Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - I Remember You

Putti had stayed right up close to Katrín the entire time, shadowing her almost as if they shared one body. ‘He hasn’t left my side; that’s not his doing.’

Garðar squatted down and aimed the torch at the puddle. ‘No, it’s just water.’ He shone the torch along the floor of the hallway leading to the kitchen. More puddles were reflected in the light. Garðar stood up so quickly that Katrín barely managed to move aside. ‘Jesus.’ His voice was a whisper now, and Katrín’s heart began pounding in her chest like never before. Putti sensed that something was wrong and whined again.

‘What?’ Katrín whispered back. She desperately longed to shut her eyes, throw her arms around Garðar and let him guide her, preferably upstairs and all the way into her sleeping bag. They had heard nothing from Líf and she envied her terribly for not being downstairs with them. Now it appeared that the other option had been better: to hide in the sleeping bag, let Garðar deal with this and hope for the best.

‘These are footprints. Someone’s come in.’ Garðar changed the torch’s setting, dulling the light. ‘They lead into the kitchen.’ This last thing he said in such a low voice that Katrín barely managed to make out the words.

‘Let’s go upstairs.’ She tugged at Garðar, although she knew full well that he would never listen, since there was no sense in going back upstairs if some stranger were there downstairs. It wouldn’t stop that person from visiting them upstairs if he so desired. ‘What should we do if there’s someone there?’

Garðar would probably have replied if the same noisy plank in the kitchen floor hadn’t creaked again. Katrín was so startled that she lost her breath and hid her face in Garðar’s fleece. She felt the tension in every single muscle in his back and how his heart was beating just as fast as hers. ‘Who’s there?’ Garðar’s voice sounded deep and confident, despite everything. ‘Will you please show yourself? We can provide you with shelter, but we don’t want you here if you don’t let us know who you are.’

No reply. The silence in the hallway seemed heavy and dense, as if they were at the bottom of a deep hole. Nevertheless, Katrín wanted to cover her ears; if she heard another creak she would scream with every fibre of her being. Suddenly the silence was broken, but the sound came from an entirely different direction. Líf had heard Garðar and had started to wail something incomprehensible, most likely ordering them to get back upstairs to her. Her shouts broke the trance that had been slowly paralysing them and Garðar headed into the hallway. ‘Will you please come out?’ As before, no one replied.

‘What if he has a knife?’ Katrín whispered in Garðar’s ear as she stood close behind him, holding onto him tightly. It was either follow him or fall behind, and under no circumstances did she want to be left standing alone in the darkness. ‘We left both the bread knife and the meat knife lying there on the table.’

Garðar was silent and took a few determined steps forward. When he suddenly stopped, Katrín realized that they were now standing in front of the kitchen door. She wondered whether she should open her eyes or keep them closed. Yet another creak in the floor, from a distinct direction, helped her decide and she squeezed her eyes shut even tighter. The sound came from the kitchen and the only thing separating them and what caused it was the old, worn-out door. Maybe the person was drawing closer, brandishing two knives. Katrín had to force herself to breathe, so much did this thought unsettle her. Putti growled, quietly but angrily. ‘Don’t open it.’ She couldn’t bring herself to stretch to speak into Garðar’s ear, but instead spoke directly into the nubby texture of his fleece. Her words didn’t have the intended result, because she felt his right arm move in the direction of the door. The floor creaked again, but this time the drawn-out, unbearable sound stopped almost mid-creak as the doorknob and the hinges squeaked.

At first Garðar said nothing and Katrín didn’t dare open her mouth to ask what he could see. Then he took two steps forward and she felt the threshold beneath her feet. ‘What the hell is going on?’ Garðar seemed both surprised and angry. But not afraid.

‘What?’ Katrín could barely sigh this word. She absolutely did not want to hear the answer, but asked anyway. Maybe the unwelcome visitor had stabbed himself with the knife, since Garðar sounded somewhat relieved.

‘There’s no one here.’ Garðar walked so quickly into the kitchen that Katrín lost her grip on him and was left behind on the threshold. She opened her eyes and saw him pulling open the only cupboard that could possibly conceal a person, but it turned out to hold nothing but a broom, which fell out towards him. Next he checked the window, but it was closed and latched from the inside. ‘What the fuck is going on?’ He turned to her. ‘Didn’t you hear the creak before I opened the door? Someone was in here.’

‘Yes.’ Katrín wrapped her arms around her body to protect herself from the cold that she now felt more intensely, deprived as she was of Garðar’s warmth. Incredulous, she tried to understand the situation. She walked into the kitchen to take a better look, and was aware that Putti wasn’t following her. He stood on the threshold, small and pitiful. He was trembling and his short brown fur quivered. She bent down to him and tried to get him to come over, but the dog wouldn’t budge. Katrín stood up and turned back to Garðar. Putti would recover as soon as they went back upstairs. ‘Could it have been a rat?’

‘More like a big, fat person. The floor wouldn’t creak under such a small animal. Even Putti walks around here completely silently, and although he’s not exactly big, I’d like to see a rat his size.’ Nonetheless, Garðar opened the few drawers in the sparse kitchen fittings and shone the torch into each of them. ‘And in any case, I don’t know where one might hide.’ He bent down on one knee and shone the light beneath the cupboard, the stove, and along the entire floor. It gleamed on the same kind of puddles as in the hallway. ‘Nothing here.’ The torch beam stopped at the back wall of the kitchen. ‘What’s that?’ He stood up and walked closer. ‘This wasn’t like this before. Was it?’

Katrín went over to him and stared at the black spot on the floor, which had grown larger. ‘Is this damp? Maybe that’s the explanation for these puddles. It might just be coincidence that they look like footprints.’ Garðar knelt back down and shone the light over the edge of the stain. ‘It looks like mould.’ He stood back up. ‘It looks more green than black to me. But I’m no damp specialist. Maybe it comes in all sorts of colours.’ He sniffed the air. ‘But there’s no mouldy smell here. It smells more like the sea.’

Now it was Katrín’s turn to bend down and examine the watery footprints on the floor. She inhaled carefully through her nose, perceiving a smell that reminded her of the beach. ‘The puddles smell of the sea too, Garðar. It’s probably seawater. That doesn’t leak into a house.’

Garðar came over to her and sniffed one of the puddles. Not stopping there, he stuck his finger into it and tasted the water before Katrín had a chance to stop him. Then he spat on the floor and pushed Putti away when the dog looked as if it was going to lick up what he’d spat out. ‘It’s seawater.’ The torchlight moved up and down as he stood upright once more. ‘I don’t get this; someone must have come in here. I just don’t understand how.’

Katrín was so uncomfortable looking at the wet footprints that she glanced up from the floor and stared at the kitchen table where they’d had hot cocoa before going to bed. A brown ring from Líf’s cup, where the cocoa had splashed out, was still there. But there were other things on the table too: a newspaper that, on closer inspection, appeared to be covering something. ‘Garðar.’ Katrín was rigid with fear, and quite proud of herself for being able to speak at all. ‘Garðar,’ she repeated. ‘Why are the crosses in here again?’