Why Did You Lie? Read online

  ‘Ívar!’ Helgi yells as loud as he can but the wind forces the words back down his throat, intensifying the brackish taste in his mouth. The cords of his anorak whip his face until it stings and he tries in vain to push them into his neckline. The storm has given them a life of their own. In the end Helgi has to release his grip on the window so he can tie them more securely under his chin.

  Ívar is on the helipad, lying flat on his stomach above the terrifying abyss, and for a split second Helgi thinks the man is injured or even dead. But then he moves, turning his head and stretching. The hood of his anorak inflates, flapping in the wind, so it’s unlikely he can hear Helgi. There is nothing for it but to clamber down over the rocks and try to talk him round. Otherwise it is almost a foregone conclusion that Ívar will be blown off the helipad. He’s probably fairly safe as long as he lies flat but the moment he tries to stand up he’s bound to lose his balance in the squalls.

  No sooner has Helgi set off down the rocky slope towards the helipad than it occurs to him to obey Heida after all and leave Ívar to his fate. He has absolutely no reason to sacrifice himself for this man. Yet in spite of that he keeps going, until he is suddenly knocked sideways and has to exert all his strength not to fall. The most sensible approach would be to lie down and crawl but this is easier said than done. He’ll be all right if he moves slowly and cautiously enough between the gusts, never taking his eyes off his goal. But if Ívar refuses to come back straight away and the wind grows any stronger while he is trying to persuade him, they’ll almost certainly have to crawl back.

  Helgi stoops down to Ívar when he finally reaches him and grabs at his jacket to attract his attention. ‘Come on.’ He practically has to shout. Ívar’s face is running with water, his eyes are bloodshot from the salt. ‘You must come inside, or the storm will blow you over the edge.’

  ‘I saw him.’ Ívar points down into the wild surf below. The waves crash into the cliff; the sea churns and boils around them. ‘He’s down there.’

  After a moment’s pause, Helgi lies down on his front beside Ívar. ‘Where?’ He peers over, clinging to the edge of the helipad, painfully aware of the inadequacy of this handhold. The spray stings his eyes but he forces himself to hold them open. ‘I can’t see anything.’

  ‘He keeps appearing and disappearing.’ Ívar is staring down intently and doesn’t notice when Helgi abandons the attempt to identify anything in the boiling breakers below and drags himself further back onto the helipad.

  ‘Come on, Ívar. Even if you do spot him, there’s nothing we can do. He can’t possibly be alive if he’s down there, and we can’t haul him up. When they come to rescue us they’ll mount a proper search for him.’ His voice cracks mid-yell, but he takes a deep breath and manages to shout so that Ívar can hear. ‘We don’t want them to have to search for you as well.’

  Ívar turns and gapes at Helgi in astonishment, as if it hadn’t crossed his mind that anything could happen to him. The wind fills his hood again, making it look as if his head is expanding. He glances down once more, then turns back to Helgi. ‘What if they don’t come? What if we’re stranded here?’

  ‘Of course they’re going to come. You spoke to them, remember? We just have to sit tight till then.’ Helgi rises to his knees and puts an arm round Ívar’s shoulders. ‘Come on. We’ll be hearing the helicopter before you know it.’

  ‘When?’ Ívar stares pleadingly at Helgi and for the first time he realises the man is shaking with cold. Come to think of it, he’s freezing himself but he’s too worried about his companions to pay any attention to the fact. If help doesn’t arrive soon, there’s a risk that being cooped up together in the tiny lighthouse will prove too much for them.

  Helgi tightens his grip on the other man’s hard-muscled shoulder. ‘Soon. Come on, we can’t stay here. The blizzard’ll strike any minute. We must get inside before that happens.’ He takes one last look over the edge, driven by a desire to see the man below, though all he really wants is to look away. His hold slackens when he glimpses a grey fleece between the crests of the waves. For a split second it vanishes, then reappears, unmistakably this time, as if the sea is trying to return the man’s half-submerged body. To Helgi it looks as if the colourless face is turning its vacant gaze heavenwards, the hair black with seawater, the mouth half open. As if Tóti is crying out to his Maker over this injustice. The body is tossed ceaselessly to and fro, which makes it hard to see properly amidst the white foam. Yet Helgi can tell that Tóti’s fleece is torn across his abdomen, exposing the white T-shirt and pale flesh beneath. There is no blood; the sea has probably washed it away.

  Helgi tries to tear his gaze from the sight. There is something so unspeakably harrowing about the face in the surf. ‘Come on.’ He staggers to his feet, reeling in the wind’s blast, and this time manages to drag Ívar away with him. They hang on to each other as they inch their way towards the lighthouse. Although it is not far, the wind has decided to amuse itself with capricious changes of direction, making their journey perilous in the extreme.

  Helgi has an overpowering sense that someone or something is standing on the helipad behind them, watching their progress. He is reminded of what he thought he saw in the fog yesterday and finds himself taking larger, more determined steps. Ívar accompanies him, tightening his grip on his arm. There is no need for words; Helgi senses that Ívar feels the same. When they reach the steps up to the lighthouse, Helgi turns and looks back at the helipad. The blizzard has reached the stack now, the mesmerising, whirling whiteness moving closer and closer. He raises his arm to tear open the door but Ívar is blocking his way, standing rooted to the spot. ‘Get inside, man!’ Helgi pushes at his back.

  ‘Who did that? Did you write that, you fat fucking pig?’

  For an instant Helgi wrestles with the temptation to shove the man away from the door, down the steps and watch him fly over the cliff. ‘What are you talking about? Get inside!’ Helgi seizes Ívar’s arm but the other man doesn’t budge.

  ‘Did you write that, you pathetic tosser?’ The man is so worked up that his screech drowns out the storm. Again and again he slaps his hand on the wall beside the door.

  Using a black marker pen, probably the same one that Helgi saw Tóti use to highlight the damage to the wall, someone has written in large, clumsy letters: Stefán Egill Fridriksson 1985. ‘No, Ívar, I didn’t write that. Don’t worry, it’ll come off.’ Helgi closes his eyes as the blizzard strikes. Again he tries to push Ívar but the other man now seems incapable of moving and allows Helgi to squeeze past him to the door. Helgi drags it open and they both tumble inside without another word.

  Chapter 16

  25 January 2014

  ‘I told you the police wouldn’t be interested.’

  Nói sighed in exasperation; his wife’s smugness was intolerable. Vala was cutting up a grapefruit after her morning run, still wearing her tight running gear. This made Nói even grumpier since he was sitting there in his dressing gown. Did she ever relax? He had dragged himself out of bed at the same time as her but refused her invitation to come and get his circulation going. As if it required any special intervention to get one’s blood to circulate. It wasn’t as if it pooled in your body while you slept. Instead he had rung the police and reported his concerns about the foreigners. He had added the detail about the neighbours’ missing satnav to make his case sound more convincing.

  ‘Actually they were interested. They’ve made a note of it and will deal with it as soon as they get a chance. I wasn’t expecting them to turn up here with their sirens wailing.’ To be honest, he had been hoping for a bit more of a reaction, but he would never have admitted as much to Vala.

  ‘They won’t do a thing. Believe me, I know all about it.’ As if Vala was an expert in police matters. She had never got so much as a speeding fine in her life. ‘They receive all kinds of tip-offs and they wouldn’t achieve much if they went around following up any old nonsense.’

  ‘May I remind you that these p
eople stole a satnav. The police are bound to be interested in that, if nothing else.’

  Vala tutted. ‘Maybe if the satnav had been attached to a car. The police don’t go looking for phones or small items like that. They concentrate on the big stuff.’ She put down the knife and took a seat facing Nói, her colour high. There were small beads of sweat along her hairline. He hunched over his coffee cup.

  ‘Do you want the other half?’

  The prospect only made him hanker for bacon and eggs. ‘No, thanks. Definitely not.’ He took a mouthful of coffee, casting around for some way of rendering her speechless, but nothing came to mind. ‘I’m thinking of popping up to the chalet later. To check on things and look for the keys.’

  Vala swallowed a piece of grapefruit. ‘OK. But what if the police turn up while you’re gone?’ She grinned, her white teeth gleaming. ‘I’m teasing. Go on then. If it’ll make you stop fretting, I’ll be only too happy. Want me to come along?’

  Nói wasn’t sure how to answer. He wanted her there if his theory that something had happened to the couple turned out to be right. But if he was wrong he had no wish to drive home under a barrage of taunts about how she had known all along that everything was fine. ‘I was thinking of taking Tumi. It’d do you good to relax and he could use some fresh air.’ He was suddenly sure that she had been thinking along the same lines: while she would enjoy discovering that there was nothing wrong at the chalet, she couldn’t bear the thought of his gloating if the situation turned out to be ugly.

  ‘Yes. Maybe that would be best. I’ll go round to Mum’s and give her the presents we bought them. Then we’ll have tomorrow to ourselves.’

  Nói stood up, retied his dressing gown, and tried not to think about what that meant: running, swimming, gym, yoga or just stretching exercises that would cause him to ache in places he never knew existed. Perhaps he could fake illness and persuade her to make do with watching other people torture their bodies instead. There were some exciting matches on TV tomorrow.

  ‘This car’s a heap of shit.’ The comment came out of the blue. They had been driving in silence for the last half-hour.

  ‘Oh?’ Nói turned off the tarmac road onto the track leading to the holiday colony. It passed through an area of twisted birch scrub that was unlikely ever to grow into a forest. He had no idea who had planted the trees since they had already been there when he and Vala purchased the chalet four years ago. He hadn’t noticed any sign of growth over that period. ‘It gets us from A to B. And it was cheap.’

  ‘Yeah. That’s why it’s so uncool. Cheap cars are never cool.’

  ‘In that case we’ll probably never own a cool car. Not unless we win the lottery. Which we never will since we don’t even buy tickets.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because we’d never win. Nobody wins the lottery.’ Nói slowed down in anticipation of a nasty pothole. The landscape was pale with snow and no one else appeared to have driven along the track that day. ‘Aren’t you looking forward to going back to school?’ No sooner had he said it than he realised that he had already asked Tumi that. Still, better to repeat the conversation than let himself get riled about their crappy car.

  ‘I’ve already told you: no, I’m not looking forward to it. How much further is it, anyway?’

  ‘Five minutes. You ought to recognise where we are.’

  ‘Not in the snow.’

  Nói couldn’t even be bothered to be shocked by this answer. ‘What do you think? Is everything going to be OK at the chalet, or a mess?’

  ‘A mess. But it’ll look OK on the surface.’

  Nói glanced at his son’s face in the hope of reading his expression but Tumi averted his eyes and stared out of the window. Nói didn’t ask any further questions, preferring to interpret this as meaning that he had an ally. Even if there was nothing to see, it didn’t necessarily mean that everything was OK.

  They sat in the car for a minute or two, studying the chalet. It was exactly like a thousand others: a wooden, single-storey structure with a sleeping loft, surrounded by a railed-in area of decking. It went with the family car – not particularly showy or conspicuous – which suited Nói down to the ground. The modern glass structures featured in glossy magazines held no attraction for him. What he wanted was somewhere cosy and ordinary where a sock left on the floor would not destroy the overall impression. The chalet fitted the bill perfectly and much to his surprise Vala had fallen for it too. The first time they’d visited after buying it, he had realised that the place represented something quite different to her – outdoor life and long walks over the endless moors and up into the mountains. Whereas what attracted him was the thought of barbecuing, lounging on the sofa and enjoying the quiet at night. In the event, however, they had managed to combine the two and both were fond of the chalet.

  The slamming of the car doors echoed in the silence, and the gravel crunched loudly under their feet as they walked towards the small building. The air was so crisp that Nói could have sworn it crackled, and he relished filling his lungs after the drive. ‘Notice how good it is to breathe here?’ He wasn’t really expecting any answering enthusiasm, but it was his duty as a parent to open his son’s eyes to the glories of nature.

  Tumi slipped on the icy ground and just avoided losing his balance. He had fallen in love with a particular brand of trainers that Vala loathed, and always wore them, regardless of the weather. This was his third pair in a row. Smooth-soled and slippery – but cool. ‘Seems a bit weird to me. Even the air.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Nói had just been feeling relieved at how normal everything seemed. He had come to the conclusion during their silent drive here that he would rather everything was all right, even if it meant that Vala would crow.

  ‘It’s too quiet. There’s no birds or anything.’

  ‘They’re just being quiet so they don’t attract attention. Most of them have gone anyway. In case you hadn’t noticed, it’s winter.’

  ‘There’s always birds here. Even in winter.’

  Nói stamped the snow off his shoes onto the decking and shrugged. He didn’t want to agree with his son but he had to admit that the hush felt unusually oppressive. Suddenly the thought struck him that it had been a mistake to bring Tumi along. What would he do if they came across a body? Tumi was too old to be fobbed off with the lie that the dead person was sleeping. ‘Wait here. I’m going to have a look around inside in case anything’s wrong.’

  ‘If something’s wrong I want to see. Why else do you think I let you drag me all the way up here?’

  ‘Wait, I said.’ The hinges squeaked as Nói opened the door. Had they always done that? Their arrival was normally accompanied by bustle and noise, so the faint squeaking would have gone unnoticed. He experienced the same sensation as he had on their return from America. It was as if a different, alien tang hung in the air that met him, but he couldn’t work out what it was this time either. As usual the wooden panelling on the walls muffled all sounds, which made it even quieter inside than out.

  The hush had a dense quality.

  Nói’s first action was to pick up a crumpled letter that was lying on the floor by the door, in exactly the same spot as it had in the video clip. The side facing upwards had a single line printed in the middle of the page, and he turned it over to see if the main text was an advertisement for a Christmas bazaar at the church or something equally rustic. But the back was blank. The message said: The day of reckoning has come. Why did you lie? Nói frowned. It must have been delivered to the wrong house. None of them were liars and certainly none of them were expecting a day of reckoning. He and Vala had always stressed the importance of being honest in all their dealings. With Tumi too, though once or twice they’d had to resort to white lies when their son was small and asked awkward questions. Why’s granddad got an oxygen tank? – He’s practising to be a diver. An answer better suited to a five-year-old than the truth about his grandfather: He’s dying of lung cancer, darling.

  Nó
i folded the paper and put it in his pocket. It was nothing to do with them. Yet a vague memory came back to him of the words that had sprung into his mind the day before, not exactly the same but uncomfortably similar: Welcome back, liar. This odd coincidence was unsettling, but then that was the nature of coincidences; you only noticed the ones that disconcerted you. Others passed without your being aware of them. Nói continued his circuit of the house and opened the doors to both bedrooms and the small bathroom without spotting anything untoward. He climbed far enough up the ladder to peer onto the sleeping platform but it was the same story there. Nothing out of the ordinary. In spite of everything he felt a momentary stab of disappointment. He turned on the ladder and called out to Tumi that it was safe to come in, everything was absolutely fine.

  ‘Smells bad.’ Tumi walked in, making a face, his hands in his pockets. ‘What do we do now? Drive home?’ He surveyed the room as if the answer was to be found on the walls.

  ‘I’m going to take a better look around, just to make sure they’ve put everything away properly. Would you mind hunting for the keys?’

  While his son pulled out kitchen drawers, Nói walked over to the living-room window facing the decking. He looked out but could see nothing unusual. No one was lurking in the birch scrub; he could see no other cars or anything that could be regarded as abnormal or strange.

  Tumi banged a drawer shut. ‘The keys aren’t here.’

  ‘No. That would have been too simple.’ Nói stretched. He wondered if he should pull the curtains across the window or leave them as they were, and he hadn’t made up his mind when Tumi spoke again.

  ‘What’s this, Dad?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Some kind of letter, or note. But it can’t be from those foreigners. It’s in Icelandic.’