Authors: Arnaldur Indridason
Hypothermia (16 page)
‘Same old country boy,’ Halldóra said.
‘I suppose I am,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘You needn’t be polite for my sake,’ Halldóra said, raising her gaze from the table.
‘All right,’ Erlendur said.
‘Eva told me you were living with some woman.’
‘We don’t live together,’ Erlendur said.
‘Really? What, then?’
‘We’re good friends; her name’s Valgerdur.’
‘Oh.’
Neither of them spoke.
‘This is just bullshit,’ Halldóra said all of a sudden, grabbing the packet of cigarettes and a disposable lighter from the table and stuffing them in her coat pocket. ‘I don’t know what I was thinking of,’ she added, rising from her seat.
‘Don’t go,’ Erlendur said.
‘I must,’ Halldóra said. ‘I don’t know what Eva thought she would get out of this but . . . it’s just bullshit . . .’
Reaching over the table, Erlendur grabbed her arm.
‘Don’t go,’ he repeated.
Their eyes met. Halldóra jerked her arm away, then sank back into her seat.
‘I only came because Eva wanted me to,’ she said.
‘Me too,’ Erlendur said. ‘Shouldn’t we try to do this for her?’
Halldóra took out another cigarette and lit it. Erlendur thought it said ‘Mallorca’ on the lighter. He wasn’t aware that she had ever been on a holiday to the Med. Perhaps she had bought it to conjure up memories of sunshine. Or to keep alive the dream of hot sand on a beach somewhere. Once he had refused to take her on a package holiday to the sun, saying he couldn’t see the point of going to places like that. ‘The point!’ she had retorted. ‘The point is that people go there to do nothing!’
‘Eva’s doing well,’ Halldóra said.
‘We should try to emulate her,’ Erlendur said. ‘I think it would help her if we could find some way of offering her our mutual support.’
‘There’s just one problem with that,’ Halldóra said. ‘I don’t want anything to do with you. I told her and she knows it. I’ve told her over and over again.’
‘I can well understand that,’ Erlendur said.
‘Understand?’ Halldóra spat out. ‘Do you think I care what you do or don’t understand? You destroyed our family. You have that on your conscience. You just walked out as if your children had nothing to do with you. What do you understand?’
‘I didn’t just walk out – you’re wrong about that and it was not nice of you to tell the children that.’
‘Not nice of me!’
‘Can we skip the row?’ Erlendur asked.
‘You dare to judge me!’
‘I’m not judging you.’
‘No, that’s right,’ Halldóra snorted. ‘You never want to argue about anything. You’ve got your own way, so everyone else can shut up. Isn’t that how you want it?’
Erlendur didn’t answer. He had been dreading this meeting because he’d known that Halldóra would launch into him like this. For her, what had happened in the past was neither buried nor forgotten. He looked at her and saw how she had aged, how the muscles of her face had slackened, her lower lip jutted slightly, the skin on her nose and under her eyes had reddened. She used to wear make-up in the old days but it seemed that she could no longer be bothered. He supposed he presented the same depressing sight himself.
‘We made a mistake,’ he said. ‘I made a mistake. I have to live with that. I should have behaved differently, I should have insisted on getting access to the children. I should have explained things better to you. I tried but probably not hard enough. I’m sorry about what happened but I can’t change anything. It’s no longer about us but about Sindri and Eva; perhaps it was always about them. I could have done better but I let you take charge. You kept the children.’
Halldóra finished her cigarette and ground it into the ashtray. She immediately took out another and lit it with the Mallorca lighter, then inhaled the blue smoke, expelling it slowly through her nostrils.
‘So, you want to blame me for everything?’
‘I don’t want to blame anyone for anything,’ Erlendur said.
‘Naturally you get off scot-free. I kept the children! Isn’t that just how you wanted it?’
‘I didn’t mean that. And I’m not getting off—’
‘Do you think my life has been a bed of roses? A divorced single mother with two children. You think there was nothing to it?’
‘No. If you’re looking for a scapegoat, then it’s me. No one else. I know that. I’ve always known that.’
‘Good.’
‘But you’re not exactly innocent either,’ Erlendur said. ‘You wouldn’t give me access to the kids. You told lies about me. That was your revenge. I could have pushed harder to get access to them. That was my mistake.’
Halldóra glared at him without speaking. Erlendur met her gaze.
‘Your mistake, my revenge,’ she said at last.
He did not reply.
‘You haven’t changed,’ she said.
‘I don’t want to quarrel with you.’
‘No, but you are anyway.’
‘Couldn’t you see what was happening? Couldn’t you have intervened? Couldn’t you have looked up from your own self-pity for one minute and seen what was happening? I know my own responsibility and I know it’s my fault for not having made sure that they were all right. Ever since Eva sought me out and I saw what had happened, I’ve blamed myself, because I know I failed them. But what about you, Halldóra? Couldn’t you have done something?’
Halldóra did not answer him straight away. She looked out at the rain, twiddling the lighter between her fingers. Erlendur waited for a hail of angry recriminations, but Halldóra simply gazed calmly at the rain and smoked. Her voice sounded weary when she finally answered.
‘Dad was a labourer, as you know,’ she said. ‘He was born poor and died even poorer. Mum, too. We never had anything. Not a damned thing. I imagined another life. I wanted to escape the poverty. Get a nice flat. Nice things. A good man. I thought you were him. I thought we were embarking on a life that would bring us a bit of happiness. It didn’t work out like that. You . . . walked out. I started drinking. I don’t know what Eva and Sindri have told you. I don’t know how much you know about my life – our life – but it hasn’t exactly been fun. I’ve been unlucky with men. Some of them were real bastards. I’ve worked my fingers to the bone. I’ve lived in a series of rented flats, some of them total dumps. Sometimes the children and I were thrown out. Sometimes I went on long benders. I probably didn’t look after them like I should have done. They’ve probably had an even worse life than I have, especially Eva – she was always more sensitive than Sindri when it came to strangers and bad conditions.’
Halldóra sucked in the smoke.
‘That’s what happened. I’ve tried not to give way to self-pity. I . . . I can’t help it if I have a tendency to blame you for some of it.’
‘May I?’ he asked, reaching for her cigarettes.
She shoved the packet towards him, together with the Mallorca lighter. They sat and smoked, each absorbed in their own thoughts.
‘She was always asking about you,’ Halldóra said, ‘and I usually told her you were like one of those bums I used to go out with. I know it wasn’t nice of me but what was I to say? What would you have liked me to say?’
‘I don’t know,’ Erlendur said. ‘It can’t have been an easy life.’
‘You brought it on us.’
Erlendur did not reply. The rain fell silently from the dark winter sky. Three men in checked shirts stood up and walked out, calling their thanks to the cook in the kitchen on the way.
‘The odds were against me from the beginning,’ Halldóra said.
‘Maybe,’ Erlendur replied.
‘There’s no “maybe” about it.’
‘No.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘I think so.’
‘They were against me because I gave the relationship a hundred per cent,’ Halldóra said.
‘Yes.’
‘But you never did.’
Erlendur did not speak.
‘Never,’ Halldóra said again, exhaling smoke.
‘I expect you’re right,’ Erlendur said.
Halldóra snorted. She avoided meeting his gaze. They sat a good while in silence until she coughed. Reaching for the ashtray, she ground out her cigarette stub.
‘Do you think that was fair?’ she asked.
‘I’m sorry it wasn’t reciprocated,’ Erlendur said.
‘ “I’m sorry”!’ Halldóra mimicked him. ‘How do you think that helps? What on earth were you thinking of?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘It didn’t take me long to realise,’ Halldóra continued. ‘To realise I didn’t matter. But I kept on trying anyway. Like an idiot. The better I knew you, the harder I tried. I would have done anything for you. If you’d given us time and . . . Why did you let things go so far? When you weren’t the slightest bloody bit interested?’
Halldóra lowered her gaze to her coffee cup, fighting back the tears. Her shoulders drooped and her lower lip quivered.
‘I made a mistake,’ Erlendur said. ‘I . . . I didn’t know how to behave, didn’t know what I was doing. I don’t know what happened. I’ve tried not to dwell on it. Tried to avoid thinking about that chapter of my life. Perhaps it’s cowardice.’
‘I never understood you.’
‘I think we’re very different, Halldóra.’
‘Maybe.’
‘My mother had died,’ Erlendur said. ‘I felt rather alone in the world. I thought . . .’
‘You’d find yourself a new mother?’
‘I’m trying to tell you what sort of state I was in.’
‘Don’t bother,’ Halldóra said. ‘It doesn’t matter any more.’
‘I think we should concentrate on the future instead,’ Erlendur said.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘I thought we could talk about Eva,’ he said. ‘This is not about us. Not any more. It hasn’t been for a long time, Halldóra. You must understand that.’
Neither of them spoke. There was a clatter of dishes from the kitchen. Two men in denim jackets came in and walked over to the counter. They helped themselves to coffee and pastries and sat down with them in the corner. A man in an anorak sat alone at another table, looking through the paper. There was no one else in the room.
‘You were bad news,’ Halldóra said in a low voice. ‘That’s what Dad always said. Bad news.’
‘Things could have been different,’ Erlendur said. ‘If you’d shown the slightest understanding for how I felt. But it was too painful and you became bitter and full of hate and you still are. You wouldn’t let me near the children. Don’t you think it’s gone far enough? Don’t you think you could let up on the recriminations?’
‘Go ahead – blame it all on me!’
‘I’m not.’
‘Sure you are.’
‘Can’t we do something for Eva?’
‘I don’t see how. I have no interest in salving your conscience.’
‘Can’t we even try?’
‘It’s too late.’
‘It wasn’t supposed to be like this,’ Erlendur said.
‘What do I know about that? It was your doing.’
Halldóra took her packet of cigarettes and lighter and stood up.
‘The whole thing was your doing,’ she hissed and stormed out.
17
Every now and then over the next few days Erlendur dropped into the Central Bus Station in search of Tryggvi. All he had to go on was the rather vague description given to him by Rúdólf at the Napoleon, which he hoped would be sufficient. The third time he arrived at the long-distance coach station, passengers were being called for the bus to Akureyri. A small group of people began to gather up their belongings in the departure lounge. The lunchtime rush hour was over and the cafeteria, which served hot meals, soft drinks and sandwiches, was quiet. Smoking was permitted at tables over by the windows facing the bus stands behind the terminal. A man was sitting there alone, clutching a yellow plastic bag that he had placed on the table. He was watching the passengers boarding the Akureyri bus. His hair was rough, there was a big scar on his chin from an old accident or knife wound, and his hands were large and dirty, the nails black on his index and middle fingers.
‘Excuse me,’ Erlendur said, approaching him, ‘you’re not Tryggvi, by any chance?’
The man eyed him suspiciously.
‘Who are you?’
‘My name’s Erlendur.’
‘Huh . . .’ the man grunted, apparently uninterested in strangers who addressed him out of the blue.
‘Can I offer you a coffee or something to eat?’ Erlendur asked.
‘What do you want?’
‘I just wanted a bit of a chat with you. I hope that’s all right.’
The man gave him a calculating look.
Other books
The Pursuit of Tamsen Littlejohn by Lori Benton
Command Performance by Annabel Joseph
Liberty by Darcy Pattison
Colorado Dawn by Erica Vetsch
KW 09:Shot on Location by Laurence Shames
Lyre by Helen Harper
Temptation's Heat by Michelle Zink
Tick Tock by James Patterson
First Dawn by Judith Miller