The Mist

dim light that filtered from the doorway. The woman he had murdered. He felt his gorge rising and almost threw up but heaved a deep breath and concentrated on what he had to do – find the keys. There they were, in her pocket. He hurried out and up the icy steps again, round to the front door. His hands were so cold and weak that it took him a long time to wrestle with the lock, but at last he was in. When he entered the hall and then the sitting room, it was as if nothing had happened, with everything still ready for Christmas, as if no one had been killed, no one was lying in a pool of blood upstairs … Haukur Leó was overcome by dizziness and had to fight to stop himself fainting. The thought of the man in the attic was too much. He couldn’t stay in this house, let alone sleep here.

He went to the spare room, where his rucksack was lying on the bed, its contents now strewn all over the floor. With trembling hands, he stuffed them back into the bag, then, snatching it up, he fled back outside.

It was like running into a wall. He stood stock still for a second, buffeted by the wind, blinded by the snow. It was too cold. No way could he go on digging in this. But he couldn’t bear to go back inside the house either. He was so confused, his ability to think sapped by so many hours without sleep. What was he to do? He didn’t know how to dig up his daughter, couldn’t decide whether to confess the whole thing to the police and face the consequences. He couldn’t think any more.

As if his legs had taken the decision for him, he started walking, head down, pushing against the storm, his only thought now to get back to his car. Once back in the Mitsubishi, he could gather his strength, warm himself up with the heater, then try to make a decision about what to do next.

He had found the way to the farmhouse when he arrived, so it stood to reason he ought to be able to find his way back. Or so he tried to convince himself, though the weather was far worse now. After all, the route had been fairly straight, with markers here and there to show the course of the road. Yes, he had no alternative.

He remembered more or less how far it had been to the next house and from there to his car. That should help him get a sense of how far he had gone. The most important thing was to keep going straight ahead, following the road that was buried in drifts somewhere beneath his feet.

Haukur Leó tramped along, keeping up as steady a pace as he could, aware that it was a long way and that he had to move briskly to keep warm. He mustn’t give in to the cold. He believed he had enough energy left to see him through, if only he could stave off his fatigue for a little while longer.

He waded through the drifts, undaunted, refusing to give way before the battering gusts of wind. He had to keep his head down, couldn’t look straight ahead because of the stinging snow, but he was on the right track, he was sure of it.

XX

Where was the abandoned house? He needed to find it to be sure that he was on the right road back to his car.

Had he passed it?

Was that possible?

Perhaps it was the blizzard, the poor visibility, that had caused him to miss it.

Haukur Leó had been walking for what felt like a long time and he was sure he should have reached the house by now. Yes, he must have missed it.

Come to think of it, he hadn’t seen a marker for a while, but then he remembered that there had been a few gaps between them. He sensed instinctively that he was on the right track and that it wasn’t far now to his car. He should be able to make it, though he couldn’t deny that he was terribly cold and so tired he hardly had any strength left, as if he had used up his last reserves of energy.

But he had to make it to the car.

He was going to drive back to Reykjavík; yes, everything seemed clearer now. He was going to go home to his wife, sit her down and tell her the truth. She must be frantic with worry after the way he had vanished without a word before Christmas, like a complete fool. She deserved better.

He would break the news to her about Unnur; tell her what those vile people had done. His wife was a strong person; she wouldn’t let it crush her. Then he would tell her how his journey to the east had ended: in the couple’s deaths and the discovery that their daughter was buried in the garden behind the farmhouse. Then he would ask his wife what he should do. She would advise him to give himself up and he knew she would be right.

Erla and Einar were dead, yet he was still filled with a bitter, churning rage.

He was moving more slowly now, the adrenaline that had fuelled him to begin with was running out. Halting for a moment, he peered around, but the view was the same in every direction: a white wall. Finally, he acknowledged to himself that, for all he knew, he might have walked in a circle, because he hadn’t a clue where he was.

There was nothing for it but to keep going and simply pray that he hadn’t wandered off the road.

He had lost his sense of time; the truth was, he had no idea how long he had been walking. The whole thing was utterly hopeless. Should he maybe turn back? No, that wouldn’t achieve anything as the snow must already have covered