Yrsa Sigurðardóttir - I Remember You

The doctor shook his head. ‘No, the woman lived in Reykjanes if I remember correctly, and the man was from Ísafjörður. He paused as he leaned over to scribble something on a form lying on the desk. ‘The three of them may not have lived in the same town but they did have one thing in common: they were all born in 1940. I don’t know whether that means anything, but I made a particular note of it.’

Freyr licked his lips beneath his mask. ‘What were their names, might I ask? Could the name of the man who was run over be Steinn?’

The doctor’s safety goggles shifted slightly as he raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘How did you know that?’

It was a strange feeling to be a car-less visitor in the city where he’d been born and had lived most of his life, as well as to have no place to go and lie down for an hour or so. He didn’t want to visit his family, since that would just make them worry about him more; it had been bad enough telling them he was moving out of town. Neither his parents nor his brother had understood, and had taken it as a sign that he was ill. They were probably right. So, instead of sitting over a cup of coffee with his family, Freyr found himself yawning in the back seat of a cab on his way to Sara’s. He was determined not to have a repeat of what had happened in the plane, and fought to stay awake. Of course he would have preferred to walk the short distance to her place on the west side of town, but he was worried about being even more tired by the time he arrived. It would be enough of a trial as it was. Sara had actually sounded stronger than usual on the phone, as if this time she might not burst into tears. Hopefully this meant she was coming to terms with the past, but Freyr knew he mustn’t get his hopes up based on one short phone call. Of course he should have told her his plans the night before, but things hadn’t gone the way he’d intended. He hadn’t wanted to call Sara while Dagný was there, and by the time she left after midnight he’d felt it was too late to do it. Nor had he known when, or even if, he could meet up with Lárus, who hadn’t answered his calls. He’d called Sara when he’d exhausted his other options; not very courteous of him, which was probably the reason why she’d responded so unenthusiastically.

But his thoughts were mainly dwelling on his meeting with the forensic pathologist. Freyr had asked him to find out whether the other two members of the group who were already dead had exhibited the same wounds when they died. Of the five deceased he already knew three had been marked in this way, which made it plausible that the other two, Védís and Jón, had been too. This could easily be verified now that he had given the doctor their names. Once he had, the doctor had quizzed him concerning the relationship between the individuals and how Freyr himself was connected to the case. Freyr had answered his questions conscientiously and not held anything back, since he saw no reason to do so. He told him that he thought perhaps these people had believed in the prophetic power of dreams, or that ghosts had played some part in their lives – and their deaths. The man had listened attentively, and said finally that of all the branches of the medical sciences, Freyr’s specialism was one of the few that were no better at diagnosing the dead than the living. He personally had little experience of mental illnesses; he saw only their consequences and never their causes, despite being able to work his way unhindered through the parts of the body and the organs that couldn’t offer an easy diagnosis in the living. Therefore, he conceded, he was in no position to judge what Freyr said; he would simply have to believe him. When they parted, the doctor asked to be allowed to follow the progress of the case, hinting that he might consider writing a paper about the scars and their origins. Freyr had his doubts that a paper on such a peculiar case would be published in any self-respecting medical journal, but promised to stay in touch nevertheless.

The cab stopped outside the beautiful wooden house where Sara lived. The apartment was on the middle floor and Freyr could see in through the living room window, where she was standing and watching him. He paid the driver and stepped out, but when he looked up again Sara was gone. He drew several deep breaths on his way up to the house and found he was walking more slowly than usual. He felt terribly apprehensive about seeing her, and asked himself why he was doing it; it would be best for them both if they ceased all communication. That was easier said than done, though, based to no small extent on the guilt he still felt over having abandoned her when she’d needed him most. Before he rang the doorbell he reminded himself that his hand had been forced by self-preservation, one of the strongest human instincts.

He’d barely rung the bell before the door opened and Sara stood in the entrance. She was even thinner than last time, down to nearly nothing. It made her head look abnormally large, like that of a PEZ dispenser. Yet even though her body appeared frail, there was something in her face that made her look healthier than he’d seen her in a long time: her eyes were sparkling and full of emotion, but not the one he’d expected. Sara seemed furious. ‘Hi.’ He leaned forward to kiss her on the cheek as usual, but she turned away and beckoned him in. Freyr tried to act unconcerned, though he felt uncomfortable. He took off his shoes and followed her inside. Everywhere he looked he saw familiar furniture and ornaments from when they’d lived together. To him they seemed lost in their new location, as if they were still waiting to be moved back to their original home.

‘This is my friend, Elísa.’ Sara indicated a woman sitting on the living room sofa, which they’d put so much effort into choosing. They greeted each other, and he suddenly thought that Sara was going to tell him she’d realised she was gay. ‘Elísa is a medium, and she’s been helping me recently. You can spare me the moralizing, because she’s been much more use to me than you have, as a supposed expert in other people’s well-being.’ Following this introduction, Sara sat down on the sofa and patted it to indicate that he should sit as well. ‘I’m glad Elísa was able to drop by, given it was such short notice. I wanted her to meet you.’

‘Sorry, Sara.’ Freyr chose a chair facing the sofa. ‘I was only expecting to see you. It’s not really any excuse, but I’ve had a lot on my plate, and I haven’t exactly been at my best recently.’ He turned to the medium, who was blushing, obviously wishing she could get up and leave. Sara probably hadn’t planned this meeting in advance; she wasn’t usually that organised. ‘Just so you know, although I’m not much of a one for mysticism or spirituality, I think everyone is entitled to their own opinion – and it would be a boring world if everyone believed the same thing. If you’ve helped Sara, that’s great, and I would never oppose any treatment that works.’

Elísa smiled at him, clearly relieved. She was dressed in very ordinary clothes: jeans, shirt and jacket. The garments were all clean and ironed, but on closer inspection had been worn a great deal: her shirtsleeves were threadbare at the edges and her jeans lighter-coloured at the knees. Nothing about her fit the stereotype of a medium; perhaps she took steps to counter this by avoiding long, colourful skirts and making sure to straighten any curls out of her long hair. ‘Thanks. Sara and I are making good progress and I’m hoping that by working together we can help her get past what’s bothering her.’ She looked at Sara and gave a little smile. ‘But from what Sara has told me, her problem seems to be connected to you somehow. I know this might sound strange to you, but I don’t know exactly how or why it concerns you. Contact with those who are no longer among us isn’t like a conversation between two people; there may be a few words here and there, but it’s often more like a kind of… effect on a person, which that person might not necessarily understand.’