The Girl Who Died Read online

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  To Dad

  Lullaby, my little Thrá,

  may you sweetly sleep,

  dreaming of the sunny lands

  beyond the ocean deep.

  – Thorsteinn Th. Thorsteinsson

  (1879–1955)

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This story takes place in the village of Skálar in the mid-1980s. In fact, Skálar has been abandoned since the mid-1950s, but the setting is nevertheless borrowed from reality, though the buildings are my own invention. The characters too are fictitious and bear no resemblance to any past residents of Skálar. In spite of this, I have tried to give an accurate representation of the historical facts about the settlement, with the help of information from works including Fridrik G. Olgeirsson’s Langnesingasaga (A History of the People of Langanes). I also refer to folk tales that are preserved in Sigfús Sigfússon’s collection of Icelandic folk tales and legends. Any mistakes in the book are of course my responsibility.

  Thanks are due to Haukur Eggertsson for showing me around the Langanes Peninsula and the ruins of Skálathorp during the writing of this book. I am also grateful to my father, Jónas Ragnarsson, prosecutor Hulda María Stefánsdóttir and Hannes Mar Árnason, whose family came from Skálar, for their help in reading the manuscript. Thank you as well to Helgi Ellert Jóhannsson, who works as a doctor in London, for his advice on medical matters.

  Towards the end of the book, I quote from the poem ‘Sleep Song’ by Davíd Stefánsson.

  I also quote ‘Lullaby’ by Thorsteinn Th. Thorsteinsson, which was printed in the Heimskringla magazine in Winnipeg in 1910. Thorsteinn was born in Svarfadardalur in the north of Iceland in 1879 and died in Canada in 1955.

  – Ragnar Jónasson

  Una awoke with a jerk.

  She opened her eyes but couldn’t see a thing for the darkness pressing in all around her. For a panicky moment she couldn’t work out where she was, though she had the feeling she was in a strange place, not in her own bed. She stiffened with fear. She was so cold. By the feel of it, she’d kicked the covers on to the floor, and the room was freezing.

  She sat up slowly, experiencing a moment of dizziness, but the feeling soon passed as she remembered where she was.

  In Skálar on the Langanes Peninsula. In the little attic flat. Alone.

  And then she knew what it was that had woken her. Or thought she knew … It was hard to distinguish dream from reality with her senses still wandering in the vague borderland between sleep and waking.

  She had heard something. What, though? As the memory gradually came back to her, she felt the skin prickling on her arms. It had been a high little voice – the voice of a young girl, she thought. Yes, now she could hear it again in her head: a young girl singing a lullaby.

  Unable to bear it a moment longer, she got out of bed and blundered across the pitch-black room towards the light switch on the wall. Not for the first time she cursed the fact that she didn’t have a reading lamp by her bed. Yet she felt a moment’s reluctance to turn on the light, for fear of what the retreating shadows might reveal.

  The high voice echoed eerily in her head, but she couldn’t recall the words of the girl’s song. It must have been a dream, however real it had seemed.

  Suddenly there was a loud crack, followed by a tinkling sound and a stabbing pain in her foot that caused her to stumble and fall heavily to her knees. What the hell?

  She bit back a scream, only for it to dawn on her a second later that she had trodden on the wine glass she had left on the floor the previous evening. Fumbling for her foot, she found a shard of glass sticking out of it and felt something hot and wet oozing from the wound. Gingerly, she extracted the glass. The pain was excruciating.

  It took all her willpower to force herself back on to her feet, then grope along the wall for the switch, but finally she found it and turned on the light. As the room sprang into view, she shot a glance around, half-expecting to see a small figure in there with her, while telling herself that she’d imagined the whole thing: the voice hadn’t been real, the lullaby had been an illusion, a trick played on her by her sleeping mind.

  Limping back to the bed, she sat down, drew up her foot and examined the cut, which, luckily, turned out not to be as deep as she’d feared. Now she had satisfied herself that she was alone in the room, she could feel her heartbeat slowing and returning to normal.

  Then, in a flash, the words of the girl’s song came back to her:

  Lullaby, my little Thrá,

  may you sweetly sleep …

  A chill spread through her flesh.

  PART ONE

  SEVERAL MONTHS EARLIER

  I

  Teacher wanted at the edge of the world.

  Una read the unusual heading again.

  She was sitting at the kitchen table in her little flat in the west end of Reykjavík, where she’d been living for four years, after scraping together the money for a deposit through sheer determination. Her mother – the only family she had left – hadn’t been able to lend her anything and Una had been forced, as always, to stand on her own two feet.

  The kitchen had hardly changed since the day Una moved in. It was still shabby and old-fashioned, with yellow linoleum on the floor, faded tiles on the walls and garish red units, which, like the white Rafha cooker, were at least twenty years out of date. Nothing about the decor or furnishings said 1985.

  Still, at least the coffee tasted good, with a drop of milk. Having picked up the caffeine habit at university, Una couldn’t get through the day without it.

  ‘I don’t know, Sara,’ she said, trying to smile at her best friend, who was sitting across the table from her. There wasn’t much to smile about these days. Una’s pay as a supply teacher at a small school in the neighbouring town of Kópavogur was barely enough to cover her bills and she was never sure from one month to the next whether she would get enough work. Despite her strict economizing, it was always an effort to make her wages stretch until the next pay day. She was resigned to eating the cheapest fish on offer at least three times a week. Every time she found herself struggling to make ends meet towards the end of the month, she regretted not having finished her medical degree, though, if she were honest, she wouldn’t have been any happier if she had. It had taken her three gruelling years to admit to herself that she’d only enrolled in medicine because it was what her father had wanted; she’d been trying to make his dream come true instead of pursuing her own. She could never have worked as a doctor – she just wasn’t suited to the job; she had no passion for it. Three years of her life … She’d passed all her exams, done well even, but it wasn’t enough. The spark wasn’t there.

  ‘Why not? Come on, Una – you’re always moaning about having to struggle to get by. You love teaching. And you’re the adventurous type.’ Sara was bursting with optimism, as usual. She’d brought Morgunbladid round to Una’s that Saturday morning with the sole purpose of showing he
r the advert, aware that Una couldn’t afford a subscription to the paper herself. They were planning to meet up at Sara’s place that evening to watch the live broadcast of a concert in aid of starving children in Africa. Una couldn’t wait: it was rare for Iceland’s sole, state-run TV channel to offer anything that entertaining. And she loved music; loved dancing, going out and having fun – given half a chance, she thought wistfully.

  ‘But it’s so far away,’ she protested. ‘On the opposite side of the country. You couldn’t get any further from Reykjavík if you tried.’ She looked back at the job advert. ‘Skálar? I’ve never even heard of the place.’

  ‘It’s a tiny village. A hamlet, really. Right at the end of the Langanes Peninsula. Look, they say they need a teacher for a very small class. There’s free accommodation thrown in. You could save up all your pay, pretty much.’ After a pause Sara added: ‘I saw a report about the village on TV earlier this year. Only ten people live there.’

  ‘What? Ten! Are you joking?’

  ‘No. That’s why the TV company sent a reporter there – because it’s the smallest village in the country, or something like that. It stuck in my mind: only ten inhabitants, according to the latest census. The reporter seemed to think it was funny. I assume that means there can’t be more than a couple of kids to teach.’

  Una hadn’t taken her friend’s suggestion seriously at first, but maybe it wasn’t such a mad idea after all; maybe it was the opportunity she’d been waiting for. It had never crossed her mind to move to the countryside. She was a Reykjavík girl through and through, having grown up on a post-war housing estate in the suburbs, in a little house that her doctor father had built more or less with his own two hands. She’d had a good childhood there, until the event that had shattered her life.

  Until then, she’d been happy, if her memories were anything to go by; playing with her friends on the unpaved roads of the estate in the light summer evenings, watching the new houses springing up all around. Now she stopped to think about it, growing up in that self-contained community had been a bit like living in a village, if not a village of only ten souls. Her images of those vanished days were bathed in a soft glow of nostalgia; a time that could never be revisited.

  She and her mother had moved away, and strangers lived in their house now: Una didn’t care who they were – she had no intention of ever going back. But the thought of the tiny community at Skálar struck a sudden chord with her, as if it might offer a way of recapturing the happiness of her childhood. She so badly needed a change of scene.

  ‘I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to apply,’ she said at last, without really meaning to. She had a sudden vision of making a new start. Of living by the sea, in the heart of nature. ‘If it’s on the Langanes Peninsula, I’m guessing it’s by the sea?’

  ‘Of course it is. The place is entirely dependent on the fishing. It sounds rather charming, don’t you think? Living in such a remote spot, without actually being alone.’

  A village of ten souls, where everyone knew each other – everyone except her, Una corrected herself. There was a sense in which she’d still be alone, wasn’t there? She’d be an outsider. But perhaps this was what she had been yearning for: solitude without loneliness. A chance to drag herself out of this rut and escape the rat race in the city, where her wages mostly went on paying off her mortgage. Where she had no money to socialize, no man in her life, and the only friend she still had any real contact with was Sara.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Sara. We’d never see each other, or hardly ever.’

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ her friend said affectionately. ‘We’d just have to make more of an effort to visit one another.’ Then: ‘To be honest, that’s why I hesitated a bit about showing you the advert. Because I don’t want to lose you. But I still think it would be the ideal opportunity for you – for a year or so.’

  Teacher wanted at the edge of the world. The honesty of the advertisement appealed to Una. There was no attempt to hide the fact that the job would be a challenge. She wondered how many people would apply. If she went for it, she might be the only one. And she had to admit that there wasn’t much to hold her here in town. Of course, there was Sara, but, if she was honest, they weren’t really as close as they used to be. Now that Sara had got herself a family – a husband and a child – she seemed to have less and less time to devote to their friendship. They’d met at sixth-form college, but over the years life had conspired to send them in different directions. Una had been kidding herself that this evening would be like it was in the old days, when they used to party late into the night. They’d watch the concert together, mix themselves some exotic cocktails, have a laugh. She had a sudden horrible suspicion that maybe Sara was trying to get rid of her by showing her this advertisement. Maybe she was secretly bored of their friendship.

  Well, the truth was that Una wouldn’t find it that hard to spend a winter on Langanes without seeing Sara. It was her mother she was more worried about missing. They were so close, after going through so much together, but her mother, a fit and healthy fifty-seven-year-old, had long ago found herself a new husband who she adored. No, Una had to face facts: her mother no longer needed her there every day.

  ‘Anyway, let’s leave it for now,’ she said, closing Morgunbladid. ‘Can I keep the paper?’

  ‘Sure.’ Sara stood up, her coffee cup empty. ‘I’ve got to get going, but we’re still seeing each other this evening, aren’t we? It’s going to be fun, just the two of us – a girls’ night in. And you promise to think about it? About the job, I mean. I reckon it could be just the thing for you.’

  And Una found herself thinking that maybe it was time to move on and meet new people. To do something spontaneous and exciting for once, without wasting too much time weighing up the pros and cons. ‘All right, all right,’ she said, smiling. ‘I promise.’

  II

  It was an unusually fine August day, mild with not a breath of wind stirring the leaves, and even the odd glimpse of sun.

  Una tended to find August rather depressing. It marked the end of the brief Icelandic summer, the point at which the first proper darkness began to creep back after weeks of light nights, but this year she felt different. She was standing on the steps outside the block of flats in Kópavogur where her mother lived with her stepfather. The building was so bleak and run-down that Una would never have dreamt of living there herself. She was much happier in her little place in the old west end, even though it was a basement flat. Now, however, it had been rented out to a young couple with a small child.

  Una’s mother had come outside with her after their morning coffee. The time had come to say goodbye, at least for a while.

  ‘We’ll come and visit you – you know that, darling. And it’s only for a year, isn’t it?’

  ‘Only for the school year, Mum; only over the winter,’ Una said, ‘but you’re both welcome any time.’ She wasn’t being entirely sincere. Her mother was welcome, but Una had never warmed to her new husband – well, she still thought of him as new, though he had entered their life quite a long time ago. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but there was something about him she didn’t like.

  ‘Are you planning to stop for the night somewhere?’ her mother asked. ‘It’s a terribly long way. It must be more than 700 kilometres! You must rest if you feel yourself getting sleepy. It’s dangerous to drive if you’re tired.’

  ‘I know, Mum,’ Una answered patiently. ‘I’m breaking the journey in Akureyri.’ Her mother’s fussing could be a bit much at times. She needed to be able to breathe, to be allowed to stand on her own two feet. And what better opportunity would she have than this: the position of teacher in a village so small it hardly deserved the name? Only ten people. How on earth could such a tiny community survive?

  It would certainly be interesting and also, she hoped, reinvigorating for body and soul. In the event, getting the job had been child’s play. Several days after Sara had come round with the advertisement, Una had finally psyc
hed herself up to ring the number provided. The phone had been answered by a woman – in her thirties, Una guessed – who lived in Skálar and apparently sat on the education committee of the local authority. ‘I’m very pleased to hear you’re interested,’ the woman said. ‘To tell the truth, no one else has called about the job.’

  Una had explained that she was a qualified teacher with plenty of experience.

  ‘But why do you want to move out here?’ the woman had asked.

  Una had been momentarily stumped for an answer. She had so many reasons: to escape from her monotonous life in town; to have a break from Sara, or rather, to let Sara get on with her own life for a while; to have a rest from her mother – and even more from her stepfather; to have a change of scene. But the real reason lay deeper.

  ‘I just want to try living in the countryside,’ she had told the woman after a pause. Although she hadn’t been given the job then and there, she had known that she must be in with a good chance. Before ending the conversation, she had asked: ‘How many children are there … for me to teach?’

  ‘Just two, two girls. Seven and nine years old,’ came the reply.

  ‘Just two girls? And you need a teacher?’

  ‘Yes, the fact is, we do. It’s too far to drive them back and forth to the nearest school, especially in winter. They’re lovely girls as well.’

  And now the moment had come. Una was embarking on her adventure here in Kópavogur, at the crack of dawn: a winter in the countryside, right out at the end of the Langanes Peninsula, among strangers, with only two pupils. It still seemed faintly ridiculous that she was being hired to teach such a tiny class, as if it would hardly justify a full teacher’s salary. But inside she was excited; there was something so appealing about the idea.