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

to Una that she wouldn’t have minded having an excuse to give up and go home with her tail between her legs. No one would have blamed her, not after the tragedy before Christmas.

‘But you need to understand …’ Thór hesitated mid-sentence, which was unlike him. ‘You need to understand that nothing can happen between the two of us. It’s a long story, but it’s just … We can’t …’

‘It’s all right, I know,’ she replied hurriedly, trying to keep her cool, though this unexpected development had thrown her a little. ‘Because of Hjördís.’ It was a shot in the dark.

‘Yes, right,’ Thór said, and left it at that. They walked on up the slope.

She felt mortified and was grateful that he couldn’t see her cheeks burning in the dark. In an attempt to distract herself, she thought about the foreign soldiers who had huddled on this bleak, wind-blown hilltop during the Second World War, the elements and the isolation proving the worst enemies of all.

They went a bit further, battered by the blasts of wind, until Thór finally spoke again, raising his voice to be heard: ‘Shall we turn back soon, Una?’ As before, they were walking side by side. Although she couldn’t see his face, his tone hinted that his wishes were quite different; that he’d rather have kept going. That, like her, he’d had quite enough of the village.

‘Yes, sure, let’s,’ she said, deliberately sounding casual. ‘It was good to get a blast of fresh air, though, even if it is freezing.’ She hesitated, then spoke up again. ‘By the way, you remember the man who came to see you the day before Edda died?’ She hadn’t intended to bring up the subject now but was seized by a sudden longing to discuss it with somebody, as it had been weighing on her mind.

‘Yes,’ Thór replied. ‘What about him?’

‘I … I heard on the news that a man’s gone missing. His name’s Patrekur – I can’t remember his patronymic. Do you think it could have been the same man?’

‘What made you think that? Patrekur? No, he was called something quite different. I’ve forgotten what, but I’d have remembered if it had been an unusual name like that.’

‘There was a description of him. They said he was wearing a black leather jacket and jeans.’

Thór laughed. ‘That would apply to half the men in the country.’

‘And his age matched too, I thought – thirtyish. He had close-cropped hair as well, both the man they mentioned on the radio and the one who knocked on our door.’

‘Again, that description would fit every other bloke of that age in the country. I think you’re getting a bit carried away, Una. This place can do that to newcomers. Believe me, I remember it well. When I first moved here I was in a bad way for months. I kept seeing ghosts everywhere, hearing weird noises, getting confused by the wind and depressed by the darkness.’ He relapsed into silence, and the whistling of the gale provided an appropriate accompaniment. ‘But it gets better, Una. You aren’t planning to stay with us for long, but I can assure you that everything improves when the sun comes back. The ghosts melt away with the shadows. Perhaps the old house is haunted, what do I know …? But I have faith in the fact that things will seem better in the spring. And the missing man has nothing to do with us, though I can understand why you would think he might. So some poor sod’s disappeared in Reykjavík. That kind of thing never affects us up here, however tempting it might be to imagine our little village making it into the news.’

He had turned round while he was talking, and Una followed suit. He had a point. She ought to be careful not to read too much into things.

‘I expect you’re right. When Morgunbladid finally arrives and I see a photo of him, I’ll buy you a drink by way of apology. I feel a bit silly, to tell the truth.’

He laid a tentative hand on her shoulder as they walked. ‘There’s no reason why you should. And you don’t owe me an apology. Skálar just takes some getting used to. And the village needs a bit of time to adjust to newcomers as well. This is a place with a soul, if I can put it like that.’

‘Yes, I believe you’re right. It does have a soul.’ After a pause, she went on hopefully: ‘There’s a good atmosphere here, don’t you think?’

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ Thór answered after a delay, an unaccustomed heaviness in his voice.

XVII

Salka was sitting at the kitchen table in the attic, waiting for Una, when she returned.

‘Una, I’m sorry,’ Salka said at once. ‘I don’t know what came over me earlier. I was so tired. I just don’t know what I’m doing any more. I …’

‘There’s no need to say anything, Salka. I can’t even imagine what you must be going through.’

‘Well, anyway, the thing is, of course you can stay.’ Salka’s voice was gentle, almost sad. ‘Really, I’d rather have you here. If I’m to go on living in this house, I couldn’t cope with being alone. Could you bear to stay?’

‘Of course.’ Una smiled, feeling the weight falling from her shoulders. Her worries had been unnecessary, after all. And now there would be no need to accept Thór’s kind offer. It would have been an uneasy cohabitation anyway, with the three of them living there.

‘It’ll be a comfort to know you’re upstairs,’ Salka said, and there was no mistaking her sincerity. Glancing around, she added: ‘I see you’ve already started packing. I’m sorry. I can help you put everything back.’

‘No problem. Honestly, it’s not a problem.’

The question hung in the air: Where were you intending to go?

‘You’re welcome to help yourself to anything you like from the fridge downstairs,’ Salka said, after a brief silence. ‘I’ve got some wine too, in the sitting-room cupboard.