Why Did You Lie?

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Nína’s face grew hot at the memory of that phone call. To begin with she had avoided the subject with a long-winded rigmarole about how she was giving it serious thought. But as the call went on and the person she was speaking to showed no signs of giving up, her self-control had broken and she had ended up blubbing like an idiot. What did the hospital care if Thröstur was not only her beloved husband but her best friend too? Would the fact that they had rarely quarrelled and had been perfectly happy together carry any weight when set against the ward’s need to save money? Of course not. Conversations like these were humiliating. At least, thanks to her snivelling, she had managed to avoid agreeing to a date. For now. The man was no doubt biding his time and either he or another member of the team would ring back soon or ambush her at the hospital.

  Nína squeezed Thröstur’s hand but his fingers felt like dough. She let it go, leant back in her chair and rearranged the grey fleece blanket, marked ‘National Hospitals Laundry’, which had creased underneath her. Although it was hot in the room, she shivered. She forced herself to focus on the positive; it seemed she might be on the trail at last, might have finally stumbled on a possible explanation for what Thröstur had done. The video was unequivocal proof that as a boy he had been linked to an incident that could conceivably have eaten away at him ever since and even played a part in his decision to take his own life. Far-fetched? Maybe. But it was better than no explanation at all.

  One day he had been wondering aloud if they should join some other couples they knew on a long weekend away, the next he was standing in their garage, tying a noose. None of their friends had mentioned the trip in Nína’s hearing since Thröstur had been taken to hospital, probably for fear that she would still want to come with them. It would be impossible to get into the holiday mood with a bereaved spouse in tow.

  Nína brought her thoughts back to the old case. It was infuriating to have such incomplete information and be forced to run through all the possible scenarios. In view of his youth, it was highly unlikely that Thröstur could have committed a crime himself, however odd his behaviour had been during the interview. The alternative was more likely: that he had been the victim of a crime, though it was as a witness that he had been called in to the station. Just about anything could have emerged from the inquiry – or been missed by those investigating. As her boss had rightly pointed out, he wouldn’t be the first person to suffer lasting damage as the result of sexual abuse at a tender age. The wounds tended to grow more painful over time, especially if the victims couldn’t bring themselves to talk about their experiences. Thröstur had never uttered a word about this case, though she had always believed they trusted one another implicitly. What could have been more natural than to mention that he had been involved in a police investigation as a child? Especially in light of her job, and the fact that he was writing an article about historical cases of child abuse. The more she thought about it, the less likely this explanation seemed. But something had happened, and sooner or later she would find out what it was. Children weren’t summoned by the police to give a statement for no reason.

  Nína felt warmer but didn’t know if that was due to the blanket or the thought that she might actually be on the verge of making some progress. The video had given her the longed-for starting point. Now she needed to dig up the rest of the story, so she wouldn’t have to keep brooding over what could have driven Thröstur to this desperate act. Instinctively her eyes sought out the ugly wound still visible on his neck. She no longer felt the need to cover it with the sheet. Things were moving in the right direction. Whatever the story from his childhood turned out to involve, the explanation had to lie there.

  Nína drew her legs towards her and wrapped the blanket more tightly around herself. She closed her eyes and emptied her mind but sleep refused to come. No matter how much she tossed and turned, she couldn’t drop off. There was too much to think about and she had to come up with a plan. The information she needed must exist somewhere. But where? And who could she ask? She’d been unable to find the rest of the interview on the other videos, or indeed any other interviews connected to the case. Thröstur’s mother, Milla, was dead and a brief phone call to his father, Magni, had achieved nothing. The man had been nonplussed and said he had never heard of the incident. It didn’t sound as if he was concealing anything from Nína. At first he suggested she must have been mistaken – the boy must have been some other Thröstur.

  When she told him about the recording in which his wife was clearly recognisable, all he could think of was that he must have been away at sea at the time and that Milla had forgotten to tell him about it afterwards. Nína found this hard to believe, though she didn’t like to contradict him. But her doubts must have been obvious because her father-in-law then came up with another, slightly more plausible, explanation. His wife had done her best to shield him from problems during his shore leave, keen to present him with a picture of the perfect family life: clean, well-behaved children, a spotless home. Perhaps she had thought it better to keep him out of the matter. This was more credible than the idea that an ordinary woman who had never had any other brush with the law would somehow forget that she had accompanied their son to a police interview.

  By the end of the phone call Thröstur’s father was as eager as Nína to get to the bottom of the matter. Before he rang off, he added that he couldn’t stop wondering what could have come over his boy. He seemed convinced that he himself must have failed his son by his frequent long absences when Thröstur was growing up. Nína assured him that this could have had nothing whatsoever to do with Thröstur’s decision, but she had been a little relieved as well. It was a comfort to learn that she wasn’t alone in entertaining such thoughts. She was also grateful that he evidently disagreed with Thröstur’s sister, who seemed to blame Nína for what had happened, though she hadn’t accused her to her face. If only she would come right out and say it that would give Nína a chance to defend herself. Until then, she would simply have to bite her lip. It was impossible to lose your temper with someone who wouldn’t quarrel openly, especially since the two of them never met up one on one. Yet, in spite of these reflections, her relief at her father-in-law’s words was mingled with guilt that she should take any kind of satisfaction in the old man’s suffering.

  The sucking sound from the ventilator intensified slightly and Nína poked her head out from under the blanket. The plastic concertina beside the machine compressed and expanded. She had asked the doctor what it was for but hadn’t been in any fit state to register the answer – she had only asked in an attempt to stop herself breaking down – so she was still none the wiser as to its function. Perhaps it was to stop the oxygen flowing constantly into the lungs by emulating the action of breathing.

  In, out. In, out.

  The repetitive movement had a soothing effect on Nína and she couldn’t tear her eyes from the concertina that was keeping Thröstur alive. Of course it was time to put an end to this. Her fantasies about the development of some sort of technology for transcribing memories were nonsense and it wasn’t fair to Thröstur or their relationship to delay the decision any longer. Every day she saw him lying at death’s door the old memories of him were pushed further and further back in her mind. In the end they would vanish. Nína took the decision then and there. A shower of hail rattled against the window. It wasn’t Thröstur lying in the bed. He had departed long ago. If she wanted to sit beside him for the rest of her life, she might just as well sit beside a photograph.

  Next time she saw the doctors she would request that his life support be switched off.

  ‘I’m so proud of you.’ Berglind’s smile was sincere. ‘Of course it’s horrible but it had to be done. You’ve come to terms with that, haven’t you?’

  ‘I don’t feel particularly good about the decision but I don’t feel bad either. I’m just trying not to think about it.’ The keyhole was covered in snow and Nína was having trouble opening the door. Last night’s hailstorm had developed i
nto a blizzard that showed no sign of relenting. As the two women clambered over a snowdrift that had collected in front of the entrance, half of it collapsed inside onto the floor.

  Berglind pulled an elastic band from her pocket and tied her hair back in a ponytail. ‘Where shall we start?’

  ‘The sitting room, I suppose.’ In the middle of her conversation with the doctor that morning it had dawned on Nína that once Thröstur had passed away she would no longer be able to spend her nights at the hospital; she would have to start sleeping at home.

  The decision to sell the flat had been taken right then. While the doctor was telling her how relatives usually spent the last hours with their loved one, her mind was occupied with the problem of how to get the property off her hands as quickly as possible.

  After that she could begin a new life, far from the old one and far from that creepy garage.

  The first step was to ask her sister Berglind to help her clear out the flat, and she had done this the minute her conversation with the doctor was over, partly so she wouldn’t have a chance to change her mind. It was also essential to have her sister by her side so she wouldn’t have to be alone in the flat, permanently on edge, imagining that every creak and every tiny noise boded evil. Nína smiled at Berglind. ‘I don’t have any cardboard boxes so we can start by wrapping stuff in newspaper. I’ve got enough of it. We can fetch some boxes once the shops open.’ If they made good progress they might be able to pack up the whole lot today. Berglind was a teacher and had the day off because her pupils had gone on a school trip, and Nína had rung the station and told them she would make up her hours at the weekend. The fear that she might not go ahead with this if she waited one more day was all too real.

  Berglind poked her foot at a box on the floor by the wall. ‘Have you already made a start?’

  ‘No. That arrived from Thröstur’s office with all his stuff in it. I started looking through it but I couldn’t face it.’ Nína folded her arms and shook her head. ‘I don’t know why they sent it to me. What am I supposed to do with his old work papers? They just couldn’t be bothered to clear out his desk themselves. It looks as if they just swept everything straight into the box.’ The man who brought it round had informed her that they were not going to publish the article Thröstur had been working on. He had kept its subject matter close to his chest and as the others were already rushed off their feet, there was no one free to take over and finish it. Nína had shaken her head and faked disappointment, although she couldn’t have cared less. But now as she considered the box it occurred to her that the article might have opened an old wound and finally driven Thröstur over the edge. She knew the piece had dealt with paedophiles who had escaped justice in the past. Perhaps he had been abused as a boy after all.

  ‘Maybe you’ll want to look at it later.’ Berglind peered inside the box. ‘Or maybe not. Though you should probably go through it before you move. You don’t want to start your new life with that hanging over you.’

  ‘No, I guess not. I’ll make time for it soon.’ Thröstur might conceivably have written some notes about his own case. If so, the box might contain answers. But that was a long shot. Why would he need to make notes to remind himself of his own trauma?

  ‘Is there much stuff in the garage?’ Berglind had moved over to the window and was gazing out. ‘Maybe we should get Dóri to take care of that.’

  Nína managed to control the tremor in her voice. She didn’t want to make her brother-in-law go in there. ‘No, no need. It’s empty.’

  This was technically true of the main garage space, but the storeroom at the back of it was full of all kinds of junk, in addition to their skis and the gardening tools they had bought in the autumn sales. The new owners of the flat were welcome to the lot. ‘Anyway, I don’t want Dóri going in there. There’s something creepy about that garage.’ To her surprise, Berglind didn’t contradict her, merely carried on staring out of the balcony door. When she turned round there was no sign that she doubted what Nína had said.

  ‘Just as well it’s empty then.’ Berglind rubbed her upper arms, as if to smooth away gooseflesh. Then she grinned. ‘Right, shall we get cracking?’

  Nína knew her sister too well to be deceived. Berglind had seen something. She went over to the door and looked out. Visibility was poor in the falling snow and great clumps of it were sliding unhurriedly down the glass. Yet she saw at once what had shaken Berglind. The side door of the garage was standing ajar. It had been shut a few minutes ago when they came home. Nína peered at the snow in front of the building but there were no footprints. In her heart she had known there wouldn’t be any. She stepped back from the window but couldn’t drag her gaze from the garage. The blackness inside the open door reminded her of a gaping mouth, searching for the next prey to devour.

  Chapter 12

  27 January 2014

  The air inside the tiny lighthouse is dank, cold and sour-tasting. Helgi pushes himself up on his elbows, grimacing as his bones make contact with the bare floor. An icy draught is pouring in through the gaps round the door but he is grateful to be able to fill his lungs with something other than the fug inside his sleeping bag. Lying awake in the early hours, he had pulled his head inside it in case it was having a cold face that was preventing him from dropping off. It must have worked because he can’t remember anything else until now. While his eyes are adjusting to the darkness, he sits up properly and rubs his sore elbows, then turns his head from side to side, his stiff neck joints clicking. His bed at home with its soft mattress and warm duvet seems light years away.

  At his feet Heida is lying curled up in a ball as if to prevent their sleeping bags from touching in the cramped space. Her head is resting on her arm and her curly hair looks as if she has ruffled it with her fingers during the night. She is deathly pale in the gloom. Something black and silver is sticking out from under her sleeping bag and after puzzling over it for a while, Helgi realises it’s a torch. His own is tucked inside his bedding, just in case.

  Helgi flushes slightly when Heida opens her eyes. How embarrassing to be caught gawping at someone when they wake up. ‘Did I disturb you? Sorry.’

  ‘No. I was already awake. I just couldn’t face getting up. It’s so cold.’

  Helgi can’t argue with that. The air is almost crackling with frost. ‘Want me to pass you your jacket?’ Personally he is eager to get out of here; he finds it excruciatingly awkward being alone with a woman he doesn’t know and having to behave as if they’re old friends. He has the feeling she’s waiting for him to come out with something clever or witty, and he seems incapable of rising to the occasion. Why can he never manage that with women? He struggles to his knees and reaches for his anorak. The shiny fabric feels stiff to the touch – from the cold, presumably – and when he has pulled it on he feels even chillier until his body has warmed it up.

  Heida watches his actions without moving. ‘Is that any better?’

  ‘Not much, to be honest.’ Helgi tries slapping his arms against himself for warmth. ‘But you don’t really have any choice if you’re going to venture out of your sleeping bag. I’m guessing there’s a hard frost outside.’

  Heida sits up and takes the thick jacket he passes her. She bashes the back of her hand against the wall as she is pulling it on but her wince of pain turns to a look of shock once she is encased in the freezing anorak. ‘Jesus!’ Heida wraps her arms around herself and crosses her legs inside the sleeping bag. ‘Are they awake?’

  ‘Don’t know. Doubt it. I haven’t heard any movements outside.’ Helgi gropes for his shoes but can only find one. The other turns out to be under his sleeping bag, which would explain the ache in the small of his back. ‘I wonder what sort of night they had? At least we had a roof over our heads.’

  ‘I expect they’re used to it.’ There is no sympathy in Heida’s voice.

  Helgi wants to ask if she chose to have him inside with her because she regards him as the biggest pussy of the lot, but stops himself.
He doesn’t want to hear the answer. Instead, he puts on his shoes and stands up. ‘I’m just popping outside.’ He doesn’t like to say he needs a leak, though it must be obvious. She can hardly imagine he’s going for a walk. Just before he reaches for the door handle, he turns. ‘You talked in your sleep last night.’

  ‘Oh?’ Heida looks startled and Helgi instantly regrets mentioning it. It makes it sound as if he was watching her in the night. But really he wasn’t.

  ‘I woke up to hear you saying something. I expect you were sleep-talking. It didn’t sound as if you were talking to yourself, anyway. Or to me.’

  ‘What did I say?’ Heida seems cross and Helgi kicks himself for bringing it up.

  ‘I didn’t understand. It almost sounded like another language.’

  Heida stares at him, muttering something under her breath that Helgi can’t catch. He seizes this opportunity to go outside.

  The instant he opens the door he is met by a gust of wind so violent that he almost loses his grip on the handle. Nature is reminding them who’s in charge, in case they had any doubt. He steps carefully outside and manages, with considerable difficulty, to close the door behind him. But the moment he lets go of it he discovers that it’s not the only thing round here that’s inclined to flap like a sail. It’s so hard to keep his balance that he decides against moving far to relieve himself. Holding on to the lighthouse he can move down to the next step, from which, with care, he can reach the third, which ends on the brink, and pee off the edge. It’s a precarious feeling, edging his way down, hearing the raging sea below in the semi-darkness, and he’s glad to be able to zip up again.