Yrsa Sigurdardottir - Ashes To Dust

Thóra closed the first book and put it at the bottom of the pile. She found the diary from 1973, which stood out as it was the most tattered of all, and the spine cracked as she opened it. She turned to the first page and read the entry for New Year’s Day, in which Alda welcomed the new year and listed, with numbers, what she wanted to accomplish in the next twelve months. Thóra smiled as she read the girl’s resolutions:

1. Go to a foreign country

2. Do homework

3. Get a record player

4. Get a boyfriend

5. Stop thinking about my hair – it will grow

Although she didn’t understand the last item, the rest perfectly suited a fifteen-year-old girl taking her first steps into the adult world. Today this might seem more like a thirteen-year-old’s voice, but in 1973 things clearly moved a bit slower in a teenager’s life. Thóra went on to read about what a drag Alda’s parents had been after the party the night before, and how her little sister Jóhanna still hadn’t got over her fear of the fireworks, which had been even more beautiful than last year. This was followed by a short paragraph in which Alda talked of her concern about fireworks in the Islands, clearly torn between her delight in them and their negative effect on animals. The entry ended with a promise to be sure to make each day exciting enough to deserve a write-up in her new diary.

Thóra read on, through a description of how that long- ago January had been spent. School started again after the Christmas break and Alda appeared not to be disappointed at all, even seeming to look forward to it, according to the diary. She had a crush on someone called Stebbi and had started to think it was mutual, but seemed not to have any interest in Markus except as a friend. It wasn’t clear to Thóra whether the girl had realized how much of a crush he had on her, but all the entries mentioning him were positive and appeared to be written with platonic affection. The fifteenth of January turned out to be a huge watershed, because Alda had kissed Stebbioutside the shop; this page was scribbled all over with hearts and flowers. The next day was less enjoyable because the family kitten went missing, an incident that escalated in drama over the next few days until it was finally found after an extensive search. Thóra wondered if the kitten had been one of the numerous cats left behind in the Islands, their numbers dwindling little by little as the eruption continued. From time to time there were also further reflections on hair that made no more sense to Thóra than the reference at the start of the year. The best that Thóra could come up with was that Alda had cut her hair short and been unhappy with the outcome, but she didn’t completely grasp why this seemed to be of such great concern to her.

At the start of the third week of the month Alda appeared to be very excited about a school dance that was in the offing. It was clearly a big deal, and although Alda didn’t describe it in any great detail she appeared to be looking forward to it and dreading it in equal measure. There was a reference to something all the kids in her class were going to do, but Thóra couldn’t fathom what it was. When it came to the nineteenth of January Thóra was slightly startled. The date had been written at the top, but beneath it the page had been crossed over so heavily and repeatedly with a ballpoint pen that in some places there were holes in the paper. The facing page had been subjected to the same violent treatment. Something had happened, and no matter how Thóra scrutinized the scribbles she couldn’t make out what was written underneath. Perhaps Stebbi, the boy Alda had liked, had jilted her. However, the marks had been made so forcefully that Thóra found this explanation unlikely, even though the writer had been a teenager with raging hormones. She put the diary on her lap.

‘What’s this mess?’ said Bella, pointing at the scrawls. ‘Did a little kid get into the diary?’

That hadn’t crossed Thóra’s mind. It was possible that Jóhanna had scrubbed these lines out in her sister’s book in a fit of pique or a tantrum. ‘I don’t know,’ she replied truthfully. ‘Up until now it has all been rather tidy.’Bella snorted disbelievingly. ‘Yeah, right.’She stared at the scribbled-out pages and Thóra couldn’t help but do the same. The flight attendant announced over the tannoy that they were commencing their descent into Reykjavik and that they should return their seats to the upright position and fasten their seatbelts. ‘Have you ever read about a plane crash in which the only ones who survived were those who put up their tray tables or had the backs of their seats in the upright position?’ asked Bella, loud enough for others to hear. ‘I think they’re just trying to protect the trays and seats if we crash. It’s bullshit.’ The passenger sitting across the aisle gave Bella an affronted look and fastened his table against the seat-back in front of him. Thóra busied herself looking straight ahead and acting nonchalantly. She turned to the next page, which turned out to be empty. There were no entries for the twentieth of January or the twenty-first. ‘Damn,’ she thought; up until now there had not been a single word that might relate to the head and box. The diary had been left behind during the evacuation, so Markus’s only hope was that Alda had written something significant in the entry for the twenty-second, the night the eruption started. Hopefully that page wasn’t empty. Thóra drew a deep breath and crossed her fingers before turning the page.

Luckily, the next page was neither empty nor completely crossed out. Still, it looked as though Alda had been on drugs or had had a fever when she wrote the entry for that day. Thóra couldn’t make head or tail of the text which, unlike Alda’s previous entries, was written in waves all over the page instead of following the lines. The entry was composed of repetitions of the word disgusting disgusting disgusting and several instances of why did I go out? why? why?as well as I want to die. These sentences were all strung together and Thóra couldn’t discern any particular order in them. On a line below this jumble was the sentence:

I’m not going to write any more. I’ll do this for God and Mum and Dad and then I’m going to kill myself. I’m not coming back here.

This appeared to have been written in a calmer state, because the letters were straighter and better formed. There was nothing else. The pen had been dragged down along the margin and at the bottom of the page there was a single word in writing so tiny it was barely legible: Markus

Thóra lowered the book and sighed. Why couldn’t Alda have been clearer? However, this did show something: it strongly suggested that the girl had experienced a shock. If Thóra used her imagination, Markus’s name might be interpreted as a declaration that he could help Alda. On the other hand, her client’s name on the page did not substantiate his statement. After this entry, the diary consisted only of empty pages.

Thóra put down the newspaper. She could take comfort in the fact that the photo on the front page could have been any prosperous fifty-year-old man. There were enough of them around. Hopefully that would be of some consolation to Markus, who stared at her from the grainy image like a convict. The press must have searched high and low for a photograph showing her client with a cruel expression. Although his face was quite blurry, the photo seemed to show a man who was capable of anything. The headline Four Dead – Autopsy Suggests Murder, was positioned in a way that made it quite clear Markus was being portrayed as a criminal. The accompanying article barely elaborated on the headline except to say that Markus Magnusson, Reykjavik businessman, was helping police with their enquiries. A short biographical summary, in a separate box at the bottom of the page, pointed out that Markus had resided in the Westmann Islands at the time the men seemed likely to have been murdered. However, no mention was made of his youth at the time. Markus seemed not to have got around very much, because the photograph from the front page also accompanied an article later in the paper, along with two photos of the excavation site and an aerial photo of Heimaey. It was clear the newsmenhadn’t acquired a copy of the medical examiner’s report, and they still hadn’t connected