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

things with Thór. The second was to give up drinking, temporarily at least. Their relationship had got off to a promising start. It was still early days. They were taking their time and avoiding talking too much about the future and all the practical problems that would eventually rear their heads if she were to move in with or even marry a ‘dead man’ … But they would solve those when they came to them. He couldn’t stay in hiding for ever.

Una was still living in the attic flat but hadn’t yet found the right moment to tell Salka the truth about Edda’s death. She couldn’t bring herself to do it. But she had every intention of doing so, sooner or later.

Una hadn’t exposed Thór’s secret either. She had promised to keep quiet about it and had no intention of breaking her word. Nevertheless, she had the odd bad night when she was tormented by images of the innocent people languishing behind bars for his sake. But the village had got a hold on her: she was trusted now, and it was a good feeling. They had accepted her. And it wasn’t as if she bore the responsibility alone: they were all complicit in hiding the truth. Her teaching was going well too, but then a single pupil hardly presented much of a challenge. It was more like a private tutoring job. And Kolbrún seemed to be coming out of her shell and even thriving, now that she was the centre of attention, without Edda there to steal the limelight. There had even been talk of Una carrying on for another winter. It wasn’t such an unwelcome prospect.

In spite of Thrá’s continued absence from her dreams, Una often found herself thinking about the little girl who had died in such a horrific manner that her spirit might never have been able to find peace. She was glad she had finally got to hear her story.

Yet although Una had tried to convince herself that the haunting had all been in her mind, she couldn’t shake off the lullaby. The fact was that she hadn’t recognized Thrá’s song, and this troubled her. She could hardly have started composing songs in her sleep. There could only be one logical explanation: that she had heard the lullaby as a child and later forgotten it.

That had to be the answer.

II

The verse was the key to the mystery.

Una rang her mother for the first time in ages.

‘Una, darling, how are you?’

‘Oh, fine, Mum. How are you both?’

‘We’re both very well. But we miss you. We’ll come and see you as soon as spring arrives.’

‘Please do, Mum. I might pop down to Reykjavík too, when I get a chance.’

‘That would be lovely.’

‘Mum …’

‘Yes, dear?’

‘There’s something I wanted to ask you. It’s about a little rhyme I heard, a lullaby. Can I sing it to you?’

‘Of course, darling,’ said her mother, though she sounded a little doubtful, as if she wasn’t sure why Una was asking this.

The words of the lullaby were etched in Una’s memory. She couldn’t forget them, however much she wanted to.

Lullaby, my little Thrá,

may you sweetly sleep,

dreaming of the sunny lands

beyond the ocean deep.

‘Oh yes, I remember that,’ her mother said.

Una gasped. She had never been so relieved in all her life. ‘Really, Mum? You remember it? Did I know it when I was small?’

‘Yes, I should think so. I often used to sing it to you. It was one of my favourites.’

‘It’s a pretty verse,’ Una said.

‘Very pretty. By Davíd Stefánsson, if I remember right.’

III

Later that evening the phone rang.

Salka answered it, then called up to Una: ‘It’s your mother.’

Una was a little taken aback, since she hadn’t expected to hear from her again so soon.

‘Hello, Una, you weren’t asleep, were you?’

‘No, Mum. I haven’t started going to bed early just because I’ve moved to the countryside,’ Una joked. She was in a good mood; it had made such a difference to have it confirmed that the haunting had all been in her imagination, as if a weight had been lifted off her chest.

‘Una, about that lullaby …’

‘Yes …’ Her heart began to thud ominously.

‘It was by Davíd Stefánsson, as I thought,’ her mother said. ‘I remember I always used to read his poems to you. But you didn’t get it quite right.’

‘Oh?’

‘No, I looked it up. The poem I used to read to you is different.’

Her mother read, and as the words flew from one end of the country to the other over the crackly phone line, they struck an icy chill through Una’s flesh.

Lullaby, lullaby baby,

may you sweetly sleep,

shutting those pretty blue eyes,

with never a single peep …

Una interrupted: ‘Mum, that’s a completely different verse.’

‘Yes, it is actually, but it sounded familiar. That’s why I got muddled.’

‘What about the other lullaby, Mum? Don’t you remember that? Don’t you remember it at all?’

‘I’m sorry, darling. It was the poem by Davíd Stefánsson I was thinking of. Does it matter?’

After a brief pause, Una answered: ‘No, Mum, it doesn’t matter. Thanks for checking for me.’

‘My pleasure, darling.’

Una said goodbye and hung up. As she did so, she had a sudden, overwhelming sense of Thrá’s presence. The feeling was so strong that she was almost afraid. As if in a daze, she went into the sitting room. There was no sign of Salka; she must have gone to her room. Una walked over to the bookcase. She wanted to find the photo of Thrá. She had to find the picture.

It didn’t take her long to locate the book and take it down from the shelf. She had never touched it herself, only seen the photo briefly when Salka had shown it to her. She sat down at the dining table with the old volume in front of her and opened it carefully. The picture was in its place. Thrá stared out at her, and Una felt the hairs rising on the back of her neck, as if the girl were standing right