The Girl Who Died by Ragnar Jonasson (ap literature book list .txt) 📕

Una smiled. ‘Yes, I gather it’s the biggest event in Skálar’s social calendar.’ Then, realizing that her remark might come across as condescending, though she hadn’t meant it that way, she said: ‘I mean, a lot of effort has gone into it.’

Hjördís’s rather hard face softened slightly. ‘It’s nice to see the church used, even if the vicar doesn’t bother to show his face here that often.’

‘Listen, while I remember,’ Una said, ‘some man knocked on our door yesterday. Salka gave him directions to your place. Who was he? Is he staying with you?’

‘Oh, him. He’s gone,’ Hjördís replied. ‘He only spent the one night with us. He was just someone who used to be at school with me. I hardly know him. The cheeky bugger scrounged a free bed for the night. He was asking about the history of the place, what it was like in the old days when the army was here, and so on. I did my best.’ Her smile looked rather forced. ‘But history’s not my strong point, to be honest.’

‘Do you do that sort of thing much – rent out rooms, I mean?’ Una asked.

‘Yes, every now and then, in summer mainly. There’s not much else in the way of accommodation here in the village, but I’ve got plenty of room, and Thór’s in the guesthouse, so the visitors don’t get in his way.’ After a moment, she elaborated: ‘Running a farmstay is a way of earning a bit on the side, but this place is too far off the beaten track ever to be very popular. If it weren’t for the old radar station, I don’t suppose anyone would be interested in visiting us.’ She sighed.

‘Una, Una!’ It was Gudrún calling. ‘Could you come here a minute and give me a hand with these decorations?’

Una got up and went over. She wasn’t sure if Gudrún really needed help or if the purpose was to make her feel involved by throwing her a last-minute sop.

Gudrún handed her a box of old Christmas decorations, a motley collection of little Santa Clauses and other odds and ends. ‘Could you arrange these by the entrance? She pointed to a small table by the door. ‘I completely forgot. These are things that have collected in the church over the years and we always put them out during Advent.’

Things nobody wants, Una thought to herself, but smiled at Gudrún. ‘Of course.’

She tried to arrange them tastefully but some of the Santa Clauses were so old and battered that they wouldn’t stand up and none of the ornaments were in very good nick.

‘Could someone help me with the door?’

Una recognized the loud, bass voice immediately. Guffi had materialized behind her, having entered the church quietly, though he was certainly making sure he was heard now. Ignoring him, she concentrated on arranging the ornaments. She had no desire to help him. Her visit to his house had left her feeling so intimidated that she had steered clear of him ever since. But his brooding presence seemed to hang over the village. Every time she walked past his house she felt as if hostile eyes were watching her, and from the way the locals talked about him, she felt as if he controlled everything.

‘Una.’ She felt a hard prod at her shoulder.

Swinging round, she saw him standing there, scowling. ‘Una, give me a hand,’ he demanded gruffly. ‘I need someone to hold the door open for me.’

Only now did she notice the thin, pale woman in the wheelchair sitting outside in the cold; Guffi’s wife, presumably. Una had never seen her before. She smiled tentatively at the woman, whose hollow-cheeked, heavily lined face creased in an answering smile. She looked exhausted.

Una held the door open while Guffi manoeuvred the wheelchair with difficulty through the narrow gap, then positioned his wife at the back of the church, behind the pews, which seemed to be the only practical solution. After this, he briefly disappeared. Una stood beside the woman, feeling awkward, then held out her hand: ‘I’m Una.’

‘Yes, I know, dear,’ the woman replied in a low voice. ‘I’m Erika.’ Salka had mentioned that Erika must be at least ten years older than Guffi, but from her appearance the age gap could easily have been twenty.

Una waited for Erika to add something, or ask a question perhaps, but she just sat there in silence. Una didn’t like to march off and abandon her, so she remained where she was, and was relieved when Guffi finally returned, carrying a chair, and sat down beside his wife. He didn’t say a word to Una or give her so much as a glance.

She hurried away and slipped into the back room, where she stole a pancake from the refreshment table and sat down in a corner to think about her place in the village.

What on earth had she got herself into?

Guffi had made it clear almost from day one that she didn’t belong here and now she couldn’t help feeling that he was right. She sat there and ate the pancake, glad to be alone. The concert was due to begin in a few minutes, but all she wanted was to disappear. Everyone was there except Salka and Edda. The stranger hadn’t shown up and hadn’t turned out to be mysterious either. Perhaps deep down she had been hoping that he would do something to shake up life in the village.

She waited. At least she wasn’t missing anything. The show couldn’t begin without Salka and Edda, one to sing, the other to accompany the girls on the organ. Perhaps she should go out and sit down beside Thór again. It was so frustrating that Gudrún had called her away to deal with those stupid decorations. Although Una hadn’t a clue what to say to Thór, sitting beside him had felt good. In fact, the prospect of seeing him had been the only reason she had been at all excited about this