‘We’re coming.’ Because of how she felt, Katrín’s voice was hardly loud enough to carry between floors, but since there was no further sound from Líf, she must have heard her.
Garðar shone the torch along the entire length of the room, back and forth, until at last he seemed convinced that there was nothing there. Then he turned back to Katrín and made her walk ahead of him out of the room. He steered her down the hallway towards the stairs. ‘Go up. I’ll wait here in the meantime.’ Katrín didn’t have the energy to ask why he wanted to wait downstairs. ‘Hold onto the rail, because I need the light down here. I just want to make sure there’s no one here who could follow us up.’
He didn’t need to say anything more; Katrín hurried into the darkness above her. With one step to go, she got a strange feeling and slowed down. There was nothing to see but the shadowy, empty hallway. Of course she was just confused; nevertheless, she felt the hair rise on her arms as soon as she took the last step and entered the hallway itself. Before she realized what was happening, a door to the side of the landing swung forcefully open and the blow that landed on her knocked her backwards. She felt herself fall and the stairs disappeared beneath her feet.
Chapter 12
The storm had left Ísafjörður that night and continued north to the abandoned settlements in Jökulfirðir. Freyr could time when the storm had subsided almost to the minute; he hadn’t slept a wink, and at first the constant pounding on his bedroom window had helped to keep him calm until he stuck the headphones from his iPod in his ears and allowed the music to take over. It was quite clear to him that he was losing his grip on reality; in fact he already had, according to all the traditional definitions that he applied to his patients. He’d heard voices and seen things, had lost all connection to his real surroundings, as he’d always feared would happen. It was awful to think that he’d left Sara so that he wouldn’t end up like this, when perhaps it was inevitable after all. Perhaps he hadn’t split up with her in time; the seeds of mental illness had already managed to sprout roots when he packed into cardboard boxes the little that he took with him. In fact he wasn’t particularly surprised at this development; what surprised him more was how realistic unreality felt. Now he understood better all those patients who had sat before him and described the most extraordinary things without blinking, convinced that their fantasies were part of ordinary life. It was incredible, really. All his life he’d thought that people experienced these kinds of delusions like a high; they were like a hazy reality that would be easy to distinguish from what was considered normal, at least when they came back down. But this had proved not to be the case. He’d heard Benni’s voice in precisely the same way as he did the voices of his colleagues on ordinary workdays.
Nor were the visual hallucinations any less powerful. When he’d finally forced himself to look into the corridor the night before, he’d seen his son running away, in the same clothing as he’d worn on the day he disappeared, and exactly the same height. Although common sense told Freyr that this was impossible, he was convinced his eyes hadn’t deceived him. It was no use reminding himself that Benni was dead, there could be no doubt, and that even if he were still alive, he would have grown much taller in the three years that had passed since his disappearance. The best that Freyr could come up with was that it had been an entirely different child, a child with the same hair as his son’s and wearing the same kind of clothing. But he knew how absurd such a coincidence would be, and was confused by the way the boy had vanished. After a long chase, during which the boy had passed through one door after another, always well out of reach, he ran into the medical ward and vanished. When Freyr ran in panting, out of breath, no one there had seen anyone. Two nurses whom Freyr had nearly knocked over when he went around a corner had shaken their heads, unable to conceal their shock at Freyr’s appearance and his visible agitation. He was gasping for breath, his hair all messed up, and had difficulty explaining what was going on. It didn’t help that according to the roster, he was off duty and didn’t have any actual business being at the hospital that evening. When the glances exchanged by the nurses became uncomfortable, Freyr had excused himself and left. That was when he first became dimly aware that he was losing it. There had been no child there, let alone his long-dead son.
Now he was back at work again, standing in front of the mirror in the staff toilets. He pulled himself away from it and drew a deep breath. The glossy yellow wall tiles had always got on his nerves, but now he found the way they framed his haggard face particularly unbearable. His eyes were bloodshot and his face puffy after his sleepless night. In addition, before leaving for work he’d been too preoccupied about whether he’d lost his mind to remember to shave, so he was also sporting a dark six o’clock shadow. He was fairly certain that both patients and co-workers suspected he’d been drinking the night before. But there was nothing he could do about it except hope that the day would be gentle with him; he was perfectly used to working for forty-eight hours straight, so that held no fear. It was a lot better than lying at home and letting his mind wander in circles. Here he could concentrate on work, and while he did that there was no time to be chasing after hallucinations. However, one thought kept creeping into his head again and again, despite his pushing it aside just as quickly: his conscience gnawed at him. Of course he should let his boss know that he was worried about his own mental state. But Freyr knew how that would turn out; he would be sent home for a ten-day break to recover, which meant an increased workload for his colleagues. So it wasn’t just the idea of hanging around at home with his thoughts that made him shudder. However, he did resolve to go straight to his supervisor as soon as he thought he could no longer do his job and the safety of his patients was compromised.
But so far, there didn’t appear to be any danger of that. Things seemed to be going perfectly normally and he neither saw nor heard anything that might be considered unusual. However, this all led him back to the same conundrum: if he were suffering from a serious mental disturbance, he would be ill-equipped to judge what was normal. But despite all his specialized education in the field of psychiatry and his experience of helping those who had a confused sense of reality, he was convinced deep down that this was not the case. It couldn’t be. It simply mustn’t be. Freyr had paid particular attention to the nurse who’d gone on rounds with him, and she showed no sign of thinking that he was behaving unusually. To check, he’d deliberately made a ridiculous remark about a patient’s condition and felt relieved when the woman furrowed her brow and shot him an inquisitive look. It gave him hope that the events of yesterday evening had been an isolated occurrence and now all was right in his head again.
Now Freyr hurried to his office to see whether he could reach the doctor who was to perform the autopsy on Halla. He had already called twice that morning, but reached a switchboard operator who suggested he try later; the man was in the building but apparently not in his office. In the empty corridor he hesitated slightly. Then he carried on, determined not to see or hear any sort of nonsense. The annoying squeaking of his work shoes suddenly grew distinct. The linoleum floor was uncomfortably shiny. The fluorescent light continued to blink erratically, making loud clicks. He would have to remember to chase up the caretaker and remind him to change it. He was actually thankful for the damn bulb when he grabbed the doorknob to his office with a clammy hand. Focusing on such an ordinary object and its maintenance was enough to keep the image of his son running down the corridor from entering his head, as he’d feared it might.
Freyr shut the door behind him but then stopped at the recollection of how it had opened twice, apparently on its own. Of course it was possible that there was something wrong with it – loose hinges or a broken knob had caused it to open, which had then triggered the hallucinations that had just been waiting to appear after such prolonged mental strain and general fatigue. This all seemed very rational to him as he walked over to his desk with the door wide open behind him. Until the door slammed shut with a loud bang. An icy
chill passed over Freyr. He forced up some saliva, swallowed it and continued towards his desk as if nothing had happened. If the door were in need of maintenance, it could just as well shut on its own as open without warning. When he sat down he could only stare at the door, every nerve taut and every muscle tense, entirely prepared for his body to jerk if the door should open. But nothing happened. Without taking his eyes off the door he picked up the phone, dialled the switchboard and asked to be put through to the caretaker. He was relieved to hear his own voice sounding completely normal; he was in a bad enough state without his voice growing shrill as well.
The caretaker answered after six rings, just as Freyr was about to hang up. He was an older man, calm and easygoing. He seemed surprised when Freyr told him why he was calling and said that he’d changed the bulb that morning. It took Freyr a little while to convince the man that just a minute ago he’d watched it blink and in the end the caretaker reluctantly agreed to come and have a look. It didn’t help when Freyr asked whether he knew if there were anything wrong with the door to the corridor; if the building was crooked or something that could cause the door to open or close without warning. At first the man didn’t understand the question. Freyr added that his office door had a tendency to open or shut without anyone appearing to come near it. The caretaker said that as far as he knew the building was pretty robustly built and right-angled. He added that if the building leaned, Freyr’s door would either open or close, not both. Unless Freyr thought it was rocking from side to side?
Freyr said goodbye and hung up, his cheeks flushed, and turned to the next phone call. Although he knew that Dagný was probably waiting to hear from him regarding the files that she’d loaned him, he couldn’t imagine speaking to her with things as they were. He was even less keen on meeting her, considering his current appearance. He would see how he felt at the end of the day, and then call, if he felt confident enough. Instead he dialled the direct number of the doctor at the Research Clinic in Reykjavík, who answered on the first ring. He introduced himself and they exchanged a few pleasantries before turning to the matter in hand: Halla, waiting ice-cold on a hard steel bench for her autopsy.
‘It would actually be better if you could come down here.’ The doctor, who was called Karl, was obviously surprised that Freyr hadn’t seen any mention of the scars on Halla’s back in her full medical history. ‘Maybe they’re from self-inflicted wounds, and possibly they’re connected to her mental condition. I’m no specialist in that field and I’d welcome some assistance.’
‘The morning flight has gone, so I can’t come until around suppertime. Wouldn’t that be too late?’ Freyr felt an indescribable longing to get away for a bit. ‘I could spend the night, of course, and come to you first thing in the morning, if that’s more convenient for you.’
Karl thought for a moment but then said he preferred the second option. ‘We’re cutting back here, so the lab closes at five. We could always do the autopsy after hours, but I don’t particularly want to work for the government for free these days.’
It was different for Freyr. He wasn’t even planning on asking for his plane ticket to be reimbursed, in case it complicated things and lost him the opportunity to get a little break. He would pinch a day from his summer holidays instead if he needed his supervisor’s permission to go. ‘See you at eight tomorrow morning, then.’
‘I’d better roll Halla back into the fridge.’
The old man had taken a turn for the worse. This didn’t particularly surprise anyone, least of all him. The bags under his eyes were yellowish, and despite the fever that had settled into his body, his face was deathly pale. Even his cough couldn’t inject colour into his cheeks; all the weak rattle did was interfere with what he was trying to say. ‘Sorry.’ He raised a bony hand to his nose and mouth and used a handkerchief to wipe a drop of saliva from his bluish lower lip. ‘I remember these kids well; I taught their class the year after the photo was taken. Their class teacher was in an accident and I filled the position, since my previous class had gone on to secondary school in the spring.’ He placed the photo in his lap and leaned back on his pillow. The hospital bed was in the upright position, meaning he was sitting up rather than lying down. ‘There was a lot of speculation as to why the vandal chose this photo in particular. There were others hanging on the same wall, but he left all of them alone.’
‘Did the children he picked out have something in common? The ones he defaced?’ Freyr had brought the list with him and read out the names. ‘Were they particular friends, a clique or anything like that?’
‘We never knew that directly. At playtime it didn’t look as if they’d formed a special group, although they were all good friends. Most of them had one specific friend, boy or girl, a kind of best friend. Of course, that sort of friendship you notice; kids who always want to sit next to each other and who stick together like glue outside class. In other respects we didn’t know much about their social lives. There was more discipline in those days and the school tried to teach the poor things as much as possible in the shortest amount of time. There wasn’t this emphasis on life skills or whatever it’s called that’s taken over education these days. They’d probably formed a group outside school but we teachers generally had our hands full with our own children, without having to worry about the others outside the school grounds. That was their parents’ job.’
Freyr nodded. ‘Do you think that any of these children are still living in Ísafjörður, or nearby? I’m particularly interested in speaking to Lárus Helgason.’ He decided not to mention that of those whose picture had been subjected to the vandal’s wrath, Helgason was the only one still alive. He probably had information up his sleeve that he hadn’t previously shared.
The old man pondered this for a moment. ‘As far as I know, he moved away from Ísafjörður long ago. He went south as a young man to study auto engineering and never returned. But I could well be remembering incorrectly.’
‘I’ll probably find him in the phone book.’ Freyr smiled at the man. ‘Do you remember Halla at all? She was in this class, but she lived all her adult life in Flateyri.’
Again the old man had to think for a moment before answering. ‘Sure, sure. A chubby little dark-haired girl. Quite a rascal, as I recall.’ He looked at Freyr. ‘Her father was a drunk. Treated her mother and the kids badly. The girl coped incredibly well, given the circumstances. She was sharp, though you wouldn’t say clever, exactly. Fortunately, none of his offspring inherited the sins of the father. Each of them was more good-tempered than the last.’
‘That’s a blessing.’ From what the old man was saying, Halla’s father might well have suffered from an untreated psychiatric disorder. In those situations it wasn’t unusual for people to turn to the bottle. If this were the case, there was an increased likelihood that Halla had struggled with psychological difficulties, despite her managing to hide the symptoms from her family members. ‘There have been some pretty bad alcoholics round here over the years. But it’s growing less and less common, I think. People are more aware of the dangers of alcohol than they were in those days.’ The old man picked up the photo again. ‘The father of this little chap here had a great deal of trouble with alcohol. Loathsome man.’
Freyr looked at the photo and saw that the man’s crooked finger pointed at the ragged boy standing just outside the group, at the end of the middle row. ‘Did he turn out okay, the poor kid?’
‘Bernódus? No, I can’t say he did. A terrible business.’
Freyr’s mouth suddenly went so dry that he was tempted to drink the glass of water that undoubtedly held the old man’s dentures at night. ‘Did you say Bernódus?’
‘Yes, that was his name, poor thing. He wasn’t in the class when I took over, so I never taught him, but I remember his name well. You don’t easily forget someone who ends up like that.’
‘Did he turn out to be a drunk, too?’ The old man put down the photo and Freyr took it. The boy’s eyes stared back at him from the
poor copy; it looked as if the photocopier had taken particular care with his face. Bernódus.
‘No, no. It didn’t ever get that far. He disappeared.’ The old man coughed again. ‘Without a trace.’
Chapter 13
The storm had subsided but had left the house damp, making the cold unbearable. It had proved impossible for Líf to force herself into a fourth jumper, though she had struggled for some time to make it fit over the other three. She was restless and complained bitterly that she couldn’t stand the itching from the wiry threads that managed to poke through from her woolly socks to her cotton ones. Of the two evils she still felt it better to scratch than to freeze to death, so she settled for the itchiness and simply scratched herself more often with an old knitting needle that Garðar had found between two loose floorboards. Katrín found it difficult to witness Líf’s nervous agitation, as she herself shivered and shook on her kitchen stool; she couldn’t work out whether it was from the cold or the shock she’d suffered the night before. She was bruised all over from the fall, but considering how much worse it could have been, she wasn’t complaining.
It was impossible for her to recall how she’d fallen; which part of her body was hammered by which step and when it was that she’d hit her head so hard that she lost consciousness. Most likely it had occurred immediately after she lost her balance, judging by how little she remembered of the fall and Garðar’s description of how she’d tumbled down like a rag doll. According to him, what had saved her was how flexible her body had been as she tumbled. After Katrín regained consciousness she lay at the bottom of the stairs and stared bewildered at the worried faces of Garðar and Líf. But before she opened her eyes, what they were saying had managed to slip through the fog in her head, which cleared quickly, and she thought their words were probably the reason why she’d taken the accident so well. Líf had thought that she was dead, and in her peculiar state of mind Katrín had thought so too, and felt sadness at her own demise wash over her. When Garðar said that he had found a pulse, an incredible sense of relief washed over Katrín and nothing else mattered any longer, neither pain nor the headache from which she was still suffering, although she’d more or less managed to get used to it.
I Remember You Page 14
