Silence of the Grave (20 page)

Cautiously opening the door, they crept inside: Simon leading the way but Tómas close behind, holding his hand. When they went into the kitchen they saw Grímur standing at the worktop. He had his back turned to them. Sniffed and spat into the sink. He had turned on the light over the table and they could see only his outline beyond it.

"Where's your mother?" he said, his back still turned.

Simon thought that he had noticed them on the way up the hill after all and heard them enter the house.

"She's working," Simon said.

"Working? Where's she working?" Grímur said.

"At Gufunes dairy," Simon said.

"Didn't she know I was coming today?" Grímur turned round to face them and stepped into the light. The brothers stared at him as he emerged from the darkness and their eyes turned like saucers when they saw his face in the dull glow. Something had happened to Grímur. Along one of his cheeks, a burn mark stretched all the way up to his eye, which was half closed because his eyelid had fused with the skin.

Grímur smiled.

"Doesn't Dad look pretty?"

The brothers stared at his disfigured face.

"First they make you coffee, then they throw it in your face."

He moved closer to them.

"Not because they want you to confess. They know it all already because someone's told them. That's not why they throw boiling coffee over you. That's not why they destroy your face."

The boys did not understand what was going on.

"Fetch your mother," Grímur ordered, looking at Tómas, who was cowering behind his brother. "Go to that fucking cow shop and bring the cow back."

Out of the corner of his eye Simon saw a movement in the bedroom, but he did not dare for the life of him to look inside. Mikkelína was up and about. She was able to stand on one leg and could move about if she supported herself, but she did not risk going into the kitchen.

"Out!" Grímur shouted. "Now!"

Tómas jumped. Simon was uncertain that his brother would find the way. Tómas had been to the farm with his mother once or twice in the summer, but it was darker and colder outside now and Tómas was still very much a child.

"I'll go," Simon said.

"You're not bloody going anywhere," Grímur snarled. "Piss off!" he shouted at Tómas, who staggered away from behind Simon, opened the door into the cold air and closed it carefully behind him.

"Come on, Símon my boy, come and sit down with me," Grímur said, his rage seeming suddenly to have vanished.

Simon fumbled his way into the kitchen and sat on a chair. He saw a movement in the bedroom again. He hoped Mikkelína would not come out. There was a pantry in the passageway and he thought that she could sneak in there without Grímur noticing her.

"Didn't you miss your old dad?" Grímur said, sitting down facing him. Simon couldn't take his eyes off the burn on his face. He nodded.

"What have you all been up to this summer?" Grímur asked, and Simon stared at him without saying a word. He did not know where to start telling lies. He could not tell him about Dave, about the visits and mysterious meetings with his mother, the trips, the picnics. He could not say that they all slept in the big bed together, always. He could not say how his mother had become a completely different person since Grímur left, which was all thanks to Dave. Dave had brought back her zest for life. He could not tell him how she made herself look pretty in the mornings. Her changed appearance. How her expression grew more beautiful each day that she spent with Dave.

"What, nothing?" Grímur said. "Hasn't anything happened the whole summer?"

"The . . . the . . . weather was great," Simon whimpered, his eyes glued to the burn.

"Great weather. The weather was great," Grímur said. "And you've been playing here and by the barracks. Do you know anyone from the barracks?"

"No," Simon blurted out. "No one."

Grímur smiled.

"You've learned to tell lies this summer. Amazing how quickly people learn to tell lies. Did you learn to tell lies this summer, Simon?"

Simon's lower lip was beginning to tremble. It was a reflex beyond his control.

"Just one," he said. "But I don't know him well."

"You know one. Well, well. You should never tell lies, Simon. People like you who tell lies just end up in trouble and can get others into trouble too."

"Yes," Símon said, hoping this would soon come to an end. He hoped that Mikkelína would come out and disturb them. Wondered whether to tell Grímur that Mikkelína was in the passage and had slept in his bed.

"Who do you know from the barracks?" Grímur said, and Simon could feel himself sinking deeper and deeper into the swamp.

"Just one," he said.

"Just one," Grímur repeated, stroking his cheek and lightly scratching the burn with his index finger. "Who's this one? I'm glad there's not more than one."

"I don't know. He sometimes goes fishing in the lake. Sometimes he gives us trout that he catches."

"And he's good to you kids?"

"I don't know," Simon said, well aware that Dave was the best man he had ever met. Compared with Grímur, Dave was an angel sent from heaven to save their mother. Where was Dave? Simon thought. If only Dave were here. He thought about Tómas out in the cold on his way to Gufunes, and about their mother who did not even know that Grímur was back on the hill. And he thought about Mikkelína in the passage.

"Does he come here often?"

"No, just every now and again."

"Did he come here before I was put in the nick? When you're put in the nick, Simon, it means you're put in the nick. It doesn't have to mean you're guilty of anything bad if you go prison, just that someone put you there. In the nick. And it didn't take them long. They talked a lot about making an example. The Icelanders mustn't steal from the army. Awful business. So they had to sentence me, hard and fast. So no one else would copy me and go stealing too. You get it? Everyone was supposed to learn from my mistakes. But they all steal. They all do it, and they're all making money. Did he come here before I was put in the nick?"

"Who?"

"That soldier. Did he come here before I was put in the nick? That one."

"He used to fish in the lake sometimes before you went away."

"And he gave your mother the trout he caught?"

"Yes."

"Did he catch a lot of trout?"

"Sometimes. But he wasn't a good fisherman. He just sat down by the lake, smoking. You catch a lot more than he did. With your nets too. You always catch so much with your nets."

"And when you gave your mother the trout, did he stop by? Did he come in for coffee? Did he sit down at this table?"

"No," Simon said, unable to decide whether the lie he was telling was too obvious. He was scared and confused, he kept his finger pressed against his lip to stop it trembling, and tried to answer the way he thought Grímur wanted him to, but without incriminating his mother if he said something Grímur was not supposed to know. Simon was discovering a new side to Grímur. His father had never talked to him so much before and it caught him off his guard. Simon was floundering. He was not sure exactly what Grímur was not supposed to know, but he tried his utmost to safeguard his mother.

"Didn't he ever come in here?" Grímur said, and his voice transposed from soft and cunning to strict and firm.

"Just twice, something like that."

"And what did he do then?"

"Just came in."

"Oh, it's like that. Have you started telling lies again? Are you lying to me again? I come back here after months of being treated like shit and all I get to hear are lies. Are you going to tell me lies again?"

His questions lashed Símon's face like a whip.

"What did you do in prison?" Simon asked hesitantly in the weak hope of being able to talk about something other than Dave and his mother. Why didn't Dave come? Didn't they know that Grímur was out of prison? Hadn't they discussed this at their secret meetings when Dave stroked her hand and tidied up her hair?

"In prison?" Grímur said, changing his voice to soft and cunning again. "I listened to stories in prison. All sorts of stories. You hear so much and want to hear so much because no one comes to visit you and the only news you get from home is what you hear there, because they're always sending people to prison and you get to know the wardens who tell you a thing or two as well. And you have loads and loads of time to think about all those stories."

A floorboard creaked inside the passageway and Grímur paused, then went on as if nothing had happened.

"Of course, you're so young . . . wait, how old are you anyway, Simon?"

"I'm 14, I'll be 15 soon."

"You're almost an adult, so maybe you understand what I'm talking about. Everyone hears about how all the Icelandic girls just throw their legs over the soldiers. It's like they lose control of themselves when they see a man in uniform, and you hear about what gentlemen the soldiers are and how they open doors for them and they're polite and want to dance and never get drunk and have cigarettes and coffee and all sorts of things and come from places that all the girls want to go to. And us, Simon, we're crummy. Just yokels, Simon, that the girls won't even look at. That's why I want to know a bit more about this soldier who goes fishing in the lake, Simon, because you've disappointed me."

Simon looked at Grímur and all the strength seemed to sap from his body.

"I've heard so much about that soldier on the hill here and you've never heard of him. Unless of course you're lying to me, and I don't think that's very nice, lying to your dad when a soldier comes here every day and goes out for walks with your dad's wife all summer. You don't know anything about it?"

Simon said nothing.

"You don't know anything about it?" Grímur repeated.

"They sometimes went for walks," Simon said, tears welling in his eyes.

"See," Grímur said. "I knew we were still friends. Did you go with them maybe?"

It seemed that this would never end. Grímur looked at him with his burnt face and one eye half closed. Simon felt he could not hold back much longer.

"We sometimes went to the lake and he took a picnic. Like you sometimes brought in those cans you open with a key."

"And did he kiss your mother? Down by the lake?"

"No," Simon said, relieved at not having to answer with a lie. He had never seen Dave and his mother kissing.

"What were they doing then? Holding hands? And what were you doing? Why did you let that man take your mother for walks down by the lake? Didn't it ever occur to you that I might object? Didn't that ever occur to you?"

"No," Símon said.

"No one was thinking about me on those walks. Were they?"

"No," Símon said.

Grímur leaned forward under the light and his burning red scar stood out even more.

"And what's the name of this man who steals other people's families and thinks that's okay and no one does a thing about it?"

Simon did not answer him.

"The one who threw the coffee, Simon, the one who made my face like this, do you know his name?"

"No," Simon said in a barely audible voice.

"He attacked me and burned me, but they never put him in the nick for that. What do you reckon to that? Like they're holy, all those soldiers. Do you think they're holy?"

"No," Simon said.

"Has your mother got fatter this summer?" Grímur asked as if a new idea had suddenly entered his head. "Not because she's a cow from the dairy, Simon, but because she's been going for walks with soldiers from the barracks. Do you think she's got fatter this summer?"

"No," he said.

"I think it's likely though. We'll find out later. This man who threw the coffee over me. Do you know his name?"

"No," Simon said.

"He had some strange idea, I don't know where he got it from, that I wasn't treating your mother properly. That I did nasty things to her. You know I've had to teach her to behave sometimes. He knew about it, but he didn't understand why. Couldn't understand that tarts like your mother need to know who's in charge, who they're married to and how they ought to behave. He couldn't understand you have to push them around a bit sometimes. He was really angry when he was talking to me. I know a bit of English because I've had some good friends at the barracks and I understood most of what he was saying, and he was very angry with me about your mother."

Simon's eyes were transfixed on the scald.

"This man, Simon, his name's Dave. I don't want you to lie to me: the soldier who was so kind to your mother, has been ever since the spring and all summer and well into the autumn, could his name be Dave?"