Sometimes she considered screwing up her courage to bring charges against him. To go for it. Reveal the family’s dirty laundry for all to see, put up with all the whispering that would ensue, about them, about her, wherever she went; malicious tongues asking – aloud – the same questions she kept asking herself over and over again: Surely she must have known? Why didn’t she do anything before it was too late?
Why the hell couldn’t Jón just face up to his own guilt?
Why couldn’t the sick bastard just die? Do it as a favour to Hulda. Restore a little justice to the world. Do one good deed in his miserable, worthless life.
In the old days, she would have looked forward to her homecoming after a journey like this. There had been nothing to beat returning to the embrace of her family, in their cosy house by the sea, the sanctuary where she was spared the daily grind in the city. But those days were gone and, if she were honest, the feeling had faded long before Dimma took her own life. It had been a long, painful process, during which all warmth had seeped out of the house. Now, she couldn’t wait for it to be sold. If Jón didn’t take the initiative soon, she would put it on the market herself. She couldn’t face walking past Dimma’s room day in, day out. The moment of discovery had been so traumatic that all she wanted was to obliterate the memory, but nothing worked. Her mind kept conjuring up the scene, whether dreaming or awake, and Hulda knew that the moment would stay with her for as long as she lived. It was her last memory of her daughter, though she would have given anything to be able to concentrate on remembering the happy times instead.
She was on her way home to the cold. In her imagination, the house was now chilly and unwelcoming; grief shadowed her wherever she went in its rooms. She couldn’t even derive the old enjoyment from going into the garden and gazing out to sea. Instead, she stayed indoors, lying in her bed all evening, sometimes cooking something when she was starving, but only for herself. Otherwise, she made do with having a hot midday meal in the canteen at work. She slept alone. Jón had moved into the spare room.
Hulda took another mouthful of cold aeroplane coffee. The taste hadn’t improved. Somehow, she must pluck up the courage to face the day ahead.
Try to soldier on, one day at a time.
Go on working. Do her best. After all, she couldn’t sit idle.
She hadn’t a clue whether she would succeed.
She was nearly forty. Where would she be in ten years’ time? Or twenty, for that matter?
Would the memory of Dimma have faded at all by then?
And where would Jón be?
They would no longer be together, that was certain, but he was bound to have made himself comfortable somewhere else, perhaps with a new wife, having carefully buried the memory of what he had done.
Yes, he would be alive while Dimma was dead.
Then again, the bastard had a weak heart – though the doctors had told him it was nothing to be alarmed about, as long as he took his pills.
What a simple solution it would be if he stopped taking his medication. Yes, that would be best for all concerned.
And Hulda’s spirits rose a little at this thought.
Author’s note
I read books all year round, but I especially enjoy reading at Christmas time. It is an old Icelandic tradition to give books as Christmas presents, and then to spend Christmas Eve reading into the night. And books with a holiday setting are among my favourites. From the top of my head, I can name a few excellent examples such as Agatha Christie’s Hercule Poirot’s Christmas (1938), Ellery Queen’s The Finishing Stroke (1958), Ngaio Marsh’s Tied up in Tinsel (1972) and Simon Brett’s The Christmas Crimes at Puzzel Manor (1991).
When I started writing crime fiction, I always knew I would want to write mysteries set around the holidays. The first such book was Whiteout, a part of my Dark Iceland series, and the second is The Mist. I have also written a few short stories set on Christmas Eve, one of which is published in this book for the first time, ‘The Silence of the Falling Snow’.
For my Christmas writing I have of course been influenced by my own traditions, but also stories told by my family, one of which I want to share with you, a brief memory written by my mother, Katrín Guðjónsdóttir, a few years ago, a glimpse into Christmas in Iceland in 1960, when she was ten years old:
A Christmas with apples, 1960
It was a cosy feeling when Dad bought the Christmas apples, and the box was in our house in Háagerdi, in Reykjavík. Then I felt Christmas approaching.
We only had apples at Christmas time, so me and my sisters and brothers went, again and again, up to the top of the staircase to smell them. The box was open, but we only peeked; no one had an apple until Christmas Eve.
I always looked forward to having a bite of one as soon as I started reading a new book at Christmas.
I can still smell the apples …
Katrin Guðjónsdóttir
Read on for an exclusive short story by Ragnar Jónasson
THE SILENCE OF THE FALLING SNOW
The snowflakes fell to earth, one after the other, in a majestic way, but Ari Thor Arason was the only one there to enjoy them. He stood by the living
