Blackout (23 page)

As the evening drew on, the weather was clearing. It had been a cool, overcast summer day. Although there was no real darkness at this time of the year, the evening sun dipped behind the high mountains surrounding Siglufjörður so there was no chance of any of the late sunshine making its way into the town. All the same, Jónatan sat on a stool in his garden and enjoyed the warmth that the end of the day brought.

The cop, the young one, Ari Thór, had called and asked about the place in Skagafjörður where his parents had farmed. It had been a short conversation, with Ari Thór clearly in a hurry. Jónatan had answered every question conscientiously, and when he had been about to enquire courteously why the police needed to know about the farm, he found that Ari Thór had already hung up.

It had to be something to do with Elías’s murder. But what? Had the police heard about what had gone on there, back in the old days? Now the whole story might come out: the horrific tale of what the boys had been forced to endure; Jónatan himself, Elías, and most of those who had been unfortunate enough to have been sent to spend a summer on the family’s farm.

Jónatan had always been at a loss to understand what lay behind the brutality. What could have created such viciousness in someone, the need to make others suffer? He had never experienced any such urges himself. He hoped that it wasn’t something that could be passed down from one generation to the next.

Maybe it was time to tell the whole story, after all.

Whatever the reasons for his murder, Elías was dead, so there was
no help for him anymore. But it might be possible to do something for the others who had been made to suffer during their stay on the farm. Perhaps in some way Elías’s death itself could be traced back to those black days.

Jónatan knew it would look bad for his whole family; his brothers and sisters would be unlikely to thank him for bringing it up again after all these years. He himself would be labelled a victim and the son of a monster, and there would be endless public sympathy and sensationalised interest.

The thought made him shudder. The last thing he wanted was to attract attention.

He just wanted to be left alone.

He heaved a deep sigh. Sometimes things had to change regardless of what the consequences might be.

He stood up and limped into the living room, without bothering to find his stick to help him. Sitting down heavily by the phone, he dialled the number Ari Thór had called from.

Ari Thór answered. He sounded breathless.

Jónatan paused, gulped and then forced himself to speak. ‘I need to talk to you—’

But Ari Thór cut him off. ‘I can’t. Not right now. I … I’m busy. It’s an emergency. You’ll have to call Tómas instead.’

He rattled out a telephone number and hung up without waiting for a reply.

Jónatan waited a minute while he gathered the strength to dial again.

The reply he received was just as sharp and almost as breathless as Ari Thór’s.

‘Tómas!’

The background rumble told Jónatan that Tómas was driving. He was probably in a police car on the way to the farmhouse in Skagafjörður.

‘Hello, Tómas,’ Jónatan said uncertainly. ‘This is Jónatan. Ari Thór called me earlier, asking about the old farm in Skagafjörður…’

But again Jónatan was interrupted. ‘I’m in a hurry,’ Tómas said, before he could get to the point.

But Jónatan knew it would have to be now or never. He had finally summoned up the courage to tell the truth, and he was determined to be heard.

‘I need a few minutes of your time,’ he said, making an effort to be clear and firm. ‘It’s important. Very important.’

‘Talk. Talk then.’

Tómas’s voice barely disguised the fact that he thought he had more important things to deal with at that moment.

‘Why did you want to know where the farm is?’ Jónatan asked, preferring to tread carefully at the outset.

For a while Jónatan could hear only the noise of the car, the hum of the engine.

‘We’re looking for someone, a woman,’ Tómas replied gruffly. ‘We think she could be there. Elías knows his way around the place. We think he could have taken her there.’

Jónatan felt a surge of nausea. The brightness of the evening seemed to darken suddenly and his heart beat faster. Had Elías murdered some poor woman and hidden her body at the farm? He could well believe it. His mind raced. He instantly knew where the most likely hiding place would be.

‘It’s … it’s very possible,’ Jónatan said, almost without intending to.

‘What do you mean?’ Tómas asked, his voice still distracted.

‘A lot happened there that wouldn’t bear the light of day,’ Jónatan said, choosing his words with care. ‘Elías had a hard time … and that doubtless affected him in later life.’

‘A hard time?’ Tómas asked in surprise.

‘The boys there, myself included, didn’t have a happy time of it,’ Jónatan said. He spoke slowly, struggling to state the facts in direct terms.

‘Hold on. Are you telling me that they were abused?’

Now it seemed to Jónatan that he had Tómas’s attention.

‘That’s right.’ He almost whispered the words.

‘What the hell? What kind of abuse? Sexual abuse?’ Tómas demanded in a sharp tone.

‘What? No. Fortunately not,’ Jónatan replied. He had been taken off-guard. ‘But all kinds of other abuse – physical, mental, beatings, being locked up…’

‘And why the hell haven’t you said anything about this before?’ Tómas asked.

‘I … I …’ Jónatan could feel the words drying up in his mouth. He had not shed tears since leaving childhood behind, but this conversation was more of a trial than he could have imagined. ‘I couldn’t say anything while my parents were alive. And when they died, I thought it was all in the past, that it would do no good to rake over cold ashes.’

‘And you say Elías was badly treated?’

‘He was. Very badly.’ Jónatan sighed. He paused to gather the strength to continue. ‘He came to us the second year that my parents were taking boys in over the summer. Summer camp, they called it.’ Jónatan laughed, but his laughter was heavy with sorrow. ‘It was plain hell. That first year, there were three or four boys and they were made to work from morning to night, beaten into obedience and locked in. There were all kinds of threats not to say a word. Some of them were told to come back the following summer, or else something bad would happen to their families down south. That’s what happened to Elías. And he did as he was told – he came back the next summer.’

‘Beaten and locked up?’ Tómas said.

‘Elías was a strong character,’ Jónatan said, carrying on, drifting off into a world of his own, so that he almost forgot he was on the phone. ‘He was plucky and strong right from the first day, even though he was only six or seven. That wasn’t going to be tolerated. But he showed a weak point. He was frightened of the yard dog. I don’t know why – she was such a lovely dog. Maybe he’d been bitten by one, I don’t know. That first night he was allowed to sleep in a
room on his own – my room – and I was made to use a sleeping bag in the garage with the other boys. But I was stubborn that night; I didn’t want to go out there in the dark, so I sat in the hall for a while. That’s how I saw what happened.’

Jónatan paused as the memories appeared before his eyes, like an old horror film he could barely watch. He had to force himself to look back. To tell what he had seen.

‘Elías was locked in with the dog that night. He screamed with terror all night long. Nobody got a wink of sleep and the screams echoed through the house. The next morning Elías was completely different, broken and exhausted.

‘That’s what it was like there. Everyone had to follow all the rules. But they weren’t written down anywhere. So there was no way we could avoid stepping out of line. It was like a trap that was set for us. It was hell! Pure hell!’ Jónatan said, his voice rising to a near scream.

‘And what happened if the rules were broken? Beatings until you behaved?’ Tómas asked.

‘Sometimes, but the worst was being locked up in the potato store. I spent many nights in there. There was a heavy door so there was no hope of breaking out. It was so tight to the floor that there was hardly a breath of fresh air. There was just a tiny strip of light when it was bright in summer, but otherwise it was pitch black. I’ve never been able to stand the bright nights since then – too many bad memories. Nobody was ever locked up in winter, that would have been going too far and the cold would have killed them. It only happened in summer, when we had visitors from down south.’

Jónatan sighed.

‘That’s appalling,’ Tómas said, his voice heavy. ‘Absolutely appalling. Why on earth didn’t your mother do anything to stop all this? God knows how much damage your father must have done.’

Jónatan gasped.

‘Listen … you’re getting the wrong end of the stick. I’m sorry. I didn’t make myself clear. It wasn’t the old man who did all this. It was her. It was Mother.’

Ari Thór knew precisely where Kristín lived. He had made a point of looking the place up when he had been in Akureyri one day. It was easy to reach on foot.

He hoped he wouldn’t be too late. He couldn’t get rid of the feeling that Kristín was in grave danger.

Elías’s murder was behind him now.

And he wasn’t interested in the fate of the unknown woman who might be locked away somewhere, closer to death than life.

Now he was convinced he had an opportunity to save Kristín and win her back. That was all that mattered to him.

It took Tómas a while to appreciate everything Jónatan had told him. From the moment Jónatan had started with his revelations, he had assumed that it was Jónatan’s father who had been responsible for the abuse handed out to the boys.

‘Let me get this right. It was your mother who locked the boys in the potato store?’ he asked in amazement.

It had clearly been a struggle for Jónatan to relate the events of long ago. His voice was small and flat now.

‘That’s it. She ruled the roost. Smacked us boys until we did as we were told. Most of us only needed one night in the spud store. It was so dark. Completely black.’

Tómas shuddered at the thought.

‘And what did your father have to say about all this?’

‘Not much,’ Jónatan sighed. ‘He couldn’t handle the old woman. He’d help her if anyone showed a bit of resistance, not because he was a bad man but because he was as frightened of her as we boys were.’

‘And you were on your own? No brothers and sisters?’ Tómas asked, trying to do his best to concentrate on the road at the same time, and thankful for the hands-free phone. He needed to be quick, as the other vehicles in front of him were travelling fast.

‘Yes, but they were a good bit older. They’d left home by the time my parents started running these summer camps.’

‘You’ll have to come to the station and make a statement tomorrow,’ Tómas told him, trying to make his words as gentle as he could, and regretting his earlier abruptness. He couldn’t help but feel a deep sympathy for this man who had finally been able to recount a childhood ruined by his parents. ‘Why don’t you drop by in the morning? Any time.’

‘I’ll do that,’ Jónatan said, and Tómas could sense the exhaustion and relief in his voice.

‘And Jónatan,’ Tómas said, gently. ‘Thank you for telling me.’

Tómas ended the call. He felt he need a few moments to recover himself, but he didn’t have them. He dialled Helga straightaway. She was upfront in the vehicle leading the convoy. Tómas briefly recounted what Jónatan had told him.

‘So the first thing should be to check the potato store,’ he said. ‘Our man says it has a heavy door. No windows.’

‘I’ve already requested the Sauðárkrókur police to go the location,’ Helga replied. ‘They’ll be there before us. I’ll let them know about the store. Thanks for that. The Siglufjörður team have been a great help,’ she added, perhaps a little grudgingly, and then hung up before Tómas could acknowledge the compliment.

Tómas glowed a little at her words.

Ari Thór stood in front of the house.

There was a light in the big ground-floor window, but the curtains were drawn tight so there was no opportunity to see inside. She was definitely at home, and
he
was undoubtedly her visitor.
The bastard.

The light of the low sun cast a mellow glow over the houses in the street. The whole neighbourhood was basking peacefully in the evening warmth.

Ari Thór stood still for a moment, pretending to himself that he was thinking over what to do, even though he had already made his decision. Every step of the way had made him more certain of his hunch. Kristín had almost certainly invited a highly dangerous character into her home and Ari Thór was the only one who would be able to help her.

He walked up to the door and put a finger on the doorbell. But before he pressed it, another thought came to him. He had to take a different approach.

He banged on the door, hard, and with authority.

As he waited, his heart hammered. It was as if a fire burned inside him.

A second later she stood in the doorway in front of him, so perfectly beautiful.

This was the woman he was supposed to spend his life with. He knew it so clearly now. Why had he let her go?

‘Ari Thór?’

There was no hiding her astonishment; it was clear from her wide eyes, raised brows and her startled voice.

‘What are you doing here? Didn’t you get my email? I said I’m busy this evening.’

Despite her chiding tone, Ari Thór felt there was a warmth in her voice; she didn’t seem angry at all.

He fumbled for the right words. He told himself to relax and took a deep breath, but could still feel his heart beating fast.

‘Is he here?’ was the first thing he was able to say. It was too sharp; Kristín blanched.

‘He? What’s this about, Ari Thór?’ Now she did seem angry.

‘I knew him in Siglufjörður … he’s only … he’s only seeing you to get back at me,’ he said, the words tripping over themselves in his haste.

By now he was inside, standing on a worn mat with a ‘welcome’ message that wasn’t meant for him.

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ Kristín said, trying to keep her voice low, but needing to show her exasperation. ‘We can talk later. I’m busy now.’

‘Everything all right?’ a voice called from inside the apartment.

Ari Thór followed the sound and, despite Kristín’s efforts to stop him, was in the kitchen before he knew it, face to face with a man who sat at the kitchen table with a fork in one hand and a knife in the other, potatoes, greens and a slice of meat on the plate in front of him, red wine in his glass.

Hell
.

Ari Thór had never seen this man in his life.

Hell!

He blinked, trying and failing to regain control over himself. A dense darkness had fallen in front of his eyes and he was suddenly back at a class party in Hafnarfjörður, all those years ago.

The jealousy flooded through him like a fast poison. What the hell was this stranger doing in Kristín’s apartment? How dare he?

He took a step forward. Deep down he knew it was a mistake, but he was unable to control the wave of temper that crashed over him. He took two steps so that he stood over the stranger, who
seemed to be struck dumb with astonishment, blinking and not saying a word.

Ari Thór grabbed the collar of the man’s cheap checked shirt and hauled him bodily off the stool. At the same time he noticed that the man had dropped his fork; nobody takes a fork into a fight. But the steak knife was still in his right hand.

Ari Thór was back again at that class party; his fist was raised and ready to strike. He was ready to relive the past.

The man dodged his punch, but then found himself backed into a corner against the fridge. Ari Thór had him trapped. He rushed towards him.

The last thing he heard before the stinging pain was Kristín’s repeated ‘No … no … no!’