A passer-by, if they’d happened to glance into the car as the drug took effect and Rún’s head began to nod, might have been taken aback. Especially if they’d seen the tears pouring down her father’s cheeks as she went out like a light. But no one tried to stop him. And no one did anything to prevent him from driving into Róberta’s garage with the sleeping child in the front seat and closing the door behind them, though he thought he’d seen a curtain twitch in one of the flats when he opened it.
Ódinn had switched off the engine while he was closing the garage door, and was sitting now beside his sleeping daughter, making up his mind for the last time. Once he switched on the ignition again, there would be no turning back.
The terrible letter flickered like a film behind his eyelids.
Darling Mummy, sorry I pushed you. You shouldn’t be cross with me because it was your own fault. I was trying to sweep up the broken glass like you told me and if you’d stopped telling me off I wouldn’t have pushed you with the broom. I wasn’t strong enough to hold onto it and pull you up when you grabbed it. But it was your fault I broke the bowl as well. I was just so angry with you. You said I was making it up. But I wasn’t lying that I’d seen Daddy out of my window. He was there and he was probably coming to collect me like I said. I just got so angry when you said he was stupid and couldn’t wake up that early, not to collect me anyway. You shouldn’t have said so many nasty things about Daddy all the time. Perhaps he didn’t like being told off either and that’s why he left us. So you must forgive Daddy, he didn’t really mean to. He loves me. Now I’ve said I’m sorry, Mummy, will you stop coming into my dreams? I love you – a big kiss, your Rún.
It had confirmed Aldís’s story.
That morning, when she’d opened the door to the flat with trembling hands, she’d found Rún awake and in a state of shock. Misinterpreting the situation and assuming that the child had witnessed Lára falling out of the window, Aldís had panicked and shooed her into her room. When the police arrived, Aldís had been sitting stunned on the edge of Rún’s bed, having just heard the girl admit that she’d pushed her mother but that it hadn’t been her fault. Out of her mind with terror, Aldís had lied to the police that she’d just woken the girl, so they hadn’t tried to interview Rún on the spot. Afterwards, when they were alone together, Aldís had told Rún to say she’d been asleep, but the girl had stared at her and said she had no idea what she was talking about: she had been asleep, so there was no need to tell her to say so. Bewildered by this, Aldís had started to believe that she must have been mistaken. Yet she knew deep down that this wasn’t the case, and took every opportunity to try and force Rún to tell her what had happened, but in vain. Out of concern for her grandchild she hadn’t mentioned it to anyone, let alone reported it to the police.
It was that same concern that now made Ódinn turn the key in the ignition and roll down the windows. If news of this got out, Rún’s life would be ruined. She would be commited to an adolescent psychiatric ward, then sent away to an institution until she had grown up, whereupon the next institution would take over. Adults served their sentences and were pardoned after a set number of years, but it was different for kids. He was afraid there was some defect in Rún. An inner coldness that meant, whatever he did to help her, she would always repeat the act in the end: push the class bully in front of a car; drown the child Baldur and Sigga adopted in the bathtub. Or something equally terrible. Even if he managed to cover up how Lára had died, he was unlikely to pull it off a second time – and for Rún it was even less likely.
Ódinn took her little hand in his. The small fingers twitched slightly and he gently tightened his hold. The air was becoming thick and grey, as if they were trapped in a mist. He no longer felt bad. He was feeling good. He smiled and took a deep breath. In no time at all he was feeling so happy that he’d forgotten the whole thing, forgotten why he was sitting here with his daughter in a strange garage, in poisonous grey air.
A smile split his face from ear to ear; he felt blissfully happy with his daughter there beside him. His eyelids grew heavy and he let them droop. Just before they closed he thought he saw Lára, walking past the windscreen, her face furious. With an effort he managed to open his eyes again but there was nobody there. Again a smile crept across his lips. Here they were, he and Rún, the two of them together. He couldn’t remember why; all he knew was that it was good. It didn’t get any better than this.
Epilogue
The newsreader concluded the report on the police investigation into Ódinn’s death. ‘Turn that bloody thing off.’ Baldur was sitting in his dressing gown at the kitchen island, watching Sigga make coffee. In front of him were the weekend papers; he tutted testily over them every time he came to another spread containing a feature or brief item about his brother’s case or the Krókur care home. ‘We ought to cancel these bloody rags. They’re a disgrace.’
‘It’ll pass.’ Sigga yawned and popped a grape in her mouth. ‘Something else’ll happen soon to distract the media’s attention. It’s a slow news month.’
‘You’d have thought they might at least consider the family before destroying someone’s reputation.’
Sigga swallowed the grape and fetched a couple of cups. ‘I bet you’ve read a million news stories that have hurt other people, without giving them a second thought. No one cares about strangers. We certainly don’t.’ She stationed herself in front of the coffee machine, as if to hurry it up. ‘Just chuck them out. I don’t want Rún to see them and I can’t face reading any more myself.’
In spite of his declared intention, Baldur carried on reading. ‘Now some bright spark has come up with the idea that the couple didn’t kill their baby at Krókur – the bones the police found buried in the yard show that the child didn’t have a brain, so it didn’t actually count as human. It was more like killing a bodily organ, and there’s no law in this country against killing your liver, for example. I hope that cheers up the woman who gave birth to it – she won’t get any sympathy from anywhere else.’ He snorted in disgust. ‘And here’s one comparing the composition of exhaust fumes now with those in 1974. According to what it says here, Ódinn was unlucky to die. It required much less exposure in the seventies because exhaust fumes were so much more toxic back then.’ He looked up. ‘How dare they write stuff like this? What difference does it make?’
Sigga refrained from pointing out yet again that he should just stop reading and flick past the coverage of the incident in the garage and Ódinn’s investigation of Krókur. They never wrote about one case without mentioning the other.
‘I’ll refuse the free papers and cancel my subscription to the others tomorrow. I’ve had it up to here.’ Baldur folded up the paper and stuffed it in the bin. ‘I should’ve done that the moment they first rang us.’ He pulled his dressing gown tighter around him. It was cold in the house; the clear night sky had left the land exposed to frost and the central heating was slow to react. ‘What sort of person blabs to the media at a time like this?’
‘Well, the woman who saw Ódinn going into her dead neighbour’s garage and called the police, for one. And Diljá who worked with him on that bloody report. And Rún’s grandmother, and no doubt several others I’ve missed. Perhaps the journalist was only trying to get in touch with you to get a clearer picture of what happened. It’s what I’d have done in his place.’ The coffee had finally filtered through, and although the funnel was still dripping, Sigga pulled out the jug and filled their cups. The delicious aroma made her feel properly awake at last. ‘They weren’t to know that you were as much in the dark as everyone else.’
Baldur accepted the cup in silence and swirled it round to blend in the milk. ‘Do you think I could’ve prevented it?’ He took a sip and closed his eyes while waiting for the caffeine to take effect. ‘I keep wondering if he said something or dropped a hint when they came by, anything that should have rung alarm bells.’
‘We’ve been over this, Baldur. He didn’t say or do anythin
g different from usual.’
‘I just don’t understand it.’
‘No. Nobody does.’ Sigga sipped her coffee again, warming her hands on the hot cup. ‘Oh, by the way, I forgot to tell you. Rún’s grandmother called again yesterday. She’s still desperate to talk to you.’ Baldur had the memory of an elephant when it came to people he believed had wronged him. When Aldís went to the papers about the Krókur case, he had stopped talking to her for good, so now the woman had resorted to trying to reach him through Sigga.
‘Didn’t you tell her the matter’s closed?’
‘Yes, I said you didn’t want to talk to her and that she should stop calling.’
‘How did she react?’
‘I think she finally got the message. But she asked me to tell you that she only went to the media because the police refused to listen. She felt she had no alternative.’
‘Yeah, right.’ Baldur gestured to the bin where the papers now resided. ‘She could have waited a bit longer after Ódinn’s death. Then we’d have avoided all this publicity. Would it have killed her? She puts off going to the police for decades, then suddenly it’s a matter of urgency. Stupid bitch.’
‘She claimed it was vital for her to pre-empt someone called Eyjalín.’ Sigga held up her hand when she saw that Baldur was about to explode. ‘Don’t blame me. I’m just telling you what the woman said. Anyway, I don’t suppose she’ll ring again any time soon.’
Baldur’s shoulders relaxed and his face grew calmer. ‘Good. I’m glad.’
‘Well, let’s hope so. She promised to stop trying to get in touch but claimed she had information that you’d regret refusing to listen to. All very odd.’ Sigga ate another grape.
‘Why didn’t she ask you to take a message if it’s that important?’
‘Apparently she can only tell a relative – I can’t be trusted because we might get divorced one day.’ Sigga smiled at Baldur. ‘Poor woman, she’s not quite right in the head.’
‘Who?’ The child’s voice emanating from the kitchen doorway was not at all sleepy. Sigga and Baldur were both equally embarrassed. They would have to get used to the fact that they weren’t alone in the house any more. They hadn’t a clue how long Rún had been standing there and neither was experienced enough with children to know how to discover in a roundabout way what she might have heard.
‘Good morning, little lady.’ Baldur held out his arms. ‘How did you sleep?’
‘Fine.’ Rún clambered up onto the barstool beside him. She was wearing the new pyjamas Sigga had bought her after she was discharged from hospital. Baldur had refused to take anything from Ódinn’s flat into their house; he wanted to stress that Rún was cutting all ties with the past. They had hastily redecorated a room to appeal to an eleven-year-old girl and filled the wardrobe with clothes. She was embarking on a new life and the old one was to be swept under the carpet. Sigga had her doubts about this uncompromising approach, but made no comment. How were they to know the best way to respond to such a series of calamities? No one could answer that except the professionals, and Baldur was adamant that they weren’t to be allowed anywhere near Rún. The doctors had recommended counselling once she had recovered, but he pooh-poohed the suggestion. Sigga had her doubts about it too, especially when they discovered that Ódinn himself had sought help. Therapy certainly hadn’t managed to save her brother-in-law.
‘I dreamt about Daddy.’
The couple exchanged glances. Before the silence became too prolonged and awkward, Sigga said quickly: ‘You know what, Rún, I dreamt about him too. It’s not surprising when we’re all thinking about him so much.’ She wasn’t lying; she had dreamt about Ódinn, and although she couldn’t remember the details, her dream had left a lingering sensation of unease.
‘He wasn’t happy.’ Rún put her elbows on the table and rested her chin in her hands.
‘What?’ Baldur gave her a friendly pat on the shoulder. ‘Don’t be silly. Of course he’s happy. He’s in heaven. Everyone has a whale of a time up there. Let’s not think about him now. Let’s talk about something nice. Like, I was wondering if you and I should go and see a film while Sigga’s at the gym?’
Rún squeezed out a smile from between her fingers, then raised her chin from her hands and nodded. Shivering slightly, she said she would go and get dressed. ‘I’m freezing.’
In the doorway she turned. Her pink pyjamas were a little too loose and the trousers were about to fall down. She looked so waif-like, somehow. Sigga felt a pang and cursed herself silently for not having paid more attention to the size, but consoled herself with the thought that Rún would soon grow and in no time she’d be having to buy her new clothes. She winked at the girl, who responded with a subdued smile, then vanished into the hallway.
‘Everything’s going to be fine.’ Sigga leant over the table and took Baldur’s hands. The chill from the granite worktop penetrated her dressing gown, giving her goose bumps. ‘Everything’s going to be just fine.’ She tried to shake off the remnants of last night’s dream and repeated her words as if to give herself courage. ‘Just fine.’
Baldur kissed the back of her hand, leaving a coffee-brown mark. ‘Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?’ He didn’t sound as convincing as she’d have liked.
* * *
Rún inclined her head as she stood outside the kitchen door, hoping to hear more. She sighed, unsure if it was from happiness or fear. She was happy here. Uncle Baldur loved her; Sigga too. Really, it was much better than living with Daddy, and much, much better than living with Mummy. Such a pity Mummy and Daddy couldn’t understand that. If they’d loved her as much as they said, they’d be pleased for her and leave her alone.
Warily, she opened the door to her room and peered in. The bedside light was on. She hadn’t turned on the main light because she’d been in such a hurry to go and find Baldur and Sigga. It was so much better than being alone with the shadows in this pretty room. She reached for the light switch. The shadows fled, making everything much better. Rún breathed easier and went in. It would be fine, as Sigga had said. She was kind of dreading the time when Baldur went back to work because he was always away so much. Daddy had said that. She felt the hairs prickle on the back of her neck; she only had to think of the word, Daddy, to feel bad. Don’t think about him. Don’t think about him. Better to think that everything’s going to be fine. Of course. Why wouldn’t it be?
She dressed hurriedly. The wardrobe was full of clothes in every colour of the rainbow, but she always wore the same pair of jeans and the jumper with the big cross on the front. She felt comfortable in these clothes and didn’t want to wear anything else. God would see the cross and think she was good and look after her. Perhaps she should ask Sigga to take her shopping to buy a crucifix to wear round her neck. Then God really would believe she was a good girl. Everything would be fine.
Rún hurried out again, closing the door behind her but leaving the light on. She walked quickly down the hallway but stopped herself from breaking into a run so Baldur and Sigga wouldn’t ask what the rush was. She didn’t want to have to tell them what she thought was after her. In spite of her resolve, she burst into the kitchen.
‘You’re in a hurry.’ Baldur raised his eyebrows and smiled, pleased to see her. There was no question that he loved her. Suddenly she felt all warm. Now she had everything she could wish for. Then the warm feeling faded and a slight chill crawled down her spine. Everything would be perfect if it was just her and Baldur. If Sigga wasn’t there, he’d have to look after her; he’d stay at home instead of going out to work. And they could be together all the time.
Rún beamed at Baldur. He returned her smile.
Everything was going to be just fine.
Also by Yrsa Sigurdardóttir
Last Rituals
My Soul to Take
Ashes to Dust
The Day Is Dark
I Remember You
Someone to Watch Over Me
The Silence of the Sea
&n
bsp; About the Author
YRSA SIGURDARDÓTTIR (pronounced ?R-suh SIG-ur-dar-daughter) lives with her family in Reykjavík; she is also a director of one of Iceland’s largest engineering firms. Her work is found on bestseller lists all over the world, and films are currently in production for several of her books. Her previous titles include, The Day is Dark and Ashes to Dust. You can sign up for email updates here.
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Pronunciation guide for character names
The End
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
The Undesired Page 30
