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

‘I read that she’d … well, that she’d drunk poison.’

‘Thrá?’

‘Yes.’

‘Yes, I suppose you could put it like that. I was told the story made it into the papers at the time. It was horrific, of course. Utterly horrific.’ Her voice had grown a little stronger, but her tone was sombre.

‘Do they know what actually happened?’

Salka didn’t answer.

‘Was it an accident?’

Salka met and held Una’s gaze. ‘It wasn’t an accident. It wasn’t a bloody accident,’ she said, with sudden vehemence.

After a long pause, Una asked: ‘What happened?’

‘Thrá was my mother’s sister, did I tell you that?’

Una shook her head, though she should have guessed.

‘My mother’s older sister. Born in 1920. My mother was two when it happened. Naturally, she couldn’t remember anything herself, but she learned the whole story later. Like I did. People knew what had happened. I first heard the story when I was older. My mother never talked about it.’

Una waited patiently, wanting to give Salka space to tell the tale since it was obviously a painful subject.

‘It was rat poison, bloody horrible stuff. The little girl drank it mixed into her milk. No one ever knew why my grandmother did it. There just … there just wasn’t any explanation …’

‘Your grandmother ? She poisoned her own daughter?’

Salka nodded, with such sadness in her eyes that it was as if she were describing recent events, not something that had happened nearly sixty years ago.

‘Are you sure?’ Una asked.

‘Yes, I believe she admitted it when they questioned her. She claimed she couldn’t stop herself, but she didn’t know why she’d done it. She was just seized by a fit of madness.’

‘Was she convicted for it?’ Una asked. Sara hadn’t mentioned any details like this after reading the summary in Our Century. But surely the woman couldn’t have got away with her crime?

‘No, she wasn’t convicted. Because the police were never informed. The village stood by my grandmother and hushed it up.’

‘Stood by your grandmother? What about the child? Did no one stand up for her?’ Una was stunned.

‘Apparently not.’

‘Was she allowed to raise your mother after that?’

‘Yes. It’s quite incredible when you think about it, but that’s how it was. I suppose the locals didn’t want the village to get a bad reputation. Just like now. There are so many things that can’t be talked about.’

‘Like what?’

‘People look out for each other.’

Una seized this opportunity to up the pressure: ‘What are you all keeping from me, Salka?’

Salka was silent, but now at least she was prepared to meet Una’s gaze.

‘There is something, isn’t there?’ Una insisted.

‘I wasn’t going to tell you about my grandmother. Not everyone knows – not outside the village. She died at a ripe old age and went on living in this house right up until near the end.’

‘That’s shocking, Salka. I can hardly believe it.’

‘I stopped coming to see her after I learned what she’d done. I couldn’t look her in the eye any more. I didn’t come back here for years, not until I inherited the house. Then I felt it was time. My family has such strong roots in Skálar, and I was happy here, until … you know …’ Grief had banished every other emotion from her face.

‘Are you going to stay on here?’

‘I need to stay with Edda. I feel she’s still here, like Thrá.’

‘Have you seen Thrá too?’ Una asked. ‘Have you heard her?’

Salka nodded. ‘Yes … at least I think so. She’s always haunted the house, from what I’ve heard. It’s impossible to get rid of her. And perhaps there’s no reason to. I believe that people who die in traumatic circumstances always come back. But not necessarily because they’ve got unfinished business – unless you count lost opportunities, I suppose. Things just didn’t end the way they were supposed to and that’s why she makes her presence known.’

Una didn’t say anything.

‘Just like Edda,’ Salka added after a long interval, in a choked voice. ‘Sorry, it’s just so hard to talk about.’

‘I understand,’ Una said. ‘Do you have any idea what happened?’

Salka shook her head. ‘No, they can’t explain it,’ she said, her voice still thick with tears. ‘She’d been in such good spirits – there was nothing to suggest she had anything wrong with her. The doctor couldn’t give me any explanation.’

‘It’s … It’s just so awful.’

‘It won’t change anything now, of course, but I … I …’ Salka’s voice gave way. After a moment, she recovered enough to go on: ‘I’ve sometimes wondered if I might have done something …’ She didn’t finish.

‘Done what?’ Una asked. ‘What do you mean? She was just taken ill.’

‘No, I mean … You know, like my grandmother. If I could have given her something but blocked out the memory. I’d begun to think the house might have this effect on people, that there might be some evil spirit here or …’ She broke down in tears again and continued through her sobs: ‘Or something in our blood. My grandmother killed her daughter … Would I be capable of that? Could I have done it without remembering?’ She slumped forward on the table, her body heaving, and began to howl.

Una got up and went over to place a wary hand on her shoulder. ‘Of course you didn’t, Salka. Don’t be ridiculous. That sort of thing can’t be inherited,’ she said, though she wasn’t sure this was right. ‘Of course you’d never have harmed Edda. That’s an absurd idea. You mustn’t let yourself think like that, Salka.’

‘No, I know,’ the other woman said through her gasps. ‘I know.’

This was her chance, Una thought, unfair though it was to exploit the situation like this: ‘Salka, the man who came here before Christmas. Are you sure it wasn’t the man in the papers? That it wasn’t Patrekur, the man who’s vanished?’

Salka sat up but didn’t look round. ‘I think I need to go and lie down, Una.’ She rose to her feet and left the dining room without another word.

Una stood there