Yrsa Sigurdardóttir - My Soul to Take

Berta looked at Thóra feverishly. She was deathly pale, her eyes bloodshot. “How did they find Kristín?” she mumbled.

“That’s not important,” said Thóra. “It had to happen, and it’s just as well it has. Now you have to face the music.”

“Mum and I will lose everything,” said Berta suddenly. Thóra was not sure whether she was talking to her or to herself. “And Steini. We own the house he lives in. His parents sold up and moved to Reykjavík. He’ll have to move in with them.” She looked out into the fog and took a deep breath.

Thóra saw tiny beads of perspiration on her forehead and temples. The wailing grew quieter and then faded away. Berta seemed to calm down a little.

“There are worse things than losing your property,” said Thóra. She couldn’t help adding, “Like losing your life.”

Now Berta looked at her. “Birna didn’t deserve to live, and neither did Eiríkur. They weren’t nice people. She blackmailed the old man, and Eiríkur tried to get money out of me. He rang me and said he’d seen me leave the séance. He said he’d tell Mum and get her to pay him to keep his mouth shut. He thought we were filthy rich because of all the properties we own here. I told him to meet me at the riding stables, and then . . . you know.”

“Yes, unfortunately I do,” said Thóra. She wondered how the girl could give the impression of being so sane and normal when she was clearly deranged. “I read Birna’s autopsy report. It said she was struck repeatedly in the face with a rock. Were you hoping she wouldn’t be identified?” asked Thóra.

“No,” gasped Berta. “I was going to hit her in the back of the head, but she turned around too quickly and I hit her in the face. She must have heard me coming. I was going to make it look as if her head had knocked against the rocks on the shore when she was being raped, but hitting her in the face made that impossible. I’d planned it so carefully. I picked the day of the séance and made sure people noticed me there. I sat at the back and sneaked out once the medium had the audience’s attention, and then I used the canoe to get there quickly. I heard about the boat from Sóldís, and I knew the owner wasn’t staying much longer, so I had to do it then.” She gritted her teeth. “Sóldís talks a lot. I heard about Jónas’s medication from her, and also that he was in the habit of leaving his mobile phone lying around. She also told me what the sex therapist sold, and other things that came in useful.” Berta sighed, and her eyes filled with tears. “It was all supposed to go perfectly, but it still went wrong. Birna didn’t die from the first blow, so I had to hit her again and again. And again.” She looked down at her feet. “I thought I’d throw up when the gulls flew down.”

Thóra was close to vomiting herself, but she steeled herself and kept talking. This was clearly her one chance to talk to the girl. “Why did you stick pins in the soles of their feet?”

“I wanted to make sure their spirits wouldn’t walk. That does no one any good, neither the departed nor those of us who live on,” said Berta, who looked like she was about to faint.

“Are you all right?” Thóra asked anxiously. “What were you doing in there?” Thóra wondered if she had taken something. Then she realized that it was because the girl’s life was collapsing around her.

“I was planting the drugs,” said Berta tonelessly. “I hoped it would cast suspicion on Bergur and Rósa if Jónas was released. I was worried the police might find out that Jónas didn’t send Birna the text message.” She sighed and looked up at Thóra. “I took his phone. It was all so easy, once I’d decided how to do it. Birna had to be stopped. She wouldn’t listen to me when I told her it was the wrong place to build. If she’d only done as I said, it would all have been all right.” Berta hesitated, then said, “I did it for Steini.” Thóra couldn’t be sure if the girl was justifying herself to her or to herself. “It was the least I could do. What happened to him was my fault—I’d called to ask him to pick me up on the night of the accident. Now he feels bad because he thinks it’s his fault I did it, and he keeps asking me to forgive him. But it was my decision to do it for him, so there’s nothing to forgive. I only did it for Steini.” She collapsed.

“Do you think so?” said Thóra, as she helped the girl to her feet. “I really doubt it.” They walked toward the farmhouse, Thóra supporting Berta so she wouldn’t fall again.

They heard the wailing once more, then just as suddenly it stopped. Thóra was feeling quite unsettled by the time they reached the farmhouse steps, and the girl was shaking like a leaf. Thóra glanced over her shoulder as she rang the doorbell, hoping someone would come quickly. The door opened, revealing Rósa. She said nothing, but gazed past them. Thóra turned, half expecting to see a spectral child pulling itself laboriously up the steps with one arm.

“Gulli!” called Rósa. “There you are, you naughty cat. Where have you been?” The crying had resumed as she opened the door, and now it stopped as she finished speaking. “Puss!” she called in a soothing falsetto. “Come here, you silly cat!” A marmalade tomcat casually strolled up the steps.

The lemonade from the minibar was expensive, but to Thóra it was worth every penny. She put down the can and wrapped the thick white dressing gown more closely around her. She went to the window of her room, opened the curtains a crack, and looked out over Austurvöllur Square. Not many people were around, and the few who were up and about seemed to be the last few stragglers from the previous night’s revelry. Thóra smiled. She let go of the curtain and walked back over to the bed, where Matthew lay asleep. Now that she had finally met someone who was neither divorced nor alcoholic, neither megalomaniac nor sports fanatic, just her luck that he had to be a foreigner who was hardly likely to want to move to Iceland.

Perhaps that was exactly why she liked him.

She heard a faint ringing somewhere in the room and listened carefully to identify where her phone was. Finally she located it in her bag. She answered quickly. “Hello,” she whispered, taking the phone into the bathroom so as not to wake Matthew.

“Mum,” shouted Gylfi, “Sigga’s dying!”

Thóra shut her eyes and put her head in one hand. She had left Sóley with Gylfi and Sigga—mainly so that she could be with Matthew for his last night in Iceland. They would soon be taking care of a baby, so they ought to be able to babysit a six-year-old for one night, and Sigga had hitherto shown no signs of going into labor.

“Gylfi, sweetheart,” she said, “she’s not dying. The baby’s coming.” She heard Sigga moaning in the background. “Is she in a lot of pain?”

“She’s dying, Mum,” said her son. “Really. Listen.” The moans grew louder, then suddenly stopped. “It comes and goes,” he added.

“She’s in labor, darling,” said Thóra, more calmly than she felt. “I’m on my way. Get yourself and your sister dressed. If Sigga feels able to get dressed, that would be good, but otherwise she can go as she is.” Thóra opened the bathroom door and went back into the bedroom. “Has Sigga called her mum? Is she on her way?” she asked as she pulled her clothes on.

“No,” said Gylfi firmly. “Sigga wants me to call, but I won’t. She’s horrible.”

Thóra couldn’t disagree, but she urged him to ring all the same, as Sigga’s parents would certainly want to be there for their daughter. It would be the last straw for Sigga’s mum and dad if Gylfi failed to let them know.