Sunday, 26 November 2017
Aðalheiður sat hunched over the wheel, staring intently at the road in front of her. She held stubbornly to a sedate pace, ignoring the other cars that kept overtaking.
‘Mum, you know the speed limit’s ninety kilometres an hour here,’ Elma protested and sighed as yet another car passed them, the driver flashing them an angry grimace as he swept by. ‘Driving too slowly can be dangerous too, you know,’ she added, but couldn’t help being amused by her mother’s look of fierce concentration.
‘Ninety’s the maximum speed in optimum conditions, Elma,’ Aðalheiður replied, unfazed. ‘Rain and wind don’t count as optimum conditions, as you should know, being a police officer.’
Elma turned to look out of the window. Her mother was right. As so often, the weather, which had been fine back in Akranes, had deteriorated now that they were rounding the Kjalarnes Peninsula, in one of those bewilderingly fast changes for which the Icelandic climate was famous. Violent gusts kept battering the car, making her mother grip the wheel and slow to a crawl. Apparently this phenomenon had something to do with the way the mountains funnelled the wind. When Elma got up that morning a hard frost had covered the road outside her flat with glittering ice, yet now big, fat raindrops were falling out of a suddenly overcast sky and exploding on the windscreen.
Elma had woken early, despite having come home late the night before. To her surprise, Begga had rung her in the afternoon and invited her round to check out Tinder, as if this was a perfectly normal way to spend a Saturday evening. Unable to come up with an excuse, Elma had let herself be persuaded. Maybe it was all the wine they had got through, but she hadn’t laughed so much in ages. She could remember little after crawling into bed later that night and had woken with a pounding heart, a heavy head and a churning stomach. She wasn’t usually a big drinker and as she had sat on the side of her bed, trying to summon the strength to stand up, she’d remembered why.
It had been a beautiful morning and she had taken her hangover for a walk around town, stopping to buy a doughnut from the bakery, which she ate while strolling along the quay, reading the names of the fishing boats rocking gently on the calm sea. From there, her walk had taken her along Langisandur. It was low tide and the sun had come out, striking a glitter from the expanse of pale golden sand. If there was anything the town could be proud of, she had thought, it was this: the fine beach that on sunny days took on an almost Mediterranean atmosphere, with the townspeople basking on the sand and their children paddling in the sea. At the end of the bay, the cement factory stood idle, its white chimney towering above the town, while far away across the sea to the south, there was a glimpse of Reykjavík and, beyond it, the long, low line of the Reykjanes Peninsula, its mountains flattened out by the distance.
Elma was just passing her old school when her mother rang, telling her to be ready in ten minutes as they were going on a shopping expedition to Reykjavík. She had agreed reluctantly.
‘Shall we grab a late lunch once we get there? It’s no good shopping on an empty stomach,’ Aðalheiður said cheerfully as they drove south. ‘The shop has such a good restaurant these days – it’s really excellent. We could even treat ourselves to a glass of wine.’
‘That’s the last thing I feel like right now,’ Elma said ruefully. Her mother was in unusually high spirits that morning, humming along to the radio and shooting frequent glances at her daughter in the passenger seat beside her.
‘So, you had a good night, did you?’ Aðalheiður asked with a twinkle in her eye.
Elma shrugged. ‘It was OK.’
‘Well, I’m glad you had fun.’
Elma didn’t answer. The thought of buying new furniture felt overwhelming, as if it marked the beginning of a new chapter in her life. It wasn’t that long since she and Davíð used to go almost every weekend to buy something nice for their flat. Elma had moved to the capital at twenty, eager to stand on her own two feet, with no intention of ever returning home. Small-town life had never appealed to her. She had longed for the variety Reykjavík had to offer; the opportunity to meet new people and start again with a clean slate. But now here she was, back in Akranes and on her way to buy furniture for her new home. Or her old one, depending on how you looked at it.
‘You’re awfully quiet today,’ her mother said, darting her another glance.
‘I was just thinking.’
‘I’ve heard that’s a good thing. Thinking, I mean.’
‘Maybe you should try it some time.’ Elma grinned. ‘I’m tired too. I didn’t sleep well last night.’
‘How’s work going?’ Aðalheiður asked.
She asked the same question every day but Elma never had much to say in reply. The majority of the cases that landed on the desks of West Iceland CID were road accidents, though she had been called out to a break-in on Wednesday. An elderly couple had noticed that the window of their garage had been forced open. Elma had gone to the scene with Sævar and met the couple, who were well into their eighties. Since nothing turned out to be missing from their garage, the case remained unsolved and would probably stay that way. All Elma could think was that the husband had forgotten that he had forced the window himself, judging by the way he seemed incapable of remembering anything for more than five minutes and kept repeating the same questions.
‘Fine, nothing to report,’ she replied.
‘I hope Hörður’s treating you well,’ Aðalheiður said. ‘It was kind of him to wangle this job for you. He and your father were good friends way back. Mind you, he was quite different in those days and could have drunk anybody under the table. But when he joined the police, he became a reformed character.’
‘Hörður?’ Elma exclaimed. She couldn’t picture her boss drinking anyone under the table.
‘Yes, indeed. He had quite a weakness for the bottle. But he’s changed beyond recognition since he got the police job. Don’t repeat this, but your father thinks he’s become a bit of a pushover these days. He doesn’t dare take on the more difficult cases because he’s so terrified of putting people’s backs up.’ Aðalheiður grinned. ‘Anyway, I’m glad to hear it’s going well. You’ll soon be one of the team. After all, it’s not like you’re an outsider.’
‘It’s OK, just a bit quiet. Very different from my job in Reykjavík. I just hope there’ll be enough to do.’ Elma gazed out over the island-dotted waters of Kollafjörður Bay. The grey sea was flecked with white where its surface was being whipped up by the wind.
‘There’s always something to do,’ her mother said with a shrug. ‘I expect you’ll just have to get used to a different sort of case.’
Elma nodded. Perhaps something different was exactly what she needed.
‘It stinks here.’ Arna buried her nose in the big scarf she wore round her neck, trying to filter out the stench from the fish factory, which was blowing in their direction.
‘You’ll get used to it. Have a fag, then you won’t notice it.’ Reynir smiled and handed her a cigarette. Arna hesitated. She didn’t really smoke. She’d tried once when her friend had stolen a cigarette from her grandmother, who smoked like a chimney. They had taken it down to the beach, where they’d had trouble lighting the thing, but in the end they had succeeded in inhaling a bit of smoke, before collapsing in coughing fits. After this experience, they had agreed that cigarettes were disgusting and promised each other they would never take up smoking.
But now, deciding to go for it, Arna accepted the cigarette. Reynir lit it for her and she puffed until it started burning properly. The car filled with smoke in no time. Arna did her best to suck it down into her lungs without coughing, then handed the cigarette back to Reynir.
He opened the window, letting in even more of the fishy smell, then turned up the volume and reclined in his seat. Arna watched entranced as he inhaled with his eyes closed, surrendering himself to the rhythm of the music. She didn’t usually listen to this kind of stuff herself. She was a big Taylor Swift fan, though she’d nev
er admit it to Reynir. He was so cool. She had butterflies in her stomach. It was so unlike her to be here with a boy she hardly knew. Her parents thought she was watching a film at Hafdís’s house. They hadn’t a clue that she was out with Reynir, who was three years older than her and had been a heart-throb all the way through school. All the girls had been crazy about him ever since the first year and, if anything, he’d seemed even cooler since he’d started at college. Anyway, he’d never so much as looked at any of them. That’s why her heart had missed a beat when she’d seen the friend request from him on Facebook. Trembling with excitement, she had called Hafdís at once to tell her the news. Hafdís had been pleased for her, but at the same time Arna had heard a hint of jealousy in her voice. After all, it was Hafdís who had always had the biggest crush on Reynir.
‘I’m going inside the lighthouse. You coming?’ Reynir chucked the butt out of the window and got out of the car before Arna had time to answer. She hastily followed his example.
Although it couldn’t have been more than 8.00 p.m., it was pitch dark outside. The last few days had been so wet and windy that Arna found it oddly quiet now that there was a temporary lull; the sighing of the waves seemed almost soporific. There was the odd spot of rain and a tang of salt in the air.
Reynir waited for her at the edge of the car park by the tall, new lighthouse, where the concrete ended and the rocks began. The old lighthouse stood a little further off and to reach it they would have to clamber along the shore over the rocks. In contrast to the smooth, cylindrical lines of the new building, the old one consisted of a stumpy, square tower with peeling paint on the walls and a railing around the lantern room at the top.
‘Hold on to me. It’s slippery here,’ Reynir ordered.
Arna obeyed, shyly taking his arm, and they picked their way together over the grey boulders with their clumps of yellow grass and unexpected, water-filled fissures, to the old lighthouse near the tip of the point.
Arna had often been out here with her father. He was a keen photographer and his enthusiasm had rubbed off on her. She enjoyed going out into nature and taking pictures herself and had developed quite an eye, but couldn’t yet afford a camera of her own. Last summer, like so many Icelandic teenagers, she had taken part in a youth work programme, and her wages were now sitting untouched in her bank account, waiting until she had saved up enough for her dream camera. For now, though, she borrowed her father’s. She and her dad would race outside when the Northern Lights were dancing across the night sky to try and capture their splendour on film, and the old lighthouse was an ideal spot for this. It made a brilliant subject, silhouetted against a background of sea and aurora. Her father had told her it was built in 1918, the first modern concrete lighthouse in Iceland. Recently it had attracted international interest and been voted one of the most picturesque lighthouses in the world. She was considering whether to share this information with Reynir when she lost her footing on the wet rocks.
‘I warned you it was slippery!’ Reynir grabbed her, flashing his gorgeous smile, and Arna, blushing, concentrated on looking at the ground in front of her until they reached the lighthouse.
The steel door was unlocked as always. The moment they stepped inside Reynir turned and pushed her up against the wall. Arna was taken aback but didn’t say anything. His hands began roaming over her body. Breathing heavily in her ear, he squeezed her breast.
‘Are you a virgin?’ he whispered.
Arna nodded, unsure how to answer such a direct question, but Reynir seemed pleased and started kissing her on the mouth. One of his hands was propped against the wall above her head for support while the other stroked lower and lower, and his kiss became wetter and more urgent. Arna, unable to breathe, wasn’t sure if she was enjoying this.
Of course she had been hoping to be kissed, but in her imagination, the kiss had been gentle and romantic. She had pictured it happening at the end of the evening, just before she got out of the car. Before that, they would talk about everything under the sun. Then he would give her a lift home (stopping at a discreet distance up the street, obviously) and she would open the car door, saying something like: ‘Thanks for the drive.’ He would seize her hand and say: ‘Shall we do it again tomorrow?’ And she would say: ‘Maybe’ – just to tease him. Then he might say: ‘Do I get a kiss before you go?’ She pictured herself hesitating, then giving in to persuasion, leaning towards him until their lips touched. Slowly, tentatively, perhaps with a little tongue at the end. Then she would break off the kiss and get out of the car without another word. She imagined him leaning back in his seat with his eyes shut, thinking about her, just like when he had been listening to the music earlier.
But this kiss was nothing like that. Instead, she was standing crushed uncomfortably against the icy wall while he groped her and stuck his tongue down her throat so she couldn’t breathe. She was cold and wet, and it stank in the lighthouse.
‘Did you hear that?’ she asked, momentarily freeing her mouth. She thought she had heard a noise from inside the lighthouse but wasn’t sure. It was probably her imagination, but she seized on this excuse to move away from Reynir.
‘What?’
‘I think there’s somebody up there.’ Arna peered up the staircase. She knew that kids often came here in the evenings, but they hadn’t seen any other vehicles in the car park so had assumed they were alone.
‘I didn’t hear anything,’ Reynir said, moving in to resume his wet kiss.
‘I’m sure I heard something.’ Arna quickly ducked her head to avoid another tongue-assault. Her jaws were already aching. Before he could start again, she wriggled away, pulled out her phone and switched on the torch. Then she started swiftly climbing the spiral staircase with its peeling green paint, the metal stairs clanging under her feet. She could see where the paint was flaking off the white walls. From the Coke cans and cigarette butts littering the place, it was obvious that this was a popular haunt for the town’s teenagers.
Once she was at the top she opened the door out to the narrow gallery and leant against the hand rail. There was nobody there. Yet she could have sworn she had heard a noise. The moon cast a dim glow on the waves as they rose and fell against the rocks. Arna wrapped her jacket more tightly around herself and gazed down at the surface of the sea.
‘I told you it was nothing, didn’t I?’ Reynir said, emerging at the top after climbing the staircase unhurriedly behind her.
‘What on earth’s that?’ Arna peered into the darkness, pointing at the line of rocks that extended into the sea in the direction of the reef.
‘What? I can’t see anything.’ Reynir followed her pointing finger.
‘It looks like fur.’ Arna shuddered. ‘Do you think it could be an animal? We’d better go and see.’
‘No way am I touching a dead cat.’ Reynir pulled a face but Arna ignored him and ran down the stairs, then started picking her way carefully over the rocks to the place where she thought the animal was lying. Perhaps they could rescue the poor thing. She had seen a movement, hadn’t she? Or had it simply been the waves moving the fur? She wasn’t sure. The only source of light was the moon and the air was full of a cold spray that leaked down her neck inside her thin jacket.
Once Arna had clambered over the rocks to the shore, she stopped and peered down at the waterline just below. She could hear Reynir calling from some way off but his words were drowned out by the restless noise of the sea around her.
What she saw there was not the fur of an animal but a woman’s hair, stirring gently with the waves.
The furniture shop was heaving. They trudged up and down the aisles, examining the showrooms. Aðalheiður paused by every display, picking things up and testing the sofas. A couple of hours later they had found a new sofa that hadn’t been on Elma’s list but which her mother had talked her into buying. Until then, Elma had been intending to make do with the old sofa bed from her parents’ spare room. Other additions to the list included a bedside table and various other sma
ll items that her mother promised would make the little flat more homely. When it came to paying, Aðalheiður grabbed Elma’s hand and held out her own card instead.
‘Think of it as a small advance on your inheritance,’ she said with a wink.
Elma felt herself welling up and quickly averted her eyes. She wasn’t usually this sensitive but now she was having trouble swallowing the lump in her throat.
Her voice was still a little wobbly a few minutes later when she answered her phone. She was standing by the exit, loaded down with bags, waiting for her mother to reverse the car up to the door. It was past 8.00 p.m.
‘Hi,’ she said in an unnaturally reedy voice, having extracted her phone with difficulty from her pocket.
It was Hörður. ‘Hello, Elma, something’s come up. How quickly can you get yourself out to Breiðin?’
Akranes 1989
Elísabet had often seen the school before but it had never looked as imposing as it did now when she stood by the entrance, gazing up at the white building. On either side, the playgrounds and sports fields stretched out over what seemed like a vast area.
Gripping the red straps of her schoolbag, she entered the hall, where a crowd of children her own age were standing with their parents. She looked around her. Everyone seemed to be busy chatting. No one took any notice of her as she stood watching them. Then she met the eye of a little girl who was standing huddled beside her mother and she smiled at her, but the little girl turned her face away and took hold of her mother’s hand. She was probably just shy. That was all right. Lots of the kids were shy like her. But some of the others were messing about and making such a racket that their parents had to turn round and shush them.
When the bell rang, the teacher came out and told the parents to say goodbye to their children. The pupils were to line up in front of him. Elísabet saw the shy girl resisting as her mother firmly pushed her into line. The girl wasn’t crying but she bit her lip and stared down at her pink shoes that looked as if they had never come into contact with any dirt.
The Creak on the Stairs Page 5
