The Darkness Knows

32

Konrád parked in front of the foot clinic on Ármúli late the following day and stepped inside, straight into a waiting room where two men and a woman were sitting. He enquired after Helga and was asked to take a seat. After a while, growing restless, he picked up one of the out-of-date gossip magazines. It covered the divorce of a prominent business couple; the annual party at a media company, featuring photos of people he recognised from TV; and the opening of a restaurant offering raw food. There was also a titbit about a house purchase by an influential figure in the business world. Konrád flicked through the magazines one after the other, getting a glimpse into the lives of those in the spotlight and feeling ashamed of himself for his interest.

One by one, the customers were called, until at last one of the podiatrists came out and asked if he was Eiríkur.

‘No,’ Konrád replied.

‘Aren’t you the one with corns?’

‘No,’ he said, ‘and I’m not Eiríkur either.’

At that moment a woman he gathered was Helga appeared, and he asked if they could have a private word. When she asked what he wanted, he mentioned a man called Ingibergur, who’d been at school with her, and a fatal car accident that had taken place several years ago in the Shadow District. Although he wasn’t, strictly speaking, a police officer, he’d been given the job of looking into the accident. This piqued Helga’s curiosity. It turned out that she did indeed remember a boy called Ingibergur from school. She showed Konrád into a small office.

‘Plenty to do,’ he remarked, taking a seat as she closed the door.

‘People want their feet looked after,’ she replied with a brief smile. ‘Look, I don’t understand how... why you want to talk to me. What can I tell you?’

‘I don’t know if you remember, but about seven years ago a man was hit by a car on Lindargata. The driver took off and the man died. His name was Villi and he was a friend of Ingibergur’s. They’d been at a sports bar together that evening but had got separated. I’ve spoken to Ingibergur. He says he saw you at the bar that evening. You were with a couple of girlfriends. He’d been drinking and decided to come over for a chat but lost his nerve. I don’t suppose for a moment that you’ll remember the evening, but I thought it wouldn’t hurt to ask.’

Helga watched him, her expression serious, giving every sign of listening intently. When he had finished, she asked: ‘What about it?’

‘What about what?’

‘What’s it got to do with me?’

‘Do you remember that evening?’ Konrád asked.

‘I remember Ingibergur,’ Helga said. ‘But it wasn’t quite like you described. Was that his version of what happened? I haven’t forgotten. Ingibergur was unbearable at school, always pinching us and making sleazy comments. The evening you’re talking about was my friend’s birthday. The three of us went out to dinner and then on a pub crawl, and ended up at that sports bar. The way I remember it, Ingibergur was totally pissed and there was a snowstorm raging outside.’

‘What about Ingibergur? What did he do?’

‘He came over but we refused to talk to him, so he got angry and started calling us bitches and whores. After that we told him to get lost. I thought he might actually go for us, but instead he started puking up. There were these streams of vomit pouring out of him. He caught most of it in his beer glass but some went on the floor. It was absolutely disgusting. He was such an idiot you wouldn’t believe it. Me and my friends still talk about it when we meet up.’

‘He didn’t mention any of that to me,’ Konrád said.

‘I bet he didn’t. He probably doesn’t even remember. He was paralytic.’

‘But you do know each other?’

‘Well, he was in year eight and nine with me,’ Helga said, ‘but I didn’t really know him.’

‘Do you remember anyone else who was at the bar that evening?’

Helga didn’t even have to think. ‘No.’

‘You didn’t read about the case in the papers at the time? About the hit-and-run? The police appealed for witnesses.’

‘No, I wasn’t aware of that.’

‘There were two men sitting talking at the bar. One of them was Villi. The man he was talking to was wearing a bulky anorak and a baseball cap. I’m trying to find him. The problem is, I don’t know his name and have no idea who he was.’

The door opened and one of the other podiatrists put her head in to say she’d tidied up and was going home. Helga told her she still had some things to finish and that she would close up.

‘I don’t remember that,’ Helga said, once the woman had gone. ‘I’ll ask the girls in case they do, but, you know...’

‘What?’

‘I doubt they’ll be able to tell you anything useful.’