Арнальдур Индридасон - The Darkness Knows

‘Perhaps we should forget about it,’ Eygló said. ‘But I’ve... the thought’s been bugging me... ever since you...’

‘I can understand that.’

‘Will you let me know if you’re planning to look into it? If you learn anything new?’

‘I will.’

‘Promise?’

‘Yes, of course.’

‘Sorry to disturb you so late. I shouldn’t have called. You’re not in a good way.’

‘No, it doesn’t matter,’ Konrád said.

‘Why... what’s upsetting you?’

‘I’m fine. There’s nothing upsetting me.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, I’m sure.’

‘What happened on that ledge?’ Eygló asked.

‘It was an accident. He fell in the river.’

‘There was something else.’

‘No, nothing else.’

‘Fine, have it your own way,’ Eygló said curtly and hung up on him.

Konrád stroked his withered arm and thought about what Eygló had said, his mind returning yet again to the events on the riverbank. He had been trying to avoid letting it go there because the thoughts were unbearable, but they could be sparked off without warning, for the slightest reason. This time Eygló had been the trigger. She was right, however she had managed to divine his state of mind during their brief phone call. The regret had begun to steal over him as he watched the rescue team doing their utmost to find the man in the river, and slowly but surely the guilt had taken up residence in his soul.

Days had passed and the commotion ran its course. People accepted his explanation. Accepted the testimony of the police officers, and of the witnesses on the opposite riverbank who had seen Lúkas slip and Konrád do his best to save him, almost falling into the Ölfusá himself. The police authorities weren’t going to take any action. The bystanders hadn’t noticed anything beyond what would be considered natural in such an unusual, horrifying situation: Konrád had offered the man a helping hand.

No one except Konrád knew the truth — that he had held out his weak arm, knowing full well that it wouldn’t afford the same help. That too would be forever obscured in darkness.

Sleep wouldn’t come. He stroked his wasted arm and tossed and turned until the early hours, staring up at the ceiling, a succession of images flashing through his mind: Villi lying in the road, the attack on his father by the abattoir, his mother’s fears, Polli howling with pain on Skólavörduholt hill, the psychic Engilbert and his daughter Eygló, Bernhard hanging from the rack in his workshop, and the aghast expression on Lúkas’s face as he clutched at Konrád’s withered arm.

The suffering in his eyes as he confronted death.

And, lastly, Hjaltalín in his prison cell. Those limpid eyes staring at him from the haggard face like twin oases in a desert. ‘If you ever find him,’ Hjaltalín had said in parting, ‘make him pay. Will you do that for me? Will you make him pay for what he’s done to me?’

Not until Konrád finally managed to fix his thoughts on Erna could he find any peace. And as sometimes happened when he felt low and was missing her most, the poignant notes of ‘Spring in Vaglaskógur’ stole into his mind and he slipped into a dreamless sleep, remembering the soft sand in Nauthólsvík Cove, children playing by the water’s edge, and a flower-scented kiss.

As Villi came to, he sensed someone approaching, slowly and warily, through the storm. He heard the crunching of footsteps and what sounded like laboured breathing. He opened his eyes to slits but couldn’t see anyone, only darkness and blinding snow. Yet he had the feeling that someone was there with him, that he wasn’t alone, and the knowledge comforted him.

When he surfaced again, a moment or two later, he saw that someone was kneeling beside him, holding his hand, and he felt warmth on his cold fingers and a warm palm stroking his forehead.

Although he couldn’t see who it was, he felt a strange sense of peace settling over him and relief that he wasn’t alone any more, that someone was there to protect and take care of him.

Next time he awoke, he was able to recognise the figure as the old woman who lived on his street. She had taken pity on him and he could hear her saying something, some words of comfort that touched him, and he felt that everything would be all right now because she was there to take care of him. He tried to tell her about the man who had run him down; how in that split-second glimpse of him hunched over the wheel, he’d known it was the man he’d been talking to at the bar; the man from Öskjuhlíd.

‘I’m... cold,’ he whispered.

The woman laid his head in her lap. ‘Hush-a-bye, baby,’ she said.

His strength was running out. Somewhere far away he heard the woman crooning a refrain from an old nursery rhyme.

Then all went quiet.

‘My poor baby,’ the woman whispered. ‘Oh, my poor little boy...’