The Mist

among the wildly swirling snowflakes and her despairing cries would be smothered at birth by the gale.
Worse than that, she had a horrible foreboding that there was no one there to hear her call. That something had happened to Einar. She refused to believe it. It couldn’t be true.
Where the hell was he, though? Why was she alone, fleeing a dangerous intruder, on Christmas Eve, of all days?
‘Einar!’ Erla would never have believed that she had it in her to screech like that. Terror was clearly a great source of strength.
She was dangerously cold in her thin, indoor clothes, but that didn’t matter now. The only thing that mattered was to get into the house before Leó and lock the door behind her. She had to lock him out and make sure all the windows were secured as well. Then she could behave as if nothing had happened, as if it was just a normal day.
A blackness developed at the edges of her vision and began to close in like a tunnel, but she fought against it. She wasn’t going to faint; she was so nearly there. She was going to make it, and no one was going to stop her.
She was terrified that any minute now Leó would catch up with her and she would feel his hand grabbing her shoulder, shoving her down in the snow, and … and then what? However difficult it was to fight a path back through the drifts to the house, he must surely be able to run faster than her. So why hadn’t he caught up already?
She longed to look round and see how much of a head-start she had on him but couldn’t bring herself to turn, just kept going.
A dark shape loomed through the whiteness. The house. She was nearly there … so very nearly there.

XXII
A carol was playing on the radio in the background, but there was silence at the dinner table.
Hulda had, from habit, laid it with its seasonal finery: a red cloth and plates to match, the best crystal glasses. The malt brew in its crystal jug and the pièce de résistance, the gammon, growing colder with every minute that passed.
Hulda and her mother had both helped themselves to food, and the older woman was busy piling her fork with meat, gravy and caramelized potatoes. Hulda hadn’t touched hers.
There was no sign of Jón and Dimma.
‘He must bring her through soon,’ Hulda muttered, staring unseeingly at her plate, more to herself than to her mother.
‘Hulda, dear…’
Hulda glanced at her mother. After pausing to take another mouthful of ham, the older woman repeated, still chewing: ‘Hulda, dear, I don’t know how you’re bringing her up or how you and Jón usually do things, but it’s disgracefully rude of the child not to come to the table for Christmas dinner. I haven’t seen her at all yet, and it’s Christmas Eve! Behaviour like that would never have been tolerated when I was young – and we’d never have put up with it when you were a girl either.’
‘Mum…’
Her mother took a swig of malt and orange. ‘Shall I go in and try to talk her round? Dimma and I have always been so close.’ She smiled a little smugly.
Unlike us, Hulda wanted to retort. But all she said was ‘Leave it to Jón,’ adding: ‘It’s all right.’ But she didn’t believe it herself any more.
‘You must both be spending too much time working, Hulda. I’m sure that’s what it is. Jón’s always flat out and you’ve got such a demanding job with the police. I just don’t think it’s right. In my opinion, you ought to pay more attention to the poor child and find yourself an easier way of earning money. Why not get a part-time position, from nine to twelve, or something? After all, I get the impression that Jón brings in more than enough for the whole family.’
‘Don’t interfere, Mum,’ Hulda snapped. Rising from her chair, she called into the hallway: ‘Jón, Dimma, are you coming?’
‘Well, if you ask me, it’s lack of discipline. Sometimes you just have to put your foot down.’
‘Put your foot down?’
‘Yes, that’s what I think.’
‘And who do you suggest puts their foot down, hm?’ Hulda asked angrily. ‘Us? Or you, maybe?’
Her mother was a little flustered by this attack.
‘Well … don’t get me wrong … But it’s my right as your mother to take an interest in my grandchild’s upbringing. I do have a bit of experience with childrearing, after all.’
‘Oh, you do, do you? Is that a fact?’ Hulda blurted out with sudden venom, only to regret it immediately.
There was a shocked silence. They heard Jón calling: ‘Just coming, love.’
‘What do you mean by that, Hulda? Just what are you implying?’ Her mother sounded near to tears and Hulda sent up an exasperated prayer for patience.
Getting her temper under control, she said quickly: ‘I didn’t mean anything by it, Mum. Sorry. It just gets on my nerves when you start criticizing us. I know you mean well, but we’re having a tricky time with Dimma at the moment and we’re doing our best, but it really doesn’t help when you interfere.’
This was met by an offended silence and Hulda knew that her mother had heard, behind the innocuous words, an echo of the chasm that had opened up between them over the years; that unbridgeable chasm that Hulda had learned to live with but her mother apparently never had.
Her mother lowered her eyes to her plate and took another mouthful of food.
‘You know, Hulda,’ she said after she had swallowed, ‘that we … I tried my best with you…’ She faltered and her words trailed off, drowned out by the choir on the radio singing ‘Silent Night’.
Shortly after this, Jón appeared, frowning heavily, and at first it seemed he wasn’t going to say anything at all. He was all too inclined to withdraw into himself and refuse to be sociable in company.
Hulda fixed him with a stare, trying to compel him to tell