Someone to Watch Over Me (50 page)

‘This doesn’t look much like a haunted house.’ Thóra leaned forward to get a better view of the outside. The rectangular house was made of concrete and had two storeys, but it was unimposing. Even a quick lick of paint on the roof and window frames would have improved its appearance enormously. The front door was cheap plywood and looked almost temporary, and unlike the other gardens on the street the front garden was overgrown. But although the house appeared to have been built more cheaply and maintained less well than its neighbours, it was only superficially different to the others on the street. In fact it looked as if improvements were imminent, and it would only be a short time before the cracks in the concrete were repaired, the outside painted, and a new front door put on. A string of unlit Christmas lights lay along the edge of the roof, a reminder of the recent holiday.

‘How do you imagine a haunted house looks?’ asked Matthew, as he tried to decide where to park the car. Both spaces on the driveway were free but he didn’t want to use either of them, since the husband was probably due home any moment and the chances were they would choose his place. Matthew was very concerned about these things. ‘Were you expecting an American wooden house with high gables and broken windows? Maybe a bat hanging upside down from the guttering?’ Matthew parked the car next to the kerb in front of the house.

‘Maybe not that exactly, but this is still different from what I expected.’ Thóra stepped out onto the pavement and the new-fallen snow crunched beneath her feet. ‘Damn, it’s cold.’ She waited while Matthew locked the car. She took a deep breath of the still winter air and noticed a faint but revolting odour that she couldn’t place. ‘Oh, yuck.’ The metallic tang lingered in her mouth and nostrils and grew stronger with every breath. Immediately she felt a chill; she looked again at the house and suddenly it didn’t seem as harmless as it had at first. The dark garden running alongside it seemed sinister somehow, and the building appeared to cast longer and darker shadows than the other houses on the block. She shook off the unpleasant feeling and headed towards the shabby-looking door. Lights were on in most of the windows; upstairs there was a flicker as if a bulb were about to go out, or was it just a television? It wasn’t easy to tell, since all the curtains were drawn. Behind the ones drawn in the kitchen she caught a hazy glimpse of the outline of a person. Thóra couldn’t see whether the person’s face was turned towards them, but she was fairly certain that they were watching her and Matthew walk up the path. The silhouette disappeared just as they reached the house. If it was Berglind, then she’d gone straight to the door, because it opened as soon as Matthew rang the doorbell. The noise of the bell didn’t carry outside, making it seem as if the house had swallowed the sound.

‘Come in. The doorbell’s broken. I was afraid of missing you so I was keeping an eye out.’ The woman was young, probably early thirties, perhaps slightly younger. Her straight, blonde shoulder-length hair looked dirty, and it fell across her face. Her worn jeans were obviously supposed to be skinny-fit, but they were baggy on her and her fleece hung loosely on her thin frame. Her eyes were large and expressive, and would have been beautiful but for the dull rings underneath. All of this fitted with Thóra’s mental image of a woman who was being haunted.

‘Hi, I’m Thóra and this is Matthew, who I mentioned earlier.’ The woman’s grip was slack and her palm cold and clammy. ‘Thank you very much for agreeing to meet with us; we won’t bother you for long. I realize it’s getting late and tomorrow’s a work day.’

‘I’m on sick leave, so I don’t have to get up. My husband is still at work; they’re doing an inventory and he’ll be there well into the night, so you aren’t disturbing us.’ She seemed to feel the need to go into this in detail, as if to excuse her husband’s heavy workload in the midst of the recession: ‘The company just changed owners, which means lots of changes and extra work – which is unpaid, but he’s been promised additional leave in return.’ Berglind showed them into the house. The hall was very tidy but devoid of all luxury. It could have done with a coat cupboard, but instead there was a coat rack on wheels. Shoes were arranged neatly against the wall in order of size, except for some fiery red boots in the middle that were decorated like mini fire engines. Thóra could see that Matthew was having trouble deciding where he should put his shoes; by the front door, in their correct place among the household’s own pairs? Berglind also appeared to notice and announced, ‘Don’t worry about your shoes; there’s not much to do here during the day so I try to keep the house ship-shape. There are only three of us so I’ve had to come up with various things to help fill the day.’ She looked at the shoes, side by side as if in a shop. ‘It’s ridiculous, I know, but I hardly ever leave the house, so there’s nothing to do but occupy myself somehow – no matter how strange it might seem.’

Thóra smiled. ‘Well, I have to say I envy you your tidy hallway; you should see mine.’ The hall in her house was always filled with shoes, left there by Sóley, Gylfi, Sigga, and now Orri as well, generally in a pile in the middle of the floor. Thóra was sure that they must fling them off on their way in, but without breaking their stride: they loosened the laces as they approached the door and then stepped out of them on the way in. The little space that was left on the floor was then heaped with the kids’ coats; for some reason they never hung them on the hooks. When she and Matthew emerged from the hallway it always felt as if they’d just hopped from stone to stone over a river.

Berglind didn’t smile back. ‘Have a seat in the living room. I’m just going to check on Pési.’ She pointed up at the Artex ceiling. ‘He’s upstairs watching a film. He doesn’t have to get up tomorrow morning either because he’s on a break from preschool. Actually a kind of mini-version of my circumstances.’ The rings under her eyes seemed to darken and spread, probably because they’d left the brightly lit hall.

Matthew and Thóra sat down on a brown sectional sofa of the kind that had taken over the furniture market a few years earlier. It was as if the sofa wanted to show solidarity with the house and had decided to show signs of wear; the attached chaise longue had sunk in the middle and its colour had faded, making it look as though it belonged to an entirely different set. Like the hallway, the living room was excessively tidy, and Thóra thought she caught a whiff of cleaning fluid. She desperately wanted to stand up and have a look at the framed photographs on the wall to her right, but she was uncomfortable with the idea that Berglind might find her doing it. So she sat completely still and tried to examine them from a distance.

‘Sorry – I had to find him some paper and crayons; he didn’t want to stop watching the film.’ Berglind sat down opposite Thóra. She smiled at them awkwardly and seemed to hope that they would do all the talking. ‘Would you like some coffee or something?’

Thóra and Matthew both politely declined. ‘We absolutely don’t want to trouble you. You’ve got enough on your plate.’ Thóra looked towards the stairs leading to the upper floor. ‘Has your son been aware of this … spirit at all?’ She didn’t know how much she could trust the blogger’s story; she would rather get her answers straight from the woman.

‘Yes, very aware. He and I seem to be the most sensitive to it; my husband finds it easy to shut it out and act as though nothing’s wrong.’ She frowned. ‘I can see that you don’t believe a word of it. I’ve become an expert at recognizing that expression.’

Embarrassed, Thóra tried to hide her doubts. ‘I certainly didn’t intend to suggest that. I know less than nothing about ghosts and I don’t really have an opinion on them either way. We’re here for an entirely different reason, as I mentioned – a case that’s connected to the accident here on Vesturlandsvegur Road somehow. I was hoping that the connection could be explained by speaking to you.’

At that the woman relaxed slightly. ‘I understand. I’ve just become so sensitive about the subject; everyone around me has grown tired of it and their sympathy has worn a little thin.’ She sat up straight. ‘But that’s life, I guess. Although one or two people have actually been extremely understanding; the couple next door have been very kind to us, as well as my boss at work. Other people just don’t want to talk about it.’

‘May I ask how the haunting manifests itself?’ Matthew was clearly extremely curious. ‘I’ve never met anyone who’s been in this kind of situation.’

‘Sure.’ Berglind smiled unexpectedly, but then her face darkened as she began telling them the entire story. As the story went on, Thóra was glad that the curtains were all drawn – there was no denying it was powerful stuff.

When Berglind appeared to have reached the end of her account, Thóra was no closer to knowing how these events were related to the fire, and although every other message from Jósteinn had turned out to contain important information, it was conceivable that this time he had missed the mark. Thóra had the feeling that Berglind was telling the truth, and telling the story exactly as she saw it, but that didn’t mean all her explanations reflected reality. ‘Well now …’ Thóra’s throat was dry and she coughed gently. ‘It all sounds rather frightening, but unfortunately I can’t see how it has any connection to the case I’m working on. None of the names match; the dates don’t ring any bells. The accident occurred almost a year before the fire. You don’t remember anything special that happened here on
11
October
2008
?’

‘No, although it was actually around that time that the haunting grew significantly worse.’ Berglind thought for a moment in silence and her expression turned to one of bewilderment. ‘Did you say a fire? That occurred in October of that year?’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you referring to the fire at the community residence?’ asked Berglind, sounding surprised. Light footsteps from upstairs indicated that Berglind’s son was moving around and she started and looked up at the ceiling. She seemed to realize that her reaction might have appeared unnatural to her visitors and immediately turned her attention back to them.

‘Yes,’ said Thóra. ‘ Do you know anything about it?’ Perhaps Jósteinn’s message wasn’t directly related to the accident on Vesturlandsvegur Road, but he had simply chosen it as a roundabout way of putting Thóra in touch with Berglind. ‘Do you by any chance work at the Regional Office for the Disabled?’

She shook her head. ‘No, at the Ministry of Justice. A colleague there lost his son in the fire.’

‘I see.’ Thóra was at a loss to come up with a sensible follow-up question to this unexpected information. There was in fact only one question burning on her lips, but she thought she’d better keep it to herself until she’d exhausted everything else that came to mind. ‘Do people shorten your name to Begga?’

‘Yes, they do.’

‘Mummy.’ In the doorway stood a little boy in Mickey Mouse pyjamas, clutching a picture with a serious expression. Berglind stood up, took him in her arms and sat back down. She stroked his blond hair and the child leaned his head against her chest. The picture lay in his lap, and its contents drew Thóra’s attention.

‘What a lovely picture you’ve drawn! Do you know the alphabet?’ She leaned forward and reached for the picture. ‘May I see?’ The boy was shy and turned away from her, but he handed her the picture all the same. Large, clumsy characters were drawn in blue crayon.
NNI
80
. This was as disturbing as the string of characters with which Tryggvi had marked all of his drawings, and the chill that she’d felt outside the house now returned. ‘Berglind, did you meet Tryggvi, or ever see any of
his
pictures?’

Berglind tightened her grip around the boy. ‘Do you mean Einvarður’s son? I never met him, and Pési certainly didn’t. Why? Is it something to do with these characters?’ She looked at the picture. ‘I kind of recognize them, but definitely not in connection with Tryggvi.’

Thóra let the drawing fall into her lap. ‘I know this is going to sound really impertinent, but … did you and Einvarður have a relationship outside work?’ She half whispered the final part of the question even though the child in Berglind’s arms wasn’t mature enough to understand what she was implying.

‘I’m sorry? Wherever did you get that idea?’ Berglind didn’t seem insulted, just extremely surprised. She adjusted Pési in her lap.

‘I must have misunderstood something. Please, forgive me for being so rude.’ Thóra wasn’t certain she completely trusted the woman, but she didn’t want to carry on making accus-ations that would only be denied. She knew nothing about this relationship that Lena had mentioned, but it was clear that if this woman had been having a secret affair then she was unlikely to admit it to a stranger. Thóra leaned down towards the little boy. ‘Why did you choose these letters and numbers, Pési?’ Thóra held up the picture. He had turned away from his mother and held his hands over his face. Then he peeked through his fingers.

‘The window.’ His answer was so low, it was barely audible. ‘It was written on the window. Magga wrote it. She’s outside.’

Matthew stood on the steps and stamped snow off his feet. ‘It was definitely a man, and a young one, considering how fast he ran.’ He tried to catch his breath. ‘I would have caught him if I’d had better shoes and if he hadn’t gone through the gardens and jumped over all these fences.’ Thin clouds of vapour drifted up from his body, merged with the calm, frosty air and vanished. With Berglind’s permission he had taken a look at the window to which Pési was referring, and while they were examining the characters in the frost on the balcony door that opened onto the kitchen, he had spied a man in the garden and set off after him in Berglind’s husband’s slippers, which had been standing by the door.

‘It’s a pity you don’t ever run through people’s gardens on your normal route.’ Thóra stretched out to look over his shoulder, though she had no idea why she was bothering, since the man couldn’t possibly be anywhere nearby considering how long Matthew had been gone. ‘Dammit.’

‘Who could it have been? Did you see his face?’ Berglind stood behind Thóra with her son in her arms, his small body wrapped so tightly around his mother that she must have found it hard to breathe. The boy had taken the episode badly, and it was difficult to know how much more the poor little soul could endure. For him it might just as well have been the ogress Grýla coming into the garden to put him in her bag, drag him up to the mountains and eat him.