The Girl Who Died, Ragnar Jonasson [small books to read .TXT] 📗

But there was no conviction in his voice.

II

At times during the proceedings, Una had felt oddly detached, as if watching a film rather than witnessing a real-life tragedy. The events of the evening had seemed so unreal after little Edda had fallen unconscious to the floor.

No one seemed to have a clue what was wrong with the child. And now Kolbeinn, Guffi and Salka had vanished into the night, in search of the doctor in Thórshöfn or, failing that, to undertake the long drive to the nearest hospital, which must be at least 200 kilometres away.

The little girl still hadn’t regained consciousness by the time they set off. The villagers had stood there for a while, gazing after the red tail lights of the departing car, no one saying a word, until Gudrún finally broke the silence. No doubt she had learned the art, after all these years with Gunnar, of filling in gaps in the conversation.

‘We can’t do any more now,’ she announced. ‘Let’s just pray that the dear child gets better. I’m sure Guffi will ring us when they get there. If anyone wants to wait in the church, of course they’re welcome to.’ She waited, watching the group. From their reactions, it was obvious that no one was going to take up her offer. ‘Otherwise, Gunnar and I will just go and tidy up, blow out the candles and … and, well, put the refreshments in the freezer.’ Gudrún bowed her head and went back inside the church, with Gunnar following a few paces behind, as usual.

Una looked around and briefly caught Thór’s eye, but he immediately turned away and walked off with Hjördís in the direction of the farm. It came home to her with a sickening blow that she was quite alone in the world here, though she knew this was no time for self-pity. She should be thinking of Salka and Edda. Telling herself sternly to get a grip, she set off for home.

Home …

Perhaps it was putting it a bit strongly to call the attic flat in Salka’s house a home, but it was her refuge for now. She had made herself comfortable there. Although she hadn’t brought many personal items from Reykjavík, she had made feeble attempts to put her stamp on the place. Salka didn’t bother her when she was upstairs, never even knocked on the door; in fact, it was weeks since she had set foot in the attic flat. Edda would sometimes look in to ask Una a question, and from time to time they had played a game of chess together up there, but otherwise the flat was simultaneously Una’s safe haven and a symbol of her loneliness.

As Una walked up to the front door, she became acutely aware of the quietness. The village was almost permanently wrapped in an all-encompassing hush, a stark reminder of how far they were from anywhere. And with no urban glow from a nearby town or distant lights of farms, there might as well have been no outside world. Perhaps what the few souls who chose to live here had in common was their preference for solitude. There was no sound of human activity, nothing but the faint sighing of the sea, but that didn’t count as it did nothing to fill up the silence; all it did was echo her own thoughts.

The front door was unlocked, as usual.

No one’s going to break in here, Salka had once remarked. It’s better to leave it unlocked so the ghosts can find their way out.

She had smiled and Edda had asked: What ghosts? At the time, Una had been blithely unaware of the tales about the girl in the attic, and even now she only knew the barest outlines of the story. As soon as she got a chance, she wanted to find out more about the child who died. The pictures kept blurring together in her mind: the white-clad girl in the photograph and the memory of Edda in church, of her empty gaze before she collapsed on the floor.

Una turned on the lights downstairs. She was about to continue up to the attic when she paused, changing her mind, and began to wander through Salka’s rooms, as if seeing them for the first time. Finding herself in front of the bookcase, she reached instinctively for the book in which the old photo was kept. But, at the last moment, she stopped. This wasn’t the right time.

Instead, she went into Edda’s bedroom, switched on the light and looked around. There were her dolls, her books, everything characteristically neat and tidy. Una had been in there before, not often but occasionally to talk or play with the little girl. And now she didn’t even know if Edda was alive or dead. Feeling numb, she switched off the light, closed the door behind her and, after a moment’s hesitation, warily entered Salka’s bedroom. She had never been in there before and didn’t know why she went in now. Purely out of curiosity, perhaps. She’d never had the house completely to herself before, as Salka had always been just around the corner. It was a welcoming room, small and cosy, just like a bedroom ought to be.

She had made up her mind to call her mother as soon as she got the chance. Maybe the lullaby in her dream was just a childhood memory and not some message from beyond the grave.

Una breathed in the atmosphere of Salka’s room. A faint trace of her perfume lingered in the air. Contemplating her neatly made bed, she pictured herself lying down and sleeping there, just for tonight. No one could get to her there.

Trying to push these thoughts away, she made herself take a step backwards, out of the bedroom, but underneath she knew what was wrong.

She was afraid.

Afraid of the night that lay ahead, afraid of being all alone in the house; all alone in the world.

Her thoughts kept veering between these fears and