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

her shock and bewilderment over what had happened to Edda. It had been such a horrifying sight. The little girl had always seemed so healthy and robust, had never missed a day of school, and then, out of the blue, this. Common sense told Una that it could have been a sudden illness – it must have been – and yet she felt an ominous foreboding that something else, much worse, lay behind it, though she couldn’t put her finger on what. And she didn’t want to pursue the thought any further.

She started climbing the stairs, slowly and steadily, leaving the light burning in the hall. She couldn’t cope with darkness; not now, not when she was alone. She would have given anything to have someone there with her – Thór, preferably, though she supposed it was mere wishful thinking to imagine that he would have any interest in keeping her company. If only she had someone to hold her, to comfort her and tell her that everything would be all right.

Upstairs she hastily turned on the light, all the lights. Then she proceeded to check the rooms, carefully peering round every corner, a habit she’d adopted after the fateful night when she heard the lullaby. She had tried hard to convince herself that she wasn’t frightened, that there was nothing to fear, but her behaviour betrayed her.

The feeling was so strong that she wasn’t alone at night.

Her stock of Campari was finished, but she still had a couple of unopened wine bottles left. She had taken to drinking alone in the evenings in her solitude. If she’d been in Reykjavík, her alcohol intake would have been more varied. She used to go out for the odd low-alcohol beer in the city’s pubs – proper beer was illegal in Iceland – but her preferred tipples were Campari and Martini. Here in Skálar, though, she didn’t dare buy anything stronger than red wine from the little Co-op, for fear of what people would think.

The alcohol calmed her nerves and dulled her mind, but she wondered if it maybe had the effect of intensifying her fears at the same time. Still, the positive effects seemed to outweigh the negative ones.

She opened the window, though all this would do was let in the silence and the chill breath from the sea. Then she uncorked the bottle and poured herself a glass. She wished she could ring her mother, though they hadn’t talked much in the intervening months. Anyway, what was she supposed to say to her? That she was afraid and lonely; that a little girl from the village had been rushed to hospital?

The first mouthful of wine was always the best; she took a big gulp and savoured the feeling as the alcohol filtered into her bloodstream. Then, finally, she took off her coat and her party clothes, got into her nightie and stole back downstairs to borrow a book from Salka’s library.

Once again, it was as if the volume containing the old photograph were calling out to her, but she resisted the temptation and went instead to the other end of the shelf, eventually selecting a dog-eared whodunnit called Murder on the Links by Agatha Christie. Then, clutching the paperback like a talisman, she went back upstairs and climbed into bed with the book and her glass – making sure the bottle was within reach.

It was hard to concentrate on the story, but she did her best and the alcohol gradually had the desired effect. As she felt the drowsiness stealing over her, she hoped she would drop off soon, though she wasn’t going to turn off the light.

She had no intention of sleeping in the dark, tonight of all nights.

But the instant her eyes closed she became uncomfortably aware of the noises in the old house: the creaking of the timbers, the hissing of the radiators, even her own breathing, which grew louder and louder until it destroyed any chance of sleep. She opened her eyes again and darted a quick look around, sensing another presence in the room.

Of course, there was nobody there.

The temperature was getting uncomfortably chilly, so she got out of bed, went into the other room and closed the window. Then she crawled back into bed, pulled up the duvet and tucked it tightly around herself to keep in the warmth. Finding that she was still wide awake, she picked up the paperback and her glass and made another attempt to read herself to sleep with the help of Agatha Christie and the wine. The book got off to a good start. Although it had been written more than half a century ago, it had stood the test of time. This was a house with a history, all right, with old books on the shelves and the spirit of the past in every corner.

It was hard to concentrate on the printed page as her thoughts kept returning to Edda and Salka. She was worried sick about the little girl and her heart went out to Salka. She pictured her driving through the night, jolting over the rough roads with her daughter’s limp body in her arms. Had Inga got hold of the doctor in Thórshöfn or would they have to drive on for hours through the night to the nearest hospital? Una tried to send them kind thoughts. Perhaps she should have prayed for them, but it wasn’t her style.

Her mind circled round again to her own plight. She was filled with dread at the thought that she might have to spend Christmas all alone in this big house. Her mother was planning to go abroad for the holidays with her husband, as Una had learned the last time they spoke on the phone. It didn’t really surprise her. She and her mother had always spent Christmas together, but now at last her mother had a chance to celebrate in a warmer climate, without having to feel guilty about Una. It was ironic, then, that Una