‘Shome … someone pushed me,’ I hear myself slur.
‘What? Did someone push you?’ she asks. ‘Are you sure you didn’t just trip?’
‘No. No, I was pushed.’
I can see from the expressions on the faces around me that no one believes this. Probably because I can hardly get the words out and I’m feeling so faint that I have to lean against the wall. People start wandering off, and in the end there’s only my colleague and me left.
‘I was pushed,’ I repeat, louder than intended. ‘I want to press charges. They’ll have to check the CCTV. I need to go to hospital. I think I’ve broken something.’ Now I’m crying and I can see that the woman can’t be bothered with this. She takes out her phone, makes a call, then escorts me outside.
‘They’ll come and get you,’ she says and goes back inside.
I’m left standing alone on the street corner, clutching my shoulder. All around me there are groups of people, laughing and shouting. Stupid little girls and boys, their heads full of nothing but sex. Someone drops a bottle and it smashes on the pavement. Then the heavens open and it starts to rain. I feel as if everyone’s staring and laughing at me. The eyes resting on me are cold and hard, and with every second that passes I can feel myself shrinking and becoming more and more insignificant.
When I finally get home later that evening, there’s another card waiting for me in my post box. This time the envelope contains a photo of my daughter’s nursery school. Cute little girl you’ve got, is written on the back.
The next day I open the paper and start searching for a new flat.
Hekla could taste the Indian chicken curry she’d eaten earlier that evening repeating on her. She clamped a hand over her mouth and tried to blow the smell away.
‘Ugh!’ Tinna shouted, wrinkling her nose. ‘Seriously, Hekla? That’s gross.’ She gave her a shove, and Hekla laughed. It was always a bit easier without Dísa, though things were undeniably more exciting when she was around. It was always her who wanted to go out and do something. She was never satisfied when it was just the three of them hanging out together.
‘Sorry,’ Hekla said. ‘My stomach’s killing me after the curry Fannar made for supper. There must have been something wrong with it.’ This wasn’t true, but it was better than admitting that she suffered from reflux, which sounded so disgusting.
Tinna didn’t appear to be listening; all her attention was focused on the TV. Hekla lay back on the bed. She wasn’t really interested in the series Tinna liked watching, which featured a rich American family with scarily little between their ears. But Tinna loved reality shows and, since they were at her house, she got to decide. The wall-mounted flatscreen was far too large for her bedroom. It had been passed down to Tinna when her older brother bought himself a new, even bigger flatscreen.
Beside the bed was a white desk with a big black lamp on it. On the shelf above was a photo of Tinna with her mother, who had her arms round Tinna’s shoulders and was laughing down at her. The picture had always made Hekla feel envious. She had memorised every last detail: the way the sunlight gleamed on Tinna’s mother’s gilded hair, the pale sand behind them and the red top Tinna was wearing. Their olive-coloured arms and sparkling eyes. It looked so spontaneous, as if the picture had been snapped with only a fraction of a second’s notice, and they’d had no time to pose. Beside the photo were a silver globe and a stone; not an ordinary stone of the kind you’d find lying around outside your house, but a lump of rock, jet black and shiny.
Hekla closed her eyes and relished the sensation of sinking into the mattress. Tinna’s bed always reminded Hekla of a big, soft cloud, though the bedclothes were dark blue, not white. She felt as if she could be swallowed up by the big duvet, the fluffy blanket and all those pillows that smelt of the Body Shop strawberry-butter skin cream Tinna used.
Hekla’s phone lit up beside her with a message from Agnar. He’d sent a picture of himself lying in bed at home, with the caption: Meet up this evening? Hekla darted a glance at Tinna, then wrote: Maybe. What were you thinking? The reply came almost instantly: Pick you up? She answered: OK.
Hekla wasn’t looking forward to this but she couldn’t put it off forever. Agnar had been bombarding her with messages for the last few days, and although they were mostly intended to be funny, Hekla had begun to find it uncomfortable. His desperation was so powerful she felt as if she could touch it.
‘Who are you talking to?’ The programme was over and Tinna turned over on her side, her cheek propped on her hand, and looked at Hekla. She was wearing pyjama bottoms and a vest, her blonde hair pulled back in a slide.
‘Oh, just Agnar,’ Hekla said. ‘He’s coming to pick me up.’
‘Weren’t you going to dump him?’
Hekla nodded.
‘Do you think he’ll cry?’
‘Tinna!’ Hekla felt a knot in her stomach.
‘I reckon he’ll cry.’ Tinna yawned and reached for the remote.
Hekla’s phone lit up again. Outside, Agnar had written. Hekla got off the bed, inspected herself in Tinna’s big bedroom mirror, tidied her hair and applied some lip salve.
‘Have fun,’ Tinna called after her.
Hekla sighed. She wasn’t in the mood for jokes right now.
On the way out, Tinna’s mum stopped her. ‘Leaving already?’
Hekla nodded.
‘All right,’ she said. ‘But be careful, dear.’
Hekla smiled and said goodbye. She ran out to Agnar’s car, with a thudding heart and a bad taste in her mouth.
‘It’s freezing.’ Elma wrapped her towel more tightly around herself and dashed over the stone floor of the terrace on tiptoe.
‘It doesn’t get much better than this,’ said Begga, who had already made herself comfortable in the hot tub. It was bitterly cold outside, though the wind had dropped. The stars shone down from a cloudless sky, lighting up the winter night.
‘You’re right, it doesn’t get much better,’ Elma agreed, once she was up to her neck in the blissfully hot water. She took a sip of the toffee liqueur that Begga had handed her, then reclined her head and closed her eyes. The heat gave her goose pimples at first, but after a few moments she felt her whole body relaxing.
But her mind wouldn’t be distracted so easily. After she and Sævar had got back to the police station earlier, Elma had gone through Hekla’s Instagram page. It was unbelievable how much you could learn about people via their social-media accounts, especially teenagers, who rarely locked their pages and always posted too much information; things so personal they would never have said them aloud. Hekla was no exception. Her Instagram page was open to all, but unfortunately she didn’t seem to be particularly diligent at keeping it up to date. A lot of Hekla’s photos were accompanied by sentiments in English, which Elma found a bit depressing. They seemed designed to give the impression that Hekla was simultaneously deep, mysterious and sad. Was that how she wanted other people to perceive her?
There were a few pictures of Hekla herself, sporting very different, much scantier outfits than her usual hoodies. These pictures were all recent, dating from after she had moved to Akranes, and seemed to have been taken for some special occasion. Hekla and a blonde girl were posing in one of their bedrooms, judging by the heaps of clothes on the floor. They were wearing high-waisted trousers and tight tops, showing bare midriffs. Elma hadn’t realised that crop tops were back in fashion, but apparently they were trendy with teenagers these days. Elma imagined her mother’s jaw dropping to the floor if she were to roll up in a crop top.
Elma scrolled through the comments on the photos. Most were from girls and featured more hearts than words. But there were several comments of a sexual nature in English, some of them so crude that she was shocked. Others were from Icelandic boys. Having checked out each of them in turn, she discovered that only one was over seventeen and lived in Akranes. He wrote that he was lucky, followed by the inevitable string of hearts. Agnar Freyr Steinarsson was nineteen and his
Instagram page was locked. Typical, Elma thought to herself. Still, she reckoned he was probably the boyfriend: Agnar. She would do a background check on him tomorrow.
Elma sank deeper into the tub, wetting her hair and ears.
‘This is the only reason I bought the house,’ Begga said. ‘I mean it, the only reason. I didn’t even need to go inside: I just took one look at the terrace and the tub, and that was it.’ She emitted a neigh of laughter, and Elma couldn’t help smiling.
‘Don’t you find it uncomfortable living here alone?’ Elma asked. ‘I really like being in a block of flats, hearing the neighbours when I go to sleep, and that sort of thing.’
‘I’m not alone, I’ve got—’
‘Yes, yes, I know – you’ve got your cat,’ Elma interrupted. ‘But you know what I mean.’
Begga smiled, her dimples deepening. Elma always thought it made her look years younger, though Begga was already several years younger than herself. ‘No, it doesn’t bother me. I sleep like a lamb. Or, you know, like some animal that sleeps well.’
‘Like a baby.’
‘Yes, or that.’ Begga emptied her glass, then fixed Elma with a look, the inevitable provocative glint in her eye. ‘And the reason you like living in a block has nothing to do with any noises, Elma dear, and everything to do with you-know-who, who knocks on your door in the evenings and does you-know-what.’
Elma’s only answer was a grin. Recently, her visits from ‘you-know-who’ had become more frequent. It wasn’t serious, though, and they kept it strictly between themselves, but often she didn’t realise until too late just how much she had blurted out to Begga. There was something about her that invited confidences and encouraged Elma to talk without stopping to think. For instance, Begga was the only person she mentioned Davíð to, and she had to admit that it was good to be able to talk about him at last. The anger and guilt that had tormented her for the first few months after she moved back to Akranes had almost entirely disappeared, and she now accepted the fact that he had been ill. That depression was an illness and she couldn’t have foreseen his decision. Or, at least, this was the mantra she repeated to herself every day.
She stared up at the vault of the sky, so intensely black, so awe-inspiringly vast. Thousands of stars stared back at her, and she was suddenly conscious of how small and insignificant she was. Was he up there somewhere, looking down on her? Feeling dizzy, she sat upright again. She’d better not have any more to drink.
‘It’s a bit hot in here,’ she said, heaving herself up higher to get her shoulders out of the water. Then, after a moment’s reflection: ‘But it’s nice.’
‘What’s nice?’ Begga had ducked her head under the water, and her mascara was running down her cheeks.
‘Having him there – you-know-who – in the flat next door.’ She felt guilty as soon as she had said it, but pushed the feeling away.
‘I always thought you and Sævar…’
Elma shrugged. She had thought so too. Hoped, even. But when nothing had happened between them, the tension had dissipated, and now she felt almost as if they knew each other too well.
‘It would be far too complicated,’ she said, after a little silence. ‘We work together and we’re friends, and I don’t want to risk … oh, you know.’
‘I know,’ Begga replied, and Elma smiled. Because that was the thing about Begga: she knew.
Six Years Old
Her first day at school and I’m a bag of nerves, whereas she seems perfectly unfazed. Of course she’s only a child and doesn’t realise what’s happening or what a big turning point this is. But that’s not why I’m nervous; I’m nervous because I know what goes on in schools. I know how vulnerable some children are, while others are as savage as hyenas. I’m afraid they’ll tear her apart, like any other defenceless creature. Because that’s what schools are like, and children are the cruellest predators in the world.
I reach for her hand as we approach the entrance.
‘Are you excited?’
She doesn’t answer. Sometimes it’s like she just can’t be bothered. Once I was so tired that I seized her by her shoulders and almost screamed at her: ‘Answer me!’ She just stared back at me, her grey eyes as cold as steel, her face blank. I immediately regretted it and let her go, and she carried on lining up the green toy soldiers on the dining table as if nothing had happened, the same soldiers she’s been playing with ever since she was a baby. Nowadays she lines them up in two armies facing each other, as if at the beginning of a battle. Sometimes I can tell that something has happened, that one of the sides has won. Half the soldiers are lying on the floor, some with mangled arms or legs.
She’s an odd child, and that fact is glaringly obvious, despite all the time I’ve spent trying to get her ready. I scoured the shops for a suitable dress for her big day and eventually found a pretty blue one with a shirt collar and long sleeves. It goes well with her dark hair, which is now braided in two plaits that hang down to her chest. Occasionally I catch a look of me when she tilts her head at a certain angle or laughs – which happens very rarely – but apart from that she’s nothing like me, in character or appearance. I often feel guilty when I look at her because I know it’s my fault she’s like she is. All those years when I couldn’t give her the care she needed are bound to have had an effect.
Sometimes I wonder what my life would be like if I hadn’t got pregnant. Perhaps I would have met a man and had children who weren’t so odd. I lose myself in daydreams, picturing the house we’d live in, the money I’d have to spend and the meals I’d cook. I imagine evenings sitting on the sofa and how we’d sleep with our limbs tangled together until the children crawled into bed with us in the morning. Two children. I always meant to have two. A boy who took after my husband and a girl who took after me. I have to be careful not to think like that because then I tend to blame her for the way my life has turned out. And of course this is unfair, because she didn’t ask to be born.
The bell rings. She halts and watches the other children flocking to the door. Her dark eyebrows draw down, overshadowing her observant eyes. Her mouth is almost round, her lips compressed. She tightens her hold on my hand.
‘Shall we go in?’ I ask, and to my great relief she nods. She can be as stubborn as the devil and once she’s got her mind set on something there’s no way of reasoning with her. I’ve had to carry her screaming out of supermarkets before now, scratching and kicking at anything within reach. But mainly at me.
We start walking, again, slowly, and I sense that she’s wary. She’s staring at the ground, her shoulders hunched, as if trying to make herself smaller. I want to tell her to straighten her back and raise her head, but I know there’s no point. I remember girls when I was at school who went around with hunched backs and eyes that never strayed from the floor. I remember how they used to sidle along the walls as if wishing they could melt into the background.
We stand outside the classroom. The bell rings, and the children are supposed to form an orderly line outside the door. They take up position, one after another, in a squirming row. The teacher surveys them, then notices that my daughter hasn’t budged. She’s clutching my leg, tugging at my trousers and suddenly I can feel all eyes on us. I smile apologetically to the teacher and parents who, from their expressions, seem to find my daughter’s behaviour adorable, whereas I’m deeply ashamed.
‘Mummy.’ Her voice is almost too low to hear, and I bend my head to her. ‘I don’t want to be here,’ she whispers. She stares at me imploringly. ‘Can we go home? Please, please.’
At that moment the teacher comes over, a thin woman with a boyish haircut, wearing a knitted jumper. She bends down and puts a hand on my daughter’s arm. ‘Hi, what’s your name?’ she asks in a super-friendly, gentle voice. ‘Would you like to come with me for a little while? We won’t be long, I promise.’
She hesitates, then holds out her hand and goes with the teacher. The last I see of her before she vanishes among the pack of wolves is her dar
k head, staring down at the green lino. I heave a deep breath, put on a smile and walk away, pretending that it’s all perfectly normal; that she’s perfectly normal.
Though I know that both things are a lie.
Thursday
His name was Jakob, though Begga referred to him as you-know-who. It made Elma think of Voldemort in the Harry Potter books, but that was about all Jakob had in common with Voldemort. He had sea-blue eyes, dirty-blond hair, and his suntanned skin smelt of citrus. Elma sometimes missed the lemony scent he left on her sheets when it was a long time between their encounters. It was stupid, of course, but after nine years with Davíð, she still hadn’t got used to sleeping alone and enjoyed having someone beside her again.
She and Jakob had met shortly after she moved into the flat. He lived opposite, so it wasn’t far to go. Not far enough, in fact. He was two years younger than her, in his final year of an IT degree, and never tired of complimenting her. Sometimes he went so far that Elma wanted to beg him to stop. It wasn’t true that her hair looked beautiful in the mornings or that her crooked front tooth had a charm of its own. Ditto the freckles on her fair skin. Regardless of what Jakob said, they weren’t pretty, and she refused to believe that he thought they were. But most of all he waxed lyrical about her eyes, saying that the grey of her irises, flecked with brown and green, reminded him of a lava field. ‘Are you sure that’s a compliment?’ she had asked. ‘Absolutely’, Jakob had assured her. ‘You know all those tourists come to Iceland to see the lava. Well, really they should come all this way to see your eyes. Perhaps we should set up a website to advertise them.’ Elma had groaned inwardly and shut him up with a kiss.
When she woke up on Thursday morning, his arm was lying across her chest and she moved it carefully aside as she twisted to turn off the alarm clock. He didn’t even stir when she got out of bed. Hurriedly retrieving her clothes from the floor, she pulled them on, then stood there for a moment, studying him. She wondered if she should wake him or let him sleep. In the end she tiptoed out, pulling the bedroom door to behind her.
Girls Who Lie Page 14
