The Undesired Read online

  Inside it was warm and the cows looked up sleepily from their stalls, then lowered their heads indifferently. Her again. Alone this time. The stink of manure made her gorge rise. Holding her nose she hurried into the coffee room and groped for the light switch. The glow of the bulb was dazzling and she felt her headache intensify.

  The source of her present predicament and suffering was lying on the floor behind one of the chairs, still corked but two thirds empty. If she topped it up with water and put it back in the larder, the theft wouldn’t be discovered for ages, by which time she would be far away. Unfortunately suspicion would fall on the workmen but that was tough luck. Sorry guys.

  Before turning off the light and leaving the coffee room, she checked there was no further evidence of the night’s adventure. She picked up the dirty blanket from the floor, pushing away the memory of what had taken place on it. Unable to recall where they had got it from, she stuffed it in a box in the corner.

  She switched off the light, waited for her eyes to adjust, then held her nose in readiness to open the cowshed door again. She was about to close it behind her when she caught a movement outside the small window of the coffee room. Aldís stopped breathing and her knees threatened to give way. Once again she had to summon up all her strength to keep calm, and, although her first reaction had been to close her eyes, she forced herself to open one and look over at the window. She didn’t know why it seemed better to keep one eye shut.

  There was nothing to be seen. Only the dirty windowpane and greyness beyond. But that didn’t alter the fact that a moment ago someone or something had been moving out there. Until she knew who or what it was, she wasn’t going outside. She’d rather Veigar or the workmen caught her red-handed tomorrow morning. And that time was fast approaching.

  The thought of this more prosaic danger gave her the courage to inch over to the window. Perhaps she should peer out, or duck underneath it in case whoever or whatever was outside looked in. Which was worse, to look out and see some unspeakable horror, or risk its looking in and seeing her? Deciding that the latter would be far more terrifying, Aldís started carefully pushing the table towards the window, only to flinch when a floorboard groaned under one of the legs. She had no idea if the sound would carry outside. Heart racing, she stood stock-still, trying to control her breathing. Nothing happened. Could it possibly have been the bird? Chewing her lip, Aldís abandoned her plan to move the table and hide under it. If she was going to be an air hostess she would have to be brave in a crisis, not stand rooted to the spot. But the last time she’d acted on this impulse, in the dark dining room, it hadn’t turned out particularly well. Just thinking about it almost brought back the smell of blood.

  She tiptoed to the window and stationed herself beside it, her back pressed so hard against the wall that she could feel the timbers creaking in the breeze. Then she turned her head with infinite slowness until she could see out and quickly scan the surroundings. She jerked back when she caught sight of a dark figure standing by the lone tree in the farmyard. A low sound of singing carried in through the cracks in the window.

  Chapter 17

  The smaller meeting room was only ever used by people slipping in surreptitiously to make private phone calls. As the door was right next to the coffee area, their efforts to be inconspicuous could be amusing to watch. But Ódinn couldn’t give a damn if he was spotted: what did it matter compared to the problems he was facing at the moment? Instead of pretending to fetch a coffee or peruse the notices on the corkboard by the door, he marched straight into the meeting room under his colleagues’ noses. Once inside, however, he closed the door, since he had no wish to be overheard talking to Rún’s psychologist.

  He took up position by the window and fiddled with the tilt rod on the venetian blinds while selecting the number, having first double-checked that he was ringing at exactly the time Nanna had specified. He stared at the blinds as he opened and closed them in turn; one minute dull grey view, the next off-white plastic strips. Just as he had begun to think the therapist wasn’t going to pick up, he heard her familiar, preternaturally calm voice at the other end. ‘I’m glad you called. I wasn’t sure you’d received my e-mail this morning.’

  Ódinn realised he should have replied to her message requesting him to call, but then communications had never been his strong point. ‘Yes, sure, I saw it.’ This was a waste of time; of course he’d read the message or he wouldn’t be ringing now. He carried on fiddling with the blinds as they talked, opening and shutting them until the alternating grey and off-white were reduced to a blur. ‘How did it go with Rún? She seemed all right after the appointment.’ Then he added hastily: ‘That was what you wanted to talk about, wasn’t it?’ Was it possible that his credit card had been refused and Nanna was chasing up payment?

  ‘Since you mention it, we’d better get one thing clear. I don’t want Rún to know we’re talking. She needs to be able to trust me. You should also be aware that I won’t discuss anything that might jeopardise that trust. She’s my patient, not you.’ He heard her draw breath. ‘I hope you understand. Parents are often under the impression that they need or deserve to know everything their child thinks, but it’s not necessarily in their best interests.’

  ‘I’m not asking for that.’ Ódinn released the tilt rod. ‘You wanted me to call, remember?’

  ‘Quite right.’ Again he heard Nanna take a deep breath, as if she was leaving gaps in the conversation for him to fill. But Ódinn wasn’t in the mood. ‘Firstly, I wanted to let you know that the session went well. Rún’s quite reserved, but I sense I’ll get through to her eventually. Few people open up completely at the beginning of therapy, but in time she’ll learn to unburden herself. So it’s important she comes to see me on a weekly basis. If cost is an issue, we’ll have to see what we can do. The state might well cover part of it.’

  ‘I can afford it.’

  ‘Good. Secondly, I wanted to ask you a few questions to help me understand Rún better.’

  Ódinn leant against the wall beside the window. Opposite him was a whiteboard that hadn’t been used since he started at the office; at any rate, it was still covered with the same scrawl as when he’d first seen it. ‘Fire away. I’ll do my best.’ He wasn’t sure he was capable of giving Nanna the information she was after. Although he’d known Rún since she was born, until recently he’d effectively been her father in name only.

  ‘How does she get on with her grandmother?’

  ‘Well, she sees her less often than her grandmother would like, but that’s my fault really. I should put more pressure on her, but she’s just not keen to go round.’

  ‘It shouldn’t be necessary to put pressure on her. You do realise that, don’t you? If all’s well, children of her age should be eager to spend time with their grandparents.’ When Ódinn didn’t reply, she continued: ‘I was wondering if their relationship had always been difficult or if it’s linked to her mother’s death?’

  ‘I don’t see how it could be. It wasn’t her grandmother’s fault.’ Ódinn deliberately avoided answering the part about their past relationship, for the simple reason that he had no idea.

  ‘She needn’t have been actively involved. Children like everything to be cut and dried. Rún’s mother dies and she needs a scapegoat to take the blame. I’m not implying that she holds anyone responsible for the accident; it’s enough for her to be able to point the finger at someone who could have prevented it. I’m guessing she’s cast her grandmother in that role. She lived close by and Rún may have got it into her head that her grandmother should have been there to save her mother. Something like that.’

  ‘Could you make any sense of the drawings I gave you?’ Ódinn suddenly remembered the one that showed Lára after the fall, with a woman looking on. Perhaps it was meant to represent Rún’s grandmother.

  ‘Unfortunately, they don’t tell me much at this stage,’ Nanna said dismissively. ‘But back to her grandmother. I’m interested in working more on their r
elationship, as it’s a useful introduction to the trickier issues that we’ll have to tackle in due course. Why do you think Rún doesn’t want to see her?’

  ‘I have no idea. I’ve never asked her straight out. But of course I’ve noticed that she’s not too fond of her. I haven’t made much effort to get to the bottom of it, but it occurred to me that Rún might feel smothered by her. She’s the old woman’s only living descendant, so that may be a factor.’

  ‘That could well be it. It’s as good a theory as any other.’

  ‘What do you advise, then? Should I take her to see her grandmother more often? Less often? Never?’

  ‘Don’t change anything for now. It’s far too early to judge what’s best for Rún. I’ve only met her once.’

  This wasn’t the reply Ódinn had been hoping for, but he had to remind himself that Nanna had got in touch not to give him advice but to seek information. It had been naive of him to assume there might have been a breakthrough to discuss. ‘I realise that. The fact that I’m asking stupid questions like that should make it clear how out of my depth I am. Pity you can’t give me a manual. Just ask me what you need to know and pretend you didn’t hear the rest.’ He sensed that she was smiling.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m used to it. If it helps, I assure you that life’ll gradually become easier for the two of you, so there’s no need to be overly pessimistic. Rún’s a good, conscientious little girl who’s suffered a major trauma. But kids are resilient. Much more so than adults.’

  Cheers to that. Ódinn studied the faint writing that no one had bothered to wipe off the whiteboard. Perhaps they’d left it too long and the ink had permanently marked the surface. It consisted of various dates, and he tilted his head as if to satisfy himself that he wasn’t seeing things when he realised that they were familiar. They appeared to relate to Krókur; at least, he couldn’t imagine the office had much other business concerned with the 1970s. Presumably Róberta had sat in here puzzling over some aspect of the case. ‘Tell me something else,’ Nanna was saying, and Ódinn turned away from the board to try and concentrate on her. There would be time later to wonder about the dates. ‘Now, I don’t know the details of her mother’s death, but is there any reason to suppose it could have been anything other than an accident?’

  ‘Why would you think that?’ Ódinn’s voice came out sounding colder than he’d intended. Nanna had his full attention now. He himself was still in two minds; one day he was convinced that Lára’s death had been an accident, the next that she had been pushed. Some days he changed his mind repeatedly. He’d even taken the trouble to dig up information on Logi Árnason, his chief suspect, only to discover that he’d moved abroad just before Lára died. In spite of this, he felt convinced at times that it hadn’t been an accident, though who could have been responsible was anyone’s guess. These thoughts tended to plague him most after he’d been dreaming about Lára.

  ‘I don’t think anything, it just occurred to me to ask. It was the impression I got from various things Rún said, as if that’s what she thought. It’s not necessarily significant. Perhaps she invented it. As I said, people often find it hard to reconcile themselves to accidental deaths.’

  ‘The police treated it as a tragic accident, and I gather they haven’t changed their opinion.’ Ódinn fumbled for the tilt rod again. He needed to hold on to something simple and tangible. ‘I know you don’t want to tell me what she confided in you, but would you be prepared to let me know if she has anyone specific in mind?’

  ‘As far as I know, she doesn’t, and she didn’t actually say it in as many words.’ Nanna paused and this time Ódinn couldn’t detect any hint of a smile. ‘Does Rún sleep badly? Does she often have nightmares?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what you’d consider often. She seems very restless at night and sometimes suffers from nightmares, yes.’ Again it struck him how little he knew about bringing up children. Perhaps it would have been best for everyone if Rún had been adopted by a couple who longed for a child and knew how to look after them. But of course that was ridiculous; a couple desperate for a child would presumably be childless themselves, and therefore know even less than he did.

  ‘She implied that her mother would come back as a ghost to avenge herself on the person who’d done this to her. Of course, it sounds absurd but that doesn’t change the fact that it’s making her miserable. Fear of ghosts can make life very difficult for a child.’ Nanna hesitated, then resumed again, in a much gentler voice: ‘If I understood her right, she thought her mother was after you. Perhaps because of the divorce, as it can hardly be because of the accident.’

  ‘No. Hardly.’ Ódinn’s mouth was dry.

  The woman seemed to sense how shaken he was; at any rate, she changed tack slightly. ‘Actually, the most likely explanation for all this is obvious. You yourself said you’d been seeing and hearing things that didn’t exist. Is it possible that Rún’s aware of this; that she’s noticed you acting strangely or even heard you talk about it? If so, that could have planted the seed in her mind.’

  ‘No, that’s impossible. I’ve shielded her from all that.’ He may be an inexperienced father but he was no fool. But no sooner had he spoken than he realised it wasn’t that simple. Of course she must suspect – when he took her with him to work, for example, without being able to give an adequate explanation of why she couldn’t stay at home alone. And it was entirely possible that she’d noticed his frightened reactions at times. ‘God, I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘You needn’t say anything. Not to me, anyway. Just do your utmost to make sure she doesn’t sense your anxiety. I know you’re perfectly aware that none of it’s real, so you’ll just have to ignore it, at least when she’s near. For your own sake too.’

  ‘It’s stopped. Luckily, I don’t have to worry about that sort of thing any more.’

  As if to give the lie to this declaration, a reflection seemed to appear beside his own in the shiny surface of the whiteboard. A dark shape, suggesting a figure standing beside him, though he knew he was alone in the room. He couldn’t tear his eyes from the board; nothing would induce him to look round. Only now was he certain of what it was he’d been hearing and seeing recently. It was Lára. Lára was after him.

  Ódinn ended the phone call in a distracted state. He answered yes or no, depending on Nanna’s tone of voice, eager to get out of the meeting room and surround himself with the living again. Was he cracking up? Was this how it felt? The moment the phone call was over, he hurried out, inadvertently slamming the door. All eyes followed him as he returned to his desk. There he sat down and stared into space, profoundly relieved that nothing could be reflected in the matt surface of his computer screen.

  He was losing his mind. Wasn’t he? But in the unlikely event that these manifestations were real, why would Lára want to haunt him? What had he done? Absolutely nothing. No, that wasn’t the explanation. It was self-evident: he was going mad and he might as well accept it. The worst of it was that he couldn’t bring himself to go back into the meeting room to take a closer look at the information on the board, although he was dying to know what it meant.

  Chapter 18

  January 1974

  Aldís used to miss the daylight during winter, but now she was grateful for the gloom. Her curtains were too skimpy to pull right across the window and on a summer’s day she would have woken with burning sunlight on her face, making it impossible to open her eyes. She had no need to touch them to feel how swollen they were, and from the tangle of locks that fell over her nose when she sat up, she guessed her hair must be a complete mess. It really wasn’t fair to have to wake up to a crippling hangover twice in one day, and on her day off too, which she had been looking forward to all week. The grey light that filtered in through the gap in the curtains was barely enough to warm her cheek, though it was well past one in the afternoon. She wouldn’t be going to town now. Aldís gave a low groan, blinked several times, then sat for a minute or two on the edge of the bed w
ith her eyes closed. The swelling felt as if it was dispersing down her face, and although this relieved the pressure on her eyes, she was afraid it would make her jaw sag.

  A trail of abandoned clothes led from the door to her bed, as if she had wanted to ensure she could find her way out again; a drunken Gretel who’d lost her Hansel. In the middle, beside a crumpled jumper, lay the bottle she had retrieved that morning. It seemed to rock slightly with Aldís’s clumsy movements. The green glass reminded her of the night’s binge and she felt sick again, but fortunately the nausea passed as quickly as it had come, like the remnants of a dream. Or a nightmare. She slid gingerly out of bed and winced as her bare feet encountered the cold floorboards. After taking a moment to grow accustomed to the chill, she picked her way, naked, to the chest of drawers under the window. She had no desire to get back into the clothes that littered the floor; they probably stank of booze, and sex too, and she couldn’t bear the thought of either in her current state.

  The squeaking of the drawer went right through her, making her goose bumps worse. She took out underwear, vest and socks, and quickly pulled them on before searching for clean trousers in the wardrobe. There were no hangers, so her clothes lay in a sad little heap in the cavernous interior. Once she had her torn jeans on, she felt a little better; no longer cold, and able to think more clearly. But although the warmth coursed through her veins, she couldn’t get rid of her gooseflesh; not while the events of the night were still fresh in her mind.

  It had long been apparent to Aldís that Lilja and Veigar were not like other people, but why had Lilja been singing hymns under a tree in the middle of the night – and squealing like a pig? Aldís had almost fainted with relief when she realised who it was. Relief had made her careless; she had given in to the temptation to peer out of the window again just to see the familiar back view of her employer’s scruffy anorak. By the time Lilja finally left, Aldís had begun to fear the woman would stay there until dawn, leaving her no time to make herself scarce before Veigar turned up for the morning’s chores.