The Mist

in the property: the farming business, the equipment, the livestock … It would be no easy matter to sell them. An old house far from the nearest village was worthless if no one wanted to live there. All the derelict properties scattered around the Icelandic countryside bore silent witness to this fact, and Erla could picture the same fate befalling their own house once they’d moved away: broken windows, flaking paint, rusty corrugated-iron roof; an empty husk, no longer a home, fit for no one but the ghosts that roamed the wastes.
Admittedly, they owned the land too, a sizeable property, but the same applied to that as to the house; an estate in this area wasn’t worth a bean except to the farmer who was prepared to live out here. It would never be popular as a summer-house colony, not with its savage winters and chilly summers.
While her thoughts slipped into this well-worn groove, Einar had been rummaging around in the contents of the backpack. ‘Nothing of interest here.’
‘What about that pocket?’ she asked.
‘What? Where?’ he asked eagerly.
‘On the side, there.’ Erla pointed to a deep pocket on the side of the rucksack.
‘Oh, yes, well spotted. Maybe he’s got something hidden in there.’ Einar undid the zip and reached inside. ‘What the –?’

XIX
Einar pulled a hunting knife out of the pocket.
Drawing it from its sheath, he tested the blade with his thumb. ‘It’s bloody sharp too.’
Erla stiffened with fear. She realized it was vital to calm him down. She knew her husband in this mood; that expression, the ominous note in his voice.
‘There could be a perfectly natural explanation for it, dear. The man was on a shooting trip, after all.’
‘Shooting ptarmigan with a knife?’
‘There’s nothing odd about taking a knife along on a shooting trip – as a safety precaution.’ But her husband wasn’t listening.
‘I reckon it’s time to have a word with him,’ he said grimly, making for the door.
Erla blocked his path. ‘Einar … Einar.’
‘Let me go and talk to him, Erla.’ He was still holding the knife.
‘Put the knife down, Einar.’
‘I’m taking it with me just in case. As a precaution, like you said. After all, we don’t know who we’re dealing with.’
‘At least put it back in its sheath…’ But her words fell on deaf ears.
She stayed put, determined not to let Einar past. In the background she could hear Leó hammering on the door with his fists, kicking it and shouting himself hoarse.
Then her thoughts returned to Anna.
‘Einar, you don’t think he could have stopped off at Anna’s place and hurt her in some way?’ she asked, but it was too late: Einar could no longer hear her. He had pushed past and was making for the stairs.
The knife, that lethal blade … The world went momentarily black when she thought about what could have happened. Why had Leó lied about seeing no other house on the way to their farm? God, how she wished she could hear the sound of the door opening and Anna’s voice calling out to let them know she’d arrived. What if he’d attacked her? The knife had looked clean, but he could have wiped it, of course. A vivid image came into her mind of Anna lying on the ground, helpless, bleeding to death. She was overwhelmed by an overpowering urge to rush out of the front door and down the road to her daughter’s house, in defiance of the storm.
‘I’m going to find Anna,’ she told herself. But hearing the screaming of the wind outside, she knew it would be difficult, if not impossible, to make it there alive.
She went into the sitting room.
‘I’m coming in,’ she heard Einar saying upstairs in a threatening voice. ‘Can you move back from the door?’
The banging stopped and from inside the attic room Erla heard Leó calling: ‘Come in, then!’
She was filled with a sick dread about what might happen. The sensible thing would be to race upstairs and force them apart, then order Einar to let the man go. Show Leó the door … Or perhaps the door to the cellar under the house. The entrance was outside – let him stay down there. Then they could lock themselves in the house and enjoy their Christmas in peace, putting off the problem until later. They would have to lie to the police. Yes, unfortunately, there was no getting round that. She could do it, though – she was sure she could. She could lie for Einar. Claim indignantly that he’d never locked anyone in. How ridiculous – my husband would never do anything like that. Yes, she could probably be pretty convincing if she tried. Because, in spite of everything, she couldn’t bear the prospect of life without Einar. Although she would have given almost anything to move away from here, she had long ago resolved to grow old with her husband. The thought of losing him was devastating.
A strange hush had fallen. No doubt Einar was opening the door; yes, she could hear the squeak as the key turned in the lock. Then there was a creaking from the hinges, followed by a barrage of loud, angry questions from her husband: ‘What the hell do you want from us? And what’s this? Eh, what’s this? Why did you come here carrying a weapon?’
Erla couldn’t bear to hear any more. Clamping her hands over her ears, she ran for the front door, but had to lower her hands in order to open it, and then she could hear the clash of raised voices from the attic. Whimpering in her desperation, she charged outside, heedless of the fact that she was wearing her indoor clothes, only to discover that it had started snowing again with a vengeance.
She floundered away from the house through the knee-high drifts. The storm had blown up into a blizzard, reducing visibility to no more than a few paces, but she didn’t care; she couldn’t listen to what was happening inside. Couldn’t bear to hear the moment when