I Remember You Page 34

  ‘Suits me.’ The captain gave Freyr a hearty clap on the shoulder. He didn’t seem to mind having to wait outside. ‘We’ll just wait quietly out here, eh?’

  Freyr staggered a little – the old man hadn’t spared his strength, perhaps intentionally. Freyr had no business in the house; the septic tank was outdoors and maybe already down in the ground. He might even be standing on it. The thought caused him to take two instinctive steps sideways, but when he aimed the dull beam of his torch at the ground there was nothing to see but a thin layer of snow. He wondered whether he should walk around the house but couldn’t bring himself to do it; it would be better if Dagný and Veigar were there. A loud knocking broke the silence and hung in the air. ‘Is anyone home?’ Veigar’s voice resounded and Freyr thought it impossible that anyone could sleep through such noise. The knocking began again and Veigar called out: ‘This is the police. We’re coming in.’ The screech of the doorknob was piercing, but it wasn’t followed by a creak suggesting the door was being opened. Dagný and Veigar then came round the corner and said they were going to check whether the back door was unlocked. Otherwise they would have to break in.

  Freyr and the skipper followed them automatically, keeping far enough back to give no impression of wanting to go in with them, but close enough to see what was happening. Dagný and Veigar stepped up onto an old porch that was in a rather sad state of repair and went straight to work, knocking hard on the door and calling out to those who were supposed to be inside. ‘Of course they might be down at the doctor’s house,’ the captain shouted to Veigar just as the old, stocky police officer was about to throw himself against the door, shoulder first. ‘I remember now that I let them have the keys so they could move there if they encountered any . . . inconvenience.’

  Veigar and Dagný turned to them. Their faces weren’t visible, but it was clear they were less than happy with the skipper. ‘Was there any light there? Or smoke coming from the chimney?’

  ‘Uh, no.’ The old man took one step closer to Freyr as if to enlist him as a team-mate.

  ‘All right then. If they’re not here, we’ll go and check that house.’ They both turned back to the door and Veigar threw himself against the tired old wood. It gave a loud crack but didn’t budge. He tried again and at the third attempt the door flew open. ‘Oh, Christ!’ Dagný and Veigar turned aside and a second later the stench reached Freyr and the skipper, forcing them to cover their noses and mouths. ‘That’s fucking disgusting!’ Veigar spat on the porch and Freyr was tempted to do the same. The stench was unlike anything he’d ever smelled, and he’d encountered some rank odours in medical school. This one most resembled the smell that he remembered from forensic medicine when they’d opened the belly of a man who’d drowned and been found after several days in the sea. A salty, rotten stink.

  Something shot out through the door and they all gasped. ‘What the hell was that?’ The captain now stood so close to Freyr that Freyr had to step slightly aside to avoid losing his balance. They waved their torches, searching silently for an explanation. Finally they saw a small creature trembling near Freyr, a little dog that had certainly seen better days. Its coat appeared sticky and had formed clumps in several places on its scrawny body. ‘I’d forgotten him; they brought this dog with them.’ The skipper held one hand to his chest. ‘Scared the shit out of me.’

  ‘Is there anything else you’ve forgotten to tell us?’ Dagný walked angrily past them to the dog. ‘It would be great if you’d share it with us before we go in.’ She bent down to the little animal, which initially took a few steps back but then went to her and allowed her to pick it up. ‘God, he’s shaking, poor thing. Do you remember his name?’

  ‘Hvutti, Patti, or something like that.’ The captain stared at the dog, not particularly kindly. ‘What a wretched little scrap. Call that a dog . . .’

  Dagný didn’t answer him, but handed the dog to Freyr. ‘Keep your eye on him. I’m not planning to chase him around all over the place before we can go back.’ Freyr took the dog, which looked into his eyes as if to check whether he was trustworthy. Its little body felt like no more than skin and bones and it would probably be easy to forget he was holding it at all if it weren’t for the trembling that shook it from limb to limb. Freyr used his free hand to stroke the poor thing’s head, unafraid that it would bite. It really didn’t matter to him, and it might even make Freyr feel better. But the dog gave no indication of wanting to bite him and instead shut its eyes and relaxed slightly. Then it turned its head towards the house and growled softly, recovering its courage in the security of Freyr’s embrace. As he adjusted the creature in his arms he noticed that his hand was stained with something after touching the dog. He couldn’t see clearly what it was, but when he smelled his hand he realized it was blood. Instinctively he held the dog away from his body, then called to Dagný and Veigar: ‘The dog’s covered in blood!’ They turned to look. ‘But he’s not injured, so it must be from someone else.’ They nodded, their faces grave, and turned back to the house.

  ‘What?’ The captain shone his torch on the dog and stepped back when he saw what Freyr was talking about. ‘What the fuck . . .? This doesn’t look good.’ He turned towards the house. ‘I’m glad I don’t have to go in there.’

  They watched Veigar and Dagný cover their noses and mouths in the crooks of their arms and walk in. Freyr and the old man said nothing, but through the curtainless windows they watched the torch lights move through the house. The lights stopped suddenly and moved up and down and back and forth in the same place. A few moments later one of the beams set off in the direction it had come from and Dagný appeared at the door, calling for Freyr.

  ‘Can you come inside? We’ve found a woman. She seems to be injured, I think you’d better look at her before we move her.’ Freyr handed the dog to the skipper, who was less than happy about taking the filthy creature and being left alone outside. But Dagný forbade him to move, and the seriousness in her voice made the man obey. In their haste, Dagný and Freyr neglected to defend themselves against the stench that met them like an invisible curtain in the doorway. But they forgot about it as soon as they were in. The little that Freyr could see of the house’s interior appeared to be much as he’d expected: everything rather old and battered, though in several places the owners’ attempts to renovate the place were visible – and even the dull light couldn’t hide how badly they’d done. ‘She’s here.’ Dagný made way for Freyr to enter the kitchen. ‘Watch out for the hole in the floor back there. You don’t want to fall down it; the smell seems to be coming from there.’ Veigar was hunched over a person lying face down on the floor, her head in a dark pool that Freyr hoped wasn’t blood, but suspected almost certainly was. That could explain the state of the dog.

  Freyr searched the woman for signs of life. He ran his hands down the back of her neck. It was uninjured. He asked Veigar to pass him a knife, and used it to cut away the woman’s clothing. With her pale back exposed, he examined the remainder of her spine, which appeared undamaged, and couldn’t find any other injuries. Her breathing was irregular and rattly. ‘Help me turn her over, carefully.’ Veigar hurriedly obeyed and together they turned the victim onto her back. Veigar started in surprise when he saw her injuries. Bloody red crosses had been cut into her face, and she could count herself lucky that she hadn’t lost her eyes, the cuts had come so close to them. Freyr reached for Veigar’s torch and aimed the beam to get a better view. It took all his powers not to let the woman’s head fall back to the floor. Freyr could have sworn that he heard low, nasty, childish laughter coming from the hole in the floor behind him, but he was too flabbergasted even to be frightened.

  It was Líf. Or what was left of her.

  Chapter 33

  Either the stench inside had gone or they’d become so impervious to it that they no longer smelled it; at least, none of them pinched their nostrils or wrinkled their noses any more. They’d been too busy searching for the other two people who were supposed to be
in the house and looking after Líf to let the disgusting smell bother them; the group grew increasingly dismayed at each empty room they checked. The couple seemed to have vanished, and Veigar and Dagný’s trip to the doctor’s house in search of them had revealed nothing.

  The old sea dog, now installed on a kitchen stool, let out frequent gusty sighs, shaking his head and muttering that he tried to warn people but no one ever listened, not even now. Freyr wasn’t certain how well Dagný and Veigar could hear him, since they’d gone into the crawl space through the hole in the floor. Veigar had taken a look in there first, stuck his head down to follow his torch beam but raised it again immediately, his face pale, delivering the news that down in the crawl space was a skeleton. Probably a child’s. Freyr had stood up from attending to Líf, whose condition was worsening slowly but steadily, and said that he was going down there, but Dagný had grabbed his arm and stopped him. She’d then followed Veigar down herself and soon afterwards stuck her head out to tell Freyr that it wasn’t his son. Then they’d both come up and gone to the kitchen to have a word in private. As they moved out of sight, Freyr had positioned Líf’s head carefully on his rolled-up jacket and gone over to the hole to see with his own eyes whether it was Benni. The barbed wire surrounding his heart tightened, and until he looked down into the dark, low space he felt as if he couldn’t breathe for grief. But Dagný hadn’t been lying – this couldn’t be Benni; the body had clearly been lying there for too long.

  When Dagný and Veigar returned, he was still lying on the floor with his head in the hole, transfixed by this sad sight. There was a tired-looking, dusty schoolbag next to the pile of bones that had once breathed, laughed and played without the slightest suspicion of where he or she would later die. Only the skull and delicate bones of parts of the fingers of one hand were visible, the remainder of the skeleton hidden beneath the clothing that the child had been wearing the day it had died. Shells were scattered over the earthen floor, covered with fine dust like everything else down there. Freyr had the sudden feeling that this must be Bernódus, who had vanished all those years ago. The boy to whom life had shown little mercy, and death even less. But this would no doubt be confirmed later. Freyr decided not to voice his thoughts to Dagný when she got him up off the floor by saying he mustn’t disturb the area. She was most likely thinking the same as he was.

  ‘Do you have much left to do?’ Freyr turned his head and shouted the question at the hole, to which Dagný and Veigar had returned, and which looked very much like an entrance to hell. Yellow light from their torches illuminated the stream of dust that was rising from the hole, as if a fire was burning beneath their feet. Now and then there were powerful flashes as they photographed the scene. ‘She’s got to get to the hospital as quickly as possible.’ It was hard to say what was afflicting Líf apart from the cuts on her face; those were hardly life-threatening, though they would change her life completely and permanently. As well as being boiling hot with a weak pulse, she was also coughing up blood regularly but weakly. She was probably suffering internal injuries and if nothing were done about it they could gradually lead to her death. And that wasn’t out of the question even if they did get her to a hospital immediately.

  Dagný and Veigar wriggled dustily up through the hole, looking tired and not dissimilar to the little dog that was still curled up in the skipper’s arms. Dagný was holding the schoolbag and laid it gently on the kitchen table as if she were worried the leather might fall apart. ‘We’re ready. What’s the best way to take her to the boat?’

  Freyr looked from the bag into Dagný’s eyes. ‘We’ve got to make some sort of stretcher. The best thing would be to call a helicopter, but I think we’ll be quicker going by boat; her condition is critical.’ He cleared his throat. ‘If you could take care of that I’d like to walk around the house and look for the septic tank. I can’t leave here without knowing whether I’m right or not.’

  Dagný stared at him but then made her decision. ‘Come on then. No one’s going out alone here.’ Then she turned to Veigar and the skipper. ‘Can you two handle the stretcher?’ They nodded and Dagný and Freyr went out into the night, each armed with a torch. The feeling that Freyr had had before of someone following them returned as soon as he stepped out of the door, but then faded as they set off. Perhaps it was because he was focused on the surroundings and gave no thought to anything else; he found he actually didn’t remotely care what or whether anything was sharing the night with them. He had other things on his mind. Dagný, on the other hand, seemed tense, as if they’d changed roles from when they arrived at the house. She constantly jerked her torch to and fro as if searching for a lost cat. ‘Do you think we’ll find the other two?’ Freyr wanted to say something, had to say something to calm her nerves. He felt as if he were riding a giant rollercoaster that climbed steadily higher and higher until it reached its peak, then plunged down from there. ‘I was able to get Líf to tell me that the man, Garðar, went missing yesterday or the day before. She didn’t know what day it was or how long she’d been lying in the kitchen. I actually think it hasn’t been that long since she was injured. A few hours at most.’

  Dagný seemed relieved by his chatter; the jerky movements of the beam from her torch slowed a little. ‘Did you ask her what happened, who attacked her?’

  ‘I’m not certain she knew what she was saying but she mentioned a boy. I couldn’t get a name from her or any more details. She said that he took Katrín; killed her and dragged her out. The cuts have severed the nerves that control facial movement, on both sides. Her face is paralysed so it’s difficult for her to speak.’ He decided not to mention the questions he’d asked Líf about the insulin when she came round. Because of the uncertainty of her condition this was his only chance to clear this up, and although it actually didn’t matter, it was still churning up his insides. Otherwise, if the worst were to happen, she would take the answer with her to the grave. When Freyr witnessed her like this, deprived of her beauty, he finally saw through her. Of course he also bore the blame for their having been together, but he still felt hatred fasten its claws into him. If he hadn’t met up with her after fetching the drug, Benni wouldn’t have died. Not in that way. His hatred was primitive, like that which Adam and Eve must have felt for the serpent after they’d been driven from paradise. For this reason Freyr didn’t feel sorry for Líf, however unfair that sounded. His heart and soul had hardened against her. So he didn’t shield her from difficult questions, as he should have, but instead pressured her until she tried to answer weakly. The answers had been vague, yet she said that Einar, which he recalled was the name of her husband, had deserved it. Freyr had then stopped his questioning immediately; he suddenly didn’t want to have his suspicions confirmed. Her questions about insulin, after finding out that it didn’t cause intoxication, had been far too specific, and probably hadn’t been asked just to fill the silence as he’d thought at the time.

  They rounded the corner of the house to the gable end, facing away from the village. Freyr stopped as his torch beam revealed signs of an excavation. In the darkness he could make out the upper part of what had to be the septic tank, along with the little riser on top of it. Freyr walked slowly over to it, having to remind himself to breathe. The closer he got, the more the green colour stung his eyes, the colour that had plagued him both awake and asleep. When he reached the edge of the dug-up area he saw the tank in its entirety, though the lower part of it was covered in snow. A submarine. A green submarine. If he squinted, he had no trouble seeing the resemblance. A broad, cylindrical body with a little house on top; the only thing missing was the periscope. ‘Hold on a second, Freyr. I’ll have a look inside.’ Dagný pushed him back from the edge. ‘Don’t fall in. You could twist your ankle or something even worse.’ It wasn’t a long fall, but Freyr knew she was right. He wouldn’t even raise his hands to stop his fall in the condition he was in now. So he watched her step into the hole, clamber up onto the tank and inch her way towards the opening
through which Benni must have entered. She easily unhitched the latch holding the lid tight and once again Freyr felt a sting in his heart; in all likelihood, the man whose car Freyr had hit had noticed that it wasn’t fastened before he drove off, and secured it. Yet another ‘what if’ to add to the list. What if he hadn’t done that? Would Benni have managed to open the lid from the inside and stick his head out? Would other drivers have seen him and stopped the car?

  Dagný put the lid down and shone her torch into the little tank. At that, the empty space inside became like a lantern; the green light not unlike the borealis. Inside the tank a shadow appeared. The pain was worse than he could ever have imagined; it was like standing near to a huge fire, except that it burned inside him and it was useless to turn away. To Freyr it looked as if a tiny, skeletal hand formed part of the outline. Benni.

  The sea did what it could to make Freyr’s trip home even more unbearable. His stomach moved in tandem with every dip and rise of the boat, but his body was unable to relieve his discomfort by vomiting. He sat on a bench in the little passenger area behind the pilothouse and stared out. Although his eyes could see what was in front of him, his brain wasn’t able to put together the information; he would have had trouble describing what he saw. Líf was dead; she’d passed away shortly after they sailed out into the Ísafjörður Deep; she’d asked for a cigarette, sighed softly, and then her head sank slowly to the side. His attempts to resuscitate her had been useless. Feeling her lips against his once more under these circumstances, lifeless as they were, had been almost too much for him.

  ‘Freyr.’ Dagný sat crouched in front of him. ‘We’re just about there. How do you feel?’

  ‘All right.’ This was a lie, clear to both of them.

  ‘Your son will be brought back first thing in the morning. I’ll see to it.’ He didn’t reply, since it wasn’t necessary. ‘I looked in the bag. It belonged to Bernódus.’ A large, powerful wave nearly toppled her over, but Dagný managed to keep her balance by grasping Freyr’s knees. ‘The contents are practically undamaged and I found a notebook that he wrote in after he went missing.’ He didn’t react, and she continued: ‘In it he describes what happened to him. It’s pretty shocking. I’ll have it photocopied for you later if you want.’