Snowblind (4 page)

She had no idea what his intentions were.

A terrible foreboding overtook her, thoughts that she dared not think through to their conclusion. Was this a straightforward burglary, or something far worse?

The idea of ignoring his warning and just screaming, screaming with every ounce of energy in her flashed through her mind, but there were few people about to hear her and there were big gardens separating the houses.

She was a prisoner of her own prosperity, here in this spacious detached house in a quiet neighbourhood, where people paid to cut themselves off from the world’s problems.

He was silent, looking around. She didn’t dare speak, and hardly dared look at him. He looked over the living room, saying nothing, and the silence weighed heavily; the silence and the uncertainty.

What the hell; why couldn’t he speak? Anything so that she didn’t have to lie still among her thoughts.

Her mind turned to her two children, who had long since flown the nest, both with families of their own. They weren’t likely to be appear just when she needed them, rarely visiting their parents other than in the holidays or at Christmas.

No, she was alone with this unknown man.

He stood still and seemed to be reckoning the size of the living room. It was a wonderful room, as beautifully put together as anything in a property magazine, with two watercolours on the walls, both country landscapes, as well as the stylish coffee table and the newish sofa, the old wooden bureau inherited from her husband’s family and, finally, the
armchair, a ridiculously expensive designer piece in leather, to which she was deeply attached. She took a shocked breath as he dropped into the chair, stroking the armrest with the point of his knife, and looked over at her. He said something, one word in a hoarse voice, almost a whisper, as if he didn’t want his voice to identify him later. That was promising, as was the fact that he had decided to cover his face. Maybe he was going to let her live.

She struggled to hear what he said.

‘Sorry?’ she almost whispered, terrified.

‘I said, where’s the jewellery?’

Just some bloody thief, she decided, with relief.

She stood up, but felt faint, trying to maintain her balance as she pointed along the corridor to the stairs. Some of her jewellery was in the bedroom upstairs, although her husband had put the most expensive pieces away in a safe in the little study downstairs, along with documents and other valuables. She took a slight comfort in the fact that she didn’t know the combination needed to open it.

He was holding the knife almost carelessly, but still as if he knew just how to use it; as if this wasn’t the first time he had used it. She made her way up the stairs with him following behind her. She quickly showed him the jewellery in the bedroom, carelessly deciding that there was no point in dragging this out, hoping that he would take what he’d come for, and then leave her alive.

He tipped the contents of the jewellery box on the bed and went through it, rifling through her memories: her engagement ring, birthday presents, wedding gifts. She thought of her husband; what if this man didn’t let her go? What if…?

She thought of the future, the golden years they had planned to spend travelling and exploring the rest of the world.

Was this bastard of a criminal going to take all that away?

Two whole years. It was hard to believe. As if it had been only yesterday, Ari Thór remembered going downtown to buy Kristín a Christmas present for the first time. These memories skittered into his mind as he stood by Ugla’s house, the church bells resounding along the fjord. The bells echoed through the town, making it difficult to tell from which direction the sound came. Ari Thór instinctively turned to face the mountains; the ringing seemed to tumble down from the hills rather than from the church. He had a sudden vision, not of mountains, but of a tranquil evening by the lake in Reykjavík, just two years ago.

With the end-of-term exams approaching, he had given up on the theology textbooks for the evening and left Kristín at home with the revision books from which she could only ever be reluctantly parted. He had walked down to the city centre, where he bought two books at a shop that stayed open well into the evening before strolling down to the lake that was such a landmark in the centre of Reykjavík. That day the weather had been unseasonably still, spiced with a chill that seeped under the collar of his jacket. Although the sky was heavy with clouds, it was still somehow bright, with Christmas lights illuminating every corner of the city. He had stood by the lake with his back to the Parliament building and the City Hall to his right. There had been few people about and he looked out over the houses as if he were detached from himself, purely an observer taking in a handsome view, a film sequence rolling from left to right. It was nine in the evening and there was a vista of dignified houses,
their windows decorated with advent candles, Christmas trees with shimmering lights and the cathedral bells ringing. It was as if the peace of the city had proved itself stronger than the Christmas rush. The ducks on the lake called, answering the bells. He had stood stock still, breathing in the spirit of the moment, with time passing more slowly than he could ever have imagined.

The bells continued to peal, but this time they were the bells of Siglufjördur. Ari Thór stopped in his tracks, enveloped by his memories. Ugla laid a hand on his shoulder; it was as light as a feather, but it still made him start. He immediately – wishfully – thought of Kristín, even though he knew that it wasn’t her.

He looked around and smiled.

There she stood, Ugla the piano teacher, in dark jeans and a bright white T-shirt, in her early twenties, tall and slim. There was a warm aura about her, despite the chill air, but also a hint of sadness in her eyes. The glow of the streetlights gleamed on her long, fair hair and she returned his smile.

‘Aren’t you coming in? You’ll freeze to death out here.’

Ari Thór had seen her advertisement in the Co-op window a couple of weeks ago. He had always wanted to play the piano, but never had the time or inclination to do anything about it. He had pulled off one of the strips with her name and phone number, and now he was here for his second lesson.

He was dressed for the cold and could see the goose pimples on Ugla’s arms as she stood in her short-sleeved top on the steps.

A contraction of the muscles under the skin
, he recalled Kristín telling him, providing a medical explanation for the phenomenon, when he had come out with the old cliché that he got goose pimples every time he saw her.

‘Thanks,’ he said, hanging his coat on a hook in the lobby and closing the door behind him. ‘Of course I haven’t been able to practise since the last lesson, as I don’t have anything to practise on. I’m probably your worst-ever student.’

‘Don’t worry about it. You’re the best and the worst. Let’s just say
right away you’re the best as you’re my only student. I’m still wondering why I bothered to place the ad to begin with, but I suppose old Hrólfur sparked my interest.’

‘Hrólfur? The writer?’ Ari Thór asked. He had heard of the old master who lived in the town.

‘That’s him. He’s a wonderful old character. You ought to meet him; get him to sign a book for you. You never know – might be your last chance! Not that he isn’t sprightly for his age, and he’s as sharp as a knife.’

‘I’d like a chance to meet him, although I’ve never read any of his books.’

‘You have to read
North of the Hills
. It’s a real masterpiece. It’s his only novel and it’s brilliant. After that he wrote short stories and poetry.’

‘I didn’t know that…’

‘I’ll lend you the book,’ Ugla said, interrupting him. ‘He signed it for me, so you had better not spill anything on it.’ She gave him a warm smile. ‘What would you like to drink? Coffee?’

‘Do you have tea?’

Ari Thór had drunk so much coffee during his university years that even the smell brought back uncomfortable memories of late-night sessions, edgy with caffeine and stress. He was trying to wean himself onto tea instead.

‘Sure. Take a seat and I’ll bring you some.’

He sank into a deep, red armchair, letting his hands lie on the armrests and taking in the living room. During their first lesson, Ugla told him that she had rented the flat furnished, which included the old piano. Certainly nobody would have imagined that a young woman would have decorated a living room like this. It was like a step back in time, with a beautiful wooden floor, mostly hidden by an oddly patterned brown-and-white carpet. There were two narrow bookcases, dark brown and workmanlike. The landlord had clearly taken the books away – there were just a few paperbacks on the shelves, a mixture of whodunits and romantic novels, and one
beautifully bound copy of
North of the Hills
by Hrólfur Kristjánsson. On the long wall behind the sofa hung a print of a well-known painting and opposite it stood the piano, buried under a stack of music.

Ugla appeared from the kitchen with a steaming mug.

‘I hope I’m not breaking any laws by teaching piano lessons without a permit,’ she said, handing him the mug and two tea bags. ‘I only have two kinds of tea,’ she apologised.

‘Thanks. If it happens to be illegal, then I’ll turn a blind eye.’ Ari Thór smiled and dipped a teabag in the hot water. ‘The police have better things to do than chase unlicensed teachers,’ he said, and wondered if that was really the case. Those first few days in Siglufjördur had been an interesting experience, with regular patrols undertaken in the big jeep but not a lot to do. Hardly anyone ever broke a speed limit, at least not inside the town and certainly not on the snow-covered mountain roads with that sheer drop on the far side of the tunnel. It was more to do with the danger than the possibility of a fine. He had attended one road accident, a minor rear-end shunt, and had twice been asked to unlock cars. A few times he had ferried drunks home; it was clear that the police provided a range of services here.

‘I’m going to get myself a coffee,’ Ugla said. ‘Then we can start the lesson.’

Each lesson was supposed to be forty-five minutes, but the previous week Ari Thór had spent an hour after the lesson chatting to Ugla.

Over the last few weeks he had felt every inch the newcomer to a strange place. Nobody approached him and yet everyone knew who he was – knew who everyone was in this cloistered town. Nobody spoke to him at the gym or the pool, although he often caught the locals giving him appraising glances, checking out this new addition to the town’s police force.

On one occasion he had been about to issue a fine for using a mobile phone behind the wheel to a local.

‘Who the hell are you? You’re a police officer? I didn’t know we had a new cop here,’ said the driver scathingly.

Ari Thór knew perfectly well that the man knew better.

‘How do I know you haven’t just stolen a car and a uniform?’ the driver had pressed on, his half-smile arrogant.

Ari Thór had smiled back.

‘I’m not going to issue a fine this time around.’ He was courteous, in spite of his frustration. ‘Just don’t do it again.’ Next time he wouldn’t be so understanding.

He knew that people were keeping an eye on him. He had once forgotten to indicate at a corner while on patrol in the car and when he next ran into Tómas, he was told that an unidentified passer-by had complained.

‘You didn’t think this would be a walk in the park, did you? There aren’t murders and the like here, but it’s still no kindergarten,’ Tómas warned.

It made him feel very alone. He felt like a stranger who had come to Siglufjördur for a weekend, and then found his stay extended day by day; like a traveller who had forgotten to buy a return ticket.

He could chat to Tómas and Hlynur about everyday things over a coffee at the police station, but this was superficial stuff about politics and sport.

He saw right away that Ugla was different. She was warm and welcoming, gave freely of her time and could listen attentively when it was needed.

Ugla returned with her coffee and didn’t seem to be in any hurry to start the lesson.

‘Are you enjoying Siglufjördur so far?’ she asked, half-smiling.

‘Well, it’s OK,’ he said, rather hesitant.

‘I know. It’s difficult to begin with, it’s such a small community. People talk about you behind your back. I’ve been there …’ Her voice was comforting, soothing. ‘Coming here from Patreksfjördur was a help, as I knew just what these small places are like – although no two are the same. Living here is very different to being in the
Westfjords, but I can’t put my finger on exactly how. I suppose every town has its own charm,’ she explained with a wry smile, as if she were trying to help him feel better.

There was something captivating about Ugla, something about her that invited trust.

‘I heard you are studying to be a priest,’ she said.

‘Not really. I gave up on that a while ago.’

‘You should finish it.’

Ari had no intention to be drawn into that discussion so he tried to steer the conversation elsewhere.

‘How about you? University?’

‘Yes,’ she answered quickly. ‘Eventually. I need to finish college first … I left Patreksfjördur in a bit of a hurry.’ Her words faded away.

Ari Thór sensed that there was something about her time in Patreksfjördur that she wasn’t sharing.

After a brief but slightly uncomfortable silence she continued: ‘Maybe I can go to university in Akureyri, or in Reykjavik, although I don’t think I’d like living in such a big city.’

‘It isn’t so big, you’d like it there. I have a flat in downtown Reykjavik, close to the harbour.’

He was surprised to find that he was already talking to her as if she were an old friend, but for some reason he didn’t mention Kristín, and the fact that they had been living together in the flat in Reykjavik. For some reason he didn’t want to bring up the fact that he had a girlfriend. And to be fair, Ugla hadn’t asked him directly, so he hadn’t lied.

‘So it must be quite a change,’ she said. ‘Although, you’re still close to a harbour, just a different one.’

There was still something about her that he couldn’t fathom. Of course, she was far from her family, but there was a deeper sadness about her than just that. Each smile was accompanied by a flash of darkness behind her eyes.

‘And the mountains, you know …’ He smiled.

‘It’s like they’re closing in on you, right?’

‘Exactly,’ he agreed. But then changed the subject to something less uncomfortable. ‘Will you be here over Christmas?’

‘Yes, my parents are coming to spend Christmas here. Christmas dinner isn’t my strong point so I’ll get my mother to cook something special.’ Judging by her voice she was looking forward to this.

’It’s not my strong point either,’ Ari Thór said with a little false modesty. ‘But I’ll still try and come up with something celebratory.’ He sipped his still-hot tea. ‘I have a shift on Christmas Eve. I’ll be on my own, so I’ll take my dinner and a couple of good books with me.’

‘That sounds miserable.’

Ari Thór liked her honesty. ‘You’re right. But I don’t have a lot of choice.’

‘Will your parents come up north for Christmas?’

It was an innocent enough question. He hadn’t made a habit of introducing himself as a man whose parents had died, but he wasn’t going to let her question upset him.

‘No … I lost my parents a long time ago,’ he said, looking into her eyes and then immediately dropping his gaze, as she looked awkwardly into her coffee cup.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said with sincerity in her voice. ‘I’m truly sorry, I had no idea.’

‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You get used to it.’

‘Really?’ Ugla asked in surprise.

Ari Thór shrugged.

‘You really get used to it?’ she asked.

‘Yes … Yes, I think I can say so,’ he replied. ‘But it takes time. It took a long time to get over it and it’s not something that happens overnight. But it gets easier. You have to keep going, life goes on…’

Ugla sat silent.

‘Why do you ask?’ Ari Thór finally said.

She was silent for a while, staring into her mug as if it held the answer to every possible question.

Finally she looked up. ‘I lost … lost my boyfriend a few years ago,’ she said. ‘That’s why I moved here.’

Accustomed to being the one who had suffered loss – the one receiving the sympathy, Ari Thór didn’t know how to respond.

‘My condolences,’ he said, not knowing what else to say, but recognising that his words were empty of meaning and he could just as well have given her a standard flower-shop sympathy card.

‘Thank you.’

‘How did he die?’

‘Well … we were out on the town in Patreksfjördur. There’s a small bar there and he…’
Águst
, she wanted to say, hesitating as if she couldn’t say his name out loud. ‘He got into an argument with someone from out of town, someone who was very drunk. He was punched, fell down and he never woke up… It was just that one blow,’ she added.

Her expression was desolate, but Ari Thór had the feeling that telling him the story had been a relief for her.

‘I’m sorry to hear it,’ he said. ‘Very sorry.’

‘Thank you,’ she murmured again.

She put aside the coffee mug and looked at the clock.

‘I don’t want to keep you here all evening,’ she said, with a clearly artificial cheerfulness in her voice. ‘Isn’t it time we made a start?’