I Remember You

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  ‘I saw the boy.’ Katrín remained stony faced. She was risking nothing by admitting it now; Garðar wasn’t about to go all the way back to the factory with things as they were. ‘I didn’t hear anything; I was just startled and jumped away. He was in there.’

  Garðar’s expression suggested that he needed a moment to digest this. ‘He was in the ruins?’ He took a deep breath. ‘Are you saying that he’s staying there, that he lives there?’

  ‘I’m not saying anything other than that I saw him. Or about as well as we see him in general. He was standing hunched over, far back in the darkness.’ Katrín rubbed her knee; it had started to stiffen because of the unnatural position of her foot, which she tried to keep continually protected, even while sitting down. ‘Who knows, maybe he pushed the wall down somehow, but he certainly wasn’t anywhere near it.’

  ‘We’ve got to get out of here.’ Líf’s voice grew louder with every word. ‘Let’s go, like I suggested. I’m not staying here tonight.’ She stood up and Putti stirred at the screech of the chair as it was dragged across the floor. He lifted his head, looked at his owner and then went back to sleep, apparently accustomed to such disturbances.

  ‘You can see I’m not going anywhere on foot, Líf.’ Katrín moved her foot carefully and the pain shot up through her leg so forcefully that she winced. Of course this looked like a theatrical performance, but she felt so bad that she didn’t care what Líf thought. ‘Maybe you want me to stay behind and wait while you go to get help?’ She spoke through clenched teeth, her leg still burning.

  ‘Stop bickering.’ Garðar walked off towards the door. ‘You can argue as much as you want after I’m gone, but I’m in no mood to listen to this. I don’t want to waste any more time.’ He turned back towards them in the doorway. ‘I’m going – you wait here. It’s not safe for you to be here alone, Kata.’ He didn’t wait for an answer but left the room with a resolute expression, without turning around again. He’d hardly gone out of the door when Katrín made a snap decision that she knew she’d regret, yet also knew was right. ‘Go with him, Líf. I’ll be okay. Just hurry.’

  The torch flickered again. At that Líf decided she didn’t need to be told twice, sprang to her feet and ran after Garðar. She turned around in the doorway, went back to Katrín and gave her a big kiss on the cheek. ‘Sorry. I’d forgotten about your foot when I suggested we get out of here. I didn’t mean that you would have to stay behind. This situation is just driving me crazy and I’m dying for a cigarette.’ She smiled at Katrín, who tried to smile back, although it came out awkwardly because of the pain, which seemed to be getting worse. ‘Putti will look after you.’ Líf ran out so as not to lose Garðar, who could be heard putting his coat on noisily in the dark front entrance. Katrín remained behind with Putti, who had opened his eyes to watch Líf leave the room. He closed his eyes again after the front door shut, at approximately the same moment as the torch went out.

  The heavy, slow breathing of the sleeping dog granted Katrín little peace of mind. The torch refused to turn on again, despite her repeated attempts. The bulb had lit once but the light was barely noticeable and lasted only a few seconds. Time passed slowly and Katrín was painfully aware that under these circumstances each minute would feel like ten or a hundred or even a thousand. If she’d been out having dinner, in good company, the same amount of time would have gone by in a flash, but now she passed the time by repeatedly counting up to sixty, keeping track of every minute that passed. But she kept speeding up the count, ruining her timekeeping.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be back any minute now, Putti.’ Her voice sounded silly to her in the silence and emptiness. Yet it was better listening to herself than to no one. ‘Don’t you think so?’ The dog didn’t make a sound in response, and judging by his breathing he hadn’t even woken. Katrín considered stretching out her uninjured foot and wiggling it a bit, but stopped for fear that the movement would somehow jar the injured one. Still, she desperately wanted to wake Putti; she found it a bit unfair that he was lost in his dreams. She might just as well be alone. Besides, he was a good monitor of the environment; his senses were better adjusted and more powerful than hers. If he were on guard and didn’t utter so much as a growl she could relax in the knowledge that everything was all right. Now it would take an entire boys’ choir to burst in and start singing to disturb him, since he was unused to long treks through heavy snow. Katrín hadn’t even finished this thought before Putti’s breathing changed and he gave a curt bark. What had she been thinking? It was much worse to have the dog awake and imagine terrible things at each noise that emerged from his throat. The bark seemed to hang in the air long after the dog had fallen silent again, and Katrín fought the temptation to cover her ears. When it came down to it, she wanted to hear it if there was anything to hear, not wait unknowingly for something bad to happen. Although she wasn’t in a fit state to be any kind of action hero, she was fairly sure she could defend herself if necessary.

  A soft rustling noise reached her ears, followed by a vague creak. Katrín was startled when she realized it seemed to come from inside the house. Putti growled softly and then barked, now at full force. ‘Hush!’ If the dog continued, she wouldn’t be able to hear anything but his noise, nor would she be able to determine where the sound came from when and if it came again. The dog barked again, now much more quietly, before falling silent. Katrín listened carefully and then wrinkled her nose when she smelled an unpleasant odour, like rotting fish. Suddenly she felt as if someone were standing behind her. Again she heard a creak and the noise repeated itself almost immediately, as if someone were shuffling his feet on the rotten floorboards. Katrín swivelled very slowly towards the sound, certain that out of the corner of her eye she would see the expected figure standing behind her chair. But there was nothing to be seen in the darkness. She focused on the place she felt most likely, prepared for any movement. But when the creak came again she wasn’t aware of any and realized she’d miscalculated where it had come from. It hadn’t originated inside, but rather outside on the porch, and she turned her head slightly to the right to look out of the window.

  Katrín’s heart stopped, only to start again so violently that her chest heaved. Although the darkness was black and thick as soot, her eyes had grown sufficiently accustomed to it for her to see a pale hand up against the glass, its fingers spread as if expecting a pen to draw the hand’s outline on the pane. The short, skinny fingers suggested it was the hand of a child, and although it was difficult to distinguish colours, the fingertips were clearly darkened. The colour was unpleasant in some indefinable way that didn’t seem related to simple dirt; she felt it was something different, and worse. Putti also appeared to have spotted the hand on the glass and he whined piteously. Katrín tried to breathe normally but her breaths felt too deep, and the air wouldn’t leave her lungs when she tried to expel it. The disgusting smell of fish offal had intensified and she felt sick, then sicker still when she heard the owner of the hand start to mutter something outside. She wanted to cover her ears, shut her eyes and start counting down the seconds again until one of two things happened: either Garðar and Líf returned, or a cold little hand tore her back to full consciousness. But then she thought she could distinguish the words:

  ‘Run, Kata, run.’ She gave in, clapped her hands over her ears and shut her eyes. She didn’t want to know what awaited her.

  Chapter 24

  The moon peeked briefly through the bank of dark grey cloud that would soon fill the night sky. As it did so, the leafless shrubs in the hospital grounds appeared once more – but even they wouldn’t be visible for long. Snow was falling, covering everything, which for Freyr meant that there was little to see after staring for nearly an hour through his office window. He’d dragged his chair there and sat with his phone in his lap without knowing who he imagined he could call if he decided he wanted to get things off his chest. He was little nearer to figuring anything out after his conversation with Úrsúla, who’d with
drawn into her shell after opening up to him and hinting at things that might possibly explain what was going on and free him from his psychological torment. But instead of telling him more of what she knew – or thought she knew – she was now lying sedated in a hospital bed. Considering her condition when he left her room, it was unlikely that he would be able to get much out of her the next day; even worse, in the light of her medical history, she could quite easily not say a word for several years to come. What did she mean by saying that Bernódus, who disappeared half a century ago, wanted him to find Benni?

  To make matters worse, he’d called Halla’s husband to ask about the scars on her back and hadn’t received the answer he was hoping for. Everywhere he looked there seemed to be dead ends. The man had been flabbergasted, though Freyr had only got as far as mentioning the word ‘scars’, and was angry at being called so late in the evening with what he seemed to consider a trivial question. Freyr had managed to apologize humbly enough for the man to calm down and answer his questions, though his replies hadn’t been particularly informative. The only thing that was clear from the phone call was that Halla had kept her injuries secret from her husband, telling him that it was eczema when he asked about a little spot of blood on her nightdress or the bed. He said the skin condition had first appeared a few years ago, though he couldn’t be any more specific than that. Freyr said nothing, but reckoned that it had been three years ago; it must have been at least that, given everything else he knew. Freyr didn’t want to arouse the man’s suspicions too much so was cautious with his questions. But he did find out for certain that Halla hadn’t suffered from eczema until after her back had been injured, and that it was worst in the mornings, after restless nights. The man hadn’t known how bad it had been; she’d always hidden her back from him, which he’d found very vain. Freyr said goodbye to him without mentioning anything about crosses or the doomed group of friends, feeling that the widower should be allowed to bury his wife in peace, but he did ask him how he was doing and was told that he felt awful, but was getting better. His daughter was looking after him and his sons were prepared to help as well.

  After hanging up, Freyr could do little but scratch his head. So it seemed Halla must have inflicted the wounds on herself during the night, according to her husband’s description. This pretty much ruled out the idea of anyone else having been involved; the man would have been aware of any nocturnal activity. But Freyr also felt certain that the husband hadn’t had anything to do with it. He had been so convincing that anything else was unthinkable. The low voice of insanity that crept up and muttered in his ear when he let his guard down whispered that neither the woman herself nor any other living person had caused the wounds. They had been caused by other powers, worse ones. As Freyr agonised over these confused thoughts, another idea formed in his head: could Halla have made the wounds on her back without realizing it? They would have had to be caused either by her scratching in the night or without any external contact whatsoever, subconsciously; Freyr had heard of such things but had never really believed them. Stories about wounds of this sort mainly concerned people who claimed to have received so-called stigmata, wounds in their palms and on their soles as if from a crucifixion. No one had ever proved that people could make such wounds appear through the power of thought alone, although theories did exist for the phenomenon. It was a crazy idea, yet not as strange as that of some entity from beyond having inflicted the wounds on Halla’s back.

  The office phone rang. On the line was the nurse he’d dropped in to see on the way up to his office, in the hope that the old teacher was awake and in a good enough condition to speak to Freyr. He hadn’t been, but she’d promised to let him know if he woke; he had a tendency to lie awake at night. She told him that the man was now sitting up and was even excited at the prospect of seeing Freyr, happy to have a visitor to help fill his sleepless night. As Freyr jumped to his feet he wondered what would have happened if she hadn’t called. He probably would have stared out of the window until the morning shift staff drove their cars into the car park, then gone to work for yet another day with bags under his bloodshot eyes. Which was of course still a possibility; it wasn’t at all clear whether he’d be able to sleep despite his overwhelming fatigue, which intensified by the hour. Hopefully he would feel the desire to go to sleep in his own bed at home after speaking to the old man.

  He hesitated when he opened the door to the corridor. He was met by the familiar blinking and popping of the fluorescent light, despite the fact that the bulb had been replaced. The light fitting itself must be broken, and he determined to speak to the caretaker despite the man’s undoubted opinion that Freyr was a compulsive complainer, and an extremely odd one at that. He took a deep breath, thinking of the vision that had plagued him here a short time ago. Now, when he was overcome by tiredness, was when he could expect all sorts of nonsense to enter his head. Freyr gathered himself and went out, feeling a surge of relief when he saw only the linoleum floor and white walls. Nonetheless he got goose bumps as he walked down the corridor, unable to shake the feeling that someone was watching him. He looked over his shoulder repeatedly to assure himself that this was not the case, but he never saw anything, although he thought he heard a soft snickering behind him as he continued on his way. Of course he was hearing things, wasn’t he? Yet somehow he suspected that if he were to record the sound he would discover it was not a hallucination. He stopped, activated the recorder on his mobile phone and let it run as he walked slowly towards the staircase. When he reached it he turned off the device and sprinted up the stairs, taking them two at a time. It wasn’t until he entered the wing and looked into the friendly, smiling face of the nurse that his goose bumps disappeared. It was obvious from her surprised expression that his relief was written all over his face, and, embarrassed, he resolved to act as normally as possible.

  ‘He’s in his room. There’s no one in the other bed; we released the patient today.’ The woman hesitated. Freyr had always liked her, but unfortunately they hardly ever worked the same shift. She was extremely sharp and usually went straight to the point, as she did now: ‘Can I ask why you want to see him?’

  ‘I’m investigating the case of the woman who committed suicide in Súðavík. He taught at the school she attended as a child.’ He smiled at the nurse when he heard how far-fetched the connection sounded. ‘Believe me, this story is so strange that it’s too complicated to try and explain it coherently now. When it’s all sorted out, I’ll sit down with you over a cup of coffee and tell you the whole story.’

  She smiled, revealing her even white teeth. ‘It sounds as though a glass of wine would be better than coffee. Something a bit stronger.’

  Freyr wasn’t born yesterday and he knew she was flirting with him. He smiled back. She reminded him of a woman with whom he’d had a brief fling, which he had quickly come to regret. He’d had no business starting a relationship back then, but now he thought circumstances were not only different, they were better. Besides, this woman was a much more amiable version of the other one, and seemed to be a lot more grounded. It was high time he started living again, and Dagný seemed to be drifting away from him in terms of any sort of relationship, although their friendship was strengthening. This woman was gorgeous, smart and apparently willing. Maybe a decent relationship with a member of the opposite sex was what he needed to get him back on track. ‘Wine would work, too. Let’s do that.’ Feeling slightly more cheerful, he walked off in the direction of the only room casting a light into the corridor. He hesitated at the doorway and his cheerfulness dwindled a bit when he saw that the old teacher seemed to have fallen asleep again. His bed was in the upright position, but the man was leaning back against his pillow with his eyes closed and an earphone in one ear, probably to listen to a repeat of the day’s schedule on Channel 1. Freyr coughed softly to draw the man’s attention, in case he wasn’t actually sleeping but was just absorbed in the radio. Freyr was indescribably relieved when he opened his eyes. ‘I wasn�
�t sure if you’d fallen asleep again. I hope I haven’t woken you.’

  The man patted the edge of the bed. ‘No, you didn’t wake me. Come in. I don’t sleep much any more without the help of drugs.’ He took the earphone from his ear and lowered his voice as he did so. ‘What else can I do for you? I gather it’s connected to what we talked about the other day. I’ve been thinking about it a bit and recalling old times. It’s odd how some of your oldest memories are so vivid, but you can’t necessarily remember what you had for supper last night.’

  ‘If that’s something you want to remember, given the food here.’ Freyr sat down by the bed. ‘But you guessed my errand correctly. I’ve also been thinking a bit about the boy you told me about, Bernódus, who disappeared. His name keeps coming up in connection with a case that’s unusual, to say the least, and seems to have ties to the past.’

  The man nodded. There was hardly any flesh left on his bony skull, and his skin looked like soft wax, as if his face were melting. ‘This thing with the boy was a great tragedy, but I can’t understand how his story could be connected to anything now.’ He looked at Freyr. Although his days were clearly numbered, the old teacher still had a gleam in his eye. ‘Not unless you’ve found his bones – is that it?’