The Doll

by Yrsa Sigurdardottir

  Unfortunately, she was still at it when the teacher returned with Saga. The woman looked unimpressed but took pity on Freyja enough to say: ‘If it’s any comfort, Saga isn’t one of the children who’ve been scratching. But I see I can trust you to take the treatment seriously.’

  Oh, she would do that all right.

  Freyja managed to lead Saga to the car, manoeuvre her into her car seat at arm’s length and drive off, all without their heads ever coming into contact. But her feeling of triumph didn’t last long. She had hardly left the car park before she caught a movement in the rear-view mirror as her niece raised her little hand to her head and began to scratch. Freyja had to restrain herself from jumping the lights and ignoring stop signs all the way to the nearest chemist.

  The flat reeked of nit shampoo. Poor Molly, who didn’t appreciate the new smell one bit, had taken herself outside onto the balcony and refused to come in. Saga’s hair had been washed and combed so often that it was standing up in a halo of static electricity, and Freyja’s was little better, though it was too long and heavy to stick up like her niece’s. All the towels Freyja owned had been put on a boil wash, and on the floor beside the washing machine were tightly tied plastic bags stuffed with clothes and bedding awaiting the same treatment. The dustbin in the basement contained another, equally well-sealed bag, full of nit combs and the results of the combing, which Freyja was trying to wipe from her memory. She’d be damned if a single louse or nit had survived the purge. Louse-mageddon. It wasn’t over yet, though, as she had bought enough shampoo to repeat the job for several days in a row. No chances would be taken in this house.

  It crossed her mind to ring Baldur and demand his gratitude for a job well done. But she knew he wouldn’t let her complain for long before he interrupted her on a lighter note and before she knew it he would have lifted her out of her sulk. She wasn’t in the mood for that. Sometimes you had to be allowed to wallow in grumpiness and a sense of martyrdom.

  By the time Saga was in bed, Freyja had more or less recovered. She even dropped a good-night kiss on the little girl’s forehead once she was asleep. It would be a while before she kissed her on the top of her head or let her sleep in her bed, though. At least the snake was sated for now after being fed earlier that evening – another operation she would rather not think about.

  Once she and Molly were alone, Freyja decided to try listening to the interviews with the kids from the care home. She succeeded in connecting to the server but the connection was slow and she had to wait for the files to load. She would have preferred to wear headphones but if she did there was a risk she wouldn’t hear if Saga woke up, so she had to make do with the loudspeaker on her laptop.

  As a result, the first time she heard Rósa’s voice it was distinctly tinny. The interview was four years old, taken the year after her mother died, when Rósa was twelve. This was two years before her stay in the home run by the alleged abuser and three months before she met Tristan.

  Freyja closed her eyes to concentrate and to shut out the sight of Molly, who was staring at her fixedly, as if she hadn’t had enough to eat.

  To begin with, the therapist did all the talking, trying to coax the girl into responding. She was a middle-aged woman who specialised in providing counselling for children; Freyja knew her by reputation and had heard only good things about her. She listened as the woman asked in a calm, friendly voice whether Rósa would like to take her coat off. Her question was met with silence. The woman got the same reaction when she repeated the question, pointing out that it was quite warm in the room. Then she offered Rósa a glass of water, asked if she was comfortable and continued with general questions and remarks that were aimed at breaking down the wall of silence the girl had created around herself. Nothing worked: Rósa remained stubbornly mute.

  The therapist then said she was going to give Rósa a list of questions – standard stuff, nothing for her to worry about – but still the girl didn’t respond. Only when the woman asked if the problem was that she couldn’t read, did Rósa finally open her mouth to reply indignantly that of course she could, pride overcoming her obstinacy.

  ‘So you know how to read and you can talk too. That’s a relief.’ The woman still sounded as warm and comforting as skyr with sugar and cream, and perfectly sincere, with no hint of sarcasm or teasing in her voice.

  ‘You already knew I could talk: they’d have told you if I was dumb.’ Now that Rósa had come out with a whole sentence, Freyja could hear how deep and husky her voice was. Assuming she didn’t have laryngitis, she could have a bright future as a blues singer. A tragic life story would do nothing to harm her prospects.

  ‘You’re quite right: I already knew you could read too. I’ve been told you’re doing very well at school, which would be difficult if you couldn’t read.’ This was met with silence, so the therapist continued: ‘Seeing as you’re a clever girl, you probably know why we’re sitting here. Is there something you’d like to tell me about that?’

  ‘No. There’s nothing to tell. I didn’t want to live there, so I just left. No one should have to stay somewhere if they’re not happy. Or maybe you think they should?’

  Evidently, she had run away, probably for the first time since ending up in the hands of children’s services. Freyja wondered how the therapist would tackle Rósa’s attempt to turn the tables and assume the role of interrogator.

  ‘There are other ways of dealing with it, Rósa. By talking about it, for example; by telling someone. You’ve got the perfect opportunity to do that now. Don’t throw away the chance. Would you like to tell me why you weren’t happy with the family?’

  ‘They didn’t want me there. It wasn’t like home. Not for me, anyway. Maybe for them. But I know what a proper home’s like. I had a proper home until my mother died.’

  ‘Yes. That was a major upheaval for you. Everyone around you is very conscious of that, Rósa. You must remember to ask for help when you’re feeling unhappy. Running away won’t help. The problem will still be there when you come back. I expect it follows you when you run away as well. No one has ever managed to escape from grief. It’s something you have to confront. But there are ways of making your loss and your other problems easier to cope with.’

  Freyja thought the therapist was using rather mature language for a girl of that age. Perhaps it was because the girl’s voice sounded so grown-up, or because Rósa came across in person as older than she really was. The traumas she had gone through would have had the effect of forcing her to mature early.

  ‘I’ve tried talking. No one will listen. No one. You won’t either. Though you say you will.’

  ‘That’s not true. Why don’t you try me? Not all adults are the same. I promise you I’ll listen.’

  ‘My mother didn’t die in an accident. My mother was killed.’

  This time it was the therapist’s turn to fall silent. Freyja could understand why; this was an unexpected development. But it didn’t take the woman long to recover.

  ‘I’m afraid I know very little about your mother’s death, Rósa. Only that it was sudden, an accident. Accidents happen. Sometimes they’re the result of pure chance and there’s no reason for them. That’s why they can be so hard to accept.’

  The deep, husky child’s voice gave a contemptuous snort. ‘I knew it. You don’t believe me. You would if I was a grown-up.’

  ‘No, Rósa. You can’t be sure of that. Whether you’re a child or an adult, it’s not enough simply to claim something and expect everyone to believe you. If you really believe your mother was killed, you’ll have to do better. Explain to me why you think that. Maybe, just maybe, you’ll change your mind when you put forward the evidence. Then again, maybe you won’t. Go ahead, anyway. Try to convince me that you’re right. It’ll do you good to talk about it.’

  There was silence as Rósa considered this. It had been a good move by the therapist. If the girl’s obsession was getting in the way of her ability to mourn her mother, it would have to be tackled. Unr
esolved issues could have a serious impact on people’s mental health.

  ‘There was a doll in the bath when my mother died. It had disappeared the next day, when my mother was found.’

  ‘There could be a perfectly natural explanation for that. It’s unlikely that someone would have killed your mother just to steal a doll.’

  ‘But what if the doll was evil, sent by the devil? Maybe it was the doll’s fault.’

  ‘I don’t believe there’s any such thing as an evil doll. I don’t even believe in the devil.’ The therapist paused, then went on in a level voice: ‘What made you think that, Rósa? Was there any particular reason?’

  ‘I don’t remember.’

  ‘Did you think that straight away? The day you heard your mother had died?’

  ‘I didn’t hear about it. I saw it. I found my mother. By the bath.’

  ‘The bath the doll was in?’

  ‘Yes. There was blood everywhere. The floor around my mother was red. I didn’t look in the bath. Only at my mother. And the blood.’

  ‘Was it your doll? Had you been giving her a bath?’

  ‘No. She wasn’t mine. She came out of the sea. My mother wanted to throw her back but I wanted to bring her home. If I hadn’t done that, everything would have been all right. For my mother. And me.’

  ‘You’re not responsible for your mother’s death, Rósa. You have to understand that. I think we should focus on that for now, because it’s extremely important that you understand that.’

  Self-reproach was a common reaction to stressful events. People blamed themselves wrongly, both for things they had done and for things they had no control over. Rósa belonged to the former category. This was the more common type of self-reproach and fortunately it was fairly straightforward to treat. With the right handling, it was possible to prevent it from spiralling into the kind of low self-esteem, depression and self-loathing that were characteristic of the most serious cases.

  Rósa didn’t respond. Instead, she asked a question that completely threw Freyja: ‘Do you know a man called Bergur? He works with children. I want to live with him. Can you help me get a place with him?’

  Freyja paused the playback to check the date. The interview had taken place two years before Rósa went to stay at Bergur’s home and three months before she’d met Tristan. Freyja had no idea what to make of it. Could it be a coincidence?

  Where had Rósa heard about Bergur and why did she want to live with him? Could she have met another child in the system who had said nice things about him? Or was her interest motivated by something quite different?

  Freyja started the playback again. But the interview did nothing to clarify the issue. If anything, it just muddied the picture even further.

  Chapter 21

  Friday

  The barbecue was proving a bit of a flop, in spite of the good weather. The guests were so out of practice that they had forgotten how to handle a windless, sunny day. If they weren’t cursing the flies that buzzed harmlessly around their heads, they were moaning about the heat or what a wash-out the summer had been. A few even managed to blame the whole thing on the government. No one appeared capable of enjoying the long-desired balmy weather. The situation could hardly have been more Icelandic.

  Still, the party was bound to liven up later. People had only just arrived and they’d forget their complaints once they’d relaxed and got a few drinks inside them. This would happen sooner for some than for others, judging by the sickly, spicy smell of pot wafting under Frikki’s nose. He carefully avoided looking round to see who was smoking the joint. The other guests didn’t seem bothered and he didn’t want to come across as a square. He felt out of place enough as it was.

  Frikki bit into the burger that his younger brother, Fjalar, had given him. Frikki’d had to find a place at one of the tables lined up in the garden before his paper plate buckled under the weight of the burger, which was at least three times thicker than normal. This was typical of Fjalar, who never did anything by halves: whether it was Christmas presents for their parents that made Frikki’s modest parcels look like stocking fillers; expensive bottles of fine wine brought along to informal family suppers, or the ton of fireworks he let off on New Year’s Eve. Fjalar always had to outdo everyone else around him. The only aspect of his brother’s life that wasn’t characterised by unbridled extravagance was his attitude to the fishing boat they co-owned with their father and uncle. In that case penny-pinching was the order of the day: Fjalar insisted on carefully weighing up the cost of every screw, washer, nut or bolt that needed replacing; sometimes for so long that by the time he had finally come to a decision, the cost had gone up.

  Frikki had often wondered why his brother behaved so differently when it came to the boat and concluded that it was because the people who sold spare parts for boats and ships didn’t accept maxed-out credit cards. They had to be paid cash in hand, not with an airy promise of payment some time in the never-never. The only possible explanation for Fjalar’s lifestyle was that it was financed with loans. On the rare occasions that he mentioned his little tourism business, it was to boast about how incredibly well it was doing. But whenever Frikki visited him, he couldn’t help noticing that one or two of the three campervans Fjalar rented out were invariably parked in his broad drive. Sometimes they were all there. Frikki suspected that demand was similarly patchy for the holiday apartment in the Med that Fjalar rented out to Icelanders, or for his summer house here at home. Every time the brothers met, Fjalar offered Frikki the use of his summer house, which suggested that it was mostly vacant. He never offered the foreign apartment, though, so hopefully that had turned out to be more of a money-spinner.

  ‘Here. Have a beer, man.’ Fjalar appeared with a glass in each hand. Oversized, of course, and the beer chilled no doubt to freezing point: naturally, Fjalar had to keep his fridge colder than anyone else’s.

  Frikki took the misted glass his brother handed him and put it down on the table. Drops of condensation ran down the sides, forming a little puddle around the base. It would only grow, since Frikki had no intention of touching the drink. He was driving, though he didn’t mention the fact again since he had already pointed it out and declined a drink twice since he’d arrived. Fjalar had quickly changed the subject, not wanting the others to notice that his brother wasn’t in the party mood that he expected of his guests.

  ‘How’s it going? Good?’ Fjalar plonked himself down on the wooden bench beside Frikki, slamming his beer on the table. There wasn’t much left in the glass, which meant he wouldn’t stay sitting for long.

  ‘Sure, fine.’ Frikki put on what he hoped was a carefree smile, in an attempt to blend in with the crowd, only to realise that in order to achieve this he would have been better off grumbling about the flies.

  Fjalar was wearing a T-shirt that looked as if it had been bought in a charity shop but was almost certainly by some famous, bland designer. It had probably cost more than the only suit Frikki had in his wardrobe. Fjalar’s arms, revealed by the short sleeves, were brown and muscular; he was one of the few people in the garden with a tan. As far as Frikki knew, Fjalar hadn’t been abroad that summer, so it must have been acquired in a salon or from a tube. In fact, on closer inspection it was obvious: the hand holding the beer glass was a bit stripy. The thought made Frikki cringe.

  Fjalar slapped him matily on the shoulder. ‘Why aren’t you mingling, man? The place is full of fun people and here you are, sitting alone in the corner.’

  This was a little unfair, since the table was bang in the middle of the garden. It was the other guests who were lining up along the fence. The only person who had been at the table when Frikki sat down had got up and left, abandoning his half-eaten burger that would soon make a feast for the flies. ‘I was only planning to drop in. I told you that. Besides, I don’t know anyone.’

  ‘Don’t know anyone? Bullshit, man. You’ve met these guys loads of times.’ Fjalar drained the rest of his beer and waved at a woman standing in
a small knot of people, who appeared to be looking their way. She smiled and waved back before turning to her companions.

  Technically, Fjalar was right. Frikki had often been invited to parties at his brother’s place with this same crowd. But he had never got talking to any of them. He couldn’t put a name to a single person here. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to go.’

  ‘Oh, come on. Like you’ve got anywhere else to go. Home? There’s no one waiting for you there, remember?’ Fjalar jabbed an elbow in his side, causing Frikki to wince. ‘Did you see the chick I was waving at? She’s just broken up with her boyfriend. I bet she’s up for it. Go and talk to her. She was giving you the eye, man.’

  The woman had been looking at Fjalar, not at him. If asked how many people had been sitting at the table when she waved, she’d have said one. People tended to mistake Frikki for the invisible man.

  ‘She’s not my type, Fjalar.’ It was true. The woman was far too dolled up for his taste. She was wearing a summery dress, which was fine on its own, but she’d paired it with ludicrously high heels that kept getting stuck in the grass. If she decided to dance round the garden, Fjalar wouldn’t need to aerate his lawn this year. Her hair was dyed unnaturally blonde, the curls about as genuine as the breasts she’d obviously paid for. Even the long, pink talons on her fingers looked as if they were glued on. A type like that would never be happy with him. And he certainly wouldn’t be happy with her. He fantasised about a woman in hiking boots; someone who’d be willing to go out on the boat with him. Not a Barbie doll who’d be happiest at the launch party for a new shop, in the hope of being papped with a plastic glass of white wine in her hand and making it into the ‘Seen About Town’ section of the online news sites.