Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

“Why?” asked Lára, close to tears.

“The livestock died because Gudný couldn’t care for them after her father died. She was mortally ill herself. When Dad finally got in touch with her, the animals were beyond saving. The smell was horrible. He set the outhouses on fire, and buried the animals, to conceal the fact that he hadn’t helped his brother and niece. Of course, he should have looked after the animals for Gudný, after she was bedridden.” The old woman blinked hard. “He didn’t even check whether all the animals were dead. At least one of the cows was still alive. I saw her at the window, maddened with fear. I still see her today, when I close my eyes.”

“I’m not talking about the cattle,” said Lára. “Why did he do that to Gudný’s daughter? I’m trying to understand.” She felt tears running down her own cheeks now.

“Kristín,” said Málfrídur. She opened her eyes and gazed up at the white ceiling. “Dad hated her. I didn’t understand at first. She was so sweet and gentle, so quiet, but such a lovely girl. She was a few years younger than me, and for the few days she was with us, after Dad brought her and Gudný to our house, she was mostly busy taking care of her mother. Dad didn’t want to go into the room because he was afraid of infection, but the little girl sat with her, fed her, and tried to make her as comfortable as possible, until her mum died one night.

“Kristín was special, but Dad couldn’t see it. I was so happy to have her with us, and I assumed naïvely that she would stay on with us after her mother died. That didn’t happen.” Málfrídur paused. “Instead of allowing her to live with us, he decided to kill her and obliterate any sign that she had ever existed. When Kristín was born, he hoped she would catch tuberculosis from her grandfather and die before she came of age, so he never filled out a birth certificate for her, because he saw a bastard child as a blot on the family. That turned out well for him later.”

“Why did he do it?” asked Lára. “I’d happily have taken in Gudný’s child and loved her like one of my own. She would have been no trouble to him.”

Málfrídur turned to face her. “He was eaten up with rage at being dependent on her. Dad had lost everything. His brother, Bjarni, had helped him out by buying the farm and guaranteeing all the debts, but instead of making Dad happy, it sowed the seed that destroyed him in the end. He committed suicide, mad with self-hatred and shame over what he had done for money. He told me everything before he killed himself. I think he wanted absolution, but I couldn’t give it to him. I was appalled by his cruelty. Although I saw what happened, and I knew the facts, more or less, I was horrified when he confirmed what I’d suspected.” Málfrídur gazed up at the ceiling again. “I had the inscription on his gravestone cut in keeping with the way he lived his life: ‘Bloody is the heart.’ ” She fell silent again, then coughed feebly. “It has affected me all my life. I let her down, and I’ve lived in constant fear that she would come back to haunt me. And she has, in a way. Until now it has only been in the form of a bad conscience, but now she has visited me in a dream.”

“I shall have her dug up,” said Lára, who wanted to leave. She had had enough. “And have her buried next to her mother. I can’t keep quiet over this.”

Málfrídur raised herself up from the bed a little, for the first time since Lára’s arrival. “There’s no need. I’ve made sure that it happens.”

Lára looked at her without comprehension. “The child hasn’t been found yet,” she said.

“Then something’s gone wrong,” said the old woman. “I told my granddaughter, Berta, Elín’s girl, about it, and she said everything would be all right. She promised to take care of it.” She smiled feebly at Lára. “It’s strange—I couldn’t tell my children about it, but then Berta came to see me. There’s something about the lass that reminded me of Gudný and the little girl. She’s a good soul, Berta. She’ll do the right thing.”

Lára stood up. Rage suddenly flared up in her. “I wouldn’t be surprised if she turned out to have more in common with your father than with Gudný and her daughter.”

“We’ll simply have to hope that Málfrídur’s remorse can withstand the challenge. She may not be so truthful when she realizes what’s in store for her own grandchild,” said Thóra. She said goodbye and hung up. No more evidence was needed: Lára’s telephone call confirmed that Berta was the killer. Thóra had pulled over when Lára phoned, and now she drove on at a snail’s pace through the thick fog toward Tunga. Here and there the fog lifted slightly, and bizarre shapes appeared in the mossy lava field. She felt a shiver down her spine as the fog thickened once more, swallowing the weird forms. Thóra hoped she was on the right road. It was only a stone’s throw, but due to the poor visibility, she drove slowly and she’d lost her bearings.

Suddenly an outstretched arm seemed to appear out of the fog; it was the sign for the farm of Tunga. She turned down the drive and speeded up slightly. A little farther on she saw the farmhouse looming in the fog, with Thórólfur’s car outside. She parked next to it and saw it was empty. She went over to the entrance, but after a few steps she froze. From the fog she could hear a baby’s low wailing. She turned, trying to determine where the sound was coming from, but without success. The crying stopped as suddenly as it had begun, and Thóra rubbed her arms to calm the shudder that had run through her. What the hell was that? Could a woman be wandering around with a baby in the fog? Thóra squinted, attempting to see better. She jumped when she saw a movement where she thought the stables ought to be. Propelled by curiosity, she went in that direction, taking care to tread softly on the gravel.

She had reached the stables when the crying started again. She looked back, but saw nothing, then jumped when she heard a loud crash behind her. The stable door was unfastened, and it was banging against the wall. Someone had clearly left it open. Thóra hurried out of sight when she heard movements inside the stables. She pressed against the wall, hoping she couldn’t be seen in the fog. She caught a glimpse of a human figure in the doorway, and watched someone emerge from the stables and close the door. Thóra quickly realized she couldn’t hide any longer.

“Hello, Berta,” she said. “What are you doing here?”

The girl was taken aback. She turned and looked at Thóra, wideeyed. “Me?” she said. “Nothing.”

“I saw you come out of the stables,” said Thóra. “Do you know the people here?”

The cries started up again and Berta peered out into the fog. “I heard the crying and I came out to check,” she said, shuffling her feet.

“Inside the stables?” asked Thóra. “That noise is clearly coming from outside.” She looked at the girl, who was chewing her lower lip. “Berta, you must realize it’s over,” she said calmly. “Kristín’s body has been found. There’s no point in trying to put off the inevitable. Why don’t you come with me and talk to Thórólfur? He’s from the police and he’s here at the farm.” Thóra pointed in what she thought was the direction of the farmhouse. She could now hardly see anything in the fog.

“What do you mean?” asked Berta. Her attempt at nonchalance was belied by the tremor in her voice. “What’s that?” she asked, as the wailing grew louder and more insistent.

“It’s probably the ghost of a baby left out to die,” said Thóra calmly. “Or your relative, little Kristín. I gather your grandmother’s already seen her.” Thóra was relying on Lára’s hazy account of Málfrídur’s dream, in which Kristín had supposedly appeared. “Come on,” she said, “we’re better off going indoors than standing out here, waiting for the ghost to circle us three times. I think it may already have gone around once.”