Why Did You Lie? (7 page)

‘I’m always up at the hospital. Or at work.’

Berglind nodded. ‘I see.’ She opened her mouth to say something else but thought better of it. She looked down at the table as if for inspiration, then raised her eyes again, her expression sombre. ‘How long can you carry on like this?’ Nína could feel her own face hardening. Her sister took her hand. ‘I’m not suggesting you should stop visiting Thröstur. Only wondering if you could cut down your visits a bit so you can start living again – give yourself time to do something else apart from just working.’

‘It’s not as if he …’ Nína always had trouble finding the words for what Thröstur had done. If he had died it wouldn’t have been a problem, then she could say he had committed suicide, killed himself, taken his own life, topped himself, done himself in, passed away … But he was neither alive nor dead. ‘It’s not as if he’s been like this long. It takes time to get over it. To accept it.’ But Nína didn’t want to accept it. She wanted everything to go back to how it had been.

‘It’s been nearly eight weeks, Nína.’ Berglind squeezed her hand. ‘No one’s expecting you to be on top of the world but you’ve got to start looking to the future. A little bit at a time. You could start by breaking up your hospital routine in some way. If you just go on like this, working and sitting with Thröstur forever, it can only end one way. Try going to the gym, or swimming, or to the cinema. I’ll go with you.’ Berglind squeezed her hand again. ‘At least take some time off work – surely they’d understand? If you like you can stay with me and Dóri for a while. I quite understand that you can’t face being here. In fact, what the hell, why don’t you move in with us properly? Just because Thröstur chose death doesn’t mean you should give up on your own life.’ The superficial tidy-up had obviously failed to deceive her. ‘We can put you up in the den. It’s not as if we use it much.’

‘It’s very kind of you to offer. But there’s no need. I’m starting to get on top of things.’ Nína did her best to appear convincing: don’t smile too much or too little. ‘Please try not to worry about me. I’m in a horrible place right now but the end’s in sight.’

‘Are you sure about that?’ Berglind knew her too well to be taken in.

‘Absolutely positive.’ Nína didn’t drop her eyes, didn’t give in to the temptation to look out of the window. Even the hateful garage was better than Berglind’s penetrating gaze. ‘I’m getting there. Honestly.’ She freed her cold hand from her sister’s warm one. ‘Anyway, can you imagine what it’d be like if I lived with you?’ Nína’s smile was suddenly genuine. ‘It would be a nightmare. Remember how furious you used to be if I went into your bedroom when we were kids? No, I really can’t picture it.’

Berglind laughed. ‘I don’t have any posters for you to scribble on these days, so we should be OK. But no, perhaps it
is
a bad idea. At least let’s go to the gym together or something, though. It would do me good too.’

Unlike Nína, Berglind was one of those people who loathe exercise. The fact that she was prepared to go to the gym for her sister’s sake spoke louder than words. While friends were quietly dropping off the radar, Berglind kept phoning and coming round. With her, Nína never felt as if she was ruining the atmosphere simply by being there. ‘Are you sure you want to go to the gym? Why don’t we just go to the dentist together and have our old fillings drilled out and replaced?’ Now it was Nína’s turn to squeeze her sister’s hand. ‘I suggest we do something else when I’m finally feeling more human – something you’d enjoy. And I promise it’ll be soon. Just not quite yet.’ For a moment Nína wondered if she should tell her sister about the old case she had come across in the police archives earlier that day; that as a seven-year-old Thröstur had been involved in an inquiry which apparently related to a suicide, and that she suspected this was the explanation for what he had done all these years later. Recently she had been racking her brain for a possible reason, without success, and this explanation was no more foolish than some of the others she had grasped at. She was no expert in psychology but she’d learnt enough about people through her job to realise that their behaviour could be governed by the most unexpected things.

The problem was that Nína didn’t know what the old inquiry had been about. She had skimmed through other files in the archives in a vain search for further information but the page seemed to be the only one extant about the incident. She didn’t know whose suicide it was or even if the case was concerned with a suicide. The report could have ended up in the wrong folder by mistake, or perhaps the page had become separated from the rest and gone astray.

‘A penny for your thoughts?’ Berglind was frowning. They weren’t accustomed to sitting in silence. As far as Nína could remember, her sister hadn’t shut up since she’d first learnt to talk. When they shared a room as children she had even talked regularly in her sleep. At the time Nína had thought it was because the day wasn’t long enough for her to get everything off her chest. And because Berglind had talked non-stop when they were growing up, Nína had been forced to cut in every time she wanted to speak, which had left her with the bad habit of interrupting people. It had got her into trouble more than once when talking to her superiors at work.

Berglind tried again: ‘Tell me what you’re thinking about.’

‘Nothing. Well, actually I was remembering how much you used to talk as a kid.’ In an attempt to appear casual, Nína took refuge in a mouthful of cold coffee. No, it would be a bad idea to mention the old case to Berglind – at this stage. She was bound to want to chew over it endlessly and Nína wasn’t ready for that; she needed more information first. To start with, she meant to have a word with Thröstur’s father, who ought to remember the incident, although it was a long time ago. His mother had died of breast cancer five years ago, so she wasn’t around to ask. But if Nína managed to extract some information from her father-in-law, she would probably be able to use it to find out more. Information was never far away, especially if you had access to various systems and national databases through the police. She hoped she wouldn’t be sacked or forced to take leave before she’d had a chance to try. ‘I’m just tired and sleepy. Let’s stop talking about me and my problems. I’m so bored of myself it would do me good to change the subject.’

They remained chatting there for a while until it became glaringly obvious that Berglind was avoiding any mention of her own husband. Nína had noticed this tendency in others; it was as if women found it inappropriate to say anything in her hearing that might remind her that their husbands were alive and well. As if it might make her envious. It was typical that when Berglind finally showed signs of making a move, she was careful not to say she had to get home to Dóri but rather that ‘duty called’. It was kindly meant, like so many wrong-headed ideas. But in spite of this they hugged each other affectionately as they said goodbye on the front steps. Nína had promised that they would go out and have fun together some time in the next couple of weeks. Do something that wouldn’t result in stiff muscles.

Berglind seemed satisfied and didn’t notice her sister’s expression as she released her. Nína’s eyes had accidentally fallen on the garage while they were hugging and she couldn’t help noticing that the plastic ball had vanished.

She almost ran into the kitchen to close the window and draw the curtains again before heading off to the hospital. She had no wish to linger here any longer than necessary. Her stomach churned as she caught sight of the garage in the instant before the curtain fell into place. She wanted to be sick.

There, beside the old flower pot on the garage windowsill, was the plastic ball.

Chapter 5

26 January 2014

The fog closes in with alarming suddenness. One minute they can see ocean to the south and land to the north, the next nothing but a stony grey blankness that shifts and stirs in an oddly languid manner whichever way they look, as if the world has decided to consign the rock to oblivion by sweeping it under a carpet of cloud. The effect is so unreal that Helgi’s feelings veer back and forth between pleasure and anxiety as he is adjusting to the transformation. Although he’s no fan of classical music, it seems to him that the sound of violins would be peculiarly appropriate at this moment. But in the absence of plangent strings he has to make do with the roaring of the waves far below. In the fog the noise is oddly intensified, as if the sea wishes to remind them of its presence now that it’s no longer before their eyes.

Shortly after the fog descended, Ívar had shouted to Helgi to come back to the lighthouse; it would be safest until visibility improved. Helgi, who was perched on the edge of the helipad at the time, had felt relieved. He had chosen the spot to keep out of the others’ way while they worked. The echo of their voices carried to him, increasing his feeling of isolation as he sat there as if alone in the world, the grey cloud before his eyes.

So far Ívar has avoided speaking to Helgi if he can help it, and the other two seem to be unconsciously following his example. At least, they have no reason to snub him, whatever Ívar’s motives. Helgi guesses the man is still wondering what he said or did that evening they met in the bar. This suggests he doesn’t always behave himself when he’s drunk, which doesn’t surprise Helgi as sober Ívar is not exactly a charmer. Still, he hopes the man is becoming reconciled to the idea of his being here, as he’d like to be allowed to join in their conversation once it gets dark.

Helgi swallows the last bite of his sandwich. Their cool-box had looked full when they opened it but already there’s worryingly little left. The remaining food will have to stretch to all tomorrow’s meals until the helicopter picks them up in the evening. They decided to have an early supper while the fog was blocking their view and are now sitting in a quiet huddle by the lighthouse, eating and listening to the noises around them. Full but not satisfied, Helgi decides to break the ice. He was careful to eat less than the others, conscious that if they run short of food, they’re bound to look at him, the fat man, and wonder if he took more than his share. ‘Did we bring a lifebuoy with us or is there one lying around here somewhere?’ The last part of his question is redundant. Since the helicopter vanished from sight three hours ago, Helgi has seen everything there is to see on the rock, every stone, every blade of grass. It’s unthinkable that he could have failed to notice a lifebuoy.

Tóti is the first to answer. ‘No.’ He swallows and dislodges the crumbs of his sandwich from his teeth before continuing. ‘Are you wondering what’ll happen if we fall off?’

Helgi nods. He folds up his sandwich wrapper and puts it in the rubbish container. ‘I thought it would be useful to have one to hand. Just in case.’

‘There’s no point throwing a lifebuoy to a dead man.’ Ívar rubs a hand over his balding scalp as if to check whether a bird has landed on it while he was eating. Two gulls, drawn by the smell when they took out the food, are now hovering overhead, invisible in the fog. From time to time they swoop down like missiles out of the greyness, swerving just above their heads and disappearing again. At some point in their lives they have learnt to be wary of humans and Ívar underlines this lesson by lobbing stones after them. ‘The sea’s shallow at the base of the rock. If anyone falls off, that’ll be the end of their worries.’

So far Helgi has had little to do with the woman, Heida, who has been inside the lighthouse, installing the new transmitter, so the huskiness of her voice comes as a surprise when she finally opens her mouth. ‘Can’t we talk about something else?’ She doesn’t address anyone in particular but peers out into the fog, as if talking to someone floating in mid-air.

‘Sure. Talk about whatever you like. I’m not stopping you.’ Ívar leans against the whitewashed wall, closes his eyes and rests his hands comfortably on his stomach. They are weather-beaten, with skin as coarse as that on his face. Helgi can’t help thinking that these would be the perfect hands for committing atrocities; these are fingers that long to maim. As if reading his mind, Ívar shoves them in his anorak pockets as he speaks again. ‘For God’s sake not politics, though. It could end badly, this close to the edge.’

Heida’s expression indicates that she doesn’t want to discuss politics any more than she wants to discuss the rocks at the bottom of the cliff. Helgi can’t tell if she’s uncomfortable about being the only woman among a group of strange men, or unnerved by the precipice. He’s ill at ease himself, though he’s never been especially bothered by heights. He casts around for some subject to cheer her up. ‘How’s the technical stuff going? Everything up and running?’ It’s as lame as talking about the weather. Suddenly the sandwich feels like lead in his stomach and he wishes he hadn’t bolted it down so fast.

‘The equipment’s in place but not connected yet. The installation and tests always take ages. Generally much longer than you expect.’ Her cheeks are flushed but otherwise her face is chalk-white, which makes her dark eyes appear black in contrast. The effect is to make her look nervous, as if she’s on the verge of confiding some fact of vital importance. Helgi wouldn’t mind taking a few snaps of her without her knowledge. But there’s no chance in the present circumstances; she couldn’t fail to notice his big, cumbersome camera. ‘Some things you just can’t hurry.’

‘Do you all work together?’ Helgi assumes they do, yet they don’t behave like colleagues around each other. While he was taking pictures earlier, he couldn’t help overhearing the echo of their conversation, and as far as he can tell this is the first time Heida has opened her mouth. The men were working outside, of course, but even so you’d have thought they’d exchange the odd word in passing. Perhaps she’s naturally shy and retiring.

‘No.’ It’s Tóti who answers. ‘I was only called out at the last minute. They obviously didn’t trust you to do the job on your own, mate.’ He throws the scrunched-up clingfilm from his sandwich at Ívar, who is evidently not amused. The rubbish is caught by the breeze and flies over the cliff.