‘I expect you were about six or seven.’
‘They told me they were going to run and fetch me a lollipop,’ Elma remembered. ‘I waited there for hours while it chucked it down with snow until some woman who’d been watching me from her window got worried and came over.’
Her father took off his glasses and looked at her. ‘It wasn’t hours…’ He appeared much younger all of a sudden, without his glasses, in the dimly lit room, illuminated only by the glow of the TV screen. Elma had always been a bit of a mother’s girl, perhaps because her father was often a little distant. He worked as a carpenter and used to come home late, tired, dirty and smelling of sawdust and furniture oil. As a child, Elma had mostly taken her troubles to her mother, as Aðalheiður loved nothing better than solving problems and was happiest when she was needed by as many people as possible. Elma had been able to tell her mother more or less everything, whereas her father was more reserved and took little interest in everyday affairs. ‘The way I remember it, and I have a good memory,’ he said, ‘is that Dagný was jealous about what had happened the evening before.’ There was a slight smile playing over his lips.
Elma frowned. ‘What happened the evening before?’
‘Of course you wouldn’t remember. After all, it wasn’t anything you did or would have been particularly aware of.’
Elma sat up and turned down the volume a little.
Her father went on: ‘The evening before, Dagný was revising for a test. She was supposed to learn all her times tables, but it wasn’t working, as she never was any good with numbers. We were going over them with her when you came in – only six years old and just started school, and you knew them all. You effortlessly recited the tables Dagný was supposed to be learning. Since she was three years older, I don’t think it exactly boosted her self-confidence.’ He chuckled.
‘I don’t remember that at all,’ Elma said. Though she did recall that she had always found her schoolwork quite easy, at least in the junior classes. She had been quick to learn to read and do sums, but that was mainly because she was always competing with Dagný or sitting like a little dog at her side while she did her homework.
‘No, but I’m sure Dagný will never forget it. You should have seen her face.’
Elma laughed and lay back on the sofa. ‘Even so, it was a bit drastic to abandon me out there just to … to punish me for being better at maths than her.’
‘Oh, I’d have done the same,’ her father said, and turned up the volume again.
It looked like moss, only browner and denser, as if it had been kneaded into a lump. Hekla watched the boy arrange the grass in a careful line on the white Rizla, then roll it up, deftly twisting one end.
‘Who’d like to do the honours?’ he asked formally, holding out the joint.
‘Well, if no one else is volunteering,’ Dísa piped up, before any of the others had a chance to say a word, and reached for the joint.
The boy held out the lighter, and Dísa leant forwards and sucked in the smoke. Then she blew it out at Hekla and laughed, before passing the joint to Tinna, who did the same.
The four of them were sitting on the back seat, Hekla on the right-hand side, Tinna in the middle and Dísa on the left, on the lap of a boy called Binni. He was a year older than them and his parents were very rich, according to Dísa. Apparently they owned a massive yacht in the Med and a house in Spain. He was also quite hot, with straight teeth and a strong jaw. Always dressed in clothes with prominent logos.
The car cruised along the streets of Akranes, past the docks and through the area where the cement factory had once stood but was now nothing but a ruin.
‘Weird to think “the Stub” will soon be gone,’ said Alfreð, who was sitting in the passenger seat. He leant forwards to peer up at the factory chimney that did indeed resemble a giant cigarette butt, though it was a long time since any smoke had risen from it.
‘It’s quite sad, actually,’ Binni said. He inhaled the joint Tinna had passed him and held the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds, before blowing it out, filling the car with grey clouds.
‘Shit, man, I can’t see a thing with you pot-heads in the car,’ complained Gísli, who was sitting behind the wheel. He was a bit of a minger, but they put up with him because he’d agreed to drive them around town whenever they liked. He tried to make up for his appearance by being funny but didn’t realise that his lame jokes only made things worse.
Binni grinned at the girls, then rolled down the window on his side and said, ‘I mean, isn’t it, like … the symbol of Akranes or something?’
‘Are you seriously saying that the symbol of Akranes is a chimney that looks like a cigarette?’ Tinna said mockingly. ‘Isn’t that kind of sad?’
The boys laughed.
‘Maybe someone should paint it white. Then the symbol of Akranes could be, like, a massive joint. Wouldn’t that be something?’ Binni laughed at his own joke, then held out the joint to Alfreð.
‘No, thanks,’ he said, waving it away.
Hekla gave him a secret smile. Alfreð was a real sport nut. He was never seen in anything other than a hoodie and tracksuit, and always had his football boots ready in his bag. Hekla played football herself, and her trainer said she was in with a chance of being selected for the under-sixteen girls’ national team. Hekla had never been good at anything, least of all games, but then Maríanna had never encouraged her to take up any sport. In fact, until Bergrún had persuaded her to go along to train with the Akranes Football Association, she had never even tried playing the game, except during PE lessons at her old school in Borgarnes, when she’d been too shy to move. The other kids had said she looked like a monkey when she ran, so she had tried to be as inconspicuous as possible on the pitch. As a result, she had been more surprised than anyone else when she turned out to be good at football. A natural talent, the coach had said, winking at her and making her cheeks burn.
Binni shrugged. ‘What about you, Hekla?’
Dísa cuddled up to Binni, her eyes on Hekla. ‘It’s your choice,’ she said, adding in English: ‘Up to you.’
Hekla hesitated and Dísa laughed. ‘Oh, you’re such a cupcake. Come on, give it here; she doesn’t want any.’
‘No, I do want some,’ Hekla said quickly. Ignoring Alfreð’s look, she took the joint. Her face grew hot as they all watched her inhale. Managing by some miracle to suppress her cough, she handed the joint on.
Dísa burst out laughing again and turned to Binni.
Hekla tried to shut her ears to the moans and sucking noises they were making. Tinna elbowed her unobtrusively and rolled her eyes. Although Dísa thought nothing of kissing boys in front of them, Hekla just couldn’t get used to it.
‘Everything OK?’ Alfreð was watching her, but Hekla couldn’t interpret his expression.
‘Yes, sure.’ Suddenly she was ashamed of herself. What on earth was she doing? Not that she felt any different from usual. The world didn’t seem especially funny or weird. She was just so tired all of a sudden, so wiped out that she could have fallen asleep right there in the car, in spite of the smoke, the booming music and the sucking sounds emanating from Dísa and Binni. It was a relief when her phone rang and it was Bergrún, telling her to come home.
Two Years Old
We said goodbye as if we’d see each other again next week. ‘Bye,’ then the door was slammed. No ‘it was nice knowing you’ or ‘thanks for letting me look after your daughter for eight hours a day, five days a week’. No, she literally slammed the door in my face as I stood on the steps with my little girl. Though, to be fair, the childminder did give my daughter a quick hug before handing her over. As usual, I had to tear her away, kicking and screaming, and straining her arms towards the woman. I’ll never understand why my daughter preferred her to me.
Anyway, the nursery school is much better. It’s a few minutes past five as I dash in through the gate. All the other children have gone home and so have most of the staff. I open the red-and-yellow
door with the handle at the top. Breathe in the fug of nappies and damp outdoor clothes.
‘Sorry I’m so late,’ I pant when I see the only remaining member of staff. She’s sitting on the floor with my daughter on her lap and a book open in front of them. I feel a sharp pang in my chest and can’t work out why. Perhaps it’s guilt because we never sit companionably together like that. Usually when she’s at home she just watches TV or plays with the green toy soldiers. In my opinion, children shouldn’t be too dependent on their parents, so I’ve done my best to bring up an independent individual. Sometimes I watch other kids clinging to their mothers and fathers, and wonder if my method is wrong. But I never had the kind of relationship with my parents where we hugged or expressed our feelings, and for a long time I resented the fact. Then at some point it occurred to me that while the other kids couldn’t make decisions for themselves and cried on school trips because they were missing their parents, I was always self-sufficient. I was decisive, independent and confident, and that’s how I want my daughter to be. Not reliant on anyone.
‘It’s all right,’ says the woman, who’s at least three times my age, with grey hair and a kindly smile.
‘I was held up at work,’ I lie, taking my daughter’s anorak off the peg. ‘And then the traffic was absolutely terrible. An accident on Miklabraut,’ I add, further embroidering the truth.
The woman just smiles. ‘Do you know, she’s getting so good at saying what’s in the pictures. Have you got a book like this at home?’
It’s a large, hardback book containing pictures of all kinds of objects and animals. We don’t have one like that at home. In fact, we don’t have any books at all. I’ve never read much myself, apart from the books we had to read at school. And even then I just used to skim through them and get my friends to tell me what happened. I’ve bought nice toys for her, but those are mostly left untouched in her room. A china tea set with pink roses and a white table with two chairs. A Madame Alexander doll, which cost a bomb. But the only toys she’ll play with are the little green toy soldiers that she clutches in her clumsy fingers, stubbornly refusing to let go. She grips them so tightly her knuckles whiten. Even when she’s asleep, it’s like she’s afraid I’ll try and steal them. Now she’s older, she likes to line them up. It’s not an easy job, and I can’t understand how she has the patience for it. Her fine motor skills aren’t up to the task yet and it takes her forever to get each soldier to stand upright. But she obstinately keeps at it until she’s lined them all up in front of her, then just sits and gazes at them for a while, before picking them up and starting to line them up again somewhere else. Meanwhile, the expensive Madame Alexander doll sits ignored on her chest of drawers.
‘Er, no. We don’t have exactly that book.’ I crouch down, my eyes on my daughter, and tell her to come to me. She doesn’t so much as glance at me or move until the teacher gets up and leads her over. The woman still has the book in her other hand and now she holds it out to me.
‘Take it,’ she says.
I laugh. ‘No, I couldn’t…’
‘There’s nobody here but us. Just take it. She’s been enjoying it so much.’
‘But…’
‘She needs to learn the words.’ A serious note has crept in, under the teacher’s friendly manner.
‘OK.’ I take the book, then turn my attention to my daughter. I bend down and put on her anorak. She does nothing to help, just passively allows me to dress her. That morning I’d put her in a white top but of course she’s smeared ketchup all over it.
I can’t stop thinking about the pretty blonde girl I saw when I dropped her off at the nursery school this morning. She should have been my daughter – I could almost see myself in her. Which no one could say about the dark-haired child standing in front of me. She has food stains on her face, has pulled out the plaits I put in her hair this morning, and she’s far too fleshy. Most people would say it’s puppy fat, which will disappear in due course, but the blonde girl I saw this morning didn’t have any puppy fat. I’ve tried to be careful of what my daughter eats, but she’s always hungry. She gobbles down her food, chewing it loudly with her mouth open so I can hardly bear to watch.
‘There, sweetie,’ I say, putting on her hat. When I try to zip her anorak up to the neck, she starts screaming. ‘What’s the matter? Did I hurt you?’
Moving fast, the nursery-school teacher swoops and unzips the anorak. There’s a cut on my little girl’s neck, just above the chain with her initial on it.
‘Oh, ouch,’ I say, filled with remorse, and try to put my arms round her, but she shoves me away and reaches out to the teacher instead.
‘It was just an accident,’ the teacher says, giving my daughter a quick cuddle before directing her back to me.
The atmosphere is awkward because we both know that this is not normal. Little children are supposed to want their mothers to comfort them, not nursery-school teachers they’ve only known for quarter of an hour. Feeling myself blushing, I say a hasty goodbye and we make for the exit. The woman calls after me:
‘Don’t forget this.’ She’s holding out the large, brightly coloured book.
I take it and feel the woman’s eyes boring into my back until the door has closed behind us.
Wednesday
Elma’s mobile rang in her office as she was pouring herself some freshly made coffee. She hurried back in with the brimming cup, grimacing when some hot drops spilt onto her fingers.
‘Elma, how are you? Did I disturb you?’ The warm, reassuring tones belonged to Davíð’s father, Sigurður.
‘No, not at all. I was out of the room for a moment and I’m fine, thanks. Plenty to do here.’ She sat down and took a sip of coffee.
Sigurður had rung her regularly over the past year. When Elma hadn’t heard from Davíð’s parents for several weeks after the funeral, she had interpreted their silence as meaning that they blamed her for his suicide. In her state of mind at the time, their reaction had seemed perfectly justified.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting,’ Sigurður added.
‘No, not at all.’
‘Oh, good. I hope everything’s going well.’ He paused, then continued: ‘It’s Davíð’s birthday on Saturday, and we’d love to have you over. That’s assuming you’d like to come. I’ll understand if you’ve got too much on and—’
‘No, no,’ Elma interrupted. ‘I mean, yes. Of course I’d like to come. Sure, we’re busy here but I can always make time.’
‘Right then, it would be good to see you. We’re just going to meet up at our house at five or sixish, depending on when you can get here. You know the way, of course.’
‘Of course. I’ll be there.’
Elma picked up her coffee cup and rotated her chair to face the window. A knot of fear had begun to form in the pit of her stomach at the thought of meeting Davíð’s family again. She had been in touch with his sister, Lára, but had hardly talked at all to Davíð’s mother, Þuríður, over the last year. The situation was both odd and unsettling, since they had got on well while Davíð was alive. Þuríður couldn’t have been more different from Elma’s own mother, who might have been cut out of a textbook used at Iceland’s old School for Professional Homemakers – small, plump and bustling, always in an apron, with something bubbling away on the stove or in the oven. Þuríður, in contrast, had a svelte figure and wouldn’t be seen dead in sensible shoes or trackie bottoms. In fact, her clothes were trendier than Elma’s, and she had her roots touched up every six weeks, so no one would see a single grey hair on her head.
Elma’s office door opened and she turned. As usual, her colleague marched straight in without knocking and plumped down in the chair opposite her. Begga was a uniformed officer, a couple of years younger than Elma and so blunt that she sometimes left people gasping.
‘Hot tub and a bottle of red at my place this evening. Are you up for it?’
Elma’s eyes travelled to the window, then back to Begga. ‘Seriously? Have you seen the
weather?’ A gale was blowing outside, sweeping great sheets of rain across the car park, and the road to Reykjavík was closed at Kjalarnes until the worst of it had passed over.
‘Uff, that’s nothing.’ Begga waved a hand dismissively.
‘But you haven’t got a hot … aha!’ Belatedly, Elma caught on. ‘Have you got the keys?’
Begga grinned, her dimples deepening. ‘You’re looking at a proud new house owner, thank you very much.’
‘Wow, congratulations.’
Begga had hardly talked about anything for weeks but the small detached house she had bought after saving up conscientiously for ten years while living in her parents’ basement. The money had only just stretched to cover the deposit on the little place, which she’d shown Elma countless pictures of. House prices in the area had shot up in recent years, perhaps as a knock-on effect of the soaring cost of property in Reykjavík. Some people chose to live in Akranes and commute to the city, simply to be able to afford a reasonably sized house.
‘Thanks. And now you can’t say no to my invitation to try out the hot tub, so I’ll expect you on the dot of nine.’ Begga got up, then paused in the doorway and turned round. ‘And bring some red. No cheap rubbish either. I want a proper bottle.’
Elma was left with no choice, but then that was typical of Begga. Once she had made up her mind, there was little point in trying to resist. As if to remind Elma of what a bad idea it was, the window pane in her office rattled with the force of the wind. She sighed and hugged her jumper around her. It was nearly 9.00 a.m., just time to top up her coffee before this morning’s meeting.
No one had seen Maríanna since twelve noon on Friday, 4 May. The last confirmation that she was alive was her phone call to her daughter at 14.27. After that, her phone had sent out a signal at 15.07, which confirmed that the phone was alive then – but not necessarily that Maríanna was.
Sölvi had rung her for the last time at just past five. After that he had called a mate, dropped by the Ríki to stock up on booze, then gone round and proceeded to get drunk at his friend’s place. The CCTV in the state off-licence showed Sölvi just before closing time, with a half-litre bottle of vodka and a ten-pack of beer. No one could confirm his whereabouts between two and five o’clock, however. According to his friend, Sölvi had come round at suppertime, which meant there was also a period between six and seven that he couldn’t account for. But this would barely have given him the time to make the half-hour journey from Borgarnes to Grábrók and back again, let alone dispose of a body in a lava field.
Girls Who Lie Page 11
