‘Uh… uh…’ The boy sounded on the verge of tears. ‘You promise not to tell anyone… especially not my dad?’
When Dagný arrived, Freyr opened the door to her without saying a word, then turned and walked to the kitchen like a ghost, without checking whether she was following. He sat down at his laptop and resumed staring at the screen. ‘Is something wrong?’ said Dagný. She repeated the question, and Freyr finally found his voice.
‘Benni. I think I’ve found Benni.’ He kept staring at the screen. ‘In a manner of speaking.’
‘What do you mean?’ Dagný’s tone suggested that she thought he’d lost it. ‘He ended up here. Just out of frame. You can’t see him.’ Freyr pointed at the edge of the laptop’s screen, where it met the black plastic casing. Dagný went over to him and bent down to see what he was talking about. She raised her eyebrows when she saw the freeze-framed image of the petrol station forecourt. The car Freyr had hit was visible in the lower right-hand corner. ‘Unfortunately, I don’t know what became of this car or its driver.’
‘In other words, you think Benni ended up in this car? Was he kidnapped by the driver? How do you work that out?’ Dagný was extremely calm, as if speaking to an inebriated member of the public who needed to be calmed down.
‘He didn’t get in the car, and I don’t think the driver did anything to him.’ Freyr was struggling to find the right words. ‘But if I could find him, I would find Benni.’
Dagný peered more closely at the screen. ‘Move,’ she said gruffly, taking Freyr’s seat as he obediently stood up. She fiddled with the keyboard a bit, enlarging the part of the image that showed the cars. At first Freyr thought she was going to try to read the licence plate number, which he’d tried to do many times, but before he could say anything she turned to him, frowned, and said: ‘I know all about this car. And nearly everything about the driver.’ She held his gaze. ‘Unfortunately, we believe him to be dead.’
Chapter 31
It stopped hailing as unexpectedly as it had started; one minute it was hammering the windowpanes, and the next everything was absolutely still. It had sounded as if someone had been standing outside tapping a rhythm with his fingers, but when the noise ceased, the silence was just as unbearable; the feeling was very much like being underwater, with the water playing softly about your ears, letting in no sound. The house, which had previously moaned in the wind, complaining bitterly of its harsh treatment, was now silent as well, which magnified the silence between Katrín and Líf. They were reflected in the black glass, and anyone arriving now would surely have chosen to abandon himself to the ravages of nature rather than tackle these furious women. Even Putti, who was used to sticking close to Katrín’s legs, had slunk off to a corner, as far from them and the hole in the floor as possible. Now and then he looked up, tilted his head and stared at them alternately, as if to check whether they were still in conflict. Then he stuck his nose back into the little twisty bun formed by his body.
Katrín sat with her feet up on the kitchen chair, resting her head on her knees and favouring her wounded foot. It was terribly cold inside; better for her to maintain her precious body heat. Although she knew little about the limits of the human body, she suspected they were in danger of freezing to death in the night if they didn’t do something soon: fetch firewood or at least get into their sleeping bags, which were waiting for them in the dining room. But her foot hurt more than ever. She wouldn’t be going out to fetch so much as a stick. And she would sooner freeze to death than ask Líf to do so. Her anger overpowered her instinct for self-preservation, which was positive in a way, since it left no room for fear. She’d never had a reason to arrange her feelings into any sort of hierarchy, but she now knew that anger was the mightiest of them all; fear and sorrow came somewhere below it, retreating as they did before rage which revealed itself to be a cruel master. No doubt these feelings would fade to be replaced by weaker ones, but Katrín was going to enjoy every minute of her fearlessness and take pleasure in observing how bad Líf felt, though actually she’d been slightly disappointed in that regard so far.
Líf actually didn’t seem as distressed as one might have expected after she was found out. She seemed more upset that Katrín couldn’t see her side of the story. It was as if she wasn’t quite right in the head. Katrín had suspected this for some time, but had always attributed it to her own imagination or to her jealousy over Líf’s ability to coast through life’s little traumas. The only emotion she actually seemed capable of was fear. Fear of her own demise.
‘I hate you, Líf.’ The thought of Líf not feeling as miserable as she should prompted Katrín to say this. She was determined to put all her efforts into making Líf’s usual escapism impossible. ‘I hope you freeze to death tonight. Or just disappear. That would be the best solution; then I wouldn’t have to see your dead body.’
Líf’s frown deepened, but then she smiled as if Katrín had been joking. ‘We should try to be friends. It’s all in the past.’
Katrín felt like shouting, but held back. The woman before her was capable of anything. There was no help to be had for dozens, if not hundreds, of kilometres. There was a skeleton beneath their floorboards and some sort of entity haunting them, apparently wishing to do them harm. The situation couldn’t get much worse, yet there was no point moaning and complaining. Katrín bit her lip and buried her face in her knees again. She could feel the pain trying to break through the screen of rage. She forced herself to block it, pushing aside images of Garðar, naked, sleeping in Líf’s arms. It wasn’t easy. Although she hadn’t had the nerve to examine the photos in any detail, they’d burned themselves into her mind and she could imagine the tiniest specifics without any effort. They’d been lying together in a large bed; the impersonal yet tidy environment suggested it was a hotel room, probably in Ísafjörður. Garðar’s eyes were closed; he was either fast asleep or absolutely exhausted from what they’d been doing. Líf’s face was anything but tired as she smiled, bare-breasted, at the camera, which she was holding. Garðar looked exactly the same in every photo, but Líf arranged herself in a variety of positions, looking just like a hunter on safari with photos of his prey. How she could have thought of taking photos under these shameful circumstances was a mystery to Katrín, but she couldn’t imagine asking about it; the reason was doubtless yet another manifestation of Líf’s unbalanced state of mind.
The dim light flickered. Katrín saw fear appear in Líf’s eyes and a wave of satisfaction passed through her. If she’d had the nerve to sit with her in the darkness, she would have leaned forward and blown out the candle in order to cause her the greatest anguish possible. But the thought of being alone in the dark with an insane person held little appeal. On the other hand, the way the candle-stub was jutting just above the candlestick, she expected the light to be extinguished at any second. ‘The candle will go out soon, Líf. What are you going to do then? You can’t seduce the dead. Maybe Garðar’s roaming about now too.’ Líf’s eyes widened, but only for a second. ‘You’re disgusting, Líf.’ Katrín spat out. ‘Disgusting.’