‘Why do you say that?’
‘You know who Guðni is, don’t you? He’s Krummi’s best friend. One of the in-crowd – that we were never part of.’ The flicker of a smile touched Kristín’s lips. ‘Well, anyway, after we decided to split up, all our friends, all the couples we knew, sided with Guðni. Everywhere I go, I meet closed doors.’
‘What about Silja?’ Elma asked.
‘Silja?’ Kristín said, and sighed again. ‘Silja’s changed. I’m not good enough for her anymore. She started hanging out with Sandra and her mates. They invited me along while I was with Guðni, but after we separated they dropped me and I haven’t heard from them for months.’
Elma didn’t know what to say and sat sipping the cocoa she’d ordered while Kristín went on talking, pouring out the whole story. How they had defriended her on Facebook, how lonely she was. ‘I’ve been wondering if I should just move,’ she said finally, in a resigned voice.
‘Absolutely not,’ said Elma. ‘Don’t let them drive you away. You have to show them you’re stronger than they are.’
‘But I’m not,’ Kristín said, a catch in her voice. ‘Not that it matters anyway because Guðni would never let me move. That’s not the worst thing, though – the worst thing is that he wants sole custody. The weeks he has the kids are unbearable. I have nothing to do but sit there missing them, and no one comes to see me. I’ve taken to spending my days in the library.’ Her attempt at a smile came out as a grimace.
‘I’ll come round and see you,’ Elma said quickly. ‘And don’t worry, there’s no chance of him getting custody.’
‘I know that really … Thanks, Elma,’ Kristín said. ‘Thanks for letting me dump on you. You know, I’ve missed you, and I’m not just saying that because of the mess I’m in.’
Elma smiled awkwardly and regretted not having got in touch first. She’d been so preoccupied with her own problems that it hadn’t occurred to her she might not be the only one suffering.
The pictures were in an old shoebox, buried among the socks and underpants at the back of the wardrobe. She didn’t know exactly what she was looking for. She had been wandering aimlessly around the flat all day, alone at home as so often, with no idea where he was. But then she rarely knew and never asked. It was his business. He could come and go as he pleased, but it was different with her. She had to account for every trip and phone call. Sometimes he seemed to realise how he was behaving. Then he would hold her in his arms and she could, if she liked, pretend to herself that they had only just got together. That none of the ugly stuff had happened. Once, when he’d drunk too much, he had tried to explain why he behaved like that, opening up about his difficult childhood – about the rejection he’d experienced and his constant fear of abandonment. She tried to be understanding but it was often hard. He could be so unfair, she thought, rubbing the new, violet bruise on her sore arm.
Sometimes she wondered how she had ended up in this situation. It hadn’t been deliberate, absolutely not. She just hadn’t realised what was happening until it was too late. And now she was trapped in a relationship with a man she simultaneously loved and feared. She used to read about women like that and wonder why they didn’t just leave. It wasn’t that simple, though. It was far too complicated for her just to walk out and disappear. The trouble was, she loved him.
She had to admit that it was nice to have money too. She didn’t need to work unless she wanted to and could have almost anything she wanted. Life had never been like that at home – just a perpetual struggle to make ends meet, always waiting for the next pay cheque. She’d never known her father and never wanted to look him up, so it had only been her and her grandmother since her mother died. And her grandmother never wanted to spend a króna unless it was absolutely necessary: the old lady was forever scrimping and saving.
The few friends she had made as a girl used to say they didn’t feel comfortable coming round to her house: the furniture was shabby and the place was full of the kind of creepy silence that you only got in old houses. A silence that seemed impossible to fill, as if words were unwelcome and fell, muffled, into the deadening hush.
She sometimes felt as if that pall of silence had followed her and hung over her wherever she went. Like now, alone in the empty flat. Perhaps that was what had attracted her to a man like him: things were never quiet when he was around. Not only that, but he loved to buy her expensive presents; to spoil her with nice clothes and meals at smart restaurants. She couldn’t say no; she didn’t want to.
Besides, she had no wish to bring up his child alone.
She took out the shoebox and opened it, expecting to find some old junk like letters or postcards – the kind of stuff people keep in shoeboxes in the wardrobe – which was why she got such a shock when she saw the photos. She dropped the box on the bed as if she’d been burnt.
A shiver ran through her and her chest felt so tight she could hardly breathe. She bent over, leaning on the bed, eyes closed, trying to absorb the shock. Then, after a few moments, she picked up the box and emptied it carefully. There must have been at least twenty photos, most of them of the same child, a beautiful, dark-haired girl of maybe ten years old. She was standing in an awkward pose, all skinny arms, bare stomach, knock-knees and that cloak of hair reaching right down to her waist. She’d never seen the girl before. But there were also several pictures of a fair girl, and she recognised her immediately.
She stared at the photos for a while and the girls seemed to stare back. In the end, she stuffed them back in the box with trembling hands, closed the lid and returned it to the wardrobe. She could feel her gorge rising and only just made it to the bathroom before she threw up.
Akranes 1991
Of all the kids in her class Magnea was by far the most popular. She was always surrounded by a large group of friends and admirers who followed her around the school, playing with her during break and vying with each other to be allowed to hang out with her after school. Elísabet had been watching her from afar but couldn’t understand what was so special about her. Magnea wasn’t particularly bright, nor was she particularly funny or nice. But she was self-confident and never seemed to suffer from a moment’s doubt. She talked the most, laughed the loudest and strutted around the playground as if she owned it and everyone in it.
Up to now, Elísabet hadn’t taken much notice of the other children in her class. It had been enough to have Sara as her friend. Ever since she started school two years ago, it had been the two of them united against the rest of the world, best friends forever. She had told Sara everything. Well, nearly everything: Sara didn’t know how she felt when she did bad things. Hadn’t a clue about the suspense beforehand, the way all her nerves tensed, or about the rush of well-being that flooded her afterwards. Elísabet had always pretended to be ashamed. She knew what other people looked like when they were ashamed; knew how to arrange her features to mimic them. Look down, don’t smile, and sometimes, if she’d done something very bad, shed a few tears.
Sara had always forgiven her … until now. Now she had gone too far. The toddler’s wounds had been so deep that she’d needed stitches. And now Sara wouldn’t speak to her. Wouldn’t even look at her.
Elísabet sat down on the wet grass and stared across the playground. She felt her trousers growing damp but it didn’t matter. She was watching Sara. Sara was holding Magnea’s hand and they were walking around the playground together, pointing and laughing. Elísabet could feel the rage building up inside her. She was alone now. No one was bothered about her. No one cared. No one in the whole wide world.
Elísabet didn’t cry. She wasn’t the type. She’d long ago realised that it didn’t do any good; that no one would ever come to comfort her.
‘What do you know about Andrés?’ Elma was sitting at the kitchen island, watching her mother roll a haddock fillet in breadcrumbs. Aðalheiður was wearing the red apron that she must have owned for thirty years. The colour was fading and there were spots of fat on the front.
/> ‘Andrés who works in the library, you mean? He’s a bit peculiar, poor thing, but perfectly harmless. He lived with his parents until they died a few years back. Since then he’s been living in supported accommodation. Why do you ask?’
‘Just curious. I went to the library today.’
‘You used to spend so much time there as a child,’ Aðalheiður said, smiling reminiscently. ‘Did you find any books?’
‘I don’t have time to read.’
‘Nonsense, there’s always time to read. I read every evening before I go to sleep. I can’t drop off without a book.’
‘And you leave the light on until all hours,’ Elma’s father commented as he came into the kitchen and took a can of malt drink from the fridge. Her mother just smiled and carried on stirring the onions that were sizzling in the pan, giving off a deliciously savoury smell.
Without warning the front door opened.
‘Hello!’ Dagný’s voice boomed from the hall. ‘Is there any coffee?’ she asked once she was installed at the kitchen table, her feet up on a chair.
‘Are you on your own?’ Aðalheiður asked, pouring a mug for her.
‘Viðar’s taken the boys to football practice,’ Dagný said, yawning. ‘We’ll grab some pizzas on the way home. I’ve had it for today.’
‘What nonsense, there’s plenty of food here,’ Aðalheiður said. She put the mug on the table in front of her elder daughter and went back to her cooking.
‘Oh, I promised them pizza. I’ll never hear the last of it if I go back on my word.’
‘Do you remember Andrés?’ Elma asked.
‘Weird Andrés? Sure, I do,’ Dagný said. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Because I was at the library earlier,’ Elma said.
‘He once gate-crashed a party at Bjarni’s,’ Dagný said, shaking her head. ‘He’d got hold of a whole bottle of moonshine and was totally wasted. A few minutes later his mum stormed in wearing her dressing gown and curlers, and dragged him off home. I’ve never seen anything so ridiculous.’
‘You went to parties at Bjarni’s place?’ Elma asked in surprise. Bjarni Hendriksson was at least five years older than her sister.
Dagný shrugged. ‘Yes, years ago. Everyone went to his parties. Or at least they did until his dad put a stop to them.’
Elma had never been to those parties. Of course she’d heard about them but she’d never been invited. ‘Why did he put a stop to them?’
Dagný glanced incredulously at her. ‘Where were you, Elma? Do you really not remember?’
Elma shook her head, trying not to let her sister’s contemptuous tone get to her.
Dagný sighed impatiently. ‘There was a girl who turned up pissed out of her skull and probably high as well. She passed out in one of the bedrooms and when she woke up she started coming out with all these accusations.’
‘What kind of accusations?’
‘Oh, she claimed she’d been assaulted. As far as I can remember she was going to press charges, but nothing ever came of it because she didn’t have any proof. She’d been totally out of it at the party.’
‘Who was she assaulted by?’
‘She didn’t know and I expect that’s why it didn’t go any further.’
‘Do you think she was making it up?’
Dagný sighed again. ‘I don’t think anyone did anything to her, not deliberately, at least, but maybe she slept with some boy and regretted it afterwards. Those parties often got out of hand, and people could easily have got up to stuff in that state, and then regretted it later.’
‘What were you doing at those parties, Dagný?’ Aðalheiður exclaimed.
Dagný tutted in exasperation. ‘Mum! I don’t think I went along more than two or three times and I never got wasted like so many of the others.’
‘Who was the girl?’ Elma asked. She doubted her sister had been quite as much of an angel as she was implying.
‘I have a feeling her name was Vilborg. I don’t think she lives in Akranes any longer. In fact, I think she moved away not long afterwards,’ Dagný said, and began flicking indifferently through the newspaper.
‘Do you remember her second name?’
Dagný shook her head without looking up. ‘No, but she was two years older than me, so it shouldn’t be difficult to find out.’
Elma studied her sister. There were times when she still wished they could be closer. They only ever met at their parents’ house. When Elma was younger she’d looked up to her so much and wanted to copy everything she did – to be like her. But Dagný only ever spoke to her to snap at her or accuse her of having mislaid something. She had blamed herself for the fact that Dagný didn’t want to be her friend but over the years she had realised that they were simply very different and in their teens her admiration of Dagný had turned to anger. She was fond of her sister and loved her nephews but she wasn’t sure she could ever forgive Dagný for the way she had treated her when they were kids.
‘Right, I’d better be off,’ Dagný said, finally looking up from the paper. She finished her coffee and got to her feet. ‘Bye, Mum,’ she called from the hall.
Elma rolled her eyes and called as loudly as she could: ‘Bye, sister dearest.’
They heard the front door slam and Elma grinned at her mother who groaned but couldn’t quite hide a smile.
They’d been invited round to dinner, which didn’t happen very often. It was rare for them all to get together, except on special occasions like birthdays, Christmas or Easter. Of course, Ása saw Bjarni almost every day, either when she dropped by the office bringing lunch for her husband and son, or when Bjarni popped in to see her on his way home from work. Bjarni took good care of his mother; she certainly couldn’t fault him as a son. But Magnea seldom came with him and then only under pressure. Which was why Ása had been so surprised to receive the invitation. A dinner party for no obvious reason! That was something new, she’d thought to herself as she put down the phone that morning.
When Hendrik came home, she was waiting on the sofa in the sitting room, putting the finishing touches on a pale-pink romper suit with mittens and bootees attached. She had laid it on the sofa to admire it and drifted into a reverie as she stroked the soft wool and tried different buttons against it. When Hendrik finally appeared, he made do with changing his shirt and slapping on some aftershave. Not that he needed any more. Ása thought she would be asphyxiated by the overpowering smell in the car but instead of winding down the window, she sat there without moving or speaking.
They tapped lightly on Bjarni and Magnea’s door. Bjarni never knocked when he came round to their house; he had his own key and came and went as he liked. Of course, they had keys to Bjarni and Magnea’s house as well, but they wouldn’t dream of using them. Not on an occasion like this.
Bjarni came to the door. As usual, Ása couldn’t help feeling proud when she saw him. He was so handsome. He’d been a beautiful child, a cute boy and was now a handsome man, tall and broad-shouldered, with fair hair and pale-blue eyes.
‘Hi, Mum,’ he said, giving her a hug, then shook hands with his father. He helped her off with her coat and hung it in the wardrobe.
‘I’m perfectly capable of doing that myself, you know,’ Ása protested. ‘I’m not completely past it.’ Her grateful smile vanished the moment Magnea appeared in the hall.
‘Hi,’ said Magnea, her cheeriness sounding a little overdone as usual, which always made Ása doubt her sincerity. Magnea kissed them both on the cheek, and it drove Ása up the wall the way Hendrik seized the chance to slip his arms round her waist. ‘Can I offer you something?’ Magnea said. ‘Water, coffee? Or wine?’
‘Would you get me a drop of whisky, sweetheart?’ Hendrik asked, in the voice he always used with Magnea. He settled into the armchair in the formal sitting room. Hendrik always made himself at home wherever he was. Ása, in contrast, perched stiffly on the edge of the sofa.
‘What about you, Ása? Can I offer you something?’ Magnea asked, having
taken Hendrik his whisky.
‘No, thank you,’ Ása said, trying to smile politely.
Magnea sat down too and an awkward silence fell until Bjarni joined them. He had a way of lightening the atmosphere and getting those around him to relax. Perhaps that was why people were drawn to him. When he was young, the house had always been full of boys. The doorbell had rung incessantly, and at one time it had become such a nuisance that Ása had been forced to put her foot down: no one was to come round until after four o’clock and everyone must have gone home by half past six.
Some people were born leaders, Ása knew that. She’d known it ever since Bjarni was two. He was born in July and his star sign was Leo, a fact that had always seemed symbolic to her. Bjarni sometimes reminded her of a majestic lion, the way he swaggered around, keeping a possessive eye on his pride. Even at nursery school he’d had his pick of friends and later he’d had his pick of girls too. Ása had never understood why he’d had to go and fall for Magnea.
Bjarni sat down beside Magnea and put an arm round her shoulders. He looked expectantly from Ása to Hendrik, then, apparently unable to contain himself any longer, said: ‘It’s no good, Magnea, I can’t wait until the end of the evening like you wanted.’ He laughed, his eyes bright with excitement.
Ása glanced, puzzled, at Hendrik, then back at her son. What did the boy have to tell them? What was going on?
‘Magnea’s pregnant,’ Bjarni announced. ‘We’re expecting the patter of tiny feet in June.’
Ása opened her mouth, then closed it again. Hendrik got straight to his feet and hugged them both delightedly. After a moment, Ása followed suit, then sat down again, as if in a daze.
‘Are you all right, Mum?’ Bjarni asked, his face concerned.
Ása realised she still hadn’t said a word. Finally she smiled and, to her astonishment, felt a tear trickling down her cheek. She hastily wiped it away, laughing in embarrassment. Bjarni’s and Magnea’s eyes met and they smiled.
The Creak on the Stairs Page 24
