Why Did You Lie? (15 page)

Gingerly, Nína picked up her husband’s hand. His arms lay so unnaturally straight down his sides that she toyed with the idea of rearranging them, bending them at the elbows or putting one arm up over his head. That was how Thröstur used to sleep. But she resisted the impulse for fear she wouldn’t be able to stop. If she tried to arrange Thröstur to resemble a living person it might end with her tearing out the tubes and needles that were keeping him alive. And although they were pretty much waiting for her to give the green light for this, there was bound to be a commotion if she took the initiative herself. So she made do with hiding his cold hand in hers. The cannula in the back of his hand dug into her palm. If only they could stick a similar cannula into his brain and access the information inside. There was so much she longed to know, and the answers could only be found there. Presumably Thröstur’s memories still existed, though his brain no longer worked – like data stored on a hard disk. It wasn’t lost just because the computer was switched off. But it would be once he was dead. Once his life-support machine was switched off, his memories would vanish forever. One day perhaps it would be possible to transcribe memories, but she doubted the hospital would be prepared to keep Thröstur alive until the necessary technology had been invented. Not judging by the hurry they had been in to get rid of him when she finally returned their call late yesterday afternoon.

Nína’s face grew hot at the memory of that phone call. To begin with she had avoided the subject with a long-winded rigmarole about how she was giving it serious thought. But as the call went on and the person she was speaking to showed no signs of giving up, her self-control had broken and she had ended up blubbing like an idiot. What did the hospital care if Thröstur was not only her beloved husband but her best friend too? Would the fact that they had rarely quarrelled and had been perfectly happy together carry any weight when set against the ward’s need to save money? Of course not. Conversations like these were humiliating. At least, thanks to her snivelling, she had managed to avoid agreeing to a date. For now. The man was no doubt biding his time and either he or another member of the team would ring back soon or ambush her at the hospital.

Nína squeezed Thröstur’s hand but his fingers felt like dough. She let it go, leant back in her chair and rearranged the grey fleece blanket, marked ‘National Hospitals Laundry’, which had creased underneath her. Although it was hot in the room, she shivered. She forced herself to focus on the positive; it seemed she might be on the trail at last, might have finally stumbled on a possible explanation for what Thröstur had done. The video was unequivocal proof that as a boy he had been linked to an incident that could conceivably have eaten away at him ever since and even played a part in his decision to take his own life. Far-fetched? Maybe. But it was better than no explanation at all.

One day he had been wondering aloud if they should join some other couples they knew on a long weekend away, the next he was standing in their garage, tying a noose. None of their friends had mentioned the trip in Nína’s hearing since Thröstur had been taken to hospital, probably for fear that she would still want to come with them. It would be impossible to get into the holiday mood with a bereaved spouse in tow.

Nína brought her thoughts back to the old case. It was infuriating to have such incomplete information and be forced to run through all the possible scenarios. In view of his youth, it was highly unlikely that Thröstur could have committed a crime himself, however odd his behaviour had been during the interview. The alternative was more likely: that he had been the victim of a crime, though it was as a witness that he had been called in to the station. Just about anything could have emerged from the inquiry – or been missed by those investigating. As her boss had rightly pointed out, he wouldn’t be the first person to suffer lasting damage as the result of sexual abuse at a tender age. The wounds tended to grow more painful over time, especially if the victims couldn’t bring themselves to talk about their experiences. Thröstur had never uttered a word about this case, though she had always believed they trusted one another implicitly. What could have been more natural than to mention that he had been involved in a police investigation as a child? Especially in light of her job, and the fact that he was writing an article about historical cases of child abuse. The more she thought about it, the less likely this explanation seemed. But something had happened, and sooner or later she would find out what it was. Children weren’t summoned by the police to give a statement for no reason.

Nína felt warmer but didn’t know if that was due to the blanket or the thought that she might actually be on the verge of making some progress. The video had given her the longed-for starting point. Now she needed to dig up the rest of the story, so she wouldn’t have to keep brooding over what could have driven Thröstur to this desperate act. Instinctively her eyes sought out the ugly wound still visible on his neck. She no longer felt the need to cover it with the sheet. Things were moving in the right direction. Whatever the story from his childhood turned out to involve, the explanation had to lie there.

Nína drew her legs towards her and wrapped the blanket more tightly around herself. She closed her eyes and emptied her mind but sleep refused to come. No matter how much she tossed and turned, she couldn’t drop off. There was too much to think about and she had to come up with a plan. The information she needed must exist somewhere. But where? And who could she ask? She’d been unable to find the rest of the interview on the other videos, or indeed any other interviews connected to the case. Thröstur’s mother, Milla, was dead and a brief phone call to his father, Magni, had achieved nothing. The man had been nonplussed and said he had never heard of the incident. It didn’t sound as if he was concealing anything from Nína. At first he suggested she must have been mistaken – the boy must have been some other Thröstur.

When she told him about the recording in which his wife was clearly recognisable, all he could think of was that he must have been away at sea at the time and that Milla had forgotten to tell him about it afterwards. Nína found this hard to believe, though she didn’t like to contradict him. But her doubts must have been obvious because her father-in-law then came up with another, slightly more plausible, explanation. His wife had done her best to shield him from problems during his shore leave, keen to present him with a picture of the perfect family life: clean, well-behaved children, a spotless home. Perhaps she had thought it better to keep him out of the matter. This was more credible than the idea that an ordinary woman who had never had any other brush with the law would somehow forget that she had accompanied their son to a police interview.

By the end of the phone call Thröstur’s father was as eager as Nína to get to the bottom of the matter. Before he rang off, he added that he couldn’t stop wondering what could have come over his boy. He seemed convinced that he himself must have failed his son by his frequent long absences when Thröstur was growing up. Nína assured him that this could have had nothing whatsoever to do with Thröstur’s decision, but she had been a little relieved as well. It was a comfort to learn that she wasn’t alone in entertaining such thoughts. She was also grateful that he evidently disagreed with Thröstur’s sister, who seemed to blame Nína for what had happened, though she hadn’t accused her to her face. If only she would come right out and say it that would give Nína a chance to defend herself. Until then, she would simply have to bite her lip. It was impossible to lose your temper with someone who wouldn’t quarrel openly, especially since the two of them never met up one on one. Yet, in spite of these reflections, her relief at her father-in-law’s words was mingled with guilt that she should take any kind of satisfaction in the old man’s suffering.

The sucking sound from the ventilator intensified slightly and Nína poked her head out from under the blanket. The plastic concertina beside the machine compressed and expanded. She had asked the doctor what it was for but hadn’t been in any fit state to register the answer – she had only asked in an attempt to stop herself breaking down – so she was still none the wiser as to its function. Perhaps it was to stop the oxygen flowing constantly into the lungs by emulating the action of breathing.

In, out. In, out.

The repetitive movement had a soothing effect on Nína and she couldn’t tear her eyes from the concertina that was keeping Thröstur alive. Of course it was time to put an end to this. Her fantasies about the development of some sort of technology for transcribing memories were nonsense and it wasn’t fair to Thröstur or their relationship to delay the decision any longer. Every day she saw him lying at death’s door the old memories of him were pushed further and further back in her mind. In the end they would vanish. Nína took the decision then and there. A shower of hail rattled against the window. It wasn’t Thröstur lying in the bed. He had departed long ago. If she wanted to sit beside him for the rest of her life, she might just as well sit beside a photograph.

Next time she saw the doctors she would request that his life support be switched off.

‘I’m so proud of you.’ Berglind’s smile was sincere. ‘Of course it’s horrible but it had to be done. You’ve come to terms with that, haven’t you?’

‘I don’t feel particularly good about the decision but I don’t feel bad either. I’m just trying not to think about it.’ The keyhole was covered in snow and Nína was having trouble opening the door. Last night’s hailstorm had developed into a blizzard that showed no sign of relenting. As the two women clambered over a snowdrift that had collected in front of the entrance, half of it collapsed inside onto the floor.

Berglind pulled an elastic band from her pocket and tied her hair back in a ponytail. ‘Where shall we start?’

‘The sitting room, I suppose.’ In the middle of her conversation with the doctor that morning it had dawned on Nína that once Thröstur had passed away she would no longer be able to spend her nights at the hospital; she would have to start sleeping at home.

The decision to sell the flat had been taken right then. While the doctor was telling her how relatives usually spent the last hours with their loved one, her mind was occupied with the problem of how to get the property off her hands as quickly as possible.

After that she could begin a new life, far from the old one and far from that creepy garage.

The first step was to ask her sister Berglind to help her clear out the flat, and she had done this the minute her conversation with the doctor was over, partly so she wouldn’t have a chance to change her mind. It was also essential to have her sister by her side so she wouldn’t have to be alone in the flat, permanently on edge, imagining that every creak and every tiny noise boded evil. Nína smiled at Berglind. ‘I don’t have any cardboard boxes so we can start by wrapping stuff in newspaper. I’ve got enough of it. We can fetch some boxes once the shops open.’ If they made good progress they might be able to pack up the whole lot today. Berglind was a teacher and had the day off because her pupils had gone on a school trip, and Nína had rung the station and told them she would make up her hours at the weekend. The fear that she might not go ahead with this if she waited one more day was all too real.

Berglind poked her foot at a box on the floor by the wall. ‘Have you already made a start?’

‘No. That arrived from Thröstur’s office with all his stuff in it. I started looking through it but I couldn’t face it.’ Nína folded her arms and shook her head. ‘I don’t know why they sent it to me. What am I supposed to do with his old work papers? They just couldn’t be bothered to clear out his desk themselves. It looks as if they just swept everything straight into the box.’ The man who brought it round had informed her that they were not going to publish the article Thröstur had been working on. He had kept its subject matter close to his chest and as the others were already rushed off their feet, there was no one free to take over and finish it. Nína had shaken her head and faked disappointment, although she couldn’t have cared less. But now as she considered the box it occurred to her that the article might have opened an old wound and finally driven Thröstur over the edge. She knew the piece had dealt with paedophiles who had escaped justice in the past. Perhaps he
had
been abused as a boy after all.

‘Maybe you’ll want to look at it later.’ Berglind peered inside the box. ‘Or maybe not. Though you should probably go through it before you move. You don’t want to start your new life with that hanging over you.’

‘No, I guess not. I’ll make time for it soon.’ Thröstur might conceivably have written some notes about his own case. If so, the box might contain answers. But that was a long shot. Why would he need to make notes to remind himself of his own trauma?

‘Is there much stuff in the garage?’ Berglind had moved over to the window and was gazing out. ‘Maybe we should get Dóri to take care of that.’

Nína managed to control the tremor in her voice. She didn’t want to make her brother-in-law go in there. ‘No, no need. It’s empty.’

This was technically true of the main garage space, but the storeroom at the back of it was full of all kinds of junk, in addition to their skis and the gardening tools they had bought in the autumn sales. The new owners of the flat were welcome to the lot. ‘Anyway, I don’t want Dóri going in there. There’s something creepy about that garage.’ To her surprise, Berglind didn’t contradict her, merely carried on staring out of the balcony door. When she turned round there was no sign that she doubted what Nína had said.

‘Just as well it’s empty then.’ Berglind rubbed her upper arms, as if to smooth away gooseflesh. Then she grinned. ‘Right, shall we get cracking?’

Nína knew her sister too well to be deceived. Berglind had seen something. She went over to the door and looked out. Visibility was poor in the falling snow and great clumps of it were sliding unhurriedly down the glass. Yet she saw at once what had shaken Berglind. The side door of the garage was standing ajar. It had been shut a few minutes ago when they came home. Nína peered at the snow in front of the building but there were no footprints. In her heart she had known there wouldn’t be any. She stepped back from the window but couldn’t drag her gaze from the garage. The blackness inside the open door reminded her of a gaping mouth, searching for the next prey to devour.