Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - I Remember You

Katrín knew he was right, though he could have worded it more tactfully. But she refrained from pointing out his lack of tact; the last thing they needed in this lonely place was to end up pissed off with each other. ‘Okay. But it’s pretty strange, you must admit.’

‘Strange? It’s not just strange,’ cried Líf. ‘It’s weird .’ She seemed to regret her choice of words and hurriedly added: ‘Was the guy who owned the house not quite right in the head? Can we expect more of this kind of thing?’

Garðar had never properly told Katrín the story of the house – he must have received some information when he purchased it – but she knew this was partly down to her. She had shown limited interest in the project and allowed him to prattle on about renovations, timber, countersinks, et cetera, without joining in. She turned to Garðar. ‘Could he have had something to do with these crosses? What sort of man was the previous owner, anyway?’

Garðar relaxed his right calf and started stretching his left. This seemed more effective, since it made him scowl even harder. ‘There’s only what I’ve already told you. He was just some guy, and no, I don’t think these crosses can be connected to him in any way. He acquired the place long after the crosses were put on the graves, judging by the dates on them.’ He relaxed his calf and moved away from the wall. ‘He was also a bit of a loner, unmarried and childless, so I don’t think he’d have brought the crosses with him from Reykjavík. He never lived here or in Ísafjörður.’

‘Could he have had a wife that he never told anyone about?’ Líf’s voice trembled slightly. ‘Have had a child with her and then killed them?’

Garðar looked at the ceiling in exasperation. ‘Somehow I doubt it. He would have had to have been an extremely early starter; the guy would hardly have been more than ten years old when this Hugi was born.’ He sighed. ‘The crosses have nothing to do with the house, and they were probably put there by some tourist or God knows who.’

‘I woke up to the sound of someone talking last night.’ Líf pursed her lips until they went white. ‘I don’t know why I didn’t tell you about it this morning, but it seemed to be coming from the ground floor. There’s something wrong with this house.’

‘That’s enough.’ Garðar seemed unhappy about the way the conversation was developing. No doubt he missed having Einar there, or simply any other man who he could roll his eyes at. ‘You dreamt it. It’s true that there’s plenty wrong with this house, but it all has to do with maintenance, which is why we’re here.’ He shook his head and muttered: ‘Voices. Jesus.’

‘I know what I heard. And it was just one voice. A child’s voice.’ The house’s woodwork cracked loudly just as Líf said this, and she jumped.

‘See.’ Garðar sounded triumphant. ‘That’s what you heard. Houses make all sorts of noises, especially old wooden shacks like this. You’re just more aware of it at night when everything’s quiet.’

‘It wasn’t a creak like that. It was a voice.’

Katrín didn’t want to hear any more about Líf’s dreams. She didn’t want to fuel her own imagination with the idea that every crack or creak of the house was a voice speaking or whispering. ‘I agree with Garðar, Líf; you dreamt it. You know how it is when you’re drowsy, you start imagining all sorts of nonsense.’ Before Líf could reply, she turned to Garðar. ‘But even if the guy didn’t have any children, he must have had heirs. Why didn’t they want to keep the house?’ In a way this was an odd question; the house was dilapidated, yet according to the skipper who had sailed them to the area, property here was sought after.

‘How would I know? Maybe they’re all old and have no interest in making the trip out here. There’s no electricity and the house is in need of repairs, which is something not everyone is willing to deal with. Maybe the people needed their money more than some shack in the middle of nowhere. There are probably a million reasons. I didn’t want to start asking the estate agent about some dead guy, even if you wouldn’t have hesitated.’

‘Well, I wouldn’t.’ Though Líf said this, Katrín knew better. Líf wasn’t much given to verbosity; things were either wonderful or rubbish, and decisions were made without much reflection. Her and Einar’s strong financial situation had perhaps inspired her response; the consequences of blundering into some sort of badly thought out plan were never so awful that it made much difference one way or another. Katrín found the discussion of the house’s previous owner a welcome distraction and she regretted having made a big deal about the crosses; she particularly regretted having made Garðar hobble out on his sore feet, and having startled Líf. She was embarrassed that she hadn’t simply grabbed the crosses and brought them in, but it was too late now. She would have to fix this by shaking off the unpleasant feeling their isolation seemed to inspire in her and make sure that Líf didn’t sense it – she seemed to be in such a state that the slightest sign of anxiety on Katrín’s part would fuel her fear. Katrín stood up and went over to Garðar. ‘Aren’t you glad we weren’t with you? The estate agent would probably have cancelled the sale.’ She put her arms around him. Through his thick clothes she could feel warmth emanating from him and hoped that it was mutual, though he seemed distant and didn’t return the embrace. He was probably uncomfortable in front of Líf, since he was never one for public displays of affection. Yet Katrín had the sneaking suspicion that there was more to it, and that Garðar knew more about the house’s owner than he was willing to admit.

‘I am, very glad.’ Garðar pushed a curl that had detached itself from the rest of Katrín’s tangled mess of hair out of her eyes. He looked past her and winked and smiled at Líf. Katrín couldn’t see Líf’s reaction, but she hoped that this friendly display would calm her down. Garðar turned back to his wife and put his arms around her. ‘Shall we stop chattering and get back to work?’

Katrín sighed. ‘I’ve hardly got the energy to paint any more today; isn’t there something that we can do with our eyes shut?’ She felt too content in Garðar’s arms to tear herself away from him and resume working. The sun had sunk even lower in the sky since the food had been put on the table and all at once it was as if darkness was descending. Suddenly the kitchen didn’t seem as ugly; the yellowed paint on the walls looked less patchy and the stains of years gone by faded into the background.

Garðar squeezed Katrín slightly awkwardly before loosening his grip. ‘We can take better advantage of the rest of the light if we do something outside. We could start ripping out the rotten planks from the porch. It’ll warm us up as well. Come on, Líf, some fresh air will perk you up.’

‘Well I’m not going to stay in here by myself.’ Líf’s voice seemed to have regained its former assurance and she sounded normal again. She smiled at them and emerged from the corner. ‘It’s probably warmer outside than in. I’m freezing to death.’ She nudged Putti with her toe and he woke with a start, looking embarrassed at not having remained on the alert. He stood up and stretched with a yawn.

As soon as Líf said this, Katrín felt the cold that had crept over them like the dusk. She automatically zipped her fleece all the way up her neck and pulled its sleeves over her fingers. They would certainly warm up working outside. ‘Me neither. We’re definitely lighting the stove as soon as we come back in. Screw sparing the firewood.’ Still, the longer they waited to light the fire, the better. The amount of firewood had seemed endless as they carried it from the pier, but last night when they’d fetched some logs to fire up the stove before they went to bed for the night, the stack had looked worryingly low. None of them wanted to spend their final evenings shivering, so they had agreed to light the stove as little as possible.