The Shadow District

37

The woman was a little younger than Konrád. She had held a number of office jobs over the years, most recently with the social security department. She suggested they meet up at a cafe in the centre of town. Though their fathers had worked together, conspiring to defraud the innocent, Konrád had never spoken to her before. Her name was Eygló and she was the only child of the medium who had held the seance for Rósamunda’s parents.

He explained over the phone that he’d found her father’s obituary online and got her name from it. Eygló told him her father had been reluctant to talk about his time as a medium, but she turned out to be familiar with the Rósamunda affair and said she’d sometimes wondered how it ended. Konrád informed her that the inquiry appeared to have been abandoned and the case was never solved.

‘So you’re his son,’ was her opening gambit as they greeted one another in the cafe. She held on to his hand when he made to withdraw it, scrutinising him for a moment before suddenly releasing it. ‘I have to admit I was a little curious after we talked on the phone.’

‘Curious?’ said Konrád as they sat down.

‘Your father nearly destroyed my dad,’ she said. ‘I wanted to see what you look like.’

‘I hope you’re not too disappointed.’

‘We’ll see. Those kinds of character flaws tend to run in families.’

‘Character flaws? What do you mean?’

‘Dad never used to speak ill of anyone, but that’s what he said about your father — that he was a bad character. Were you brought up by him?’

‘I don’t see what... what that has to do with anything.’

‘You want to bombard me with questions — why shouldn’t I return the favour?’

‘This isn’t about me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I am.’

‘Then why are we here? Isn’t it because of your father? That seance? Isn’t that why you rang me?’

Eygló studied him intently as she waited for his reply. She was petite, dark-haired, dressed almost entirely in black, and looked much younger than her years. Her eyes were bright and searching below her high forehead, her movements brisk and decisive; she had a quick mind and got straight to the point. Over the phone she had informed Konrád that she had followed in her father’s footsteps and worked as a psychic for a while. Konrád toyed with the idea of asking if she’d inherited her talent from her father but hesitated. She added that she wasn’t well known and kept very quiet about what she called her ‘gift’.

‘I rang about Rósamunda,’ said Konrád. ‘I wanted to know if your father had ever said anything about her. If he’d researched any of the details of her case before he held the seance. If he had any prior knowledge, let’s say.’

‘Wasn’t that your father’s job? To collect information?’

‘So I gather,’ said Konrád. ‘He told me how they used to go about rigging the sessions, and about that particular seance, but he didn’t tell me anything about Rósamunda. I was wondering if your father had...’

‘You don’t believe in any of it, do you?’ said Eygló. ‘Psychics. Seances.’

‘No.’

‘Not even in life after death?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

Konrád smiled. ‘Yes.’

‘You can’t be as sceptical as you say or you wouldn’t have dragged me down here. Are you sure you don’t have a touch of the second sight yourself?’

‘Did your father ever talk about Rósamunda?’ asked Konrád, quickly changing the subject.

‘No, not that I recall. Though he did tell me about that seance. He said your father coerced him into working with him. Did you know that?’

‘No.’

‘He had something on Dad — I don’t know what — and forced him to take part in the deception. Dad had the gift, but that wasn’t enough for your father. He wanted dramatic results, so people would pay more. They met through the Society for Psychical Research. Dad was weak, I admit, and longed for recognition. He had a drink problem too. Used to go on benders. He’d vanish for weeks at a time and sometimes had blackouts lasting days. But he was a good man. Deep down. He didn’t mean to hurt anyone. And he had certain qualities as a medium. A degree of sensitivity not granted to everyone. A sympathetic understanding of people’s search for answers.’

‘Do you know why he told my dad he’d sensed the presence of another girl during that seance for Rósamunda?’ asked Konrád. ‘Where that detail came from? Or who she was? My dad hadn’t fed him any information about a second girl. She was supposedly there with Rósamunda and was accompanied by an intense feeling of cold. Did your father ever talk about that? Did he know any more than he let on?’

‘He knew what he sensed,’ said Eygló, ‘but you don’t believe in any of that, do you? You’ve already decided that everything he said was a lie, so I can’t imagine why you’re asking me.’

‘Well, I don’t know what to make of it,’ said Konrád, ‘but the strange thing is there may actually have been a second girl connected to the Rósamunda case. A girl who was never found. I wanted to check if your father had any prior knowledge of this.’

Startled, Eygló put down her coffee cup. ‘I had no idea she was connected to Rósamunda,’ she said. ‘Do you know how?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. I thought maybe our fathers might have had some inside information, like when they pretended to sense the mittens or the shipwreck.’

‘Pretended? My father had psychic powers, and if he said he sensed the presence of another girl with Rósamunda, he wasn’t making it up. He wasn’t a pathological liar, unlike...’

‘My dad?’

‘Yes.’

‘So he sensed a presence, you say? Who was she? Did he ever discuss it with you? It’s possible her name was Hrund.’

‘He didn’t know her name, but she visited him powerfully during that seance. He had no idea who she was or what had happened to her. All he knew was that she was unhappy and cold. He spoke about the chill you mentioned. The intense cold.’

‘So he didn’t know any more than that?’

‘No.’

‘Nor how she died?’

‘No.’

‘Have you heard of a man called Stefán Thórdarson, or Thorson, as he used to be known in the old days?’

‘Thorson? No.’

‘He didn’t get in touch with you?’

‘No.’

‘And your father died years ago, of course.’

‘Yes,’ said Eygló. ‘He... It was suicide. He’d been in a bad way for a long while. Couldn’t find any peace in his soul, as my mother used to say. Actually, it happened not long after he heard the news about your father.’

‘My father?’

‘Wasn’t he stabbed to death by the abattoir?’

‘Yes. But what’s that got to do with your father?’

‘Mum said he was knocked sideways by the news. Only a few months passed between that and his... his death.’

‘But they weren’t in contact at all, were they?’

‘Not that I’m aware, but then I don’t know everything. I didn’t really know my dad that well. I was so young. But my mother told me he’d been affected by the news of your father’s stabbing. She assumed it was because they’d once worked together but...’

‘But what?’

‘Maybe there was more to it.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Eygló. ‘I’m completely in the dark, I’m afraid. All I know is that my father wasn’t well, obviously. No one in their right mind would resort to an act like that.’

She sat there for a while, lost in the sad memories Konrád had stirred up, then abruptly pushed back her chair and rose to her feet, saying she had to get going.

‘Sorry I couldn’t help you at all,’ she added.

‘Thanks for meeting me anyway,’ said Konrád, rising to his feet as well and shaking her hand again. This time the contact was fleeting and she avoided his gaze.

‘I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable,’ he said. ‘It really wasn’t the intention.’

‘No, it... no, not at all,’ said Eygló.

He could tell that she had noticed his withered arm during their conversation and was trying not to stare at it. ‘I’ve got to be somewhere else,’ she added, and hurried out of the cafe.

Konrád sat down again, stroking his arm absently and turning over her words in his mind, thinking about the way she’d talked about his father. It didn’t surprise him. He’d heard similar sentiments before and knew from experience — from his own childhood memories — how unreasonable and violent his old man could be. Konrád’s mother had tried repeatedly to bring her ex-husband to his senses and persuade him to allow their son to come and live with her, but it was no good. On one occasion he had refused to let her in to speak to Konrád and left her standing in the basement doorway. Usually when she came to town from her new home in the east she would stop by and spend some time with Konrád. Sometimes she would start crying and begging his father not to drive them any further apart. But on this occasion his father had had enough.

‘At least let me say goodbye to him,’ she had pleaded, trying to catch a glimpse of her son.

‘Oh, shut the fuck up,’ his father had said and slammed the door in her face.