Why Did You Lie?

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  ‘It’s not often that boys your age get the chance to come in here, you know.’ The man placed his hands on the table, one on top of the other. Beside them was a notepad and pen. ‘So I need to make absolutely sure I do everything right. I don’t want you to think the police are mean or bullies.’

  Thröstur turned to the man and shook his head vehemently. His hair was much longer than was the fashion nowadays and his golden locks swung. ‘I don’t think that.’ His expression shone with sincerity; the ingenuous child’s face was irresistible. The sharp pain in Nína’s heart intensified and she was pierced with sadness that she and Thröstur would never have children. Their son might have looked like this.

  ‘I’m glad to hear it. Do you understand why you were asked to come in?’ The policeman’s voice was firm but friendly. In spite of this, Thröstur’s manner showed a trace of anxiety or fear. He darted a quick glance at his mother but when his profile reappeared he looked as confused as before. ‘I think so. I’m not sure.’

  ‘This isn’t a test and there’s nothing to be afraid of. You’re what’s known as a witness. Witnesses are ordinary people who’ve seen something that the police are interested in. We can’t be everywhere, so it’s important that people help by telling us the truth if they see something that might be a crime.’

  ‘A crime? What’s a crime?’ Thröstur stopped swinging his legs. ‘I know what a criminal is. It’s a thief.’

  ‘Quite right. When somebody steals from another person that’s a crime and he’s a criminal. But stealing’s not the only crime. For example, it’s against the law to hurt people.’ The policeman leant confidingly over the table. ‘Crimes are bad, especially for the people hurt by them. So when people see a crime, they’re supposed to tell the police. Then we can arrest the criminal.’

  ‘Even if nobody told me, I’d still arrest the man if I was a cop.’

  ‘But first you’d have to be sure the man was a thief, wouldn’t you?’ The police officer received no answer but Thröstur appeared to be considering the matter. The man continued: ‘Wouldn’t you tell if you saw somebody stealing?’

  Thröstur looked back at his mother who met his gaze but didn’t speak. He chewed at his bottom lip and began swinging his legs again. ‘Yes. I’d ring the police. When I got home.’

  ‘Good. I knew you were a sensible boy. Now I’m going to tell you another thing that’s just as important. Sometimes we have to talk to a witness to make sure there hasn’t been a crime. Again, it’s terribly important for the witness to tell the truth.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’ Thröstur frowned. ‘Do I have to ring the police if I don’t see a criminal?’

  ‘No, not exactly. In the sort of cases I’m talking about, the police would come round and ask you some questions. Like the other day, remember?’ Thröstur nodded and the policeman continued. ‘A police officer came round to see you and your friends and asked you what you’d seen.’

  Thröstur’s frown deepened. ‘I know.’

  ‘Now I’m going to ask you the same questions again in case you remember something you forgot to tell us then. I’m also going to ask your friends who were with you. But I’m talking to you first.’

  ‘I’m the oldest. I was born in March.’ Thröstur sat up straighter, which had the effect of making him appear even younger and more vulnerable. Nína realised she had been holding her breath and let it go noisily. Suddenly it felt uncomfortable to be looking back in time like this, seeing Thröstur at such a young age. It would have been different if he hadn’t been lying on his deathbed. She would have gone home and teased him about his stripy polo-neck jumper and the anorak he was growing out of – that is, once she had finished interrogating him and scolding him for not telling her about this. But now all she could do was go up to the hospital and sit beside his soulless, insensible body. It was peculiar to think that the last words she would hear Thröstur speak were uttered thirty years ago. Foolish as it was, Nína couldn’t help wondering what the boy would say to the camera if he knew that his future wife would one day be watching the recording. He’d probably ask her to promise never to cook anything containing mushrooms or onion.

  ‘Indeed. Clearly I was right to talk to you first.’ Nína turned her attention to the police officer. It was less painful. She thought he was doing an extraordinarily good job. He was every bit as skilful as his modern colleagues who were sent on all kinds of training courses before being allowed to interview children. She wondered why the task had fallen to him and guessed he was probably the officer who had the most children of his own. He certainly knew how to talk to them. Or perhaps he was going out of his way to perform well because the interview was being recorded.

  She watched the man as he reached for the notepad. ‘Now, think carefully before you answer – we’re in no hurry. Give yourself time to remember what happened and make sure you tell the truth. Your mother’s here with you and you wouldn’t want to hurt her by telling a lie. I expect you’re very fond of her, aren’t you?’

  Thröstur hung his head. From the movement of his mop of hair, he appeared to be nodding. ‘I don’t want anything bad to happen to Mum.’

  Milla put a hand on her son’s shoulder. She removed it almost immediately, as if she thought demonstrations of affection were inappropriate in the middle of a police interview.

  ‘Of course not. Nothing bad will happen to her, son.’

  ‘I know.’ Thröstur didn’t look up but stared in fascination at the zip of his pale-blue anorak. Nína frowned. She was no expert when it came to children but there had been something odd about the little boy’s reaction when the policeman referred to his mother. Did the incident relate to her somehow?

  The policeman slapped his hands on the table with a bang. ‘Good. Why don’t we get started then, so we can let you go back outside in the sunshine as soon as possible?’ He picked up a pen and held it poised over the pad, ready to note down the boy’s answers.

  Thröstur looked up and met the policeman’s eye. He pulled his hands from under his thighs and laid them on the table in front of him. Then he leant forwards. ‘I’m ready.’

  ‘Good. Me too.’ The policeman smiled and shot a brief glance at Thröstur’s mother. Milla nodded as if to say: We’re ready; get it over with so my child and I can leave and never have anything to do with the police again. Nína smiled faintly. She should be so lucky.

  ‘Right. Let’s begin by reminding ourselves where you were and how long you were sitting there.’

  ‘We were sitting on the fence by the grey house. The fence is grey too. It’s made of concrete. You can sit on it. You can’t sit on wooden fences. They hurt.’ Thröstur looked at his mother, who smiled. ‘But I don’t know how long we were there. I can almost tell the time. But I haven’t got a watch.’

  ‘That’s all right. But you sat there quite a long time? Didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes. We were there a very, very long time. I wrote down fifteen number plates. That’s a lot, you know, and one was an ambulance too. My book’s almost full now.’ Nína vaguely remembered this craze from her own childhood. Her best friend’s brother had had a little book in which he used to collect car registration numbers, but she had never understood the appeal, either then or now. The brother hadn’t, to her knowledge, ever done anything with them, he had simply recorded the numbers in a book. So Thröstur had been sitting on the wall with his friends, noting down car licence plates.

  ‘Did fifteen cars go past while you were sitting there?’

  ‘No. Lots more. But I couldn’t write down all the numbers. Some zoom past but we can’t write quickly enough. And it’s hard to remember the numbers while you’re writing them. We could only really write down the numbers of the cars that stopped.’ Thröstur pointed to the pen in the policeman’s hand that was skating nimbly over the page. ‘But you could definitely get the numbers of the cars that zoom by. You write so fast.’

  ‘Yes, maybe I should try.’ The officer smiled at Thröstur. ‘You were sitting righ
t opposite the house, weren’t you? There was nothing blocking your view, no lorry parked in front of it or anything like that?’ Thröstur shook his head. He opened his mouth to say something, then clamped his lips shut. The policeman picked up on this. ‘Perhaps you remember now that there was something in the way which you forgot when you talked to us before? It’s all right if you didn’t remember the first time. We can always change it.’

  ‘No.’ The child spoke in a small voice. ‘There was nothing in the way. I’m sure.’

  ‘All right. But is there any chance you weren’t watching all the time? You must be busy writing when a car stops for long enough for you to get its number. Perhaps lots of cars came at once and you couldn’t look up from your books for a while.’

  ‘We took it in turns to look across the road.’ Thröstur’s eyes were lowered; his shoulders drooped. ‘It’s a bad place.’

  ‘Bad? How do you mean?’

  ‘Just bad.’

  ‘Can you explain that a bit better for me? Why do you think that? Did you kids maybe go inside and see something frightening?’ Nína pricked up her ears. She wanted to yell at the screen to make the policeman explain what was going on.

  Thröstur looked up and his eyes seemed to have widened. He answered with sudden vehemence. ‘No. We didn’t see anything. Nothing at all.’ Then he dropped his gaze again and when he resumed speaking it was on an indrawn breath. ‘But that’s not why. I just know it’s a bad place. Everyone says so.’

  ‘Everyone? Who’s everyone?’

  ‘The other children.’

  ‘All right.’ For the first time in the interview the policeman seemed at a loss. He didn’t have any question prepared and tried to disguise the fact by pretending to read back over his notes. Then he cleared his throat, rubbed a hand across his forehead and stared at Thröstur. Eventually the boy looked up and met his gaze. ‘So you’re sure you watched the whole time and that what you told the police the other day was correct?’

  Thröstur licked his lips. His fingers, which had been resting almost motionless on the table, were suddenly fidgety. He squirmed in his chair, then glanced away, his face turned towards the camera, as if he wanted to address his words to Nína, thirty years later. ‘No. I don’t want to change anything. I told the truth then. We didn’t see anything.’ His eyes roved around in search of something to fix on; he wriggled in his seat, clenched his fingers and licked his lips.

  All the signs of a liar rolled into one.

  The picture vanished and the screen filled with electronic snow. It was the end of the tape.

  Chapter 10

  24 January 2014

  Vala had been right. He should have taken an extra day’s holiday to recover. His body was stuck in another time zone and he simply couldn’t concentrate on adapting the accounting software to the needs of the client. Endless lines from chunks of different programs danced on the two screens but seemed to retreat whenever he tried to read them. Steam was rising from the mug on his desk, but Nói felt repulsed by the smell. How many coffees was that already this morning? The caffeine had stimulated him at first but by now he felt he must have more coffee than blood running through his veins.

  Nói tipped his head back and closed his eyes. He was in a tetchy mood, and exasperated with himself for being so perverse. When he turned up this morning he had expected to be confronted by all kinds of problems that his staff had been unable to solve in his absence, but that wasn’t the case. Apparently everything had gone like clockwork without him. Of course he should have been pleased by this, not cross. To make matters worse, he could tell from his employees’ expressions that they hadn’t missed him and might actually have preferred it if he’d stayed in America for good. He’d rather they had heaved a sigh of relief and handed him stacks of projects that no one had been able to sort out without him. As it was, there was nothing for him to do. To disguise the fact that he was wandering aimlessly around the office, he had grabbed a minor project that had come in yesterday and shouldn’t cause him any headaches. And now here he was, stuck.

  His thoughts wandered back to yesterday evening, the dustbin and broken bulbs in the outdoor lights. It wasn’t quite the homecoming he had dreamt of during the cramped indignities of economy class. His mind had conjured up a picture of home in which peace and quiet reigned undisturbed but the reality had been quite different. All it had taken to destroy his peace of mind were a few shards of broken glass. Before coming to work this morning he had even checked whether next-door’s exterior lights had been vandalised in the same way. They hadn’t, and while Nói certainly didn’t bear his neighbours any ill will, he would have preferred it if they had been targeted too. It was unsettling to think that his house had been singled out for this treatment, especially since destroying the exterior lights in an out-of-the-way private garden was such an odd thing to do. Why? Nói could think of only two possible reasons: either some silly kids from the neighbourhood had run amok, or someone had wanted to make their garden dark. The latter explanation was far more worrying as it raised the question: why, for goodness’ sake? Pushing the thought away, Nói had tried to convince himself that it must have been local teenagers and that the next thing on the agenda would be to spray the house with graffiti. But deep down he knew the local kids were harmless and that he wouldn’t be coming home to find the place decorated with neon-coloured penises. There must be some other explanation for the vandalism.

  Then there was the dustbin. Underneath the box containing the untouched pizza he had found the household’s large pair of scissors. They had been hunting high and low for these ever since they’d unpacked and wanted to snip the labels off the clothes they’d bought. Nói had taken the least interest in the search since he suspected they would never actually wear most of these clothes. The scissors appeared to have vanished off the face of the earth – until he spotted them in the dustbin. They had been lying, perfectly clean, under the pizza box, and it was impossible to guess why the house guests had thrown them away. They were too large and heavy to have got mixed up with the other rubbish by mistake.

  Nói had retrieved them from the bin and showed them to Vala, but unlike him she had been unmoved. She didn’t think the discovery could be significant because the scissors were clean. Judging by her expression, they would have to have been covered in blood, preferably with an eyeball impaled on the tip of one blade, before she thought there was any cause for concern. Disappointed by her reaction, he had told her about the pizza, but this had provoked even less interest. She had stared at him in surprise and said their guests had presumably ordered a takeaway and decided they didn’t want it when it arrived. No doubt as a result of language difficulties. She was unimpressed by Nói’s objection that the Americans must have known what they were doing when they ordered a margherita; it would have been different if they’d ordered something with an indecipherable Icelandic name. She shook her head and refused to discuss it any further. When Nói suggested ringing the police, she burst out laughing and asked sarcastically if he was going to demand the couple’s extradition for the crime of throwing out a pair of scissors and an untouched pizza. Or perhaps he thought putting the recycling in the wrong bins was a criminal matter. At that point he gave up.

  Nevertheless he had placed the scissors in a plastic bag and put them to one side in case anything else came to light. He was aware that he was overreacting but couldn’t rid himself of the persistent feeling that something was seriously wrong. He almost wished something really bad would happen, so he could rub Vala’s nose in it.

  Nói opened his eyes and heaved a low sigh. Leaning forwards, he tried to concentrate.

  ‘You going to finish that?’ One of his colleagues was standing in the doorway of his office, a pair of smeary reading glasses pushed up into his scruffy hair. You would have thought that Nói, as owner and boss, could have insisted on certain standards of dress and personal hygiene, but when he had suggested this, the head of human resources had gaped at him in astonishment and pointe
d out that there wouldn’t be many people left if he did; in fact, he might as well shut up shop. Just as well the woman wasn’t in charge of the country’s flight attendants. Nói, for one, would have been disgusted if the fingernails of the air hostesses bringing him coffee had been as dirty as those now resting on his door handle. He actually had to avert his eyes.

  Nói cleared his throat. ‘Yes, sure. No problem. I’ll be done by four.’ His tone disguised how unlikely this was to happen. It was nearly lunchtime and he had achieved practically nothing.

  ‘How was Florida, by the way?’ The man folded his arms and leant against the doorpost. ‘You don’t look as if you’ve had much of a rest.’

  The bloodshot eyes and dark shadows had obviously not faded since he’d looked in the mirror this morning. ‘It was great. I did manage to relax – I’m just jetlagged. We got back at the crack of dawn yesterday.’

  ‘How did the house swap go? All fine, I hope? The car hasn’t clocked up an extra hundred thousand kilometres?’

  Nói was too tired to enter into this conversation. Besides, he was in no hurry to share his concerns with his staff for fear of encountering the same indifference as he had from Vala. ‘The house was fine. Car too.’

  ‘Oh, OK.’ The man’s expression suggested he had been half hoping for a tale of woe. ‘Well, you were lucky. A friend of a friend discovered that the people he did a house swap with had used his car to commute all over the country. They drove back and forth every day to avoid having to pay for hotels – Akureyri, Snæfellsnes, Jökulsárlón, you name it. Back and forth. The car’d been driven more in those three weeks than in the three years since the guy had bought it.’

  Nói made a show of smiling. ‘The people we exchanged with obviously didn’t go in for that sort of thing.’ In fact he had no idea if they had. The car had been standing in the drive when they came home and neither he nor Vala had looked inside. ‘They didn’t trash our car any more than we did theirs.’ Nói wished the man would go. He didn’t like being reminded of the house swap. And why did the guy have to mention the business of the car? Now he wouldn’t be able to relax until he had gone home and checked the clock. He felt a strong urge to ring Tumi – to make sure he was all right. Ridiculous. No doubt his son was sleeping like a baby, as was his custom when on holiday. Nói looked at the screen, then back at the man in the doorway. ‘Anyway, I’d better get on. If I relax too much there’s a danger I’ll crash out on the keyboard.’