Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - I Remember You

But so far, there didn’t appear to be any danger of that. Things seemed to be going perfectly normally and he neither saw nor heard anything that might be considered unusual. However, this all led him back to the same conundrum: if he were suffering from a serious mental disturbance, he would be ill-equipped to judge what was normal. But despite all his specialized education in the field of psychiatry and his experience of helping those who had a confused sense of reality, he was convinced deep down that this was not the case. It couldn’t be. It simply mustn’t be. Freyr had paid particular attention to the nurse who’d gone on rounds with him, and she showed no sign of thinking that he was behaving unusually. To check, he’d deliberately made a ridiculous remark about a patient’s condition and felt relieved when the woman furrowed her brow and shot him an inquisitive look. It gave him hope that the events of yesterday evening had been an isolated occurrence and now all was right in his head again.

Now Freyr hurried to his office to see whether he could reach the doctor who was to perform the autopsy on Halla. He had already called twice that morning, but reached a switchboard operator who suggested he try later; the man was in the building but apparently not in his office. In the empty corridor he hesitated slightly. Then he carried on, determined not to see or hear any sort of nonsense. The annoying squeaking of his work shoes suddenly grew distinct. The linoleum floor was uncomfortably shiny. The fluorescent light continued to blink erratically, making loud clicks. He would have to remember to chase up the caretaker and remind him to change it. He was actually thankful for the damn bulb when he grabbed the doorknob to his office with a clammy hand. Focusing on such an ordinary object and its maintenance was enough to keep the image of his son running down the corridor from entering his head, as he’d feared it might.

Freyr shut the door behind him but then stopped at the recollection of how it had opened twice, apparently on its own. Of course it was possible that there was something wrong with it – loose hinges or a broken knob had caused it to open, which had then triggered the hallucinations that had just been waiting to appear after such prolonged mental strain and general fatigue. This all seemed very rational to him as he walked over to his desk with the door wide open behind him. Until the door slammed shut with a loud bang. An icy chill passed over Freyr. He forced up some saliva, swallowed it and continued towards his desk as if nothing had happened. If the door were in need of maintenance, it could just as well shut on its own as open without warning. When he sat down he could only stare at the door, every nerve taut and every muscle tense, entirely prepared for his body to jerk if the door should open. But nothing happened. Without taking his eyes off the door he picked up the phone, dialled the switchboard and asked to be put through to the caretaker. He was relieved to hear his own voice sounding completely normal; he was in a bad enough state without his voice growing shrill as well.

The caretaker answered after six rings, just as Freyr was about to hang up. He was an older man, calm and easygoing. He seemed surprised when Freyr told him why he was calling and said that he’d changed the bulb that morning. It took Freyr a little while to convince the man that just a minute ago he’d watched it blink and in the end the caretaker reluctantly agreed to come and have a look. It didn’t help when Freyr asked whether he knew if there were anything wrong with the door to the corridor; if the building was crooked or something that could cause the door to open or close without warning. At first the man didn’t understand the question. Freyr added that his office door had a tendency to open or shut without anyone appearing to come near it. The caretaker said that as far as he knew the building was pretty robustly built and right-angled. He added that if the building leaned, Freyr’s door would either open or close, not both. Unless Freyr thought it was rocking from side to side?

Freyr said goodbye and hung up, his cheeks flushed, and turned to the next phone call. Although he knew that Dagný was probably waiting to hear from him regarding the files that she’d loaned him, he couldn’t imagine speaking to her with things as they were. He was even less keen on meeting her, considering his current appearance. He would see how he felt at the end of the day, and then call, if he felt confident enough. Instead he dialled the direct number of the doctor at the Research Clinic in Reykjavík, who answered on the first ring. He introduced himself and they exchanged a few pleasantries before turning to the matter in hand: Halla, waiting ice-cold on a hard steel bench for her autopsy.

‘It would actually be better if you could come down here.’ The doctor, who was called Karl, was obviously surprised that Freyr hadn’t seen any mention of the scars on Halla’s back in her full medical history. ‘Maybe they’re from self-inflicted wounds, and possibly they’re connected to her mental condition. I’m no specialist in that field and I’d welcome some assistance.’

‘The morning flight has gone, so I can’t come until around suppertime. Wouldn’t that be too late?’ Freyr felt an indescribable longing to get away for a bit. ‘I could spend the night, of course, and come to you first thing in the morning, if that’s more convenient for you.’

Karl thought for a moment but then said he preferred the second option. ‘We’re cutting back here, so the lab closes at five. We could always do the autopsy after hours, but I don’t particularly want to work for the government for free these days.’

It was different for Freyr. He wasn’t even planning on asking for his plane ticket to be reimbursed, in case it complicated things and lost him the opportunity to get a little break. He would pinch a day from his summer holidays instead if he needed his supervisor’s permission to go. ‘See you at eight tomorrow morning, then.’

‘I’d better roll Halla back into the fridge.’

The old man had taken a turn for the worse. This didn’t particularly surprise anyone, least of all him. The bags under his eyes were yellowish, and despite the fever that had settled into his body, his face was deathly pale. Even his cough couldn’t inject colour into his cheeks; all the weak rattle did was interfere with what he was trying to say. ‘Sorry.’ He raised a bony hand to his nose and mouth and used a handkerchief to wipe a drop of saliva from his bluish lower lip. ‘I remember these kids well; I taught their class the year after the photo was taken. Their class teacher was in an accident and I filled the position, since my previous class had gone on to secondary school in the spring.’ He placed the photo in his lap and leaned back on his pillow. The hospital bed was in the upright position, meaning he was sitting up rather than lying down. ‘There was a lot of speculation as to why the vandal chose this photo in particular. There were others hanging on the same wall, but he left all of them alone.’

‘Did the children he picked out have something in common? The ones he defaced?’ Freyr had brought the list with him and read out the names. ‘Were they particular friends, a clique or anything like that?’

‘We never knew that directly. At playtime it didn’t look as if they’d formed a special group, although they were all good friends. Most of them had one specific friend, boy or girl, a kind of best friend. Of course, that sort of friendship you notice; kids who always want to sit next to each other and who stick together like glue outside class. In other respects we didn’t know much about their social lives. There was more discipline in those days and the school tried to teach the poor things as much as possible in the shortest amount of time. There wasn’t this emphasis on life skills or whatever it’s called that’s taken over education these days. They’d probably formed a group outside school but we teachers generally had our hands full with our own children, without having to worry about the others outside the school grounds. That was their parents’ job.’