He lowered his gaze to the table and dried up again. Elma was on the point of breaking the silence when he resumed: ‘It was like Maríanna changed overnight. She became moody and bad-tempered, and started answering back. She was five months gone before she let on what was wrong. You can probably imagine our shock.’
‘Was it Hekla?’ Elma bit her lip. What a stupid question; of course it was Hekla. But Þór didn’t seem offended.
‘Yes, it was Hekla. My granddaughter,’ he said. ‘She refused to tell us who the father was, and we decided not to put pressure on her. We thought the truth would come out eventually.’
‘And did it ever?’
‘Later, she told us it had been a boy her age. She didn’t want to mix him up in it, and I can understand that, sort of.’
‘So you never found out his name?’
‘Well … I had my suspicions. She’d had a best friend since she was a little girl. His name was Hjálmar. After Maríanna got pregnant, he vanished. I always assumed he was the dad, especially after Hekla was born. She has a look of him.’
‘Do you know where he is now?’
‘No, no idea. His name was Hjálmar and his father was called Brjánn. You can look him up, if you like. Do one of those tests.’ Þór waved a dismissive hand. ‘Anyway, the whole thing was overshadowed by what happened next.’
‘When Anton…’
‘Yes, when Anton died,’ Þór finished. ‘It was just such a terrible, terrible waste. So unnecessary. All because of … because of a lie.’
‘A lie?’
‘Yes, and one bitch of a girl.’
Elma was taken aback by the hatred in his voice. ‘What girl?’
Þór carried on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘Anton wasn’t like Maríanna. He was quiet and a bit of a loner, like his mother. Although he took after me in looks, we were very different types. He wasn’t outgoing at all but spent a lot of time on his own and was terribly shy. He wasn’t depressed or unhappy, though. It’s like society wants everyone to be made in the same mould these days. Everyone has to be sociable and have all these friends and enjoy the great outdoors and eat healthily.’ Þór snorted. ‘If someone prefers their own company, it’s considered abnormal; a sign there’s something wrong. But it wasn’t like that in Anton’s case. He was happy. I tried to tell people that.’
‘What happened to him?’
Þór looked at Elma in surprise, resting his unseeing eyes on her for a while as if sunk in his thoughts, needing time to ponder her question. As if he’d been talking to himself rather than to them.
‘Anton went to a party.’
‘A party?’
‘Yes. He fancied a girl. A girl who was out of his league, though I heard rumours that she wasn’t actually that picky when it came down to it. She was your typical dumb blonde who thought she could get away with anything she liked. Anyway … this girl was at the party and somehow they ended up together and…’
Elma nodded.
‘I expect she probably regretted it and felt Anton wasn’t good enough for her. Though if you ask me, it was the other way round.’ He lit another cigarette without bothering to ask if they minded this time. ‘She claimed he’d forced her. That he was … was a rapist.’
Sævar and Elma were silent.
‘Anton wasn’t capable of anything like that. He was a good boy. Shy and gentle. It was all lies. Lies because she wanted … wanted to save her own skin.’
‘Was he charged?’
‘No, because there was no truth to her accusation. The girl only said it because she was ashamed. She never went to the hospital, and the police never pressed charges. There was no proof, just one person’s word against another’s. But that didn’t matter. That didn’t bloody matter because Anton had already been tried and convicted by the court of public opinion.’
Þór wiped the sleeve of his jumper across his damp forehead. Raking up the story was obviously painful for him. Elma had seen photos of the family on her way in. Nothing recent, only pictures from the good old days. A family portrait in which Maríanna could barely have been five years old. A picture of a young couple on a trip; Þór’s thick, dark hair giving an idea of how much time had passed. In the kitchen there was a picture of Hekla fixed to the fridge with a magnet. It looked like something Þór had printed off Facebook.
‘The whole town turned against us,’ he said. ‘It was unbelievable. We’d lived there all those years, had friends we’d known all our lives, but overnight it was all gone. It just … vanished into thin air.’
‘Is that why you moved?’
Again, Þór ploughed on with his tale without answering Elma’s question. ‘Anton was so sensitive. For all his size, he had a tender heart. He could never bear to see anything suffer. I think that’s why he did what he did. He couldn’t stand seeing what we were going through. Couldn’t bear to watch us suffer.’ Þór was staring into space. His cigarette had burnt down between his fingers, and the ash fell on the table. ‘I found him when I got home from work. He’d used a rope he found in the garage and he was just hanging there.’
Nobody spoke. Elma was picturing the young man’s body hanging in the dark garage. And Þór opening the door, unsuspecting. It would be impossible ever to get over a shock like that. There would be no way of wiping the image from your mind.
Þór stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and drew a deep breath. ‘Anyway, I don’t think about it much these days. It’s too painful. We moved away and started again in Reykjavík, but it was never any sort of life. We were grieving and hit rock bottom around the time Maríanna had her child. We couldn’t be there for her, couldn’t provide any support, because we’d chosen the worst possible method of dealing with it all: we tried to drown our sorrows. Maríanna was furious with us and cut herself off. I think she blamed us for the whole thing. At any rate, we’ve had very little contact since then, and hardly any at all since her mum died.’
‘How long was it since you’d last heard from Maríanna?’
‘Months. When she was younger she often used to ring if she’d been drinking, wanting to talk about what had happened. I tried to tell her that living with anger didn’t do anyone any good, but it’s easier said than done when it’s become such a big part of you. It’s years since I got a phone call like that from her, though, and I was glad. Grateful that she’d managed to let go of the past, even if it meant I wasn’t part of her life anymore.’
‘So you didn’t hear from her at all in the weeks before she disappeared?’
‘No, not a word. I … maybe it’s a terrible thing to say but I’m glad she didn’t disappear of her own accord. Because it means maybe she was OK and happy until … until some bastard did that to her.’ Þór’s mouth twitched and he grabbed the cigarette packet, but fiddled with it instead of taking one out.
‘Do you remember the girl’s name?’ Elma asked.
Þór’s voice was hoarse as he asked: ‘What girl?’
‘The one who brought the accusations against Anton.’
‘Viktoría. The little bitch’s name was Viktoría,’ Þór said. ‘I sometimes think about her and wonder if she remembers us and what she did to us. Has she any idea how many lives she destroyed? I hope so. I hope karma has paid her back. But life’s not fair, and that girl had no conscience. I saw her once, years after Anton died, and I know she recognised me, but there was no sign of repentance there. Not a hint. She just looked straight through me, like I wasn’t there. She’s the one who should have been lying rotting in the lava field for months on end. Girls who lie deserve no better.’
‘It must have been terrible – living with so much rage all this time.’ Elma accelerated along Miklabraut. ‘Especially for Maríanna. Bad enough being pregnant at fifteen years old, but then this has to go and happen as well.’
Neither of them said anything for a while. The weekend traffic was heavy. There wasn’t much time left until Christmas, and everyone was frantically trying to finish their preparations.
; ‘What if Anton hanged himself because he was guilty?’ Sævar asked after a pause. ‘It’s difficult for families to believe something like that of a loved one – understandably. But that doesn’t necessarily mean he didn’t do it.’
‘Of course not. Just because no charges were brought, that doesn’t mean there wasn’t a rape.’
Although there were cases from time to time, Elma didn’t want to believe that anyone would lie about being raped. The prosecution process wasn’t one that anyone in their right mind would choose to go through unless they had to, and so she had adopted the rule of letting the victim enjoy the benefit of the doubt. But the justice system didn’t work like that. Cases weren’t black or white. It was possible to argue over the perpetrator’s intention to commit a crime, the circumstances, and a number of other factors. The justice system relied on specific types of evidence, and these were often in short supply in rape cases.
‘No, you see quite a few cases like that,’ Sævar said. ‘It’s a pity he couldn’t remember the girl’s full name.’
Elma indicated to turn off to the Kringlan shopping centre, only to find herself in a long line of cars that was barely moving.
‘Viktoría isn’t that common a name, and Sandgerði’s a small town. We should be able to find out who she was,’ Elma said, checking the rear-view mirror. Several cars had joined the queue behind them.
‘We could give our colleagues there a bell and see what they say,’ Sævar suggested. ‘Even if no charges were brought, in a community that small an incident like that is bound to have been talked about.’
‘Yes, maybe that would be best.’ It was more than fifteen years since Anton had died, but someone must remember the affair. The traffic slowly started moving again, and a few minutes later they reached Kringlan.
‘I’ll jump out here,’ Sævar said.
Elma stopped the car. Sævar opened the door and waved goodbye. Elma watched him run across the road and vanish into the covered car park before she drove on.
Davíð’s parents lived in an attractive old house in Kópavogur, the town immediately to the south of Reykjavík. The front garden was overshadowed by tall trees, which provided shelter from the wind. When Elma was young, she used to dream about having a garden like that, full of big trees and places to hide. She had always been a bit of an odd child, forever hiding in dark corners around the house. She would make tents out of blankets and never felt happier than when she was curled up in one of these dens with a book, a torch and a good supply of snacks. She had loved rain too; loved seeing the sky grow dark and smelling the odour of wet earth. As a little girl, Elma would have loved a garden like her former in-laws’ one, but now, looking at the neatly pruned bushes and tidy flower beds, all she could think was what a hell of a lot of work it must be. Sadly, she had no interest in gardening.
The trees formed a sort of tunnel that she passed through to reach the front door. She remembered walking through it many years ago when she met Davíð’s parents for the first time. If she had been nervous, Davíð was even worse. He had held her hand until they reached the front door but dropped it the moment they went inside, as if embarrassed to be caught holding it by his parents.
Elma knocked on the door. Davíð’s father opened it and instead of shaking her hand he held out his arms and hugged her with such affection that Elma found it hard not to burst into tears. She forced herself to smile. The smell inside the house reminded her of the days when she and Davíð were first getting to know each other. His clothes always used to smell the same.
‘It’s so good to see you, love. Come in,’ Sigurður said and closed the door behind her.
‘You didn’t buy much,’ Elma commented, when she stopped in front of the entrance to the Kringlan shopping centre. Sævar was waiting outside, his cardigan zipped up to the neck, holding one small shopping bag and a can of soft drink.
He burped as he got into the car. ‘Pardon me,’ he said formally. ‘No, I gave up straight away. All those people and all that noise.’ He gave an affected shudder.
‘So what did you do?’
‘Went to the cinema.’
‘But a film only lasts two hours.’ Elma had been much longer than intended; five hours, at least. Dinner with Davíð’s parents had been far more enjoyable than she had expected; full of happiness and laughter rather than grief, as she had feared. Admittedly, it had been a mixture of both at times, especially when his mother brought out the photo albums. Davíð in a nappy, taking his first steps. Davíð at the Family Zoo, patting a lamb. Davíð on the beach with an ice-cream. Elma had found herself studying the eyes of the smiling little boy for any hint of what was to come. Any inkling that many years later he would be overwhelmed by such despair that he would be unable to see a way out. But there was no sign of it. Not even in the photos in which he was older; a bolshie teenager refusing to put on a smile for the camera. Yet in spite of these moments of poignancy, the evening had left her flooded with warmth and gratitude.
‘I went to two films,’ Sævar said.
‘Two?’ Elma gaped.
‘Yep. A perfect evening, if you ask me.’
Monday
Hekla wasn’t imagining the glances she got from the other kids at school. She could hear the whispering and felt as if all the laughter was directed at her. Tinna didn’t seem bothered by it, although she must have seen the gossip on the school’s Instagram page. A photo of the two of them with a crude comment underneath about what they were supposed to have got up to together after the party. Of course it wasn’t true. Nothing had happened. Tinna had come round to Hekla’s place that night and asked if she could stay over because she didn’t dare go home and risk bumping into her mother. Not with her pupils dilated like that and being so out of it that she could hardly get through a whole sentence without losing the thread. Tinna had undressed, got into bed and conked out in a matter of seconds. But Hekla hadn’t been able to sleep.
She had lain there, watching Tinna. Watching her breathe, feeling the warmth of her body, and touching her very gently. She was so beautiful. So unbelievably beautiful, though she didn’t realise it. Hekla wanted to tell her but couldn’t. There was so much she couldn’t say.
When she met Tinna that morning, Tinna hadn’t even looked up, just carried on her conversation with Dísa. The glances of their classmates didn’t seem to get to her. But that was the thing about Tinna: she never wasted time wondering what the other kids were thinking, and that was exactly what Hekla liked about her. Maybe that was why the kids left her alone, though she didn’t fit into the same mould as them. Tinna was tall and not exactly thin, which made her seem rather grown-up. Her gaze was unwavering and ruthless, as if she didn’t know the meaning of fear; and she was very clever – so clever that Hekla felt like an idiot around her.
The one person Tinna cared about making happy was her mother. Around Margrét, Tinna seemed to change. She worshipped her, that was obvious. Once, Hekla had asked Tinna why she died her hair blonde and she had answered: Because my mum wants me to be blonde. As if this was perfectly natural. When Hekla had dyed her own hair using a cheap packet, Maríanna had gone apeshit. But Hekla hadn’t cared if Maríanna got angry, whereas Tinna would never do anything to displease her mother. She obeyed her in everything – when Margrét was present, at least. Hekla had often envied their relationship, though at times it struck her as a bit weird. Sometimes it was like Margrét only had to look at Tinna for her to nod and say or do whatever her mother wanted, as if they could read each other’s minds.
Tinna whispered something to Dísa, who put a hand over her mouth to smother her giggles. Hekla pretended to be busy with her phone while her world collapsed around her.
The police officer from Sandgerði, who Elma had spoken to the day before, hadn’t heard of Anton, Viktoría or Maríanna but had promised to ask around and call her back. Elma considered what steps to take next if nothing came of this line of inquiry. Up to now, every avenue they explored had turned out to be a dead end, and it
looked as if Maríanna’s tragic family history was going to prove similarly unhelpful in providing leads. Still, at least the story seemed to have ended well for Hekla, who was obviously happy living with her foster family. Bergrún and Fannar gave every impression of being good parents who took better care of her than Maríanna ever could have.
Elma closed her eyes and pictured the Hekla she had met seven months ago. The girl had changed. Not much, but perceptibly. She carried herself better, seemed a little more confident. Elma sincerely hoped they were wrong and that Hekla was innocent. After all, they hadn’t actually found any compromising evidence, apart from her lie about going to Akranes.
A loud ringing shattered the peace. Elma hurriedly answered her phone.
‘Hello Elma. My name’s Gestur, from Sandgerði Police,’ said the man at the other end. ‘You called yesterday to ask about an old case.’
‘Yes, it was about a young man called Anton Þórsson.’ Elma turned her chair so she could stare out of the window as she talked. ‘He took his own life fifteen years ago, and we were looking for the name of the girl who accused him of rape. She was called Viktoría something.’
‘Yes, Palli asked me about it this morning, and I couldn’t remember the incident, but I rang my wife as she always remembers that sort of thing. Anyway, as soon as she started talking, it all came back to me. It was a terrible business. The young man, Anton, hanged himself in the garage at home after becoming the victim of gossip in the town. I don’t know how much truth there was in the stories, but the community was split down the middle, according to which side they believed.’
‘About whether it was rape?’
Girls Who Lie Page 23
