The Mist Read online

  The farm had to be kept going, whatever the cost. Not that she meant to complain – of course not. Several farms in the neighbourhood – if she could call such a wide, sparsely populated area a neighbourhood – had been abandoned in the last decade, and Einar’s reaction was always the same: he cursed those who moved away for their cowardice in giving up so easily. And, anyway, if they gave up the farm, what would they do for a living? They couldn’t be sure the land would be worth anything if they tried to sell it, and other job opportunities were thin on the ground out here. She simply couldn’t imagine Einar wanting to work for somebody else after being his own master for most of his life.

  ‘Erla,’ she heard him calling from the bedroom, his voice hoarse. She was sure she’d heard him snoring earlier. ‘Why don’t you come to bed?’

  ‘I’m on my way,’ she said, and switched off the lamp in the sitting room, then blew out the candle she’d lit on the table beside her to create a cosy atmosphere while she was reading.

  Einar had turned on his light. He was lying on his side of the bed, ever the creature of habit: the glass of water, alarm clock and Laxness novel on the nightstand. Erla knew him well enough to realize he felt it looked good to have a classic like Laxness by the bed, though in practice he never made much headway with it in the evenings. They owned most of Halldór Laxness’s works and she had read and reread them herself, but what Einar really looked at these days were old newspapers and magazines, or articles about the paranormal. Of course, their newspapers were always out of date, some much more so than others: at this time of year, months could pass between papers. Nevertheless, they kept up their subscription to the party mouthpiece, copies of which piled up at the post office in between their visits there, and to several periodicals as well, like the Icelandic Reader’s Digest.

  Although Einar’s interest in current affairs was perfectly understandable, she couldn’t for the life of her see the attraction of ghost stories or books by psychics about the spirit world, not when they lived in an eerie place like this.

  In winter, not a day passed when she didn’t witness something that sent a shiver down her spine. She didn’t believe in ghosts, but the isolation, the silence, the damned darkness, they all combined to amplify every creak of the floorboards and walls, the moaning of the wind, the flicker of light and shadow, to the extent that she sometimes wondered if maybe she should believe in ghosts after all; if maybe that would make life more bearable.

  It was only when she sat reading a book by candlelight, immersed in an unfamiliar world, that the phantoms in her head lost all their power to frighten her.

  Erla climbed into bed and searched for a comfortable position. She tried to look forward to the morning, but it wasn’t easy. She wanted to be as enchanted by this place – by the solitude – as Einar was, but she just couldn’t make herself feel it, not any more. She knew that tomorrow would be no better, that it wouldn’t be very different from the day which had just ended. Christmas brought a slight variation in their routine, but that was all. New Year’s Eve was just another day too, though they always had a special meal then as well, smoked lamb, like on Christmas Eve, but they hadn’t let off any fireworks for donkey’s years. Since fireworks counted as hazardous items, they were on sale only for a limited period, which meant they were never available when she and Einar made their pre-Christmas trip to the village to stock up. This was usually in November, before the worst of the snow set in, and it would be hard to justify making another special trip in the depths of winter, just to buy a few rockets and sparklers. Besides, they both agreed that letting off fireworks in the middle of nowhere was a bit pointless. At least, that’s how Einar had put it, and she had humoured him as usual, though in her heart of hearts she missed the explosion of colour with which they used to greet the New Year.

  ‘Why are you up so late, love?’ he asked gently.

  She saw from her alarm clock that it wasn’t even eleven, but here in this perpetual darkness, time had little meaning. They lived according to their own rhythm, going to bed far too early, waking up far too early. Her silent rebellion, which consisted of staying up reading, didn’t achieve anything.

  ‘I was finishing my book,’ she said. ‘I just wasn’t sleepy. And I was wondering if we should ring Anna to see if she’s all right.’ Answering her own question, she added: ‘But it’s probably too late to call now.’

  ‘Can I turn off the light?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, do,’ she said reluctantly. He pressed the switch and they were engulfed by darkness. So uncompromising, yet so quiet. Not the faintest light to be seen. She could feel the snow coming down outside; knew that they wouldn’t be going anywhere soon. This was the life they had made for themselves. There was nothing to be done but endure it.

  II

  It was long past 10 p.m. Hulda was standing outside the front door, fumbling in her bag for the house keys and cursing under her breath. She couldn’t see a thing. The light bulb over the door had blown and the glow of the streetlights was too faint to be much help.

  Jón had promised to buy a new bulb but, clearly, he hadn’t got round to it yet. They were half in the countryside out here by the sea on the Álftanes peninsula, away from the bright lights of the city. She had always thought of it as a good place to live, yet a sense of gloom had been hanging over the family for the last few months, as if their skies were overcast.

  Hulda found her keys at last. She hadn’t wanted to ring the bell in case Jón and Dimma were asleep. She had been expecting to get home even later since she was supposed to be on night shift, but for once things had been quiet, so Snorri had let her go early. He was quite perceptive, she’d give him that, and could probably sense that all was not well at home. She and her husband, Jón, both worked too hard, and their hours were far from conventional. Jón was a self-employed investor and wholesaler, and although that should theoretically have given him considerable control over his time, in practice he spent long hours closeted in his study at home or at meetings in town. Whenever there was a lot on, Hulda was expected to do overtime, and she had to do evenings and nights when required, as well as still working the odd holiday. This year, for example, she was down to be on duty on Christmas Day. With any luck, there would be nothing to do, though, and she’d be home at a reasonable hour.

  All was quiet in the house. The lights were off in the sitting room and the kitchen, and Hulda immediately noticed that there was no lingering smell of food. It seemed that yet again Jón hadn’t bothered to cook dinner for himself and their daughter. He was supposed to make sure Dimma was fed; she couldn’t live on Cheerios alone for breakfast and supper. It wouldn’t help her mood if she never got a square meal, and she had been difficult enough recently as it was. She was thirteen, and her teens hadn’t got off to a good start. She had been neglecting her schoolfriends and spending her evenings alone at home, shut away in her room. Hulda had always assumed that Álftanes would be a wonderful place to bring up a child, a good mix of city and countryside, reasonably close to Reykjavík but with the great outdoors on their doorstep, and plenty of clean, healthy sea air. Now, though, she had to admit that the decision to live here might have been a mistake: perhaps they should have moved closer to the centre of town, to give their daughter more of a social life.

  Hulda was standing in the hall when Dimma’s door unexpectedly opened and Jón came out.

  ‘Back already?’ he asked, meeting her gaze with a smile. ‘So early? I thought I’d have to stay up late to have a chance of seeing you.’

  ‘What were you doing in Dimma’s room? Is she asleep?’

  ‘Yes, sound asleep. I was just checking on her. She seemed so under the weather this evening. I just wanted to make sure she was OK.’

  ‘Oh? Has she got a temperature?’

  ‘No, nothing like that. Her forehead feels quite cool. I think it’s best to let her sleep. She seems so down in the dumps at the moment.’

  Jón came over, put his arm round Hulda and more or less walked he
r into the sitting room. ‘Why don’t we have a glass of wine, love? I went to the Ríki today and bought two bottles of red.’

  Hulda hesitated, still worried about Dimma. Something didn’t feel quite right, but she pushed the thought away. The fact was, she needed to unwind after a tiring day at work; her job took it out of her enough as it was, without her having to be on edge at home as well. Perhaps Jón was right, perhaps she just needed a drink to help her relax before bed.

  She took off her coat, laid it over the back of the sofa and sat down. Jón went into the kitchen and returned with a bottle and two antique glasses that had belonged to her grandparents. He pulled out the cork with an effort and filled them. This was an unusual luxury. Not only was the tax on alcohol prohibitive, but it was hard for either of them to make it to the Ríki, as the state-owned off-licence was known, during its restricted opening hours.

  ‘Red wine! We’re very extravagant all of a sudden. What are we celebrating?’

  ‘The fact I’ve had a good day,’ he said. ‘I think I’ve finally managed to sell that building on Hverfisgata that I’ve been struggling to shift. The bank’s been on my back, threatening to repossess it. Bunch of bloody bean counters, the lot of them – they have no idea how business works. Anyhow, cheers!’

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘There are times when I really wish we lived abroad, somewhere with proper banks. It’s so frustrating trying to work in an environment where everything comes down to politics, and the banks are all run by former politicians too. It’s crazy. I’m in the wrong party and I’m being made to suffer for the fact.’ He gave an aggrieved sigh.

  Hulda only listened with half an ear. She hadn’t the patience to keep up with all the ins and outs of Jón’s endless financial entanglements. She had enough problems of her own at work but made it a strict policy not to bring them home, as he was inclined to do. She had every confidence in his skill at wheeling and dealing; he seemed to know all the tricks. One minute he was buying a prime piece of property, next thing she knew he’d sold it for a hefty profit, and the rest of the time he was busy building up his wholesale business. She had to hand it to him, he had certainly secured them a comfortable income over the years. They owned this attractive detached house, two cars and could afford to treat themselves to the odd luxury as well, like taking Dimma out to dinner once or twice a month, usually at their favourite hamburger joint. Reykjavík, only ten minutes away by car, had so few restaurants that even going to a fast-food place counted as a special occasion. Come to think of it, it was quite a while since they’d last been for a meal as a family. Dimma seemed to have grown out of wanting to spend time with her parents and had refused several invitations to come out with them in the last few weeks and months.

  ‘Jón, why don’t we go out for a meal tomorrow?’

  ‘On Thorlákur’s Mass? Everywhere’s bound to be heaving.’

  ‘I was just thinking about our usual place, about going for a burger and chips.’

  ‘Hm …’ After a brief pause, he said: ‘Let’s wait and see. It’s bound to be packed and the rush-hour traffic’s always so bad this close to Christmas. Don’t forget we still need to decorate the tree too.’

  ‘Oh, damn,’ she said. ‘I forgot to pick one up today.’

  ‘Hulda, you promised to take care of that. Isn’t there a place selling trees right by your office?’

  ‘Yes, there is, I drive past it every day.’

  ‘Then can’t you go and buy one first thing tomorrow morning? I suppose we’ll be stuck with some spindly little reject now.’

  After a moment’s silence, Hulda changed the subject. ‘Have you got anything else for Dimma? We talked about getting her some jewellery, didn’t we? I bought that book I think she wants – she always used to like reading at Christmas, anyway. And I happen to know that my mother has knitted her a jumper, so at least she’ll be safe from the Christmas Cat.’ Hulda grinned at her own joke, a reference to the evil cat that, according to folklore, ate Icelandic children who didn’t receive any new clothes at Christmas.

  ‘I don’t know what she wants,’ Jón said. ‘She hasn’t dropped any hints, but I’ll sort it out tomorrow.’ Then he added with a chuckle: ‘Do you really think she’ll wear a jumper knitted by your mum?’ Before Hulda could react, he went on: ‘This is bloody good wine, isn’t it? It certainly cost enough.’

  ‘Yes, it’s not bad,’ she said, though she wasn’t sufficiently used to red wine to be able to taste the difference between plonk and the good stuff. ‘Don’t make fun of Mum; she’s doing her best.’ Although she wasn’t as close to her mother as she could have wished, Hulda was sometimes hurt by the way Jón talked about her. For her part, Hulda had always been keen for Dimma to get to know her grandmother properly, and that at least had worked out well.

  ‘Your mum hasn’t shown her face round here for ages, has she?’ Jón remarked, and Hulda knew that the light, teasing note in his voice hid an underlying criticism, though whether of Hulda or her mother, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps both of them.

  ‘No, that’s my fault. I’ve just been so busy that I haven’t had time to invite her round, to be honest.’ It was half true. The fact was, she didn’t particularly enjoy her mother’s company. Their relationship had always been rather constrained, and her mother could be so suffocatingly intense, always on her back. It’s not as if they ever talked about anything that mattered either.

  Hulda had spent almost the first two years of her life at a home for infants, and she longed to ask her mother about the past, about why she had been put there. She suspected her grandparents had been mostly to blame, and yet somehow she had found it easier to forgive them than her mother. Naturally, she had been too young to have any memory of her time in the home, but ever since she had learned about it later from her grandfather the knowledge had haunted her. Perhaps that explained her inability to bond with her mother: the feeling that she had been abandoned, that she hadn’t been loved, was hard to bear.

  She took another sip of Jón’s expensive wine. At least she was loved now. Happily married to Jón, mother of a darling daughter. She hoped to goodness Dimma would shake off her sullen mood over Christmas.

  Just then she heard a sound from the hall.

  ‘Is she awake?’ Hulda asked, starting to get up.

  ‘Sit down, love,’ Jón said, placing a hand on her thigh. He was gripping it unnecessarily tightly, she thought, but she didn’t protest.

  Then she heard a door closing and the click of a lock.

  ‘She’s only gone to the bathroom. Calm down, love. We need to give her some space. She’s growing up so fast.’

  Of course, he was right. Adolescence brought big changes and no doubt children coped with them in different ways. The phase would pass and maybe Hulda simply needed to back off a bit. As a mother, she was tugged by such powerful emotions, but sometimes she knew it would be better if she just relaxed.

  They sat in companionable silence for a while, something they’d always been good at. Jón topped up Hulda’s glass, though she hadn’t emptied it yet, and she thanked him.

  ‘Shouldn’t we get a gammon joint to have on the twenty-fourth, as usual?’ Jón asked. He obviously hadn’t noticed the joint which was already safely stowed in the bottom of the fridge.

  ‘Didn’t you two have any supper?’ Hulda asked in return. ‘And, yes, I’ve already got the gammon.’

  ‘There was no time. I grabbed a sandwich on my way home and Dimma’s used to fending for herself. There’s always skyr or something in the fridge, isn’t there?’

  Hulda nodded.

  ‘Busy at work?’ he asked amiably, changing the subject.

  ‘Yes, actually. We’re always trying to juggle too many cases. There just aren’t enough of us.’

  ‘Oh, come on, we live in the most peaceful country in the world.’

  She merely smiled, in an attempt to close the subject. Some of the cases she dealt with were deeply distressing and she had no wish to discuss them with him.
Then there was the incident that wouldn’t stop preying on her mind, although it had happened back in the autumn: the young woman who had vanished in Selfoss. It was a strange business. Perhaps it wouldn’t hurt to look at the files again tomorrow.

  There was another sound from the hallway. Hulda stood up automatically, ignoring Jón’s protest.

  She went out into the hall and saw Dimma standing by the door to her room, about to go inside. She paused, her eyes on her mother’s, her face as blank as if she were in a world of her own.

  ‘Dimma, darling, are you awake? Is everything all right?’ Hulda asked, hearing a note of desperation entering her voice in spite of herself.

  She jumped when Jón suddenly put an arm round her shoulders, holding them firmly. Dimma looked at them both in turn, without saying a word, then vanished back into her room.

  III

  Erla sat facing Einar across the kitchen table. In the background, the voice of the announcer reading the midday news competed with the hiss of static on the old long-wave radio. Reception had always been bad out here and they had been told that they were lucky they could pick up any broadcasts at all. Still, although the quality was up and down, they could usually make out what was being said, even when the interference was at its worst. To Erla, the radio was a lifeline, almost a condition for their continued existence out here. Despite being an avid reader, she couldn’t imagine enduring the cold, dark winter months without a radio. Her favourite programmes were plays and serials – anything, really, that would help take her mind off things. She usually served up lunch while listening to the last piece of music before the news, then they would sit down and eat during the midday bulletin, which didn’t allow for much conversation. Lunch varied little from day to day: rye bread, sour whey to drink, and heated-up leftovers from the night before, this time in the form of a meat stew. The kitchen was filled with its delicious, hearty smell.