I Remember You

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  ‘Uh . . . uh . . .’ The boy sounded on the verge of tears. ‘You promise not to tell anyone . . . especially not my dad?’

  When Dagný arrived, Freyr opened the door to her without saying a word, then turned and walked to the kitchen like a ghost, without checking whether she was following. He sat down at his laptop and resumed staring at the screen. ‘Is something wrong?’ said Dagný. She repeated the question, and Freyr finally found his voice.

  ‘Benni. I think I’ve found Benni.’ He kept staring at the screen. ‘In a manner of speaking.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Dagný’s tone suggested that she thought he’d lost it. ‘He ended up here. Just out of frame. You can’t see him.’ Freyr pointed at the edge of the laptop’s screen, where it met the black plastic casing. Dagný went over to him and bent down to see what he was talking about. She raised her eyebrows when she saw the freeze-framed image of the petrol station forecourt. The car Freyr had hit was visible in the lower right-hand corner. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t know what became of this car or its driver.’

  ‘In other words, you think Benni ended up in this car? Was he kidnapped by the driver? How do you work that out?’ Dagný was extremely calm, as if speaking to an inebriated member of the public who needed to be calmed down.

  ‘He didn’t get in the car, and I don’t think the driver did anything to him.’ Freyr was struggling to find the right words. ‘But if I could find him, I would find Benni.’

  Dagný peered more closely at the screen. ‘Move,’ she said gruffly, taking Freyr’s seat as he obediently stood up. She fiddled with the keyboard a bit, enlarging the part of the image that showed the cars. At first Freyr thought she was going to try to read the licence plate number, which he’d tried to do many times, but before he could say anything she turned to him, frowned, and said: ‘I know all about this car. And nearly everything about the driver.’ She held his gaze. ‘Unfortunately, we believe him to be dead.’

  Chapter 31

  It stopped hailing as unexpectedly as it had started; one minute it was hammering the windowpanes, and the next everything was absolutely still. It had sounded as if someone had been standing outside tapping a rhythm with his fingers, but when the noise ceased, the silence was just as unbearable; the feeling was very much like being underwater, with the water playing softly about your ears, letting in no sound. The house, which had previously moaned in the wind, complaining bitterly of its harsh treatment, was now silent as well, which magnified the silence between Katrín and Líf. They were reflected in the black glass, and anyone arriving now would surely have chosen to abandon himself to the ravages of nature rather than tackle these furious women. Even Putti, who was used to sticking close to Katrín’s legs, had slunk off to a corner, as far from them and the hole in the floor as possible. Now and then he looked up, tilted his head and stared at them alternately, as if to check whether they were still in conflict. Then he stuck his nose back into the little twisty bun formed by his body.

  Katrín sat with her feet up on the kitchen chair, resting her head on her knees and favouring her wounded foot. It was terribly cold inside; better for her to maintain her precious body heat. Although she knew little about the limits of the human body, she suspected they were in danger of freezing to death in the night if they didn’t do something soon: fetch firewood or at least get into their sleeping bags, which were waiting for them in the dining room. But her foot hurt more than ever. She wouldn’t be going out to fetch so much as a stick. And she would sooner freeze to death than ask Líf to do so. Her anger overpowered her instinct for self-preservation, which was positive in a way, since it left no room for fear. She’d never had a reason to arrange her feelings into any sort of hierarchy, but she now knew that anger was the mightiest of them all; fear and sorrow came somewhere below it, retreating as they did before rage which revealed itself to be a cruel master. No doubt these feelings would fade to be replaced by weaker ones, but Katrín was going to enjoy every minute of her fearlessness and take pleasure in observing how bad Líf felt, though actually she’d been slightly disappointed in that regard so far.

  Líf actually didn’t seem as distressed as one might have expected after she was found out. She seemed more upset that Katrín couldn’t see her side of the story. It was as if she wasn’t quite right in the head. Katrín had suspected this for some time, but had always attributed it to her own imagination or to her jealousy over Líf’s ability to coast through life’s little traumas. The only emotion she actually seemed capable of was fear. Fear of her own demise.

  ‘I hate you, Líf.’ The thought of Líf not feeling as miserable as she should prompted Katrín to say this. She was determined to put all her efforts into making Líf’s usual escapism impossible. ‘I hope you freeze to death tonight. Or just disappear. That would be the best solution; then I wouldn’t have to see your dead body.’

  Líf’s frown deepened, but then she smiled as if Katrín had been joking. ‘We should try to be friends. It’s all in the past.’

  Katrín felt like shouting, but held back. The woman before her was capable of anything. There was no help to be had for dozens, if not hundreds, of kilometres. There was a skeleton beneath their floorboards and some sort of entity haunting them, apparently wishing to do them harm. The situation couldn’t get much worse, yet there was no point moaning and complaining. Katrín bit her lip and buried her face in her knees again. She could feel the pain trying to break through the screen of rage. She forced herself to block it, pushing aside images of Garðar, naked, sleeping in Líf’s arms. It wasn’t easy. Although she hadn’t had the nerve to examine the photos in any detail, they’d burned themselves into her mind and she could imagine the tiniest specifics without any effort. They’d been lying together in a large bed; the impersonal yet tidy environment suggested it was a hotel room, probably in Ísafjörður. Garðar’s eyes were closed; he was either fast asleep or absolutely exhausted from what they’d been doing. Líf’s face was anything but tired as she smiled, bare-breasted, at the camera, which she was holding. Garðar looked exactly the same in every photo, but Líf arranged herself in a variety of positions, looking just like a hunter on safari with photos of his prey. How she could have thought of taking photos under these shameful circumstances was a mystery to Katrín, but she couldn’t imagine asking about it; the reason was doubtless yet another manifestation of Líf’s unbalanced state of mind.

  The dim light flickered. Katrín saw fear appear in Líf’s eyes and a wave of satisfaction passed through her. If she’d had the nerve to sit with her in the darkness, she would have leaned forward and blown out the candle in order to cause her the greatest anguish possible. But the thought of being alone in the dark with an insane person held little appeal. On the other hand, the way the candle-stub was jutting just above the candlestick, she expected the light to be extinguished at any second. ‘The candle will go out soon, Líf. What are you going to do then? You can’t seduce the dead. Maybe Garðar’s roaming about now too.’ Líf’s eyes widened, but only for a second. ‘You’re disgusting, Líf.’ Katrín spat out. ‘Disgusting.’

  ‘I’ve said I’m sorry. What else do you want me to do?’ Líf seemed hurt, sounding as if she felt she were the victim in all of this. ‘Garðar and I were always attracted to each other, even from the beginning. It just happened. We couldn’t do anything about it.’

  ‘Shut up!’ shouted Katrín, without meaning to. She couldn’t bear to listen again to the account of Líf’s relationship with Garðar. Although Líf had already told Katrín the story from beginning to end, it was from such a biased, narrow perspective that Katrín had to read between the lines to get to the truth. If her intuition was correct, her entire existence since her relationship with Garðar started had been staged. She alone had been unaware that her closest surroundings had been merely props and scenery. Maybe at the time she hadn’t wanted to see what had been revealed now that the poison had poured from Líf’s beautifully shaped mouth; maybe she’d been too in love with Gar
ðar even to glimpse the now crystal clear reality in front of her. Garðar had never loved her. She’d simply been the next woman available once it was clear that Líf had chosen Einar rather than him; maybe he’d thought that seeing him with someone else would change Líf’s mind. But he’d been very wrong. Líf had enjoyed watching him squirm, knowing she could have him whenever she pleased. Líf probably hadn’t loved Garðar any more than he’d had feelings for Katrín; she’d just found it handy to have him as a kind of safety net, a life preserver that you don’t use daily but can reach out for when you need it.

  This was all so incomprehensible that Katrín’s head was spinning. For example, she thought that Líf was telling her that she had simply chosen Einar over Garðar after weighing it all up. She hadn’t put it quite so explicitly, but it was impossible to interpret what she’d said any other way; Einar had seemed more financially driven than Garðar and likely to make more money, which meant that he got Líf and she would get him and his riches.

  But then Einar had sought company elsewhere too. He’d probably realized that there was something missing in his wife’s character, some capacity for love. Maybe he hadn’t come right out and asked for a divorce because Líf was so devoid of emotion and he was afraid that she would come up with some way of getting back at him; maybe she knew things about him that he didn’t want to come to light. She’d responded in kind and the only thing that Katrín could console herself with was the fact that Líf’s affair with Garðar hadn’t begun then, although she suspected that Líf had tried to make it happen soon after learning of Einar’s infidelity. No doubt it would have been perfect for her – to cheat on her husband with his best friend and rub his face in it at an opportune moment. Garðar had probably resisted the temptation precisely because of his friendship with Einar, not having been able to imagine going behind the back of his childhood companion and best friend. The same didn’t apply where Katrín was concerned, however; she clearly didn’t matter, since he’d taken the first opportunity to jump into bed with Líf once Einar was dead. But however it had all happened, Líf appeared to have also found herself an earlier victim, a shrink who’d been supposed to help her patch up her marriage. What a joke.

  And although Líf hadn’t said anything to suggest that she’d played a part in Einar’s death, she didn’t have to. Einar had left her, doubtless after arranging things so that most of their money would remain with him and Líf would be left empty-handed. Not to mention the humiliation of the situation. Katrín knew Líf well enough now to realize that she would never have accepted such a thing. So Einar had had to go, and somehow she’d made it happen. Katrín simply knew it; in the same way that she didn’t need to be told that it was dangerous to stand too near the edge of a cliff, it was perfectly clear to her that the same went for Líf. A person who seemed unable to repent or to express regret for their actions was much less predictable than the edge of a cliff, which could easily be avoided by keeping a safe distance. But a safe distance from Líf wasn’t an option here. Katrín promised herself that she would never, never, ever again be under the same roof as this woman, if they made it safely back to Reykjavík. Never.

  Neither of them said anything for a while. In the meantime it continued to grow colder. Their breath ascended frostily from their lips and Katrín felt that she didn’t have as much control over her fingers as usual. She pulled her sleeves over her hands in the hope of keeping them warmer, without producing the desired result.

  ‘What is that in the basement?’ Líf stared at her, and no matter how much Katrín wanted to look away, she couldn’t help but meet her eyes. But she didn’t answer. Líf persisted anyway: ‘You can see a bag in the photo. An old-fashioned schoolbag.’ She leaned forward conspiratorially and whispered, as if they were trusted friends sharing secrets: ‘And there are seashells all over the place.’

  Katrín said nothing, but turned away from her and rested her head on her knees again. She had no idea what bones were down there, but she couldn’t rule out the idea that they might belong to the boy they’d seen. It seemed to her that the material partially covering the bones resembled the jacket the boy was wearing when he appeared to them.

  ‘It’s probably the ghost, Katrín. His bones. It looks to me as if he’s missing some fingers on one hand, so I suppose the fox under the porch got to the body and the ghost killed it to take revenge for the loss of its fingers.’ It was as if Líf had already forgotten their conflict. Katrín couldn’t see her face, but she was speaking as if nothing had happened; no doubt Líf had grown tired of Katrín’s attitude and was determined to pretend everything was the same as before. ‘Maybe he’ll disappear now that we’ve opened up the floor. I’m sure that was what he wanted the whole time – for us to find the bones. Maybe that’s why he killed the previous owner; he accidentally blocked the hatch, making the likelihood of the bones being found almost non-existent. We’ve fixed the problem, so everything should be all right now.’ Líf hadn’t actually had a hand in any of it, but naturally claimed a share of the credit. ‘I hope so, anyway,’ she whispered.

  Katrín felt as if she were in a dream, or rather a nightmare. She didn’t look up, but spoke into her knees. ‘Why were you messing around with this house at all? Why didn’t Garðar just leave me for you, without dragging me into this madness? You have all Einar’s money now. I don’t understand you two. Was Garðar just as crazy as you?’ Líf muttered something that Katrín didn’t hear properly. She didn’t ask her to repeat herself, however; the little she’d understood was enough. ‘Ah, you didn’t want Garðar with all his debts? Is that what you’re saying? Despite your having so much money you wouldn’t have to lift a finger for the rest of your life?’

  ‘I’m not going to pay someone else’s debts. It isn’t fair.’ Líf was clearly a great proponent of fairness where it concerned her. Unfairness was for other people, in her world. ‘It was Garðar’s idea and I tried to dissuade him. That’s why I came along, to stop him.’

  ‘Stop him from what?’ Katrín pressed her face so tightly against her knees that her closed eyes hurt.

  ‘From hurting you. Killing you, actually. He was the one who pushed the wall onto you. He’d already set it up. He just needed to tug on the rope that was there and . . . Boom!’ Líf sighed. ‘I tried to prevent it but I couldn’t. Maybe it’s for the best that he disappeared.’

  Katrín said nothing, just let the tears flow; they didn’t fall, but soaked into her trousers. She wasn’t sure whether they were tears of anger or sorrow. She cleared her throat to get rid of the lump in it; she couldn’t bear the idea of Líf knowing she was crying. ‘What’s wrong with you?’ Garðar wouldn’t have been better off with her dead; if they’d divorced, he would only have been responsible for half of their debts, but as a widower he would have been left with all of them. Then she remembered their life insurance. The money that was supposed to ensure that if one of them died, the other wouldn’t need to struggle with financial difficulties on top of everything else, or their parents if they both died at the same time. What a joke. ‘You slammed that door into me. Didn’t you?’ Líf didn’t need to answer this; her embarrassed look was proof enough. Katrín was sure her sick mind was racing to find a way to explain this, probably by saying that Garðar had forced her into it. She didn’t want to hear it. ‘Did you kill Einar, Líf? Maybe Garðar as well?’

  ‘No, how could you think that? I was telling you that I tried to stop Garðar. I tried to save you. We’re friends.’

  Nausea overwhelmed Katrín. How could Líf think that she didn’t remember how the collapse of the brick wall had occurred? It was Líf who had urged her to peek in through the opening in the wall, and wouldn’t take no for an answer. If Garðar had pushed down the wall it had been with Líf’s full support and probably her encouragement. And when Katrín fell down the stairs, no one but Líf had been standing behind the door. ‘Liar.’ Katrín didn’t dare say more. The tremendous rage that had been keeping her going was diminishing rapidly, to be replaced
by sorrow at her situation, the betrayal and the injustice. Adding in the pain in her foot and the biting cold, it all became a perfect cocktail of grief and misery. Katrín had never felt so powerless.

  ‘I’ll pretend you never said that.’ Líf’s teeth were chattering. ‘In the morning, after we’ve slept a little, everything will be better. Believe me, I can feel it. We’ve hit rock bottom and now the only way is up. The boat’s coming tomorrow and everything will be just like it was. Well, almost.’ She looked at the tattered cigarette packet on the table. ‘I’m thinking of smoking the last cigarette. I know you can’t come with me to the doorway, but I should be all right since everything’s gone quiet and the scary stuff seems to have stopped now.’ As if on cue, a creak came from a door hinge upstairs. Startled, they both stared wide-eyed at the ceiling, which revealed nothing. The creak came again, as if a door were opening slowly but surely. Then it was slammed with so much force that Katrín half expected to hear it fall to the floor. But this didn’t happen; instead they heard a malevolent chuckling and then the footsteps of someone running down the hallway. The ceiling trembled and loose flakes of paint fell onto the kitchen table and the packet of cigarettes.

  Líf grabbed her chest. ‘He’s upstairs.’ As soon as she said this, a loud knocking came from the crawl space below. Katrín was so startled that her neck cricked painfully as she looked down. Adrenalin rushed through her veins and the pain in her fingers disappeared. Even her foot seemed to benefit from the shock, since the throbbing lessened, though without disappearing completely. Líf stared wide-eyed at Katrín. The knocking came again, now slightly softer, followed by a noise as if something were being dragged along the floor beneath them towards the opening. Neither Katrín nor Líf dared so much as breathe, and Putti made no sound. The noise grew clearer the closer it came and was accompanied by a vague mumbling that was impossible to make out. Katrín drew a deep breath and looked towards the window; her only thought was to get out of there and that was the shortest way out. She recoiled in horror, feeling hope drain away, for outside stood a boy who didn’t seem to be the same one they had seen before. This one, who was smaller, stared in with glazed eyes, his greyish face infinitely sad. Outside or inside. It didn’t matter. They were dead.