I Remember You

Chapter 29

Katrín found the fact that Líf was a giant bundle of nerves helped her stay calm. While everything was focussed on preventing Líf from completely losing it, she had something to think about and could keep the depression hovering over her at bay. She badly wanted to crawl into her sleeping bag, pull it up over her head and wait for whatever awful thing might come. She didn’t think for a second that they were going to find anything good, which dragged her down but carried with it the advantage of preventing unrealistic expectations from getting in her way. There was also a peculiar comfort in knowing that although tragedy was around the corner, she would face it with her head held high; she was broken but not defeated. Obviously, it wasn’t as though she had any choice in the matter; one of them had to take charge, and it certainly wasn’t going to be Líf. Let alone Putti, who seemed to have given in to depression and slept curled up on Garðar’s sleeping bag more or less all day.

‘We should eat something.’ Katrín adjusted her position where she sat on a mattress in the dining room. Her foot was troubling her less and less; the pain was just as bad but she’d grown used to it, and the painkillers took away the worst of it. She suspected that this was a bad omen and that under normal circumstances what was most dangerous for her now was lack of immediate medical attention, not falling prey to the unfathomable and the unknown. ‘Aren’t you hungry?’ They hadn’t had anything to eat since waking up; the day had passed without them paying any attention to their appetites. Now it was evening. Katrín didn’t particularly feel like eating, but knew it wasn’t wise to sleep on an empty stomach. She was afraid of waking up hungry in the middle of the night and having to stumble to the kitchen alone in the dark. That was out of the question.

Líf stared at the open doorway as if wanting to say something to someone standing just inside it. ‘Do you think if someone does something bad, they always get punished for it?’ She fiddled listlessly with the tattered cigarette packet. There was only one cigarette left inside.

‘What are you on about now?’ Katrín prepared to pull herself to her feet. If she knew her at all, Líf would follow her. ‘Some people get what’s coming to them, others don’t. Somehow my instinct tells me that the mess we’ve ended up in isn’t payback for past sins, if that’s what you mean. I can’t imagine we’ve done anything awful enough to deserve this.’ Her battered nerve endings sent her brain a desperate message to keep quiet. Putti seemed to sense this; he raised his head and looked at her with dark, melancholy eyes that seemed to tell her that there was nothing to be done. This was bad, and it would only get worse. Yet the pain in her foot told her that she was still alive; soon she would feel nothing.

‘I think this is revenge on us. Maybe the dead will work together and help each other carry it out. What do you think?’ Líf sounded half-dead herself.

‘I think that doesn’t make any sense. I mean, what could Garðar have done to deserve…’ She couldn’t complete the sentence; she didn’t want to, and indeed she didn’t know how to. What had happened to Garðar? Líf looked at Katrín and opened her mouth as if to say something, then closed it again. Katrín turned back to the dark doorway, which the flickering candlelight wasn’t strong enough to illuminate properly. ‘Come on. Let’s eat. You’ll feel better afterwards, and maybe you’ll see how ridiculous this is when your blood sugar level rises. We mustn’t give up on ourselves completely.’ Putti stood up and hobbled on sore paws towards Katrín. His breed wasn’t meant to live under these conditions, and they were starting to take their toll on him.

‘Some people die of blood sugar levels that are too high.’ Líf didn’t look as if she was about to move. She laughed dryly and her shoulders shook beneath the blanket she’d wrapped around herself. ‘And others, too low.’ Again she laughed, but stopped without completing the laugh normally, laughing for one second and then staring straight ahead as if in shock the next.

‘We’re in no danger of either. I can promise you that.’ Katrín supported herself on the wall as an intense pain in her foot passed up her leg. Líf made no indication of either saying anything or getting up. ‘If you don’t come with me you’ll be here alone in the dark. Putti’s coming with me, and I’ll take the candle as well.’ There was no reason to take Líf’s candle; there were enough of them in the kitchen. This was a desperate attempt to get Líf to stand up and come with her. Katrín would never admit it out loud, but she simply didn’t have the nerve to go alone, whether Putti went with her or not. ‘You decide.’

Líf turned her head slightly to face Katrín. The dancing candle flame was reflected in her pupils, making it look as if something were squirming in her eyes. ‘I don’t want to die, Katrín. Not alone.’ She stood up. When she walked away her gait was like Putti’s, suggesting surrender and hopelessness; the steps of a doomed prisoner going to his execution.

‘You’re not going to die.’ Katrín’s words sounded to her like a lie, or a bad joke. ‘We’ll feel better after we’ve eaten.’ She didn’t want to say more, but she knew she would have to get Líf to understand that they needed to go out before nightfall. It was best to wait to tell her this until after they were full and hopefully feeling a bit braver. A ghastly smile crept over Katrín’s lips; as if food could overcome the dread that possessed them both! But they needed firewood, and they all had to go out to relieve themselves. Besides, they could call out for Garðar, send his name out into the darkness in the faint hope that he would hear it and follow it back. How ridiculous. ‘Take the candle with you, Líf. We need to be able to see.’

The shadows the orange light cast over Líf’s face gave her a terrifying aspect; her eyes sunken into black pools and her bones jutting out as if the flesh had retreated. The ghostlike effect wasn’t lessened when she spoke. ‘What do you think happened to Garðar?’ she whispered, as if not wanting anyone to hear her.

‘I don’t know, Líf. Hopefully he just ran into some difficulty and had to take shelter in another house. Maybe he’s unable to get back here – if he got injured or knocked out or something.’ Katrín bit her lip, hoping she wasn’t right to think that Garðar wasn’t anywhere inside, but rather lying in the open air with the cold snow as a mattress and nothing but the merciless wind as a blanket. ‘He’s probably at the doctor’s house.’ Katrín felt as if she could influence reality just by saying this. As if the universe was waiting for her to dictate his fate. ‘That must be where he is.’

‘Then why don’t we go there?’ The hope that filled Líf’s eyes was nearly enough to balance out the shadows from the candle and make her face look human again. ‘I could help you, and it would take us no time at all. Please.’

‘I can’t make it, Líf. We’d need to cross the stream and my foot is worse. I can’t make it over on one foot, and it would be risky for you to carry me piggyback. What if you slipped and we fell into the icy water? We’d freeze to death before we made it back inside. You could go alone, of course, but I’m not sure you have the nerves for it. Am I wrong?’ Katrín held her breath for fear that Líf would suddenly offer to go. It would probably mean the end for both of them if they parted.

‘He won’t be there either.’ Líf’s tone was once more full of surrender; the spark of hope that had been audible when she still clung to the illusion that if they got out of this house, things would be all right had been extinguished just as quickly as it had ignited. She looked at Katrín. ‘But you should know one thing. It’s better to lose your husband because he died than because he left you for another woman.’

‘Stop it.’ Katrín felt a surge of desperate anger envelop her and she had the urge to slap Líf in the face. She didn’t want to hear her potential fate put into words, and certainly not from Líf, like this. It was unfair to compare her relationship with Garðar to the one that Líf and Einar had ripped to shreds between them. But then her anger vanished, and sorrow was waiting to take its place. Katrín knew that if she gave in to tears it would be difficult to stop them; she forced down a huge lump in her throat and cleared it. ‘We should talk about something else. Garðar will come back. You can be sure of that.’

Líf didn’t reply, and they said nothing until they’d got into the kitchen and lit a new candle. Their stock had been dwindling rapidly but the need for light overcame common sense, and just to be able to see reasonably well perked them up enough for them to eat something. Neither had any appetite, so they made do with taking whatever they found in the boxes and laying it out on the kitchen table. Putti was given a slice of liverwurst, in which at first he seemed to have no interest, but then started to eat slowly and steadily.

‘I hate milk biscuits.’ Still, Líf didn’t let that stop her from taking another bite of biscuit number two. ‘There’s no point in eating them somehow. They taste of nothing, they’re hard and dry, and you’d think they’d been made in a cement factory.’ She took a drink from the milk carton and frowned. The milk wasn’t off, but since she had no appetite it was difficult getting anything down.

Katrín smiled and hoped it was a good sign that they were able to talk about something besides their situation. Maybe soon she could suggest that they go out for some fresh air. They had to fetch firewood and Putti surely had to pee, though he wasn’t showing any signs of it. She didn’t feel she wanted to let him go out by himself, in case he ran off and never came back. In case the child got him as it had got Garðar. She swallowed a dry mouthful of the flatbread she’d been nibbling. ‘I hate flatbread.’ Neither of them smiled.

The floor creaked sharply and they looked at each other, their pupils wide in the dull light. ‘What was that?’ asked Líf, through a mouthful of biscuit. ‘It sounded like it was right behind me. Is someone there? Is that fucking child standing behind my chair?’ Líf’s voice sounded like she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Her eyes bulged and she hadn’t blinked since their terrified gazes had met.

There was a certain security in looking only into Líf’s eyes and Katrín had no desire to turn her gaze elsewhere, least of all in the direction from which the sound had come. But she did just that, shifting her eyes slightly to the side without moving her head so that she could let them flick back to their place if she saw something bad. But she saw nothing in either direction. ‘There’s nothing there.’ Neither of them found much consolation in this and they continued to stare distraught at each other, waiting for the inevitable second creak that would surely follow. Despite their anticipation, they were startled nevertheless when it came, especially Líf as she turned her back to the sound.

This noise was followed by a low whine from Putti, which had little effect since the floor creaked again, now slightly more softly. This was followed by a whisper, just like the one that Katrín thought she’d heard before but hadn’t wanted to mention. Since she was always alone when it came, she hadn’t wanted the others to think she was hallucinating or deranged. But despite her hope that the others would hear this unbearable voice, she took no comfort in the fact that Líf was hearing it now. Katrín actually felt even worse on seeing her look so frightened. Now she could no longer flirt with the idea that she’d just been hearing things. ‘Who said that?’ Líf seemed on the verge of tears and Katrín didn’t feel much better.

‘I don’t know,’ Katrín whispered, so softly she could barely hear herself. ‘I don’t know.’ The words sounded better the second time as Katrín’s courage rose again, but it was rising and falling like ocean waves. ‘What did you hear it say?’ She leaned closer to Líf, making sure not to look past her for fear of seeing the outline of the boy deep in the darkness of the kitchen.

‘O-o-op-open it.’ Tears were pouring down Líf’s cheeks. They gleamed, making it look as if she was weeping gold.

Katrín had heard the same thing. ‘Open what?’ She asked the question softly, without expecting an answer. Again the words sounded behind Líf. Katrín felt goose bumps spring up on her arms and she clamped her eyes shut as Líf let herself slump forward onto the kitchen table. She didn’t want to see what was behind her friend, but her eyes immediately snapped back open, making her flight from reality last only a second. It hadn’t been intentional; Putti had stepped on her injured foot as he sought shelter between her legs. The pain was unbearable and Katrín cried out. This earthbound, vivid feeling of pain cleared a path for her back to common sense. It also helped that there was nothing to see behind Líf, besides a crowbar propped up against the wall near where Garðar had been working in the night. Katrín got up. ‘I’m going to see whether there’s a hole there where this whispering could be coming from.’ Líf shook as she lay face down on the table and said something inaudible. But Katrín had made her decision.

She hopped to the wall where the sound had originated from, concentrating on taking care with the candle flame. There was nothing strange to see, although Katrín was seized with the vague feeling that something was sharing the immediate vicinity with her. She half expected to feel a warm breath creep beneath her neckline, but nothing happened. The only thing she sensed was an unpleasant, powerful smell ascending from below, not unlike the one that had emanated from Líf after she’d come down the stairs. She let herself sink to her haunches to better view the floor, with all her weight on her good foot. It was difficult and the intensifying pain strengthened her resolve. Damn it, nothing could happen that wasn’t going to happen anyway. It was only a question of taking it kneeling down or standing on her feet, boldly. She tried not to think that Garðar had probably gone missing because of his boldness, and they had escaped the same fate by being cautious. ‘Jesus.’ She raised the hand not holding the candle to her face and stuck her nose and mouth into the crook of her elbow. The fungus or mould had actually spread, nearly hiding the wood beneath the new planks under its green patina.

‘What?’ Líf had risen and turned in her chair. She clearly found it better to have what she knew in the foreground, rather than in the darkness that could hide anything at all. ‘What’s there?’

‘A disgusting smell and a disgusting growth, like what we saw on the floorboards, remember?’ Katrín’s voice was muffled as she spoke into her arm, but Líf seemed to understand every word. ‘Only much, much more of it.’ Katrín moved the candle closer and spotted a little area next to the wall that the green slick seemed not to have reached. She brought the candle flame as close to it as she could, having to use both her hands to do so.

‘Don’t breathe in that stuff!’ Líf stood up and covered her mouth. Putti moved over to her and stood pinned against her legs, from where he stared dejectedly at Katrín. He whined softly, once.

‘I’m dead anyway if this is dangerous. Both of us are.’ Katrín squinted in order to see better. ‘There are hinges here. It’s probably an old trapdoor.’ She turned to Líf. ‘There’s something under the floor. Maybe we’ll finally get an explanation for all the disturbances in the house.’

It didn’t look as if Líf were desperate for an answer. ‘If that bloody child is under there, do we really want to be opening it for him? Have you lost your mind?’ When Katrín didn’t reply, but instead shifted herself enough to be able to reach the crowbar, she added: ‘Why do you think the man who lived here before laid a new floor over this trapdoor? He knew that there was something bad under the floor. Don’t open it, Katrín.’ She was commanding, pleading and horror-struck all at once.

‘He probably never saw these hinges. I didn’t notice them until now, after the mould spread through the wood and uncovered them. They’re all the way up against the wall so they could have been lying partly under the old skirting board. Plus there’s not much light in here, in case you hadn’t noticed.’ Katrín tried to find the outline of the trapdoor, without success. She took the crowbar and tried to stick it between the planks where she thought the end of the trapdoor might be, but nothing happened, so she tried the next ones with the same result; the same went for the two other pairs of remaining planks before the new floor material took over again. She hesitated and realized that there were perhaps other hinges on the side opposite to where she’d been trying and that the end of the trapdoor was on the other side. She shifted awkwardly again to apply the crowbar to that spot.

‘Katrín. Don’t do this. What will you do after you’ve opened it? Stick your head into the hole? It was impossible to determine whether Líf was concerned mainly about Katrín’s head or her own safety if it were cut off. ‘Please. Don’t do this. At least wait until morning.’

It was too late. The floor broke open when Katrín finally found the right spot. She was terribly scared, and what Líf had just said was weighing heavily on her mind. If she let go of the crowbar the hatch would probably drop down through the opening. The latch that held it up, as well as the old hinges, had creaked; all three had probably given under the force. But what then? Was she going to stick her head down there? Hardly. ‘Hand me your camera, Líf. Isn’t there still some life left in its battery?’

‘What?’ Líf stared dumbly at Katrín, but then came to her senses and nodded. She looked around and spied the camera where she’d left it. She grabbed it and walked over to Katrín but before handing it over, she hugged the pink device to her chest as if she had changed her mind, but then changed it back again and extended her hand. ‘Please, be quick about it and then shut that sodding hatch tightly again.’

Katrín took the camera and let go of the crowbar, causing the hatch to fall with a drawn-out creak. She didn’t tell Líf, but there was no way that she could manage to put it back in its place. A cloud of dust nearly suffocated the candle flame. Katrín leaned away from the opening to avoid inhaling it, but found from the dry taste in her mouth that she was too late. She looked at Líf and read everything that needed to be said from her terrified look. If this was a mistake, it was too late to regret it. Putti neither whined nor barked, but looked almost disappointed in her. Katrín turned her eyes away from the two of them and stared at the black hole now gaping before her. She shook herself and turned on the camera, her hand trembling. Then she reached out as far as she dared. She was still trembling uncontrollably when she stuck the hand holding the camera down through the hole, her index finger prepared to snap a photo. In fact, she half expected to lose her hand and so had chosen the left one. When the camera had gone far enough down she pressed the button, the bright flash sending a blaze of light up through the opening as if a bomb had exploded beneath the house. She turned the camera slightly and pressed it again, then turned it around and pressed a third time. Although it was impossible to know how successful she’d been or if she’d managed to capture whatever lay below, she didn’t have the nerve to continue and pulled her arm back up with a speed that she didn’t know she was capable of.

‘Show me the photos!’ Líf held her hands to her chest as if she expected to have a heart attack as soon as Katrín revealed what she’d captured.

Katrín said nothing. She slid herself on her bottom across the floor and away from the opening as she brought up the first photo, and as soon as she felt her back hit the kitchen cabinet she peered at the screen. When her eyes had taken in what appeared to be lying on the dirt floor in one corner of the frame, she swallowed and looked at Líf. ‘They’re bones. Human bones. A dead person in the crawl space beneath our feet.’

Líf grabbed her mouth. ‘Garðar?’ It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since they’d seen him last, but nothing was logical any more in this place.

Katrín didn’t reply, and instead pressed the arrow button she thought would bring up the next photo. Another photo did appear, but instead of it being another shot from the crawl space, she’d gone in the opposite direction and was now viewing the oldest photo on the camera. She looked at it in exhaustion and felt her lower jaw slacken. She pushed the button again and saw the next oldest, then again and again and again until she realized this was no misunderstanding. She looked up and stared at Líf.

‘What? Is it Garðar?’ Líf seemed terrified, but also uncertain, given Katrín’s impenetrable look. ‘Is he dead?’

Katrín didn’t reply immediately, and instead scrambled to her feet. The pain plaguing her foot didn’t touch her; it simply didn’t matter. After standing up she threw the camera at Líf, who caught it in surprise. Katrín suppressed her longing to spit, and made do with hissing: ‘You know what?’ Her voice was as cold as the ice that now enclosed her heart. ‘I really hope he is.’