‘Katrín? What’s up?’ Líf stretched her leg out and kicked lightly at Katrín’s bottom. ‘Did you hear me? I said you should have a look inside.’
Although Katrín didn’t like being badgered, the contact was a relief. Of course they weren’t gone, she was just tired, both mentally and physically; her mind was playing tricks on her. She turned around and smiled at the familiar faces that looked back at her in surprise. Garðar seemed a bit jumpy, as if he’d heard a noise, though he didn’t say anything. Líf was the only one who was acting normally, though her normal state would be considered abnormal by most people. She’d put the cigarette packet in her pocket and now rolled her eyes impatiently. Katrín decided to do as she suggested; perhaps they could head home after this total waste of time. ‘Fine, I’ll take a look, but then shouldn’t we be getting back? I’m really tired and hungry, and soon there’ll be no light left at all.’ She walked off towards the building, which looked even darker than before. The opening, so intriguing according to Líf, was pitch-black, the bricks at its edges like stained, rotten teeth in a hideous mouth.
‘Go with her, Garðar.’ Líf was in her element. She had a talent for giving orders, and when Katrín heard the crunching of snow behind her, indicating that he’d obeyed, she could imagine Líf smiling from ear to ear. She was relieved he was there. Although she wasn’t planning on spending much time here – she’d just stick her head in, say, ‘Wow’ and that would be that – it was better not to be alone. Putti followed her, of course, and although his faithfulness undeniably warmed her heart, it didn’t provide the same security as Garðar’s presence.
Once she was standing in front of the hole she no longer wanted to see what was inside. How interesting could it be? Adrenalin streamed through her veins without her understanding what caused it. It was as if her subconscious sensed some imminent danger that her usual senses weren’t picking up. Did she catch a glimpse of something moving in the darkness? Could the boy be staying in there? They hadn’t seen any tracks in the snow, but it was perfectly possible that he’d managed to cover them. Katrín peered as far in as she could without having to go any closer to the opening.
‘What? Did you see something?’ Garðar had come up next to her. He took one step closer to the wall and ran his hand over it. ‘It’s incredible that this is still standing.’
‘Do you think the child could be in there?’ Katrín spoke quietly enough for Líf not to hear. ‘I thought I saw some movement.’
Garðar peeked in through the hole. ‘No. There’s no one here; no one would choose to stay in these ruins.’ He took hold of an iron hook cemented into the stack of bricks and tried to move it, unsuccessfully. All he got for his efforts were rusty streaks on his gloves. ‘Shit.’ He grabbed a piece of rope hanging on the wall and tried to wipe his glove on it. ‘Have a look inside and let’s go. I have a bad feeling about this and I want to get back as quickly as possible.’
Katrín was glad to have finally found out what was bothering him. She moved up to the opening, feeling much more daring and happier given this new development. Soon they would be back at the doctor’s house, eating at the dinner table by candlelight. But she’d barely stuck her head through the opening when she saw the outline of the boy inside, on the other side from her. Suddenly he looked up; in the darkness his skin appeared inhuman, grey, his eyes large and sunken in his fish-cheeked face. The boy stared at her, then opened his mouth and screamed soundlessly. Katrín started and fell backwards. At the same moment, a large chunk of brickwork from the section above the hole fell to the ground in front of her with a loud crash. Several bricks hit her, but although it hurt, the pain was nothing in comparison to her terror and the hammering of her heart. Putti yelped, scampered awkwardly over to her and huddled against her thigh. The dust now hanging over everything clouded her vision; she could hardly see a thing. ‘Garðar! Garðar!’ She couldn’t form the words, but wanted to warn him before the boy did him any harm. Then all the dust drifted suddenly to the ground and she could see more clearly. She was hugely relieved to see that Garðar had managed to jump away when the wall collapsed, though he hadn’t come out of it much better than she had. His face was bleeding and he limped as he tried to hurry over to her.
‘Jesus. Jesus.’ He seemed just as startled as she was. Frightened yells behind them told them that Líf had also been taken by surprise. ‘Are you hurt? Where?’
Katrín felt the tears running down her cheeks, at first warm but then cold as they trickled saltily over her lips. Her body couldn’t take this. Not now. She managed to moan: ‘My legs.’ She tried to lift herself up and managed it with the help of Garðar, who at first wanted her to stay still while he examined her injuries. Although her tears were still flowing, anger was her strongest emotion. ‘I’m leaving. Even if I have to crawl.’ She made the snap decision not to tell him about the boy for fear that he would rush into the death-trap of a building. The pain was awful when she finally got to her feet, but she paid it no heed; she had to get out of there. ‘Líf! Come here and take Putti. I think he’s hurt.’ She leaned on Garðar, who winced despite trying as hard as he could not to let his own pain show. Some bricks must have hit his shoulder.
Together they hobbled up the slope, Putti still whining in Líf’s arms. When they were halfway up, with Katrín on the verge of giving up because of her pain, she spied the seals, still dawdling in the same spot. The creatures appeared to be watching their progress with the same lazy interest as before. Maybe it was the poor light, or pain was confusing her, but suddenly Katrín felt sure that they weren’t the heads of seals at all but of humans; the mother and son who had vanished beneath the ice sixty years before.
Chapter 22
Time went by slower on the flight back to Ísafjörður than it had on the way south. Freyr had barely been able to keep his eyes open when he’d needed to, but as soon as he fastened his seatbelt his fatigue vanished, or rather took a little break. There was no prospect more appealing than closing his eyes and forgetting everything, even if only for a short flight, but it was impossible: he had too much to think about. An odd discomfort and anxiety welled up inside him, and in the end he even ordered coffee from the friendly flight attendant. After that there was no turning back and he lost control of his thoughts. He felt like he did when he couldn’t sleep at night. At those times, everything seemed hopeless and the tiniest problems became insurmountable. His trip south had yielded no real explanation for Halla’s death, and he was surprised now that he’d ever thought the autopsy would provide a definitive answer. There were far too many unanswered questions for that, too many complexities. In addition he was disappointed, though not surprised, not to have got hold of Lárus, the only member of the old group of schoolmates still alive. The man had neither answered his phone nor been at home when Freyr finally took a taxi there. It was possible that he had been there but didn’t come to the door; the apartment was in a block and it was equally likely that the doorbell was broken. Nonetheless Freyr rang it several times, and even circled the building in the hope of finding the windows to apartment 5.03, but to no avail. He thanked his lucky stars that he hadn’t gone into architecture all those years ago, as he’d considered doing for a time; he clearly had terrible spatial awareness. But it didn’t really matter, as Freyr had no idea what he would do if he saw a light or movement in the apartment. He’d hardly planned on bursting in on the man.