The Shadow District

5

She nearly jumped out of her skin when she heard someone knocking at the front door. It was late and she instinctively knew it must be the police, and that they had come for her.

She and Frank had fled over Arnarhóll in the teeth of a vicious north wind, down onto Kalkofnsvegur, and from there had walked towards Lækjargata and the centre of town, trying to act as if nothing had happened. In her mind’s eye she could still see the girl lying in the doorway behind the theatre, and knew she would never be able to wipe the image from her mind. She couldn’t understand Frank’s reaction, their idiotic flight from the scene. His decision to run had been spontaneous; she had wanted to fetch the police. When they finally slowed down he had tried to communicate his reasons. It was none of their business. The girl was dead. They couldn’t help her now. Someone else was bound to find her soon and then the problem would go away.

People were scurrying out of the icy wind into cinemas, into cafes or off to visit friends. Jeeps full of troops roared past along Lækjargata and up Bankastræti. Frank thought they had better split up right away. They could meet again in a few days’ time, in their usual spot behind the cathedral. By then the fuss should have died down. He kissed her goodbye and she hurried home through the centre of town.

Although she knew it was wrong of them to run off and leave the girl like that, part of her was relieved. Perhaps Frank had done the sensible thing after all. She didn’t relish the thought of having to explain to the police, or anyone else for that matter, just what she had been doing with him behind the theatre, why she had been sneaking off into dark corners with a GI. If the news ever got back to her father he would go berserk.

There was another round of knocking on the door downstairs, more insistent this time. Her parents had retired for the night and her two younger brothers were asleep. She had slipped into the house and up to her room as unobtrusively as possible, changed into her nightdress and climbed into bed, but sleep wouldn’t come. She had tried to read a romance but couldn’t tear her thoughts away from the dead girl and Frank.

Damn her, she caught herself thinking, as if it were all the poor girl’s fault.

She heard her father moving about, then every step creaking as he went downstairs. She slid out of bed and pressed her ear to her bedroom door. Perhaps it wasn’t the police after all. Perhaps it was somebody else.

No such luck. Hearing her father call her name, she shrank back and retreated across her room.

‘Ingiborg!’ she heard him shout again. Then a third time, his impatience growing.

Her door opened and her mother poked her head in.

‘Your father’s calling you, dear,’ she said. ‘Didn’t you hear him? The police want to talk to you. What on earth have you been up to?’

‘Nothing,’ she said, aware how miserably unconvincing it sounded.

‘Downstairs with you this minute,’ snapped her mother. ‘Come along. On the double. Goodness, what a to-do!’

She followed her mother out onto the landing and down the first few steps until she could see two men standing in the hall with her father, their faces turned expectantly towards the staircase.

‘There you are,’ said her father in an agitated voice. ‘These gentlemen are from the police.’ He turned to one of them. ‘I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.’

‘Flóvent, sir,’ replied the man. ‘And this is Thorson,’ he added, indicating his companion. ‘He’s here on behalf of the American military police, though strictly speaking he’s Canadian Army. I daresay his Icelandic is better than mine.’

‘I’m Canadian. From Manitoba,’ explained Thorson. ‘My parents emigrated from Iceland.’

Neither man was in uniform. The Icelandic policeman, who looked to be in his thirties, was tall, thin and wiry. Thorson, shorter and stockier, was about ten years his junior. They were both wearing heavy winter coats but had removed their hats when they entered the house.

‘Ah, yes, Manitoba,’ said her father. ‘You don’t say?’ Then he rounded angrily on his daughter. ‘They want to talk to you, Ingiborg, about an incident that took place behind the National Theatre. They won’t tell me what it’s about — they insist on speaking to you first. I want to know what happened. What in God’s name were you doing there?’

She hardly dared look at her father, let alone answer him. The policemen apparently sensed her discomfort.

‘If it’s all the same to you, sir,’ said Flóvent, ‘we’d appreciate a word with your daughter in private.’

‘In private?’ barked her father. ‘Why is that necessary?’

‘If you wouldn’t mind, sir. We can discuss it with you afterwards, if you’d like, together with the young lady.’

‘What is the meaning of this, Ingiborg? Why won’t you answer me?’ Her father raised his voice. ‘Would you mind explaining to me why a representative of the American military police is standing in my hall? Surely, you’re not still carrying on with that soldier? Didn’t I expressly forbid it?’

‘Yes,’ she admitted timidly, not knowing how else to answer.

‘Yet you’re still seeing him? In spite of...!’

For a moment it looked as though he was going to reach up and drag her the rest of the way down the stairs.

‘Calm down, Ísleifur,’ said his wife sharply from where she was standing beside their daughter. ‘I’d rather you didn’t speak like that in front of visitors.’

Her husband got hold of himself. He shot a look at his wife, then at the two policemen who were still standing there holding their hats, growing uncomfortably hot in their thick winter coats. It had been snowing outside and their shoulders were beaded with moisture.

‘I beg your pardon,’ he said.

‘That’s quite all right, sir,’ said Thorson. ‘It’s never pleasant receiving a visit late at night like this. Especially not from the police.’

‘I’ve strictly forbidden her to fraternise with soldiers but it seems she’s determined to disobey me. Doesn’t listen to a word I say. Her mother encourages it — this wilfulness.’

‘If we might... if you would show us to a quiet place where we could have a word with Ingiborg, sir, we’d be very grateful,’ said Flóvent. ‘I assure you it won’t take long. And please excuse us again for disturbing you at such a late hour. We felt it couldn’t wait until morning.’

‘You can use the drawing room,’ said the girl’s mother, coming down the stairs with Ingiborg following on her heels. She cast fearful glances at her father. The last thing she wanted was to anger him; in spite of everything she respected him. She knew she had put him in an awkward position by stubbornly persisting in meeting Frank, and now there were two policemen in their house and it was all her fault.

Her mother showed the men into the drawing room and pushed Ingiborg in after them. Ísleifur made to follow but she stopped him.

‘We can talk to them afterwards,’ she said firmly, closing the door.

‘And her,’ said her husband grimly. ‘She’ll have to answer for her actions, the silly little slut.’

‘That’s enough,’ said his wife, now angry herself. ‘I won’t let you talk about our daughter like that.’

‘But it’s intolerable,’ her husband snapped at her. ‘Don’t you understand? The girl’s up to her neck in the Situation! The police here in our house! How could she do this to me? What do you think people will say? You know there’ll be gossip. I have to think of my reputation. Do you have any idea what that means for a man in my position? It doesn’t even cross your mind, does it? My reputation?’