When Dagný and Veigar returned, he was still lying on the floor with his head in the hole, transfixed by this sad sight. There was a tired-looking, dusty schoolbag next to the pile of bones that had once breathed, laughed and played without the slightest suspicion of where he or she would later die. Only the skull and delicate bones of parts of the fingers of one hand were visible, the remainder of the skeleton hidden beneath the clothing that the child had been wearing the day it had died. Shells were scattered over the earthen floor, covered with fine dust like everything else down there. Freyr had the sudden feeling that this must be Bernódus, who had vanished all those years ago. The boy to whom life had shown little mercy, and death even less. But this would no doubt be confirmed later. Freyr decided not to voice his thoughts to Dagný when she got him up off the floor by saying he mustn’t disturb the area. She was most likely thinking the same as he was.
‘Do you have much left to do?’ Freyr turned his head and shouted the question at the hole, to which Dagný and Veigar had returned, and which looked very much like an entrance to hell. Yellow light from their torches illuminated the stream of dust that was rising from the hole, as if a fire was burning beneath their feet. Now and then there were powerful flashes as they photographed the scene. ‘She’s got to get to the hospital as quickly as possible.’ It was hard to say what was afflicting Líf apart from the cuts on her face; those were hardly life-threatening, though they would change her life completely and permanently. As well as being boiling hot with a weak pulse, she was also coughing up blood regularly but weakly. She was probably suffering internal injuries and if nothing were done about it they could gradually lead to her death. And that wasn’t out of the question even if they did get her to a hospital immediately.
Dagný and Veigar wriggled dustily up through the hole, looking tired and not dissimilar to the little dog that was still curled up in the skipper’s arms. Dagný was holding the schoolbag and laid it gently on the kitchen table as if she were worried the leather might fall apart. ‘We’re ready. What’s the best way to take her to the boat?’
Freyr looked from the bag into Dagný’s eyes. ‘We’ve got to make some sort of stretcher. The best thing would be to call a helicopter, but I think we’ll be quicker going by boat; her condition is critical.’ He cleared his throat. ‘If you could take care of that I’d like to walk around the house and look for the septic tank. I can’t leave here without knowing whether I’m right or not.’
Dagný stared at him but then made her decision. ‘Come on then. No one’s going out alone here.’ Then she turned to Veigar and the skipper. ‘Can you two handle the stretcher?’ They nodded and Dagný and Freyr went out into the night, each armed with a torch. The feeling that Freyr had had before of someone following them returned as soon as he stepped out of the door, but then faded as they set off. Perhaps it was because he was focused on the surroundings and gave no thought to anything else; he found he actually didn’t remotely care what or whether anything was sharing the night with them. He had other things on his mind. Dagný, on the other hand, seemed tense, as if they’d changed roles from when they arrived at the house. She constantly jerked her torch to and fro as if searching for a lost cat. ‘Do you think we’ll find the other two?’ Freyr wanted to say something, had to say something to calm her nerves. He felt as if he were riding a giant rollercoaster that climbed steadily higher and higher until it reached its peak, then plunged down from there. ‘I was able to get Líf to tell me that the man, Garðar, went missing yesterday or the day before. She didn’t know what day it was or how long she’d been lying in the kitchen. I actually think it hasn’t been that long since she was injured. A few hours at most.’
Dagný seemed relieved by his chatter; the jerky movements of the beam from her torch slowed a little. ‘Did you ask her what happened, who attacked her?’
‘I’m not certain she knew what she was saying but she mentioned a boy. I couldn’t get a name from her or any more details. She said that he took Katrín; killed her and dragged her out. The cuts have severed the nerves that control facial movement, on both sides. Her face is paralysed so it’s difficult for her to speak.’ He decided not to mention the questions he’d asked Líf about the insulin when she came round. Because of the uncertainty of her condition this was his only chance to clear this up, and although it actually didn’t matter, it was still churning up his insides. Otherwise, if the worst were to happen, she would take the answer with her to the grave. When Freyr witnessed her like this, deprived of her beauty, he finally saw through her. Of course he also bore the blame for their having been together, but he still felt hatred fasten its claws into him. If he hadn’t met up with her after fetching the drug, Benni wouldn’t have died. Not in that way. His hatred was primitive, like that which Adam and Eve must have felt for the serpent after they’d been driven from paradise. For this reason Freyr didn’t feel sorry for Líf, however unfair that sounded. His heart and soul had hardened against her. So he didn’t shield her from difficult questions, as he should have, but instead pressured her until she tried to answer weakly. The answers had been vague, yet she said that Einar, which he recalled was the name of her husband, had deserved it. Freyr had then stopped his questioning immediately; he suddenly didn’t want to have his suspicions confirmed. Her questions about insulin, after finding out that it didn’t cause intoxication, had been far too specific, and probably hadn’t been asked just to fill the silence as he’d thought at the time.
They rounded the corner of the house to the gable end, facing away from the village. Freyr stopped as his torch beam revealed signs of an excavation. In the darkness he could make out the upper part of what had to be the septic tank, along with the little riser on top of it. Freyr walked slowly over to it, having to remind himself to breathe. The closer he got, the more the green colour stung his eyes, the colour that had plagued him both awake and asleep. When he reached the edge of the dug-up area he saw the tank in its entirety, though the lower part of it was covered in snow. A submarine. A green submarine. If he squinted, he had no trouble seeing the resemblance. A broad, cylindrical body with a little house on top; the only thing missing was the periscope. ‘Hold on a second, Freyr. I’ll have a look inside.’ Dagný pushed him back from the edge. ‘Don’t fall in. You could twist your ankle or something even worse.’ It wasn’t a long fall, but Freyr knew she was right. He wouldn’t even raise his hands to stop his fall in the condition he was in now. So he watched her step into the hole, clamber up onto the tank and inch her way towards the opening through which Benni must have entered. She easily unhitched the latch holding the lid tight and once again Freyr felt a sting in his heart; in all likelihood, the man whose car Freyr had hit had noticed that it wasn’t fastened before he drove off, and secured it. Yet another ‘what if’ to add to the list. What if he hadn’t done that? Would Benni have managed to open the lid from the inside and stick his head out? Would other drivers have seen him and stopped the car?
Dagný put the lid down and shone her torch into the little tank. At that, the empty space inside became like a lantern; the green light not unlike the borealis. Inside the tank a shadow appeared. The pain was worse than he could ever have imagined; it was like standing near to a huge fire, except that it burned inside him and it was useless to turn away. To Freyr it looked as if a tiny, skeletal hand formed part of the outline. Benni.