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

longer she could cope with the solitude. Last night she had slept in her bedroom in the attic, with all the lights on. Although she had slept only fitfully, the nightmare hadn’t returned.

The little girl in the white dress had left her in peace.

For the first time in many years, Una listened to the Christmas service on the radio at six o’clock. It seemed fitting somehow to hear something religious after what had happened, and, if the house was haunted, she told herself it wouldn’t hurt to have God on her side. Besides, she had longed for the comforting babble of human voices; she’d had the radio on all day to drown out the silence, the eerie incidental noises in the house and the intrusive images of the two little girls who had died.

She hadn’t cooked herself anything special for dinner as she wasn’t in the mood to celebrate all on her own. Edda’s death had cast a pall over the day. To make herself eat something, she had put some frozen chicken in the oven – at least it made a change from fish – and seasoned it with whatever she had to hand, then fried some potatoes to accompany it. Her mother would have told her off for this meal; when she was a child they’d always had a delicious gammon for Christmas dinner – until everything changed – but even after that her mother made an effort to cook something out of the ordinary, as long as it wasn’t gammon.

The chicken had tasted all right, if a bit dry, but the last bottle of wine had made up for that. Once this one was gone, she would be completely out of booze. She would have to get hold of some more. She had been intending to stock up, within reason, of course, when she went to the shop the day before, but after Gudrún had broken the news about Edda, Una had felt it would be unseemly. She missed living in Reykjavík, where it was easier to be anonymous; where people couldn’t watch your every move.

It was past eight o’clock and the bottle was half empty when Una gave in to the urge to ring Thór. She sat beside the phone for a long time, the radio’s Christmas programme playing in the background. Then she selected the first digit of the phone number at the farm and turned the dial, before losing her nerve and hanging up again. What would he think? What would Hjördís think? The problem was that there was only one phone on the farm and the chances were that Hjördís would answer.

But Una had no alternative.

She couldn’t cope with being alone, not this evening. Not this bloody evening – Christmas Eve, the worst evening of the year. Her mother should have known that, though of course she couldn’t have foreseen the terrible tragedy in the church; but even in ordinary circumstances she should have realized that Una would want to come home and spend the twenty-fourth with her. But now Una was completely isolated, without even Salka and Edda for companionship. And she was afraid, so very afraid.

She had to talk to someone, or better still meet someone, but there weren’t many to choose from in this godforsaken spot. It didn’t even cross her mind to get in touch with Kolbeinn and Inga, and Guffi and his wife were out of the question. Gudrún and Gunnar would no doubt welcome her, but she had no particular desire to talk to them. They wouldn’t listen to her, as they weren’t really interested in hearing about her life; all they would want to talk about was Skálar, about the past, the church, the boat, the bloody fish … As for Hjördís, she remained an enigma. Una hadn’t felt any interest in trying to get past her offputting manner.

She picked up the telephone receiver again, waited for the tone, then dialled with an unsteady hand and waited, telling herself it was actually, possibly, a question of life or death.

Some time passed before the phone was picked up and, inevitably, it was Hjördís at the other end of the line.

‘Hello, Happy Christmas, it’s Una here,’ Una said in a small, diffident voice, immediately regretting the impulse to call.

The silence at the other end was crushing. Una could guess what it meant: how dare you bother us on Christmas Eve?

Una went on, trying to stop her voice from trembling: ‘Could I speak to Thór?’

‘Just a moment,’ Hjördís said tonelessly.

‘Hello, Happy Christmas!’ Thór, in contrast, sounded friendly and not in the least put out by her call. ‘It’s good to hear from you.’

‘Yes, er, yes, you too,’ Una answered, flustered. ‘I was just feeling a bit lonely, what with Salka not being around, you know. I just wondered how you were doing. And wanted to wish you a Happy Christmas.’

‘I was thinking of you earlier,’ he said. ‘We should have invited you to dinner. It was very thoughtless of us. No one should be alone at Christmas.’

‘Oh no, really, there was no need. I cooked chicken. It was … fine.’

Thór laughed and Una was surprised by what a relief it was to hear laughter again.

‘We had ptarmigan,’ he said. ‘I always shoot a brace for Christmas. That’s proper seasonal food. I’ll bring over some leftovers for you.’

‘Oh, er, great, it would be lovely to taste it, but only if you’ve got enough. I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your dinner.’

‘There’s plenty left. I’ll drop round in, say, ten minutes, if that’s all right?’

She could hardly believe it. She hadn’t even had to ask him to come, and she’d almost certainly have chickened out. Inviting a man round for an evening visit would have sounded bad enough, even if it hadn’t been Christmas Eve. Yet, although she was attracted to him, her impulse had also been motivated by a craving for company, a chance to talk to someone who knew how to listen.

‘That would be lovely,’ she said, trying