Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - I Remember You

Before he could answer, the sound of a chunk of wood falling in the stove startled them. Garðar’s unsteady hand immediately aimed the torch at the stove and now the wavering beam illuminated the cinder-coloured steel. Katrín was thankful that neither of them had a weak heart and imagined that even if Einar had been alive, he would have suffered heart palpitations that would have led to his death right then and there. ‘Jesus, what a shock.’ Katrín sighed heavily, then gasped when a scruffy old ball Líf had brought along for Putti came rolling slowly out from under the stove. She threw herself back into Garðar’s arms. Through his fleece she once again felt his heart hammering just as fast as her own. ‘Is there something under there?’ She noticed that Putti had retreated into a corner, where he stared at the toy and gave a low growl. Generally the ball made him happy.

‘The floor just shook a bit when the wood in the stove shifted.’ Garðar had rarely sounded so unconvincing. ‘You’ll have to let go of me if you want me to look under the stove. Just to be sure. Nothing living could be under there; it’s too hot.’ Katrín did as he suggested, though she had to push herself to free her clenched fingers. Garðar’s head nearly touched the floor as he bent down on his hands and knees to see under the stove. ‘There’s nothing there. Actually, that’s strange – the floor seems to tilt backwards under there, not forwards.’ He stood up and wiped his palms on his trousers.

‘I have to go upstairs.’ Katrín’s voice trembled. ‘I can’t take any more.’ She called to Putti in a croaky voice. He came over to them but seemed cautious, which was unlike him. ‘Please, come on.’ Garðar opened his mouth to say something but decided against it. He probably had no great desire to stay there any longer than her. They could hear Líf calling to them from upstairs, wanting to know what was going on.

‘We’re coming.’ Because of how she felt, Katrín’s voice was hardly loud enough to carry between floors, but since there was no further sound from Líf, she must have heard her.

Garðar shone the torch along the entire length of the room, back and forth, until at last he seemed convinced that there was nothing there. Then he turned back to Katrín and made her walk ahead of him out of the room. He steered her down the hallway towards the stairs. ‘Go up. I’ll wait here in the meantime.’ Katrín didn’t have the energy to ask why he wanted to wait downstairs. ‘Hold onto the rail, because I need the light down here. I just want to make sure there’s no one here who could follow us up.’

He didn’t need to say anything more; Katrín hurried into the darkness above her. With one step to go, she got a strange feeling and slowed down. There was nothing to see but the shadowy, empty hallway. Of course she was just confused; nevertheless, she felt the hair rise on her arms as soon as she took the last step and entered the hallway itself. Before she realized what was happening, a door to the side of the landing swung forcefully open and the blow that landed on her knocked her backwards. She felt herself fall and the stairs disappeared beneath her feet.

The storm had left Ísafjörður that night and continued north to the abandoned settlements in Jökulfirðir. Freyr could time when the storm had subsided almost to the minute; he hadn’t slept a wink, and at first the constant pounding on his bedroom window had helped to keep him calm until he stuck the headphones from his iPod in his ears and allowed the music to take over. It was quite clear to him that he was losing his grip on reality; in fact he already had, according to all the traditional definitions that he applied to his patients. He’d heard voices and seen things, had lost all connection to his real surroundings, as he’d always feared would happen. It was awful to think that he’d left Sara so that he wouldn’t end up like this, when perhaps it was inevitable after all. Perhaps he hadn’t split up with her in time; the seeds of mental illness had already managed to sprout roots when he packed into cardboard boxes the little that he took with him. In fact he wasn’t particularly surprised at this development; what surprised him more was how realistic unreality felt. Now he understood better all those patients who had sat before him and described the most extraordinary things without blinking, convinced that their fantasies were part of ordinary life. It was incredible, really. All his life he’d thought that people experienced these kinds of delusions like a high; they were like a hazy reality that would be easy to distinguish from what was considered normal, at least when they came back down. But this had proved not to be the case. He’d heard Benni’s voice in precisely the same way as he did the voices of his colleagues on ordinary workdays.

Nor were the visual hallucinations any less powerful. When he’d finally forced himself to look into the corridor the night before, he’d seen his son running away, in the same clothing as he’d worn on the day he disappeared, and exactly the same height. Although common sense told Freyr that this was impossible, he was convinced his eyes hadn’t deceived him. It was no use reminding himself that Benni was dead, there could be no doubt, and that even if he were still alive, he would have grown much taller in the three years that had passed since his disappearance. The best that Freyr could come up with was that it had been an entirely different child, a child with the same hair as his son’s and wearing the same kind of clothing. But he knew how absurd such a coincidence would be, and was confused by the way the boy had vanished. After a long chase, during which the boy had passed through one door after another, always well out of reach, he ran into the medical ward and vanished. When Freyr ran in panting, out of breath, no one there had seen anyone. Two nurses whom Freyr had nearly knocked over when he went around a corner had shaken their heads, unable to conceal their shock at Freyr’s appearance and his visible agitation. He was gasping for breath, his hair all messed up, and had difficulty explaining what was going on. It didn’t help that according to the roster, he was off duty and didn’t have any actual business being at the hospital that evening. When the glances exchanged by the nurses became uncomfortable, Freyr had excused himself and left. That was when he first became dimly aware that he was losing it. There had been no child there, let alone his long-dead son.

Now he was back at work again, standing in front of the mirror in the staff toilets. He pulled himself away from it and drew a deep breath. The glossy yellow wall tiles had always got on his nerves, but now he found the way they framed his haggard face particularly unbearable. His eyes were bloodshot and his face puffy after his sleepless night. In addition, before leaving for work he’d been too preoccupied about whether he’d lost his mind to remember to shave, so he was also sporting a dark six o’clock shadow. He was fairly certain that both patients and co-workers suspected he’d been drinking the night before. But there was nothing he could do about it except hope that the day would be gentle with him; he was perfectly used to working for forty-eight hours straight, so that held no fear. It was a lot better than lying at home and letting his mind wander in circles. Here he could concentrate on work, and while he did that there was no time to be chasing after hallucinations. However, one thought kept creeping into his head again and again, despite his pushing it aside just as quickly: his conscience gnawed at him. Of course he should let his boss know that he was worried about his own mental state. But Freyr knew how that would turn out; he would be sent home for a ten-day break to recover, which meant an increased workload for his colleagues. So it wasn’t just the idea of hanging around at home with his thoughts that made him shudder. However, he did resolve to go straight to his supervisor as soon as he thought he could no longer do his job and the safety of his patients was compromised.