HILMA
Novel by ร skar Guรฐmundsson English
___ Chapters 1,2,3 & 24
Chapter 1 November 13th, 1989 Monday
It stopped snowing in ReykjavĂk. At least over on the West side. There was something in the air, almost as if the sky was holding its breath. After about 30 minutes, the heavy snowfall started again. Lucky for those whom inadvertently get their tracks covered. Unlucky for the mutilated boys that’ll soon be covered by snow. And there was nothing to do about that.
2
Chapter 2
The moon made itself comfortable on top of the Esja, the modest-looking mountain that still had managed to claim a few lives over the years. Now the mountain just enjoyed the calm evening, wearing its patchy white nightcap and looking wearily at the city in the ice-cold afternoon darkness. The annoyed working class of Iceland slogged homewards in their cars in single file along the ice-laden Hringbraut street. The whine from studded tires buzzed in the ears of people walking by, but at the same time it was like the adjacent Melar district was exempt from the troubles of traffic. The noise couldn’t penetrate past the high walls of the apartment blocks that lined the Hringbraut street, which sheltered the houses behind them. Like security guards forming a human chain at large gatherings, keeping the crowds at bay. Throngs of tree branches would catch whatever sounds would reach them, but even they could not silence the noises from the Fokker plane that was coming in for a landing. The branches were also useless against the scream. Somewhere, in the peaceful district, came this penetrating scream that seemed to ignore all barriers. A sound that crawled along the ground, avoiding capture. It wasn’t very loud, but the tone set it apart from all the other noises. It slipped past everything that would get in its way. The boy heard this yelling noise as he lay motionless in the backyard. He had thrown himself down on the ground because he just couldn’t go any further. His heart was close to 3
breaking out of his body, and it was as if someone was occupying his throat, squeezing the dry larynx with untold might. The boy made a desperate attempt to spit out the taste of blood that he felt was filling his mouth. What had become of them? Had they given up? The four of them had been chasing him, and he knew what would happen if they caught him. They would kill him, no question about it. Kill him. And now he heard that yell again, coming from the darkness. He soon realized that it wasn’t a yell, but a scream. And he heard thumping noises, as if someone was beating a sandbag. The boy slowly stood up and listened. He cautiously walked towards the direction of the sounds, and found a fenced-off garden. He clambered over the fence, slid down as silently as he could through the leafless bushes, and snuck into the garden. It’s at times like these that the brain sends out two kinds of messages to appraise the situation. One of them considers the options, the other the faults. Why don’t I just go home? That’s the other way. What was it that the teacher told me yesterday? That the human being had seven fundamental human needs, wasn’t it? Fundamental needs? Yes. He had listed them all and one of them was curiosity. Should he suppress it, or act on it? The boy peered into the darkness. He thought back on recent events. They were so close, he felt. To catching him just then. He had heard the sounds of the frozen grass straws breaking under their rapid footsteps. He had fallen, twisted his leg. He lay on his stomach as new sounds joined the cacophony around him. The swishing sound of snow jackets brushing against branches, their breaths - the panting. If it hadn’t been for the darkness, they wouldn’t have needed to do anything but follow his tracks in the snow. And 4
then they would be standing over him like hungry, black ravens, and their expressions wordlessly saying one thing: Now you die, shorty. But instead the swishing sounds faded away. So did the panting. He had gotten away. He rolled over on his back and looked up, a break in the treeline above showed a star-filled sky beyond. He wondered what it was like to be beaten to death. To have his life forced out with violence, for it to be pulled out through his mouth and be torn and twisted before being tossed out into the darkness. He knew that had been their plan, if they had caught him. He had seen it in their eyes as they cornered him in the schoolyard. He had been cornered before, lots of times. They had good reason to. He knew that much. He was so hideously ugly and boring, and he deserved everything that had been done to him. Isn’t that right, he thought. Yes. He was always in the way. Not just in in everyone, but in the way of life itself. And there they had cornered him in the schoolyard. But he had never seen their eyes like this before. Faces don’t need to twist and contort because of rage and anger. The eyes tell everything: Now you’ll die, shorty. That was when he had ran away. And now he heard that the screams came from more than one person, and it was ominous how they cut through all the other noises, and the short silences after every thump. He snuck closer. A faint brightness from a door light to a basement apartment that faced out into the yard allowed him to see better. He saw as someone stood and held both hands around a blunt instrument and let it fall again and again on screaming and wailing bodies that lay on the snow-covered ground. Thump after thump after thump – until there were no more sounds. No one was screaming anymore. He saw the silhouette of the person who now looked down upon the bodies. It examined them briefly before raising the blunt instrument again. Thump after thump after thump. Sandbag 5
thumps. The person stopped swinging. A deathly calm settled on the garden, like someone had turned down the volume. The boy couldn’t hear his frantic breath. He could only see the white gusts of air that shot up into the dark as he exhaled. He stood unmoving and felt how the insides of his thighs became warmer as he pissed his pants. He took one sidestep and a twig snapped underneath his foot. He looked up and saw the silhouette with the blunt instrument stand motionless, staring in his direction. He couldn’t see the face, as a shadow from a nearby tree cloaked the upper part of his body. He could see the bloody instrument, however, and how the person threw it on the ground and disappeared into the darkness. The boy crept closer. And suddenly now it was like someone had turned up the volume around him all the way up. Every tiny noise was amplified by his fear. No matter how light he tried to imagine himself being, the snow made almost deafening noises with every step. He stood over four bloody and badly mutilated bodies. They lay motionless with their eyes closed. Except for one who stared wide-eyed at him, like an injured animal waiting for the hunter to pull out his knife and slit its throat. The boy knew him. He knew all of them. Better than he had ever wanted to. How often had he himself dreamt of killing these boys? They had beaten him time and time again. Cut up his clothes. Pissed on him. Shat in his lunchbox. Humiliated him over and over, day in, day out. As he watched them laying in their blood, thinking about how he had deserved all of these things, he couldn’t feel anything at the moment. No pity. Nothing resembling sympathy. It was more like that euphoric feeling that washes over someone whose greatest wish has finally come true. Could it be? Could it be that he was relieved? Whatever it was he was feeling inside, it made him feel good. Sometime, long ago, he had felt like 6
this. Felt some kind of freedom. If that was the case, he was most certainly going to enjoy that feeling now. Wrap his arms around it, something telling him that he would never forget this moment. This white feeling that made him feel so big. No. Not big. Powerful. That was it, yes. He felt the sweet taste of power, as he stood over the motionless boys. Despite being wet from his own piss. The front door of the basement apartment opened, and an old woman staggered up the steps holding a flashlight, and started shining it about in all directions. “Is someone there?” she called out with a weak voice. “What’s all that ruckus?” The boy started running, and felt how the cone of light from the flashlight tried to hunt him down. As he reached the fence he turned around. He peered into the dark garden and saw as someone reached for the bloody murder weapon. Positioned themselves under a large tree and looked towards him. Standing there motionlessly like a bodyless monster. The cone of light from the old woman moved around the yard like air raid searchlights in a war, and for one fleeting moment the light caught the face of the silhouette by the tree. The old woman didn’t notice anything, she muttered something to herself and turned around. She closed the door behind her, and shortly afterwards the light went off above her door. Darkness. Silence. The boy couldn’t see anything but he heard footsteps in the snow. He would have pissed himself again if he could. The feeling was the same, except the bladder was empty. Then it started again. The thumping sandbag noise. Thump after thump after thump. The boy squeezed through the leafless bushes, climbed over the fence and ran across the street. 7
Just then, a taxi came driving down the street and hit the brakes. The studs in the tires hissed like angry cats as they cut through the ice beneath them. If the driver hadn’t been working the whole weekend, his reflexes would probably have been better and he wouldn’t have hit the lamppost as he swerved past the boy, whom had already disappeared into the garden across the street. Later that night, as the boy lay in his bed, he could visualize it. He saw the face for that fleeting moment as the light illuminated the silhouetted person. And that was enough. The boy was unaware of the series of events that would take place twenty-two years later. The sky could no longer hold it in, and the snow started falling again.
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Chapter 3 November 13th, 2011 Monday
The old men sat side-by-side in the common room of the hospital. One sitting in a chair with crutches that he had propped between his legs. The other in a wheelchair. The news theme started playing on an old TV that sat on a small shelf high up on the wall. Four books were stacked next to it. An odd placement, since there was no way for anyone to reach them. The image on the TV disappeared. Snow. The old man with the crutches slowly got up and hobbled over to The Big Screen, as someone had named the old TV once. He turned a crutch in his hand so that he had a firm grip on it, yet pointing it upwards. The rubbery end of the cruth slammed against the side of the TV and the image became clear again. The books were knocked over by the blow. “You’re getting good at this, Steini,” said the old man in the wheelchair and laughed. “I’d never get a swing like that. I don’t know how I’d survive. Promise you won’t get discharged before I do.” Þorsteinn slowly returned to his seat. Tried to block out the other man. Why did he have to end up in a room with this loud comedian? If only the car crash had robbed him of more than the use of his legs. The car crash that he would talk about from the moment he woke up in the morning until far too late at night when his eyes finally closed. Maybe a bigger crash could have wiped out all the jokes from his mind, Þorsteinn thought. And who had given him permission to 9
call him Steini? Not a single soul. “Wouldn’t you like your blankets?” asked a nurse in a caring voice and handed each of them a wool blanket, that they accepted and used to cover their legs. “Where would I be without you, Svava? What luck, this accident of mine, I have to say.” After the news anchor had recounted the top stories of the news, came the in-depth coverage. “We just heard that Vladas Pavlovic has escaped from police custody. He has been kept in isolation at prison, but just one hour ago, while he was being moved to Reykjavík, he made a daring escape. Hallgrímur is on-site, over to you.” “Thank you Logi, it was here that Pavlovic escaped from the clutches of the police...” An image on-screen shows two cars that had been involved in a serious crash, both of them ending off-road on their sides. The flashing lights from police cars cast a blue light over the cordoned-off scene. “...but it seems that when a prisoner transport vehicle was moving Pavolvic to a court hearing, a second vehicle had crashed into the side of the transport at great speed. Unverified sources claim that masked men had then recovered Pavlovic from the transport vehicle and then driven off with him in a third car. I spoke to witnesses just earlier and received confirmation that the assailants had been armed, but did not use their weapons. One of the witnesses claimed that considering how fast and organized the men acted, that these had not been amateurs. It is unknown how people are faring after this daring ambush, but as you can see behind me, we have three ambulances on the scene. At this time we 10
have no information on the location of the assailants or Pavlovic, but a full-scale manhunt is now in effect, with police setting up roadblocks at various locations in the city.” Hallgrímur paused as the ambulances drove away with their deafening sirens blaring. As soon as the sirens died out in the distance, he turns back to the camera. “The Pavlovic case has been very high profile in the past few weeks, but as previously mentioned a detective is still in the hospital after she was abducted from her home three weeks ago and brutally assaulted. The police SWAT team managed to rescue her in a daring raid, but at the expense of the life of another detective, who died from his injuries earlier this week. Pavlovic and several of his associates were arrested during the raid, but this is without a doubt the most severe blow that the police has ever suffered. Pavlovic seems to have been leading two lives ever since he emigrated here 8 years ago. On the surface he was a respected businessman, but recently we’ve discovered that his primary goal was to establish a criminal organization that dealt in drugs, money laundering, slavery, the works. Numerous arrests have been made in relations to this case, including a few Icelanders...I see the police commissioner there, Logi. I’ll see if I can get a statement from him.” Hallgrímur ran towards Commissioner Guðmann and called out to him as he slipped under the yellow police band and quickly left the crime scene. He gets into a car and drives off. A police officer shoves Hallgrímur away and another grabs the camera. The filming starts to resemble a scene from a surreal dogma film. The audience, in this case two elderly men in a hospital common room, watched as heaven and earth traded places with being filmed. We hear words being exchanged. 11
“Hey! What’s the fuckin...” The program director clearly thought that now would be a good time to cut back to the news studio, as the news anchor suddenly appears on-screen. “ Yes...thank you, Hallgrímur. Right, as previously stated, Vladas Pavlovic has been living here for several years.” Video footage is played, showing Pavlovic in various places shaking hands with known businessmen and politicians. “In 2006 he was a high-profile businessman, the first immigrant to receive a special commendation for promiting business relations with the Baltic countries. In light of recent events, and especially tonight’s events, we cannot stress enough that he is considered extremely dangerous, and anyone who can give any information about his whereabouts are...” “Isn’t Vladas the guy who kidnapped...what’s her name again? The poor girl at No. 5?” asked the comedian. No response. “Hilma! That’s her name, isn’t it? My Lord, that explains all the commotion around here. Don’t you think so, Steini?” he said as he looked to his side. Þorsteinn was gone. 30 minutes ago four police officers, fully armed, had appeared in the hospital ward. Two of them stood guard by the entrance to the ward, and the other two outside a door marked “5”. * * * Someone was trying to put out fires in her face. She felt how the skin on her forehead was sizzling. She knew that her hair was scorching because she heard the sound. The fine 12
crackling sound as the hair burned down to the root. Like thousands of needles being thrust down into the scalp. She felt the pungent stench. She squeezed her eyes shut. Not because of the pain, but because of the feeling that if she didn’t close them, she’d let the fire inside. Burn her eyes. She didn’t want to lose her eyes. Her sight. What had started this fire? All she knew was that if left unchecked, it would destroy everything in its path. A hissing, screaming omnivore. It was raining, wasn’t it? She thought. This was that comfortable sound below the window that she heard when thousands of raindrops fell. And she was relieved. Then my fire will go out faster. Am I sure that it’s raining? Yes, it had to be raining. She clearly heard the raindrops as they fell into puddles and starting making tones. Rain playing on puddles. It played on everything in its path. Roofs, cars, asphalt, the grass. It was best when it played on the tent. That feeling hasn’t left her, even though it was twenty years ago. When she was thirteen, woke up, and listened with her eyes closed as the rain played on her tent. Like bongo drums being played with just the fingertips. She even recalled that she was smiling. Smiling in her sleeping bag. Maybe she remembered it so well because it was the last camping trip she had with her parents. She opened her eyes. “Guðmann?” The faint illumination from a wall light only lit up part of his face in the otherwise gloomy room. “What are you doing here?” “They called. The nurses. Said that you were awake.” he said and regarded her lonely face. He wondered what he was doing by her bedside. Under all normal circumstances it should be someone else. A family member, a close friend. A fiancé. Maybe it was only now that he fully realized it as he looked at her. Her loneliness. And the fact that she only had her overweight and weary boss, who was now sitting by her – she looked all battered and torn. 13
“Awake? I’m barely there yet,” she said and closed her eyes. Wasn’t she? She pulled out her right arm from underneath the covers, and her gauze-wrapped shoulder ached, along with her breasts. She ran the hand over her head. The sticky patch of hair. She felt the wrappings that reached all the to the back of her head. A bald spot. “I was dreaming,” she said and looked at Guðmann with still-groggy eyes. “I was on fire. This dream seems to be on repeat these days.” “Just stay calm, Hilma. It’s all over now,” said Guðmann. “Now it’s time for you to heal. I know you’ll be back on your feet before you know it.” He wrung the washcloth over the basin. Hilma tried to read Guðmann’s face for sincerity. He seemed to mean it. Anyway, she accepted that reading. She had no idea about her condition, physical or mental. She had no sense of time. Her memory was spotty. That is, she remembered everything except for the last few days...or months...they simply weren’t there. She wasn’t sure. Probably just days. It was like they’d been torn out like pages from a book. She had recovered slivers here and there, but they were meaningless. They didn’t fit anywhere and contradicted each other. It would take quite some time to piece everything together. “How long do you think I need to be here?” she asked and pointed to a glass of water with a straw that stood on the nightstand. Guðmann put the washcloth on the edge of the basin, took the glass and put the straw to her lips. She sipped and her throat ached as she swallowed. “Or first things first... how long have I been here?” “Six days,” he said after he checked his wristwatch. Not that the answer could have been found there. He knew that. He only looked at it because the question was time-related. A habit. “Six days,” she said to herself and took a deep breath. “But 14
Númi. How’s Númi doing?” Guðmann hesitated. He didn’t have it in him to tell her the truth. Let alone telling her that Pavlovic was on the loose. Not now, anyway. He saw no reason to lie either. He was kinda half-glad when she changed the subject. But only for a moment. “Hand me a mirror,” she asked. “You don’t need a mirror, Hilma...” She grabbed his hand that had been resting by her shoulder and squeezed it to emphasize her words. A feeble effort of a squeeze, as her body was so weak. “Please get me a mirror, Guðmann,” she said gently but with a hint of authority in her voice. He stood up and walked over to the sink in the corner, where a mirror was placed on the wall above it. “This is the only mirror here. And it’s screwed into the wall. I’ll bring a mirror to you tomorrow. There’s no rush,” he said, still turning his back to Hilma. “Unscrew it, Guðmann. Take it off the wall.” He wanted to remind her who was in charge here. He was her superior and not used to being bossed around. He wanted to point out the sillyness of it. But now was not the time. These circumstances were beyond his control, so he focused on the mirror. Four chromed buttons in each corner of the mirror. He managed to remove one of them, and behind it was a screw. “It’s stuck pretty tight, Hilma.” He turned on a small light above the mirror. “I can’t...” It was like someone had struck him a heavy blow. His heart jumped and blood ran to his face as he saw Hilma’s face over his shoulder in the mirror. She had gotten up and walked over to him without him noticing. He turned around, stepped aside and grabbed her arms, because she was clearly about to lose her balance. 15
Hilma gestured to Guðmann to let go of her, and she supported herself with both hands on the sink. She looked in the mirror and gasped loudly, then started laughing. Short and soft laughs. Barely a laughter. Johnny Depp, she thought. Edward Scissorhands. He had more hair on his head, though. She shuddered and almost fell over. Guðmann managed to grab her, but Hilma shook his hands off of her. She wanted to be alone. Guðmann sensed this and walked over to the bed. Standing by on the sideline. He stared at this petite but broad-shouldered, powerful girl who stood there topless in white hospital pants. Barefoot. He stared at her back which was covered with lots of little cuts. Gleaming cuts. Probably covered with some clear material to prevent infections. Her arms were bruised. Black and blue spots. The colorless reflection showed her something unfamiliar. Not the girl with the thick, shoulder-length auburn hair and nine freckles on her nose. Not the determined, vibrant and bright blue – no, light blue eyes that her grandmother had said sometime that resembled those of the poet Einar Ben. She didn’t see any of that now. The eyes were dark, the face grey and it was like her face was covered with a yellowish-black paint. One eyelid was swollen and purple. Small, shallow crimson cuts could be seen here and there on her face, that seemed to be healing. Then there was one long and deep cut. It must have been pretty deep as it was held together with surgical tape in four different places. Two on the forehead and two on her cheek. Something had cut her flesh. Probably a knife. Yes, it must have been a knife. She could see it now. Vaguely. A hunting knife. How it’s razor-sharp blade quickly cut her forehead on the right, flew over her eye and continued carving up her skin as the blade landed on the left cheek. She traced the cut with her index finger. The memory of tasting blood rushed to her tongue. Her mouth. She remembered 16
something else. The moment and feeling when the skin on her face relaxed as it was being cut in two. She picked at the gauze on her shoulder, and then peeled it downwards. “Hilma...” said Guðmann, but couldn’t find more to say. When the gauze came off she saw a cut that formed an X over a small tattoo of a crucified angel on her upper arm. She continued pulling at the gauze which covered both of her breasts. After having torn it all the way down, she saw that they were covered with little cuts. She stared in the mirror. Looked away and down to the floor. The unlocked window sang as the cold wind from outside tried to force its way into the room. “I need to get away,” she said softly. Guðmann jumped at those words. “I don’t know if you can...” “Now, Guðmann!” she said with a firm tone, then turned to look at him. An order. “I have to wash myself.” She turned back to the mirror. Wash this monster, she thought.
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Chapter 24
A short while later they were back at that godforsaken place. Hilma hesitated as she got out of the car. She was unsure whether to head for the stables where she had seen Sverrir head to when they left, or go straight inside and get her phone. She glanced around, hoping that an answer would be just lying around nearby. It was getting dark. She chose the latter option. They dog lazily looked up to her, beat its tail once into the dirt and then lay its head back on the rubber boots. What an accomplishment, thought Hilma. She slowly opened the front door and quietly walked towards the open kitchen door. What if Sverrir was inside? She thought she heard a noise. She reached the kitchen – there was no one there. Her phone was where she left it, she grabbed it and the charger and put it in her pocket. For a moment she stood in the middle of the room and weighed her options. She slowly walked over to the living room. The door was halfopen, just as she’d remembered it. She carefully pushed it open and peered into the dark room. A thick and sour smell greeted her...or more like dead and sour. Hilma reached along the interior wall of the living, found a lightswitch and turned it on. Clothes lay strewn about. Sweaters, t-shirts, pants spread across an unmade bed and the back of a chair. Countless socks and underwear on the floor. A commode by the wall close to the door had been occupied by lighters, empty cigarette packs 18
and crumpled credit card receipts. Hilma checked briefly back into the kitchen before she entered the living room and approached the commode. She took a receipt and straightened it out. It was from a grocery store in Reykjavík, dated two days ago. She took another receipt and straightened that out as well, it was from a gas station from Kirkjubæjarklaustur, dated yesterday. Hilma laid the receipts side-by-side, pulled out her phone and took photos of the receipts, then re-crumpled them, placed them back where they were and hurried out. He’s good at lying, she said softly to herself as she thought of Sverrir. As she walked through the kitchen and towards the entrance hall, she heard a noise coming from the hallway. She stood still and peered down the lightless hallway. Listening. Another noise. Her heart jumped and she tensed up, preparing to face the unknown. She slowly walked down the hallway, taking care how she put her feet down. The bathroom door wasn’t fully closed, a pale yellow light seeped out into the hallway. She looked. Listened. She recalled the bull and its curiosity. What had Sverrir said? He comes to the windows when he sees movement. She stared at the crack in the door and saw a shadow dart past. She felt how the hairs at the back of her hair rose. She carefully approached the door and stood in front of it. She listened and put out her hand. She felt like her heartbeat could be heard through the crack in the door. Her hand was right up against the door, but she felt like she was frozen, unable to push it. There was someone in there and she wondered if she should say something. Her palm touched the door. She had barely started to push open the door when the door behind her was torn open and a black silhouette charged her. The silhouette shoved Hilma forwards onto the bathroom door and into the bathroom. She fell down on the hard ceramic tiles and her head hit the bathtub. She gripped her head in 19
pain and looked out into the hallway. No one there, only the opened door to the room that the silhouette had come from. In that room she saw an open crossbeamed window. He had tried to get out through the window, she thought as she got to her feet. Probably been interrupted by the bull. She felt the back of her head and found warm blood. What was that anyway? She felt like she had seen the face of the person that ran out. Her brain must be playing tricks on her, she thought, as that short glimpse she caught of the face running past her was unlike anything she’d ever seen. She heard someone running outside. Heavy, but rapid footsteps that flattened snow in every step. Hilma climbed up on the toilet and peeked out through the small window above it. Son of a bitch is running away. Hilma ran out and called to Oddgeir, who was still in the car. He would have heard her and rushed to her aid if it wasn’t for two things that had seized all his attention: The text message from his ex full of threats aimed at him if he would keep on ignoring her, and the music of KK that filled his ears with songs of broken hearts and a man who’d drown if it wouldn’t stop raining. Hilma ran round the back where, to her amazement, she sees the dog standing by a fence. Hilma climbed over the fence, running after the person in front of her, heading for a building about 200 meters away. The dog barked once as she passed him, and she made use of the calf-deep footprints left by her attacker. The person and whatever building that was, kept shaking up and down in front of Hilma’s eyes, but the only thing she heard was her own heavy breathing. She reached for her phone and tried to dial Oddgeir’s number. She drops it. She pulls it out of the snow, but the back cover and battery 20
had fallen off. She rummages through the snow and finds the wet battery. As she was now standing still, she realized that she wasn’t the only one panting. She turned around and looked back towards the farm, and saw the bull as it wasn’t only panting, but snorting as it came running towards her. Terrific! She starts running and sees as the person disappears into the building. Must be where they keep the sheep, she thinks. When she reached the building she stopped to catch her breath. Her thighs were burning after having used the 420 footprints left in the snow by her attacker. What endurance this man must have, she thought and spit into the snow, feeling the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. Her lungs burned as she breathed in the ice-old air. Maybe I’ll stop smoking. That’s when she remembers the bull and quickly glances back. To her delight, the bull stands still in the distance. Maybe he needed to catch his breath as well. Maybe he’d just given up. Or maybe he remembered that it’s much more exciting when someone is pursuing him. She stood by the side of the building and slowly walked towards the corner, where she spotted the entrance. The person’s footprints lay into the darkness that awaited inside. “Ingvar,” she called, “is that you?” She moved closer and stood right next to the entrance. She put her head out and peeked inside. Saw nothing. She leaned up against the wall and looked up at the orange sky as the sun was heading off to sleep. “Ingvar!” she called again. “You must answer me. It’s no use hiding here. You don’t have to be afraid, I only want to talk to you.” In a deft motion she jumped across the entrance and leaned up against the wall on the other side. She peeked inside again, but it was impossible to see anything as the fading daylight was suffocated by the darkness inside. 21
She heard faint thuds from her heart as it was trying to slow down. No. That wasn’t her heard. What was that? She looked round the other corner of the building and out onto the white field. That’s when she saw it and realized that this is the second time today that her hearing had deceived her. The faint thuds were the steps of the person running far out on the field. Hilma saw another building, about 100 meters away. “Bloody idiot,” she screamed and took off. Now she had to make the effort of crushing the snow beneath her feet, and she stopped once to catch her breath and fallen down twice. Almost three times. The faint sunlight touched on the sharp and pointy peaks of the distant mountain, drawing a red line in the sky. Much like the line on a heart monitor, connected to Hilma’s heart. She knew that it would be pitch dark soon. The person’s footprints led into the building. “Ingvar. I know it’s you and you have to come out. Now!” she called with a strict tone. Like a tired mother, annoyed by her ill-behaved child. She walked inside and stood still. Waiting for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Slowly the darkness relented. Feeding pens were on both sides of the hard and wet dirt floor. Some of the pens had hay in them. She walked as quietly as possible along the dirt floor, then stopped. She held in her breath. She heard a noise and frantic breathing nearby. She turned towards the noise and could make out three sheep. She saw their yellow glittering eyes at knee height, huddled in a pen, staring at her. Despite her own eyes being much more receptive to light in the dark, it was only a fraction of what those yellow glowing eyes could see. Right now she would have been grateful for that membrane that’s in most animal eyes. A membrane that reflected the light, almost like a mirror, so what little light the eyes could receive would be twice as useful. 22
Hilma walked onwards on the thin dirt floor. The glittering eyes scattered as she walked past them, but then stopped again. She let her eyes wander into the darkness that were now wide open, taking in all the available light. At the end of the hallway, in a corner, was something hanging. As she got closer, she could see that they were three flayed sheep torsos, hanging by their hind legs. Beneath them were dirty patches of wool. On a nearby table were knifes and other things she couldn’t make out in the dark. Wait, now she could. Bones. Big and small. She tried to look for a light source. She saw an old light hanging from the ceiling, but she couldn’t find a switch. “Ingvar. Come out where I can seeyou. I only want to talk to you. You’ve got nothing to be afraid of,” she said and tried to sound as fearless as possible. Her strained vocal cords couldn’t quite hide her fears, however. In the right corner she saw a door. She walked to it and opened it. She felt the cold gust lick her face. Snow and total silence. Had he run out again? She peered down into the snow, but there were no tracks there. In the distance she heard a motor. Probably from the highway, she thought. It sounded like a motorbike. Which felt wrong, considering the time of year. She turned her attention back inside and spotted a ladder. She looked up and froze. Someone was sitting at the top of the ladder. She could see the outlines of a person who was huddling, as if they were trying to be invisible. Hilma’s eyes could show her anything more. She didn’t know how long she’d been staring when she saw slow movement. No, it only looked slow. Something came towards her at great speed. The darkness led to the brain not receiving the message in time and she got a heavy blow to the front of her head. She fell down to the floor, but her 23
only thought was not to lose sight of the ladder and the figure that was now climbing down it. A large shadow approached her with a blunt instrument in one hand. The shadow raised its hand like a executioner and struck. Hilma managed to roll aside just before the blow struck the ground, causing the floor to shudder under her head. Hilma swept her leg aside and she connected with the shadow’s ankle, whom fell over and landed beside her. She drove her elbow into the shadow’s chest with all her might, and heard the rushed breath as the wind was knocked out. Like a plug pulled out of an inflatable ball. Hilma was about to stand up, but was struck by the blunt instrument on both of her breasts, so she yelled in pain. The person stood up behind Hilma as she lay curled up, put the instrument over her head, around her neck and pulled. “Leave me alone,” said the person with a coarse and panting voice, and then raised her up so that her legs were left dangling. Hilma grabbed the person’s hands and pulled with all her might to try to be able to breathe. She felt the pressure in her head and behind her eyes. She quickly realized that she was no match for the person’s strength. She tore and pulled at its hair, tried to jab with her elbows, kick its shins, but nothing seemed to have any effect, and she felt as her strength was fading away. The thought of surrender first reached her brain, then her nervous system, but it had yet to reach her muscles. If she could just make her brain work for a moment, and her nerves for a fraction of a second, she might be able to get the two to join forces in her last struggles, where she’d need her muscles at their strongest. She reached her left arm towards the table that was beside her, randomly reaching for something to use. She felt bones, gripped something slimy and then she found what she was 24
looking for as it cut into her palm. She released her grip of the knife’s blade and gripped its shaft. The lack of oxygen to the brain was starting to affect her judgment and she wasn’t sure how to count in her head before making the stab. Should she count to three, or count down from ten? What was she thinking? It was just a matter of stabbing. Where? Should she drive it up behind her, aiming for the side, or go for the face and hope to hit an eye? Or both? Her vision was starting to waver. Fade and distort. She gripped the shaft tighter and raised her hand. She decided to stab it into the side, followed by as many stabs to the arm it would take to break free. Otherwise she’d never feel life pulsing through her veins. Life that was slowing fading out. She raised the knife and just as her arms were about to unleash their energy, she heard a voice behind her. The pressure in her head had made it hard for her to clearly hear the voice. Like it was coming from a can. She did realize that this was not the same coarse voice as before, which was grunting right behind her ear. This voice came from farther away. “That’s enough Ingvar. Let the girl go.” Hilma felt the grip around her neck loosen, but not fully. She managed to turn her head and see something in the corner of her eye. The person holding her turned towards the doorway and that was when she saw the silhouette of the man standing in the doorway, as well as the outline of a gun in his hand. What a strange gun, she thought. “I’m in deep shit, ain’t I?” said Ingvar and loosened his grip of her neck. Hilma felt it would be wisest to remain still. No sudden movements. “You’re always in deep shit, and always have been,” said Sverrir and raised his gun as he slowly approached them. He pointed the gun forwards and the little pin that jutted 25
outwards from the barrel now touched Ingvar’s forehead. “Release the girl or I’ll fire.” “Don’t do anything stupid, Sverrir,” said Hilma with a weak voice and slowly slipped out from Ingvar’s grasp, who remained motionless, as if he was holding a ghost by its next. Hilma carefully removed the blunt instrument from his hand, his fingers surrendered like thick rubber. A beam of light was now cast into the building from outside. “Hilma!” said the panicked and panting voice of Oddgeir, who was holding a flashlight and illuminating three people whom were all standing there, each burdened by their own pains. “Are you alright?” The beam of light stopped at Ingvar’s face. Which made sense, thought Hilma, because it was only now that she could see the face. And Eyþór had been right. Tryggvi’s drawing on the name card hadn’t been that far from the truth.
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