Girls Who Lie

by Eva Bjorg AEgisdóttir

  When Elma arrived at her parents’ house that evening, the dining table was littered with wax crayons. Alexander was kneeling on a chair with a sheet of paper in front of him, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth as he drew a large fir tree decorated with colourful baubles and a star on top.

  ‘Great picture,’ Elma said, sitting down beside him. ‘Is it a Christmas tree?’

  ‘It’s for Stekkjastaur.’ Alexander straightened up and viewed his drawing critically. Stekkjastaur was one of Iceland’s thirteen Yule Lads, who traditionally brought presents to put in children’s shoes in the thirteen days leading up to Christmas.

  ‘Is he coming this evening?’

  ‘No, tomorrow.’

  ‘I bet you’ll get something really good in your shoe as a thank-you for this picture.’ Elma stroked his blond head. ‘The best toy he’s got in his sack.’

  Alexander looked at her, open-mouthed. ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Of course,’ Elma said. ‘It’s a great picture.’

  Alexander didn’t seem convinced. He stared at his drawing doubtfully. ‘Maybe if I write my name and … and his name too.’

  Elma nodded. ‘Yes. Yes, you know, I think that might work even better.’

  ‘Can you help me?’

  Elma smiled and wrote Stekkjastaur’s name on another sheet of paper for Alexander to copy. His longing for a present in his shoe was almost palpable, and Elma suddenly envied him the innocence of youth. Believing in the Yule Lads and all the magic associated with Christmas lent the festive season an aura of wonder and excitement. If only she could go back in time, be transported to childhood again, just for a few days.

  ‘No news on the case?’ Her mother sat down opposite them with two mugs and handed one to Elma.

  Elma put her hands round the hot china and lifted out the teabag. ‘With any luck, it’s close to being solved.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. I just feel so sorry for the woman’s daughter.’

  ‘Yes, though Hekla seems happy where she is.’

  ‘I can believe it. Bergrún’s a lovely person,’ Aðalheiður said. ‘I started going to her after Sveinn retired.’

  ‘You go to her?’ Elma looked up.

  ‘She’s a dentist. She works at the surgery just down the road, with Kalli. I started going to her before she got her son, the younger child,’ Aðalheiður went on. ‘I know they tried to have children for years, but nothing worked, and in the end they ran out of time.’

  ‘Just as well I’m not getting any older,’ Elma joked.

  Aðalheiður’s smile was wry. ‘There’s a time for everything, Elma love. At your age I’d already had you and your sister.’

  ‘A lot has changed.’ Although Elma wanted a child, she’d always felt she had plenty of time for that. Yet she was thirty-three and would probably have to make a decision soon. Her phone rang, sparing her any further talk of babies.

  ‘Hi, Sævar,’ she said, getting to her feet.

  ‘Shall I pick you up at eight?’

  Elma glanced at the clock. It was nearly seven. ‘Yes, that would be good,’ she said. ‘Hang on a sec. What was that, Mum?’ She turned to her mother who was speaking.

  ‘I asked if he’d already eaten.’

  Elma hesitated, then gave in to her mother’s raised eyebrows. ‘Mum’s asking if you’ve already eaten.’

  ‘We ordered plenty of pizza,’ Aðalheiður said. She had come over to stand beside Elma.

  ‘We’ve got plenty—’ Elma began, but Sævar interrupted her.

  ‘Yes, I heard her,’ he said, laughing. ‘I wouldn’t say no to pizza. I’ll be there in five.’

  Elma ended the call and looked at her mother, who had already started getting plates out of the cupboard. She had a feeling Aðalheiður was smiling to herself as she laid the table.

  Usually meals at Elma’s parents’ house were rather rushed affairs, but this evening it seemed no one was in any hurry to get up. All the plates had long been emptied by the time they finally left the table. Sævar and her mother had become absorbed in a conversation about English football. Her mother was a diehard Liverpool fan, just like Sævar. He couldn’t hide his wonder as Aðalheiður recited the names of various players, knew exactly which clubs they’d transferred from and had strong opinions on what needed to be done for the team.

  In the end, the conversation had moved on to fishing, at which point Elma switched off completely. She knew her dad loved angling. He had tried in vain to get his daughters interested when they were younger, bought them fishing rods and dragged them on trips with him. Elma had found it exciting at first, sitting on the bank, focusing hard on the orange float bobbing on the water. But when it began to rain and hours passed in uneventful waiting, she got bored and lost her concentration. When a fish finally swallowed her hook, the line had jerked so violently that she’d dropped her rod in the lake. Her father had tried to run after it in his waders but it was too late. The rod had sunk to the bottom and Elma had never gone fishing again. Her dad, on the other hand, still seized every opportunity to cast a line and liked to drive around the local lakes at weekends. It was news to Elma that Sævar shared his passion.

  It was well past eight when they drove to Margrét’s house and saw a car in the drive. When they rang the bell, a boy of about twenty opened the door, wearing a baseball cap and jeans that were too tight around the thighs.

  ‘Is your mother in?’ Elma asked.

  ‘My mother?’ The boy looked momentarily puzzled, and Elma realised he probably wasn’t used to referring to Margrét as his mother. But finally a light-bulb seemed to go on behind his eyes. ‘If you mean Margrét, she’s in. Magga!’ He shouted out her name without taking his eyes off them, making Elma jump.

  From inside the house they heard an answering voice. The boy left them at the door without saying goodbye, and for a few seconds they stood there waiting, an icy wind gusting at their backs. Then Margrét appeared in the hall.

  ‘Evening.’ She looked much better than the last time Elma had seen her, but then she was still wearing her professional make-up from reading the news. She had obviously changed into home clothes, though, as she was now in tracksuit bottoms and had a pair of reading glasses on her head.

  ‘Could we come in a minute?’ Sævar asked, stepping inside before Margrét could say a word. ‘Let’s just close the front door before we all freeze,’ he added, shutting it firmly. Elma, whose teeth were chattering, silently thanked him for his audacity.

  ‘Yes, right,’ Margrét said. She hesitated, then smiled. ‘Do come in. Would you like some coffee? I’ve just made some.’

  Elma declined the offer but Sævar said yes. Always accept a coffee, he had told her once. It helps people relax. Just two mates having a cuppa together. Never fails.

  ‘I always drink coffee this late,’ Margrét said, passing Sævar a cup. ‘But then I suppose my hours are rather different from most people’s.’ She sat down. ‘My husband tells me you were trying to get hold of me earlier. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Last time we talked, you said you’d never met Hekla’s mother, Maríanna,’ Elma said.

  ‘No, I don’t think I ever did.’

  ‘Here’s a picture of her.’ Elma put her phone on the table with a photo of Maríanna on the screen. ‘This is the picture we circulated in the media when the search for her was taking place back in the spring. Are you sure you’ve never seen her before?’

  Margrét’s eyes darted to the photo, then back again. ‘As I said: no, I’ve never seen her before.’

  ‘But you must have seen this photo,’ Sævar said. ‘It was all over the media for weeks.’

  ‘Of course I saw it but I never met her in the flesh.’

  ‘Hekla and Tinna are good friends, aren’t they?’

  ‘Yes, very good friends. But their friendship was limited to the weekends when Hekla was staying with Bergrún and Fannar. I know them quite well through our daughters, but Hekla’s real mother just … well, she was
n’t in the picture. To be honest, I didn’t give much thought to the fact she had another mother apart from Bergrún.’

  ‘You’re quite sure?’ Elma persisted.

  Margrét sighed and looked at the picture again. This time she studied it a little longer before replying: ‘Yes. Yes, I’m sure.’

  ‘Actually, you were both from the same town. From Sandgerði,’ Elma said. ‘It’s not a big place so you’re bound to have crossed paths.’

  ‘I had no idea,’ Margrét said. ‘Honestly. I don’t ever recall having seen that woman. But if we’re both from Sandgerði, I suppose I must have done, though I have no memory of her. How old was she?’

  ‘She’d have been thirty-one this year.’

  ‘Ah, well, that explains it. She’s several years younger than me, so I probably didn’t notice her. We moved away when I was twenty-one, so she’d have been, what … fifteen, sixteen?’

  Elma simply couldn’t work out from Margrét’s expression whether she was telling the truth. Maríanna had only been fifteen when Margrét could have last seen her, and no doubt she had changed a fair amount in the intervening years. And even though they had lived in a small community, that didn’t guarantee that they’d have known each other. Elma often failed to recognise people she’d been at school with, particularly those who were younger than her. It wasn’t just their faces; their names often didn’t ring a bell either.

  ‘By coincidence, Maríanna and her parents also moved away fifteen years ago,’ Sævar intervened, when Elma didn’t say anything. ‘The same year both your daughters were born. The same year her brother died. His name was Anton.’

  ‘Anton…’ Margrét looked at them both in turn, then put a hand over her mouth. ‘Was … was Maríanna his sister?’

  Either Margrét was a very good actor or she’d genuinely had no idea who Maríanna was. ‘So you knew him?’ Elma asked.

  ‘Knew … no, I wouldn’t say that.’ Margrét stood up and pushed the kitchen door carefully shut, then sat down and cleared her throat. ‘He came to a party at my friend’s house years ago. I’d drunk too much and passed out in one of the bedrooms. I don’t know how long I lay there, but I woke up to find him on top of me. It was … horrible. Just horrible. I try not to think about it. Had I known it was his sister…’

  ‘Would that have changed anything? Regarding Hekla, I mean?’

  Margrét thought for a moment. ‘No, I don’t suppose it would.’

  ‘Anton’s family never believed the accusation,’ Elma said cautiously. ‘They were very angry when the story came out and blame the scandal for the fact that Anton killed himself.’

  Margrét smiled contemptuously. ‘Yes, that’s the kind of society we live in, isn’t it? Just because I couldn’t face going through the whole gruelling process of pressing charges, I was branded a liar. I killed him, that’s what they said. It didn’t occur to anyone that he hanged himself because he was guilty. Because he couldn’t bear the shame. Of course I understand his family. It’s hard to believe your own child would be capable of something like that, but he did it all right.’ Her lips tightened, and she turned her face away and looked out of the window. ‘I suppose it was her who sent the letters, then?’

  ‘What letters?’

  ‘Years ago I started getting threatening letters. I assumed they were from someone connected to Anton.’

  ‘Did you report them to the police?’

  ‘Yes, I did – and the time I was pushed down the stairs at a night club in Reykjavík. They didn’t take that seriously because I was drunk. It’s unbelievable how, if you’ve had a drink, it negates everything you say. You’re nothing but … a girl who lies.’ She smiled bitterly. ‘Sorry, I just … I haven’t thought about it for a long time. Is there anything else you want to know?’

  Elma glanced at Sævar, then back at Margrét. ‘No. No, not at present.’

  Ten Years Old

  The morning afterwards I wake up on the sofa, still fully dressed, clutching the photo in my arms. My eyelashes are glued together with mascara, making it hard to open my eyes. I vaguely remember howling with my mouth open, crouching in a ball like a small child. It wasn’t for Hafliði. No, I was crying for everything I’ve lost and for how my life could have been. I was crying for Granny, for the little girl in the photo and for what she’s become.

  When I raise my head from the cushion I see that there’s a black streak across it. No doubt I look like a train wreck, my eyes all red and swollen. My daughter’s expression when she comes in speaks volumes. But she doesn’t ask what’s wrong, just looks at me a little uncertainly before fetching her cereal. I sit down at the table with her and wonder how to explain what’s happened. Because she’s bound to ask. She already asks where Hafliði is, every day that he doesn’t come over. At last I decide to tell her the truth. Little girls must prepare themselves for the future, for being betrayed. Because that’s what will happen.

  She watches me the whole time I am speaking. Eats her cereal, chewing with her mouth closed. When I finish, she is silent.

  ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’ I ask, when I get no response.

  She nods slowly.

  ‘Good. Because he’s not coming back here. Ever again.’ I open the window and light a cigarette. I haven’t smoked for years, but yesterday I went out and bought a packet.

  ‘Do you hate him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I blow the smoke out of the window, watching her.

  ‘Do you hate Hafliði?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, after pausing to think. ‘Yes, I suppose I do.’

  I can almost see my answer ricocheting around in her head before she gets up, puts her plate in the dishwasher, then goes to her room. Yet again, I’m reminded of how strange she is. In her world, everything is black or white. There are no grey areas, only good or bad. Beautiful or ugly.

  Next morning, I hear that she is up and about before me. When I come out of my room she’s sitting in the kitchen, eating her cereal. Fully dressed, with her hair in a pony-tail. It’s quite neat, and I see that my endless criticisms have finally had an effect. She’s managed to smooth it so that there are no hairs sticking up in the air. And she’s also put on a top that she knows I like.

  ‘You look nice,’ I say.

  ‘Thanks.’ I see a hint of a smile on her lips.

  I watch her from the window as she leaves, her pony-tail swinging as she walks. She’s so small somehow among all the concrete apartment blocks; a tiny point moving through the streets. There aren’t many people she has allowed to come close to her in her short life, but she’d become pretty attached to Hafliði, so it’s just as well it’s over sooner rather than later. Before I walked off and left him yesterday, he said she could come and visit him. As if I had any interest in sending my daughter downstairs to see him after what he’s done.

  I have no desire to talk to him again, so it’s with reluctance that I open the door that evening when Hafliði knocks. Excuses come pouring out of him. He says he can’t remember the evening, that he was in town but didn’t drink much. Someone must have put something in his beer. As he stands there at the door, I almost feel sorry for him. But to tell the truth, I don’t care about losing him. When I look at him, I feel empty. It’s only the future he promised us that I mourn. I shake my head at everything he says and push him away when he tries to come close. I watch him leave without any regrets.

  There are plenty of men to take his place, now that I know what I want. I also know that I want to work as something other than a receptionist at a law firm. So I skim the job adverts in the paper the following morning. I devote my lunch break to producing polished applications for the companies that I like the look of.

  When I get home after work, there’s an ambulance outside the building. Access to the car park has been closed off and a police officer directs me to park somewhere else. It’s not that unusual for ambulances to stop here. The block of flats is full of pensioners, and I’ve seen the paramedics carrying them out on stret
chers before now. But I’ve never seen the police here before, and it gives me a sinking feeling. Once I’ve found somewhere to leave the car, I walk over to the men standing outside.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I ask.

  ‘An accident,’ one replies, his face grave.

  ‘Who…? I live in the building and my daughter’s alone at home. I need to go in to her. Please tell me it’s not her who…?’

  The man shakes his head. ‘There were no children involved,’ he says reassuringly. ‘It was a man who lives on the ground floor who was injured.’

  ‘Hafliði?’ I looked at the men in confusion and they exchange glances. ‘Is it Hafliði?’ I repeat.

  ‘Do you know him?’

  ‘Well…’ I cough. ‘No. We were just neighbours.’

  When I get up to the flat I find my daughter in front of the television with her headphones on. She smiles when she notices me. I sit down beside her and take her in my arms. The TV programme is about meerkats, and there’s something soothing about sitting beside her, watching these little creatures on the screen. I feel the warmth of her body as she leans her head against my shoulder. For the first time for ages I’m sure that everything’s going to be all right.

  Hafliði had been sitting outside in the small garden that belonged to his flat. The weather was good so he was probably lying with closed eyes, letting the sun warm his face. Perhaps he was asleep when it happened. Perhaps he never saw the flowerpot fall, never felt the pain. I hope so.

  The strange thing is that no one recognised the flowerpot. It was a heavy terracotta container. The detectives investigating the accident say it must have fallen from a considerable height, which means there are a number of flats it could have come from. Including mine. But the accident happened before I got home from work, so I have an alibi. A neighbour tells the police they heard us quarrelling at the weekend, and the police ring my employers to confirm that I was at work. A week later, I watch Hafliði’s family carrying the furniture out of his flat to a large removal van. Since I have no interest in talking to them again, the only news I get of him is from the neighbours. Hafliði is kept in an artificial coma for several weeks, and when he wakes up, apparently he’s changed. There’s brain damage, but the doctors don’t know if it’s temporary or permanent. He needs round-the-clock care, the neighbours on our staircase whisper, their eyes agog. The poor man.