ‘And that strange child isn’t going to turn up here. I don’t know where the hell he went, but if he didn’t go into one of the houses then I’d say he’s on the verge of perishing in the storm.’

  ‘Don’t say that!’ Katrín hadn’t yet been able to form an opinion about the child’s presence in this deserted place, but she hoped that he was in the company of adults. Although she’d only seen him from a distance, and for a short time, she knew children well enough from teaching them to realize that this particular one wasn’t in his right mind. The thought that a mentally ill child had somehow made his way to the abandoned village, and was now out wandering alone in the storm, was deeply disturbing. ‘Is there definitely no point in searching for him?’

  ‘Are you sure it’s a boy? I’m not sure, and I chased the kid for a long time.’ Garðar yawned. ‘But whether it’s a girl or a boy, there’s absolutely no way I’m going out into this weather to look for them. The child doesn’t want anything to do with us, and he or she will be able to get in somewhere if it’s cold enough. They’d have to be a total wimp if they couldn’t manage to tear a board off a window somewhere.’

  Líf had stuck her head back down in the sleeping bag and had to raise her voice in order to be heard. ‘Don’t even think of feeling sorry for this child, Katrín. I don’t care whether you’re a teacher or not; that is not a viable option.’

  Sometimes life could be simplified by rules and regulations, and this was one such example. Katrín listened to what Líf was saying and suppressed the waves of emotion that rose and fell inside her, as though she were riding on a boat. Now Líf only had to ban her from being afraid and Katrín would be just fine. She shut her eyes and for the first time since they had lain down she thought she might be able to fall asleep.

  But then Putti started and gave a low growl. Katrín’s toes quivered along with the dog’s chest. She couldn’t resist the urge to sit up, even though it was dark and she didn’t want to see a single thing. ‘Why is he growling? Did you hear anything?’

  Líf sunk herself deeper into her sleeping bag, emitting a low cry that the down filling muffled even further. Garðar sighed. ‘This dog is hopeless. He’s just growling because he wants something to eat. Or needs to pee. He’s never needed to hear anything to make noise.’ In Putti’s defence, the wooden floor on the lower storey was creaking loudly. They’d all got to know this noise, which came from loose boards in the kitchen. Now Garðar reacted and sat up next to Katrín. ‘What the hell . . .?’ Again Líf cried out inside her sleeping bag.

  Katrín gripped Garðar’s upper arm tightly. ‘Could the wood in the house be contracting because of the weather?’ She could hear how shrill her voice sounded, but she couldn’t care less. ‘We’d have heard if someone had come in. Wouldn’t we?’

  Garðar answered neither question directly. ‘Where’s the torch?’ He felt around on the floorboards next to the mattress and found what he was looking for. ‘This is absolutely . . .’ He wriggled out of his sleeping bag and looked around for his clothes. ‘I’m going to take a look downstairs. It’s probably nothing, and I can add some wood to the stove at the same time. I can’t guarantee the temperature up here tonight if the weather continues like this.’ From the sound of it, he seemed to be having a few problems putting on something over his thick pyjamas. Putti’s growl had turned into a pitiful whine, as if he felt as unhappy about Garðar’s plan as Katrín did. Líf, however, was silent and motionless in her sleeping bag, so still that it was as if she’d lost consciousness. Katrín longed to follow her example, dig herself further into her own sleeping bag, squeeze her eyes shut and count down the minutes remaining of the night. But she couldn’t bring herself to do so. The thought of lying in the darkness and having only Líf and Putti to rely on if Garðar didn’t return was far more intolerable than going down with him and maybe running the risk of meeting the child. And what could happen, actually? Children had never made her feel uncomfortable before now, and it was pointless to give in to this kind of hysteria. So she stood up, pushing Putti to his feet at the same time. He stopped whining, so only his breathless panting could be heard.

  ‘Would you mind turning on the torch? I can’t find my jumper.’ She was pleased to hear how calm she sounded. ‘I can help with the stove.’ The floor was ice-cold under her bare soles.

  Garðar didn’t protest, clearly happy with the company. A bright beam of torchlight lit up the room and it took them a few moments to accustom their eyes to the dazzle. Katrín threw on her jumper and slippers and once she’d escaped the iciness beneath her feet and could finally see something, her courage grew and she felt bold enough to go downstairs. ‘I’m ready.’ Putti moved right up to her and rubbed his side against her legs. This was his way of indicating that he too was ready. She looked at the oblong hump on the floor. ‘You wait here, Líf; we’ll just be a moment and we have a torch, so nothing will happen.’ How a torch, even a powerful one, was supposed to protect them against all misfortune was unclear, but Líf neither said anything nor gave any indication whatsoever that she’d heard Katrín. So Katrín just shrugged and followed Garðar to the landing.

  Even with the torch on they had to inch their way carefully down the steep staircase to ground level. It would be easy to hurt oneself very badly on these steps. The beam from the torch seemed less powerful here than it had in the narrow room upstairs. The conical light created long shadows that swayed in rhythm with Garðar’s rapid hand movements. It was as if everything were in motion and Katrín stayed close behind Garðar in order to lessen the discomfort she was feeling. ‘There’s no one here.’ Garðar stopped in the living room doorway. The beam was reflected in the window opposite. He was briefly blinded by the glare and had to cover his eyes. ‘I’m going to check on the front and back doors, but it was obviously just the weather.’ He pulled Katrín up next to him so she could see for herself that there was no one in the living room, but he was careful not to point the torch at the window again. ‘This is getting ridiculous.’ Having dwindled as they came downstairs, the storm whipped itself up once more. The house creaked and Katrín instinctively wrapped her long jumper tighter around herself.

  ‘Let’s check the doors and then throw some wood in the stove. I’m freezing; I can’t wait to go back up again.’ She looked down at Putti, who seemed to tremble as he stood between them with his tail between his legs. ‘See Putti? Poor thing – he looks like he’s about to croak.’

  Garðar looked at the dog and his scowl became even more exaggerated in the strange light of the torch. More than anything he resembled an actor in a silent movie, interpreting a very surprised man. ‘He looks more scared than cold, to me.’ Garðar reached down to pat Putti on the head. The dog cowered, avoiding his touch. ‘Yes, he’s terrified.’ Garðar stood up straight. ‘He’s not used to this weather, poor little thing. Back home we’ve never seen him freak out, have we, on the rare occasions that it gets stormy?’

  Katrín hoped that he was right, that Putti was just frightened by the intensity of the storm. The other possibility was that he sensed the presence of an unfamiliar person, which she found a far more disturbing thought. ‘Maybe he needs the toilet.’ She wanted to add her own down-to-earth explanation, just for a change.

  ‘He’s out of luck, then.’ Garðar pointed the beam at the floor, illuminating the way to the front door. ‘He’s not going out in this weather, so you can blame me if he pisses in here.’ He walked away slowly. They had stacked all sorts of building materials along the walls in the hallway and Garðar took some time to check in all the places where a child might conceal itself. Because of this it took quite a while to cover the short distance, but Katrín felt a sense of relief every time it turned out that there was nothing hidden behind the stuff. She cheered up
even more when they got all the way to the door, which turned out to be locked. ‘You see? I told you.’ Garðar tugged at the doorknob to reassure himself that it was secure. Then he let go, and pointed the torch at the floor. ‘What the hell?’ He was standing in a puddle. ‘Did the damn dog piss on the floor?’

  Putti had stayed right up close to Katrín the entire time, shadowing her almost as if they shared one body. ‘He hasn’t left my side; that’s not his doing.’

  Garðar squatted down and aimed the torch at the puddle. ‘No, it’s just water.’ He shone the torch along the floor of the hallway leading to the kitchen. More puddles were reflected in the light. Garðar stood up so quickly that Katrín barely managed to move aside. ‘Jesus.’ His voice was a whisper now, and Katrín’s heart began pounding in her chest like never before. Putti sensed that something was wrong and whined again.

  ‘What?’ Katrín whispered back. She desperately longed to shut her eyes, throw her arms around Garðar and let him guide her, preferably upstairs and all the way into her sleeping bag. They had heard nothing from Líf and she envied her terribly for not being downstairs with them. Now it appeared that the other option had been better: to hide in the sleeping bag, let Garðar deal with this and hope for the best.

  ‘These are footprints. Someone’s come in.’ Garðar changed the torch’s setting, dulling the light. ‘They lead into the kitchen.’ This last thing he said in such a low voice that Katrín barely managed to make out the words.

  ‘Let’s go upstairs.’ She tugged at Garðar, although she knew full well that he would never listen, since there was no sense in going back upstairs if some stranger were there downstairs. It wouldn’t stop that person from visiting them upstairs if he so desired. ‘What should we do if there’s someone there?’

  Garðar would probably have replied if the same noisy plank in the kitchen floor hadn’t creaked again. Katrín was so startled that she lost her breath and hid her face in Garðar’s fleece. She felt the tension in every single muscle in his back and how his heart was beating just as fast as hers. ‘Who’s there?’ Garðar’s voice sounded deep and confident, despite everything. ‘Will you please show yourself? We can provide you with shelter, but we don’t want you here if you don’t let us know who you are.’

  No reply. The silence in the hallway seemed heavy and dense, as if they were at the bottom of a deep hole. Nevertheless, Katrín wanted to cover her ears; if she heard another creak she would scream with every fibre of her being. Suddenly the silence was broken, but the sound came from an entirely different direction. Líf had heard Garðar and had started to wail something incomprehensible, most likely ordering them to get back upstairs to her. Her shouts broke the trance that had been slowly paralysing them and Garðar headed into the hallway. ‘Will you please come out?’ As before, no one replied.

  ‘What if he has a knife?’ Katrín whispered in Garðar’s ear as she stood close behind him, holding onto him tightly. It was either follow him or fall behind, and under no circumstances did she want to be left standing alone in the darkness. ‘We left both the bread knife and the meat knife lying there on the table.’

  Garðar was silent and took a few determined steps forward. When he suddenly stopped, Katrín realized that they were now standing in front of the kitchen door. She wondered whether she should open her eyes or keep them closed. Yet another creak in the floor, from a distinct direction, helped her decide and she squeezed her eyes shut even tighter. The sound came from the kitchen and the only thing separating them and what caused it was the old, worn-out door. Maybe the person was drawing closer, brandishing two knives. Katrín had to force herself to breathe, so much did this thought unsettle her. Putti growled, quietly but angrily. ‘Don’t open it.’ She couldn’t bring herself to stretch to speak into Garðar’s ear, but instead spoke directly into the nubby texture of his fleece. Her words didn’t have the intended result, because she felt his right arm move in the direction of the door. The floor creaked again, but this time the drawn-out, unbearable sound stopped almost mid-creak as the doorknob and the hinges squeaked.

  At first Garðar said nothing and Katrín didn’t dare open her mouth to ask what he could see. Then he took two steps forward and she felt the threshold beneath her feet. ‘What the hell is going on?’ Garðar seemed both surprised and angry. But not afraid.

  ‘What?’ Katrín could barely sigh this word. She absolutely did not want to hear the answer, but asked anyway. Maybe the unwelcome visitor had stabbed himself with the knife, since Garðar sounded somewhat relieved.

  ‘There’s no one here.’ Garðar walked so quickly into the kitchen that Katrín lost her grip on him and was left behind on the threshold. She opened her eyes and saw him pulling open the only cupboard that could possibly conceal a person, but it turned out to hold nothing but a broom, which fell out towards him. Next he checked the window, but it was closed and latched from the inside. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ He turned to her. ‘Didn’t you hear the creak before I opened the door? Someone was in here.’

  ‘Yes.’ Katrín wrapped her arms around her body to protect herself from the cold that she now felt more intensely, deprived as she was of Garðar’s warmth. Incredulous, she tried to understand the situation. She walked into the kitchen to take a better look, and was aware that Putti wasn’t following her. He stood on the threshold, small and pitiful. He was trembling and his short brown fur quivered. She bent down to him and tried to get him to come over, but the dog wouldn’t budge. Katrín stood up and turned back to Garðar. Putti would recover as soon as they went back upstairs. ‘Could it have been a rat?’

  ‘More like a big, fat person. The floor wouldn’t creak under such a small animal. Even Putti walks around here completely silently, and although he’s not exactly big, I’d like to see a rat his size.’ Nonetheless, Garðar opened the few drawers in the sparse kitchen fittings and shone the torch into each of them. ‘And in any case, I don’t know where one might hide.’ He bent down on one knee and shone the light beneath the cupboard, the stove, and along the entire floor. It gleamed on the same kind of puddles as in the hallway. ‘Nothing here.’ The torch beam stopped at the back wall of the kitchen. ‘What’s that?’ He stood up and walked closer. ‘This wasn’t like this before. Was it?’

  Katrín went over to him and stared at the black spot on the floor, which had grown larger. ‘Is this damp? Maybe that’s the explanation for these puddles. It might just be coincidence that they look like footprints.’ Garðar knelt back down and shone the light over the edge of the stain. ‘It looks like mould.’ He stood back up. ‘It looks more green than black to me. But I’m no damp specialist. Maybe it comes in all sorts of colours.’ He sniffed the air. ‘But there’s no mouldy smell here. It smells more like the sea.’

  Now it was Katrín’s turn to bend down and examine the watery footprints on the floor. She inhaled carefully through her nose, perceiving a smell that reminded her of the beach. ‘The puddles smell of the sea too, Garðar. It’s probably seawater. That doesn’t leak into a house.’

  Garðar came over to her and sniffed one of the puddles. Not stopping there, he stuck his finger into it and tasted the water before Katrín had a chance to stop him. Then he spat on the floor and pushed Putti away when the dog looked as if it was going to lick up what he’d spat out. ‘It’s seawater.’ The torchlight moved up and down as he stood upright once more. ‘I don’t get this; someone must have come in here. I just don’t understand how.’

  Katrín was so uncomfortable looking at the wet footprints that she glanced up from the floor and stared at the kitchen table where they’d had hot cocoa before going to bed. A brown ring from Líf’s cup, where the cocoa had splashed out, was still there. But there were other things on the table too: a newspaper that, on closer inspection, appeared to be covering something. ‘Garðar.’ Katrín was rigid with fear, and quite proud of herself for being able to speak at all. ‘Garðar,’ she repeated. ‘Why are the crosses in here again?’

  Befor
e he could answer, the sound of a chunk of wood falling in the stove startled them. Garðar’s unsteady hand immediately aimed the torch at the stove and now the wavering beam illuminated the cinder-coloured steel. Katrín was thankful that neither of them had a weak heart and imagined that even if Einar had been alive, he would have suffered heart palpitations that would have led to his death right then and there. ‘Jesus, what a shock.’ Katrín sighed heavily, then gasped when a scruffy old ball Líf had brought along for Putti came rolling slowly out from under the stove. She threw herself back into Garðar’s arms. Through his fleece she once again felt his heart hammering just as fast as her own. ‘Is there something under there?’ She noticed that Putti had retreated into a corner, where he stared at the toy and gave a low growl. Generally the ball made him happy.

  ‘The floor just shook a bit when the wood in the stove shifted.’ Garðar had rarely sounded so unconvincing. ‘You’ll have to let go of me if you want me to look under the stove. Just to be sure. Nothing living could be under there; it’s too hot.’ Katrín did as he suggested, though she had to push herself to free her clenched fingers. Garðar’s head nearly touched the floor as he bent down on his hands and knees to see under the stove. ‘There’s nothing there. Actually, that’s strange – the floor seems to tilt backwards under there, not forwards.’ He stood up and wiped his palms on his trousers.

  ‘I have to go upstairs.’ Katrín’s voice trembled. ‘I can’t take any more.’ She called to Putti in a croaky voice. He came over to them but seemed cautious, which was unlike him. ‘Please, come on.’ Garðar opened his mouth to say something but decided against it. He probably had no great desire to stay there any longer than her. They could hear Líf calling to them from upstairs, wanting to know what was going on.