THE CREAK ON THE STAIRS
Eva Björg Ægisdóttir
Translated by Victoria Cribb
CONTENTS
Title Page
Iceland
Pronunciation Guide
Prologue
Several Weeks Later – Saturday, 18 November 2017
Akranes 1989
Monday, 20 November 2017
Akranes 1989
Saturday, 25 November 2017
Akranes 1989
Sunday, 26 November 2017
Akranes 1989
Akranes 1989
Monday, 27 November 2017
Akranes 1990
Tuesday, 28 November 2017
Akranes 1990
Akranes 1990
Wednesday, 29 November 2017
Akranes 1990
Thursday, 30 November 2017
Akranes 1990
Akranes 1990
Akranes 1990
Friday, 1 December 2017
Akranes 1991
Saturday, 2 December 2017
Akranes 1991
Sunday, 3 December 2017
Akranes 1991
Monday, 4 December 2017
Akranes 1991
Akranes 1992
Tuesday, 5 December 2017
Akranes 1992
Akranes 1992
Akranes 1992
Wednesday, 6 December 2017
Akranes 1992
Several Weeks Later
Acknowledgements
About the Author
About the Translator
Copyright
ICELAND
PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
Icelandic has a couple of letters that don’t exist in other European languages and which are not always easy to replicate. The letter ð is generally replaced with a d in English, but we have decided to use the Icelandic letter to remain closer to the original names. Its sound is closest to the voiced th in English, as found in then and bathe.
The Icelandic letter þ is reproduced as th, as in Thorgeir, and is equivalent to an unvoiced th in English, as in thing or thump.
The letter r is generally rolled hard with the tongue against the roof of the mouth.
In pronouncing Icelandic personal and place names, the emphasis is always placed on the first syllable.
Names like Elma, Begga and Hendrik, which are pronounced more or less as they would be in English, are not included on the list.
Aðalheiður – AATH-al-HAYTH-oor
Akranes – AA-kra-ness
Aldís – AAL-deess
Andrés – AND-ryess
Arnar Arnarsson – ARD-naar ARD-naarsson
Arnar Helgi Árnason – ARD-naar HEL-kee OWRD-nasson
Ása – OW-ssa
Ásdís Sigurðardóttir (Dísa) – OWS-deess SIK-oorthar-DOEH-teer (DEE-ssa)
Bergþóra – BERG-thoera
Bjarni – BJAARD-nee
Björg – BYURRG
Dagný – DAAK-nee
Davíð – DAA-veeth
Eiríkur – AY-reek-oor
Elísabet Hölludóttir – ELL-eessa-bet HURT-loo-DOEH-teer
Ernir – ERD-neer
Fjalar – FYAAL-aar
Gígja – GYEE-ya
Gréta – GRYET-a
Grétar – GRYET-aar
Guðlaug – GVOOTH-loig
Guðrún – GVOOTH-roon
Halla Snæbjörnsdóttir – HAT-la SNYE-byurs-DOEH-teer
Hrafn (Krummi) – HRAPN (KROOM-mi)
Hvalfjörður – KVAAL-fyurth-oor
Hörður – HURTH-thoor
Ingibjörn Grétarsson – ING-ibjurdn GRYET-arsson
Jón – YOEN
Jökull – YUR-kootl
Kári – COW-rree
Magnea Arngrímsdóttir – MAG-naya ARD-greems-DOEH-teer
Nói – NOE-ee
Rúnar – ROO-naar
Sara – SAA-ra
Silja – SILL-ya
Skagi – SKAA-yee
Sólveig – SOEL-vayg
Sævar – SYE-vaar
Tómas – TOE-maas
Viðar – VITH-aar
Þórný – THOERD-nee
She hears him long before she sees him. Hears the creaking as he climbs the stairs, one cautious step at a time. He tries to tread softly as he doesn’t want to wake anyone – not yet. If it was her climbing the stairs late at night she would make it all the way up to the top without anyone hearing a thing. But he can’t do it. He doesn’t know them like she does, doesn’t know where best to tread.
She shuts her eyes, clenching them so tight that the muscles around them ache. And she takes deep, slow breaths, hoping he won’t be able to hear how fast her heart is beating. Because a heart only beats that fast when you’re awake – awake and terribly afraid. She remembers the time her father had her listen to his heart. He must have run up and down the stairs a thousand times before he’d stopped and called her over. ‘Listen!’ he’d said. ‘Listen to how fast my heart’s beating. That’s because our bodies need more oxygen when we move, and it’s our heart’s job to provide it.’ But now, although she’s lying perfectly still, her heart is pounding much faster than her father’s was then.
He’s getting closer.
She recognises the creaking of the last stair, just as she recognises the rattling the roof makes when there’s a gale blowing outside, or the squeaking of the door downstairs when her mother comes home. Tiny stars appear and float across her eyelids. They’re not like the stars in the sky: those hardly ever move, and you can only catch them at it if you watch them for a long time and you’re very lucky. She’s not lucky, though. She’s never been lucky.
She can sense him standing over her now, wheezing like an old man. The stink of cigarettes fills her nose. If she looked up she would see those dark-grey eyes staring down at her. Instinctively, she pulls the duvet a fraction higher over her face. But she can’t hide. The tiny movement will have given her away: he’ll know she’s only pretending to be asleep. Not that it will make any difference.
It’s never made any difference.
Elma wasn’t afraid, though the feeling was similar to fear: sweaty palms, rapid heartbeat. She wasn’t nervous either. She got nervous when she had to stand up and speak in front of people. Then the blood would rise into her skin; not only on her face, where she could disguise the flush with a thick layer of make-up, but on her neck and chest as well, where it formed unsightly red-and-white blotches.
She’d been nervous that time she had gone out on a date with Steinar in year ten. A fifteen-year-old girl with a blotchy chest and far too much mascara, who had tiptoed out of the house, praying that her parents wouldn’t hear the front door closing behind her. She had waited for him to pick her up on the corner. He’d been sitting in the back of the car – he wasn’t old enough to drive yet, but he had a friend who was. They’d not driven far, and had barely exchanged a word, when he leant over and stuck his tongue down her throat. She’d never kissed anyone before but, although his tongue felt very large and invasive, she hadn’t drawn away. His friend had driven calmly around while they were kissing, though from time to time she’d caught him watching them in the rear-view mirror. She’d let Steinar touch her through her clothes too and pretended to enjoy it. They had been driving down the same road she was on now. Back then they had Lifehouse on the speakers, bass pounding from the boot. She shuddered at the memory.
There were cracks in the pavement outside her parents’ house. She parked the car and sat staring at them for a minute or two. Pictured them widening and deepening until her old Volvo was swallowed up. The cracks had been there ever since she was a little girl. They’d been less obvious then, but not much. Silja used to live in the
blue house opposite, and they’d often played games on this pavement. They used to pretend that the biggest crack was a huge volcanic fissure, full of red-hot lava, and that the tongues of flame were licking up towards them.
The blue house – which wasn’t blue anymore but white – was home these days to a family with two young boys, both blond, with identical Prince Valiant pageboy haircuts. She didn’t know where Silja lived now. It must be four years since she’d last talked to her. Longer, perhaps.
She got out of the car and walked up to her parents’ house. Before opening the door, she glanced back down at the cracks in the pavement. Now, more than twenty years later, the thought of being swallowed up by them didn’t seem so bad.
Several Weeks Later – Saturday, 18 November 2017
Elma was woken by the wind. She lay there for a long time, listening to it keening outside her window as she stared up at the white ceiling of her flat. When she finally got out of bed it was too late to do anything but mindlessly pull on some clothes and grab a blackened banana on her way out of the door. The bitter wind cut into her cheeks the moment she stepped outside. She zipped her coat to the neck, pulled up her hood and set off through the darkness at a brisk pace. The glow of the streetlights lit up the pavement, striking a sparkle from the grey tarmac. The frost creaked under her shoes, echoing in the silence – there were few people about on a Saturday morning in mid-November.
A few minutes after leaving the warmth of her flat, she was standing in front of the plain, pale-green building that housed Akranes Police Station. Elma tried to breathe calmly as she took hold of the icy door handle. Inside, she found herself in front of a reception desk where an older woman with curly blonde hair and a tanned, leathery face was talking on the phone. She held up a finger with a red-varnished nail as a sign for Elma to wait.
‘All right, Jói, I’ll tell him. I know it’s unacceptable, but it’s hardly a police matter – they’re feral cats, so I recommend you get in touch with the pest controller … Anyway, Jói…’ The woman held the telephone receiver a fraction away from her ear and smiled apologetically at Elma. ‘Listen, Jói, there’s not much I can do about that now. Just remember to close the window next time you go to the shops … Yes, I know those Moroccan rugs cost a fortune. Listen, Jói, we’ll have to discuss it later. I’ve got to go now. Bye.’
She put down the receiver with a sigh. ‘The feral-cat problem in Neðri-Skagi is beyond a joke. The poor man only left his window open while he popped out to the shop, and one of the little beasts got in there and peed and crapped on the antique rug in his sitting room. Poor old boy,’ the woman said, shaking her head. ‘Anyway, enough about that, what can I do for you, dear?’
‘Er, hello.’ Elma cleared her throat, remembering as she did so that she hadn’t brushed her teeth: she could still taste the banana she’d eaten on her walk. ‘My name’s Elma. I’ve got an appointment with Hörður.’
‘Oh, yes, I know who you are,’ the woman said, standing up and holding out her hand. ‘I’m Guðlaug, but please call me Gulla. Come on in. I’d advise you to keep your coat on. It’s freezing in reception. I’ve been on at them for weeks to repair that radiator, but apparently it’s not a priority for a cash-strapped police force.’ She sounded fed up about this, but then went straight on in a brighter voice: ‘How are your parents, by the way? They must be so pleased to have you home again, but then that’s how it is with Akranes: you just can’t beat it, and most people come back once they realise the grass isn’t greener down south in Reykjavík.’ She produced all this in a rush, barely pausing for breath. Elma waited patiently for her to finish.
‘They’re fine,’ she said as soon as she could get a word in, all the while racking her brains to remember if Gulla was someone she ought to know. Ever since she’d moved back to Akranes five weeks earlier, people she didn’t recognise had been stopping her in the street for a chat. Usually it was enough to nod and smile.
‘Sorry,’ Gulla added. ‘I tend to let my tongue run away with me. You’ll get used to it. You won’t remember me, but I used to live in the same terrace as you when you were a little thing, only six years old. I still remember how sweet you looked weighed down by that great big backpack on your first day at school.’ She laughed at the memory.
‘Oh, yes … that sounds vaguely familiar – the backpack, I mean,’ Elma said. She dimly recalled a big yellow burden being loaded onto her shoulders. It can’t have weighed less than a quarter of her bodyweight at the time.
‘And now you’re back,’ Gulla went on, beaming.
‘Yes, it looks like it,’ Elma said awkwardly. She hadn’t been prepared for such a warm welcome.
‘Right, well, I suppose I’d better take you straight through to see Hörður; he told me he was expecting you.’ Gulla beckoned her to follow, and they walked down a linoleum-floored corridor and came to a halt outside a door where ‘Hörður Höskuldsson’ was engraved on a discreet metal nameplate.
‘If I know Hörður, he’ll be listening to the radio with his headphones on and won’t be able to hear us. The man can’t work without those things in his ears. I’ve never understood how he can concentrate.’ Gulla gave a loud sigh, rapped smartly on the door, and opened it without waiting for a response.
Inside, a man was sitting behind a desk, staring intently at his computer screen. The headphones were in place, as Gulla had predicted. Noticing movement, he looked up and quickly took them off.
‘Hello, Elma. Welcome,’ he said with a friendly smile. Rising to his feet, he extended a hand across his desk, then gestured to her to take a seat. He looked to be well over fifty, with greying hair hanging in untidy locks on either side of his long face. In contrast, his fingers were elegant, with neatly manicured nails. Elma pictured him sitting in front of the TV in the evenings, wielding a nail file, and instinctively hid her own hands in her lap so he wouldn’t see her bitten-down cuticles.
‘So, you’ve decided to move back to Akranes and give us the benefit of your expertise,’ he said, leaning back with his fingers clasped across his chest as he studied her. He had a deep voice and unusually pale blue eyes.
‘Well, I suppose you could put it like that,’ Elma said, straightening her shoulders. She felt like a little girl who had done something naughty and been summoned to the headmaster’s office. Feeling her cheeks growing hot, she hoped he wouldn’t notice their betraying flush. There was every chance he would though, as she hadn’t had time to slap on any foundation before coming out.
‘I’m aware you’ve been working for Reykjavík CID. As luck would have it, one of our boys has decided to try his chances in the big city, so you’ll be taking over his desk.’ Hörður leant forwards, propping his cheek on one hand. ‘I have to admit I was quite surprised when I got the call from your father. What made you decide to come back here after so many years in the city, if you don’t mind my asking?’
‘I suppose I was missing Akranes,’ Elma replied, trying to make it sound convincing. ‘I’d been thinking about moving home for ages,’ she elaborated. ‘My whole family’s here. Then a flat I liked the look of came on the market, and I jumped at the chance.’ She smiled, hoping this answer would do.
‘I see,’ Hörður said, nodding slowly. ‘Of course, we can’t offer you quite the same facilities or fast pace as you’re used to in town,’ he continued, ‘but I can promise you that, although Akranes seems quiet, we’ve actually got more than enough on our plate. There’s plenty going on under the surface, so you won’t be sitting around twiddling your thumbs. Sound good to you?’
Elma nodded, unsure if he was being serious. In her opinion Akranes was every bit as quiet as it appeared to be.
‘As you probably know,’ Hörður said, ‘I’m head of CID here, so you’ll be working under me. We operate a shift system, with four officers on duty at any given time, and a duty officer in charge of every shift. Here at Akranes CID we’re responsible for the entire Western Region. We operate the usual day-shift rota that you’ll be used to
from Reykjavík. Shall I give you a quick tour of the station?’ He got up, went over to the door and, opening it, beckoned Elma to follow him.
Apart from being considerably smaller, Akranes Police Station was much like her old workplace in the city. It had the same institutional air as other public-sector offices: beige linoleum on the floor, white roller blinds in the windows, light-coloured curtains, blond birchwood furniture.
Hörður pointed out the four holding cells at the other end of the station. ‘One of them’s occupied at the moment. Yesterday seems to have been a bit lively for some people, but hopefully the guy will wake up soon, and we can send him home.’ He smiled absently, stroking the thick, neatly trimmed stubble on his jaw. Then he opened the door to reveal an empty cell, which looked pretty much like the cells in Reykjavík: a small, rectangular room containing a narrow bed.
‘The standard set-up, nothing that exciting,’ he said.
Elma nodded again. She’d lost count of the times she’d seen the same kind of cells in the city: grey walls and hard beds that few people would want to spend more than one night on. She followed Hörður back down the corridor, which now gave way to offices. He stopped by a door, opened it and ushered her inside. She glanced around. Although the desk was small, it had plenty of room for a computer and anything else she might need, and had lockable drawers too. Someone had put a pot plant on it. Fortunately it appeared to be some kind of cactus that would require little care. Then again, she’d managed to kill even cactuses before now.
‘This is where you’ll be kicking your heels,’ Hörður said with a hint of humour. ‘Gulla cleaned it out a few days ago. Pétur, your predecessor, left behind a mountain of files and other junk, but I think it should be ready for you to start work on Monday.’
‘Looks good,’ Elma said, smiling at him.
She went over to the window and stared out. A chill came off the glass and she could feel the goose bumps prickling her arms. The view was depressing: a row of dreary modern blocks of flats. When she was small she used to play in the basements of those buildings. The corridors had been wide and empty, and smelled of stale air and the rubber of the car tyres stored in the bike sheds. A perfect playground for kids.
The Creak on the Stairs Page 1
