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

He turned and looked at her, his eyes kind above his thick beard. She had never fancied men with facial hair, but it seemed Thór was the exception.

‘There’s something I’d like to ask you.’

‘Fire away.’

‘Have you heard any ghost stories about the village?’

‘Ghost stories?’ Thór smiled again, his warm, amiable smile. ‘As far as I can tell, people have always told ghost stories about this area. But then, what do you expect from such an isolated spot? The most innocent things can appear sinister in the darkness and solitude, Una.’

She smiled at his tone, although she didn’t find it amusing. ‘I know all that. My stay here has been one long nightmare.’

He shifted closer to her on the sofa. ‘Surely it can’t have been that bad? I know what you’re fishing for, though: the story of the girl in this house.’

She nodded.

‘Where did you hear about it?’

‘Kolbeinn told me.’

‘Oh, Kolbeinn loves telling ghost stories, but you shouldn’t take him too seriously. He likes to exaggerate. And … and that’s not his only little quirk, from what I hear.’

Una nodded, but resisted the opening he had provided. She didn’t want to ruin a wonderful evening by talking about Kolbeinn. ‘So you don’t think there’s any truth in the tales?’ she asked instead.

It took Thór a moment to answer: ‘I wouldn’t know. I’ve only heard the stories, like you. They’re passed down the generations. But I’ve read a thing or two as well.’

‘You’re always reading.’

He laughed. ‘It is ironic, really, because I never used to read anything. Reading makes you a better person.’

‘As a teacher, I can hardly contradict you there,’ Una said. Then, unable to resist the temptation, she asked: ‘What kind of stories?’

‘Are you sure you want to hear them? I wouldn’t want to be responsible for keeping you awake at night. It’s bad enough that you’ve got a ghost upstairs in your flat.’

‘Thór, don’t joke about it, OK?’

‘OK, OK.’ He thought a minute, then said: ‘Well, there’s the “mare”, of course.’

‘The mare?’

‘Yes, you know, the “nightmare” who supposedly rides you in your sleep and gives you bad dreams.’

Una nodded.

‘There’s a hair-raising story about the mare going for a man here in Skálar at the turn of the century. She attacked him and trampled him so mercilessly that he couldn’t move. And it happened more than once.’

‘Did he survive?’

‘He bellowed some curse, from what I can remember, and after that it stopped.’ Thór grinned, and it was evident from his manner that he took all this talk of the supernatural with a pinch of salt. ‘Then there was the sea monster. That’s quite a story.’

‘Oh? Go on, tell me.’

‘A monster with a great long tail once crawled out of the sea and attacked some poor farmer who lived here. He defended himself with an axe he happened to be carrying, but the fight lasted most of the night before the monster finally gave up.’

‘So it all ended well?’

‘Far from it,’ Thór said gravely. ‘Afterwards the farmer became a leper!’ He chuckled. ‘You’ve got to laugh at these old tales.’

‘You’re not very receptive to that sort of thing, are you?’ Una said. ‘The down-to-earth type, I take it?’

His answer was a while in coming and, when it did, his manner was unusually grave. ‘The thing is, as I’ve learned from bitter experience, the world is difficult, dangerous and unfair enough without needing to believe in ghosts and monsters.’

Una nodded again. This was a truth she knew only too well.

She couldn’t remember exactly when she had started seeing the events, visualizing the murders of Hilmar and Hannes as if she had been there.

Hilmar, who she hardly knew, and Hannes, her boyfriend.

The police had described the circumstances in vivid detail, assuring her that she had been there, under the influence of drink and drugs. The reason she hadn’t been able to remember at first, they explained, was that she had been drunk or high at the time.

But now she could remember, or thought she could, the deaths of both men, because the police had insisted that she could, and it was so much easier to do as she was told.

She couldn’t bear the thought of being locked up in prison much longer. A confession would mean being convicted, of course, and yet she had gone ahead and confessed, because the uncertainty was even more unbearable, and solitary confinement worst of all.

Locked up alone in her cell, she had experienced a darkness of the soul like nothing else she had ever known.

The police had mentioned some dates, told her where she had been and what she had done, and in the end she had confessed.

She also remembered going round to Hannes’s in the evening to look for him. She hadn’t had a key as their relationship hadn’t yet reached that stage, so she had knocked on the door and waited awhile, then peered in the window before giving up and going away again. They’d had a date, but it wasn’t the first time he’d let her down like that. She had told the cops this story, and at first they had believed her, but later they had told her that it hadn’t happened, not then at any rate, because on the evening in question she had taken part in murdering Hannes. And not just Hannes but Hilmar too. Afterwards, their bodies had been disposed of in the lava-fields and she was supposed to tell the police where. That was the only thing the bastards didn’t seem sure about.

The trouble was, she couldn’t tell them because she couldn’t remember anything except what they had ordered her to remember.

Deep down she had her doubts, but perhaps they were right. Perhaps she had drunk too much, taken too many drugs, blocked off the memories. And now here she was, sitting in solitary confinement, in her lightless cell, despite having confessed. They assured her it was only temporary; that the nightmare was ending, that it must feel so good to come clean and tell the truth.

The only