The Darkness(38)

‘You mentioned you used to live out on álftanes?’ he asked, changing the subject. ‘Did you have a house there?’

‘Yes, it was …’ She paused to choose her words carefully. ‘It was a gorgeous spot, right by the sea. I still miss the sound of the waves. How about you? Have you ever lived by the sea?’

‘At one time. My father was a doctor out east, but I’m a city boy, really. Grew up to the roar of traffic rather than surf. Did you sell up when your husband died?’

‘Yes, I couldn’t afford the upkeep.’

‘You said he died quite young, didn’t you?’

‘He was fifty-two.’

‘Awful, just awful.’

Hulda nodded.

Despite the gloomy subjects they were discussing, the sitting room seemed like a haven of tranquillity. Outside, the night was as dim as it ever got in May. But at that moment her phone rang, shattering the peace with its loud, intrusive racket. With an apologetic glance at Pétur, Hulda scrabbled in the depths of her bag. It came as a surprise, to put it mildly, when she saw who was calling, especially since it was past midnight. It was the nurse who had knocked down the paedophile; the woman Hulda had given such a big break to by pretending that her confession had never taken place. She had hoped never to hear another word about the incident.

Hulda cut off the call without answering it. ‘Sorry, never a moment’s peace.’

‘You’re telling me.’ Pétur smiled.

Hulda put the phone on the table beside the new bottle of red. Clearly, they weren’t finished yet; there was plenty of wine left.

Her phone rang again.

‘Damn it,’ Hulda muttered, louder than she’d intended.

‘Go ahead and answer,’ Pétur said kindly. ‘It doesn’t bother me.’

But Hulda had absolutely no desire to speak to the wretched woman, who was probably still in a state about the crime she had committed and desperate to relieve her conscience by unburdening to the only other person who knew the truth. Hulda had no intention of acting as her confessor, especially not now. She was enjoying Pétur’s company and there was no reason to go and ruin the atmosphere.

‘No, it’s nothing urgent. In fact, I can’t understand why she’s ringing this late. So inconsiderate.’ Hulda cut the call again, and this time switched her phone off. ‘There, perhaps we’ll be left in peace now.’

‘More wine?’ Pétur asked, eyeing her half-empty glass.

‘I don’t mind if I do, thanks. It had better be my last, though. I’ve got to work tomorrow, remember.’

Pétur filled her glass. There followed rather a long silence. Hulda had nothing to say; she was too tired, and the alcohol didn’t help.

‘Was it a deliberate decision on your part not to have any children?’ Pétur asked, a little unexpectedly. Perhaps it was a natural continuation of the conversation about Hulda’s husband.

The question caught her unprepared, though she should have known that, sooner or later, she would have to tell Pétur; at least she would if their relationship continued along this path.

She took a while to work out how to answer and Pétur waited with characteristic patience. He didn’t seem to let much bother him.

‘We had a daughter,’ she said at last, plumping for the simple answer.

‘I’m sorry, I thought …’ Pétur seemed surprised and a little confused. ‘I thought you said … I was under the impression that you and your husband didn’t have any children.’

‘That’s because I deliberately avoided the subject. You’ll have to forgive me – I still find it hard to talk about.’ Hearing her voice breaking, Hulda fought to stop her face from crumpling. ‘She died.’

‘I don’t know what to say,’ Pétur replied hesitantly. ‘I’m terribly sorry to hear that.’

‘She killed herself.’

Hulda could feel the tears sliding down her cheeks. It was true that she wasn’t used to talking about this. Although she thought about her daughter every day, she hardly ever spoke of her.

Pétur didn’t say a word.

‘She was so young, only just turned thirteen. We didn’t try for any more children after that. Jón was fifty, I was ten years younger.’

‘God … You’ve really been through the wringer, Hulda.’

‘I can’t talk about it, sorry. Anyway, that’s what happened. Then Jón died and I’ve been alone ever since.’

‘That could be about to change,’ Pétur said.

Hulda tried to smile but felt suddenly ambushed by tiredness. She’d had enough; she needed to go home.

Pétur seemed intuitively to know how she was feeling. ‘Should we call it a night?’

Hulda shrugged. ‘Yes, maybe. I had a very nice time, Pétur.’

‘Shall we do it again tomorrow evening?’

‘Yes,’ she said, without a moment’s hesitation. ‘That would be lovely.’

‘Perhaps we could go out for a meal somewhere? Celebrate your retirement. I’ll buy you dinner at Hótel Holt. How does that sound?’

This was generous indeed. ‘Gosh, yes, that would be wonderful. I haven’t been there for ages. It must be more than twenty or thirty years.’ The restaurant at Hótel Holt was one of the swishest establishments in Reykjavík, and Hulda did in fact remember her last visit there very well. It had been an anniversary dinner, with her husband and daughter, a happy occasion, expensive but memorable.