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‘I’ve not come for that.’

There was something in his tone that gave me pause.

‘Fridrik. What have you come for?’

‘I’m going to sort this out once and for all. I’ve come for what’s mine.’

Behind us the cow gave a low groan. I heard the scrape of hooves on the earthen floor.

‘Fridrik?’

‘Admit it. You want this too, Agnes.’

At that point the moon slipped out from its shield of clouds, and I saw what Fridrik held in his hands. It was a hammer and a knife.

WHAT DO I REMEMBER? I didn’t believe him. I went back to my bed on the floor of the cowshed, suddenly weary. I wanted nothing to do with him.

What happened?

I woke up from a fitful sleep and went outside. The light from the croft window had gone out. Fridrik was nowhere to be seen.

I went to go find him. I was suddenly scared. The night sky was clear and the farm was lit with moonlight. The sting of stars. Snow squeaked under my shoes. I fumbled at the latch but the door creaked open anyway.

Sigga was crouched against the wall of the corridor, clutching Rósa’s little girl. They were whimpering.

‘Sigga?’

It took her a moment before she could respond. ‘The badstofa,’ she whispered. I could hardly hear her.

I walked down that long passageway. Somehow I knew to take a light from the kitchen. My heart was in my throat.

What happened?

I was shaking, my hands fumbled, and I dropped the lamp in the dark. There was the sudden smell of a snuffed wick, and a sound in the corner. A creaking board and someone panting, hard and fast, and more sounds, dull, like a child punching a pillow. A groan, the sound of something wet, and then a voice whispering: ‘Agnes?’

My heart skipped a beat. I thought Natan was there.

But it was Fridrik.

‘Agnes,’ he was saying, ‘Agnes, where are you?’ His voice was thin.

‘I’m here,’ I said. I bent down and felt in the murk for the lamp. ‘I dropped the light.’

I heard Fridrik take a step towards the direction of my voice. ‘Agnes, I don’t know if he’s dead.’ His voice caught on the last word. ‘I can’t tell if he’s dead.’

My heart stopped still. My fingers would not move. I was pushing them across the gritty boards, trying to find the lamp, but my knuckles had seized and would not bend. He hasn’t killed him. He’s a boy. He hasn’t killed him.

Somehow I found the lamp. I scooped it up, my hand grazing against the splinters of the floor.

‘Agnes?’

‘I’m here!’ I snapped back. The tone of my voice surprised me. I did not sound as frightened as I was. ‘I need to light the lamp.’

‘Hurry then,’ Fridrik said.

I felt my way to the corridor, where a single candle stood alight in a wall bracket. I lit the lamp, and then turned back towards the badstofa. My hands were trembling and the light of the lamp flickered uneasily over the rough walls, towards the black mouth of the badstofa. When I reached the room I felt my throat close from fear. I didn’t want to go in there. But I needed to see what Fridrik had done.

At first I thought he’d tricked me. When I extended the lamp towards Natan’s bed, I saw his blankets, and his sleeping face. Nothing seemed wrong. Then Fridrik said: ‘Here, Agnes, bring the lamp here,’ and as the light crept across the bed I saw that Pétur’s head was crushed. Blood darkened the pillow. Something glistened on the wall, and when I looked I saw several drops of blood slowly running down the planks.

‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘Oh God. Oh God.’

I looked at the hammer he held in his hands, and there was something stuck to it — it was hair. I was sick then, on the floor.

Fridrik helped me to my feet. He was still gripping the hammer, holding it out at the ready. ‘Have you hurt Natan?’ I asked, and Fridrik told me to bring the lamp closer to the bed. Natan was bleeding also. One side of his face looked strange, as though his cheekbone had been flattened, and what I thought was Pétur’s blood was pooling in the cavity of his neck.

A scream erupted from my chest and strength left me. I dropped the lamp again, and fell to the floor in the darkness that erupted over us.

Fridrik must have fetched the candle from the corridor. I saw his face shine as he entered the room. Then, we both heard a voice.

‘What was that?’ Fridrik quickly walked over to my side and pulled me to my feet. We were trembling. The sound came again. A groan.

‘Natan?’ I grabbed the candle from Fridrik and lurched towards the bed, holding it close to Natan’s face. I saw his eyelids twitch in the bright flare, and he tried to stir on the bed.

‘What did you do to him?’ Fridrik was as white as a corpse, his pupils so dilated they looked black.

‘The hammer…’ he mumbled.

Natan groaned again, and this time Fridrik bent close, listening.

‘He said “Worm”.’

‘Worm Beck?’

‘Maybe he’s dreaming.’

We stood still, watching Natan for more signs of life. The silence was deadening. Then Natan slowly opened one of his eyes, and looked right at me.

‘Agnes?’ he murmured.

‘I’m here,’ I said. A rush of relief went through me. ‘Natan, I’m here.’

His eye moved from me to Fridrik. Then, he swivelled his head and saw Pétur’s staved-in skull. I saw that he knew what had happened.

‘No,’ he croaked. ‘No, no no no.’

Fridrik stepped backwards from me. I wasn’t going to let him leave.

‘Look what you’ve done!’ I whispered. ‘Look at your work.’

‘I didn’t mean to! Natan, I swear.’ Fridrik began to pant, staring at the bloody hammer by our feet.

Natan cried out again. He was trying to get up from his bed, but screamed when he put weight on his arm. Fridrik had crushed it.

‘You wanted him dead!’ I cried, facing Fridrik. ‘What are you going to do now?’

There was a thump and we both looked down and saw Natan on the ground. He had dragged himself out of the bed with his good arm, but could go no further.

‘Help me lift him,’ I said to Fridrik, setting the candle on the floor, but the boy wouldn’t touch him. I bent down and tried to drag Natan upright, so that he could rest his head against the beam, but he was too heavy, and when I saw the way his skull had swollen, the blood that had poured down his back, I lost all my strength: my limbs turned to water. I cradled his head in my lap and I saw that he would not survive the night.

‘Fridrik,’ Natan was repeating over and over. ‘Fridrik, I will pay you, I will pay you.’

‘He wants to talk to you, Fridrik,’ I said, but Fridrik had turned his face away, and would not look at us. ‘Turn around,’ I screamed. ‘The least you could do is speak to the man you have killed!’

Natan stopped murmuring. I felt his body stiffen, and he looked up at me, his head lolling slightly. ‘Agnes…’

‘Yes, it’s me, Agnes. I’m here, Natan. I’m here.’

His mouth gaped open. I thought he was trying to say something, but all that came out was a gargling. I looked up at Fridrik and he was standing there, his face white-pale and his hair in his eyes and red at one side where the blood had burst and hit him. His eyes were wide and scared.

‘Why is he doing that?’ he asked. Natan was choking, blood spilling out onto his chin, onto my skirt.

‘Why is he doing that?!’ Fridrik screamed. ‘Make him stop!’

I reached over and picked the knife up from the floor. ‘Do it then, finish what you’ve begun!’

Fridrik shook his head. His face was ashen and he stared at me in horror.

‘Do it!’ I said. ‘Will you leave him to slowly die?’