Read Vogue Scandinavia's exclusive short story by Ragnar Jónasson: 'To those he never got to hold in his arms'

All those colours ... The beauty of the scene before him took the edge off his anxiety; he could feel the old ticker gradually slowing and steadying until it was beating in tune with nature again. He had to take care of his heart. He couldn’t remember exactly what the doctor had said last time they talked but he could feel for himself that it wasn’t beating with the same vigour as it used to in the old days, when life had stretched out before him like a gentle slope, brilliant green as far as the eye could see. These days he couldn’t afford to waste a single breath: his life was reaching the end of the line and the beats of his heart were numbered.

Brilliant green didn’t really capture the colour of the mountains rising here and there around the lake. The mountains – perhaps he should call them hills or outcrops – were the green of moss, with a hint of melancholy about them. He sensed autumn in the air. It was just an instinct, he couldn’t be sure. The wind was chilly; a bitter gust rather than a refreshing summer breeze. At any rate, it was lucky the old jeep hadn’t conked out on the drive; it had been quite a feat to make it all the way out here to no-man’s land.

He had driven for what felt like hours along the Ring Road, a route he had once known like the back of his hand, before turning off into the highlands, where the roads petered out into gravel tracks and time stood still. He had reached his journey’s end. Dusk had not yet fallen, which meant he still had a bit of daylight left in which to solve the mystery. How ridiculous, tragicomic even, to start trying to solve mysteries now, at his age.

He stood on the stony beach, a little way from the lake, catching his breath and marvelling at the array of colours. It wasn’t only the green slopes of the distant mountains that delighted the eye but the very soil itself, the rocks shading through white, black and grey to earthy red, and the tiny flowers that he now glimpsed growing at his feet. He couldn’t remember their name; perhaps he’d never known it.

The soft autumn hues stirred up snatches of memory. Decades ago his friend had vanished, no trace of him had ever been found, and the mystery had probably cast a shadow on the lives of all those who had been close to him. They had got to know each other in their teens and gone to work on the fishing boats together. An autumn day at sea in foul weather, a heavy swell, the screeching of birds, the choppy grey surface blending seamlessly with the dismal sky; those were the images that arose in his mind at the thought of his long-lost friendship.

He had been happy at sea. He remembered that much. It was a job he had been good at, which had brought in a decent wage. He was descended from a line of fisherman, going back several generations at least, and even today there were times when he felt as if the sea were calling him. It happened in the mornings mostly, when, stirring in the faint dawn light, he thought for a confused moment that he was out on the ocean. The feeling was good. The sea had been at once his best friend and his worst enemy. A tough but dependable master. Those had probably been his best years; he wasn’t sure any longer, but that’s how he felt sometimes. Hard work, good company, a purpose in life.

Now here he was, drawn far up into the highlands in search of his friend, and all he could think about was the far-off ocean. Perhaps it was the chill autumn air blowing off the lake, stirring up memories of the sea breeze. He had noticed that the fuel gauge was low. Thoughtless of him not to have checked the tank before setting out. God knows how he would make it home again, but that was a problem he would think about later. All in good time. He had come here following a clue. He smiled wryly at the thought – a clue, damn it! As if he were in one of those detective series on TV, which helped to pass the time in his old age, evening after evening, all merging into one.

Time had a habit of teasing him. His existence had a lonely monotony these days. You reap what you sow, I suppose, he often told himself. The tenor of his life had become increasingly grey as the years wore on, which made days like this one all the more precious. To experience something, to feel, rather than understand: that’s where happiness lay for him now. It could be such an elusive emotion.

Crying didn’t suit him. He couldn’t remember anyone actually putting it like that but he knew it was true. He wasn’t expected to cry. Which was why he couldn’t allow himself to dwell on the things life hadn’t granted him, like those he had never got to hold in his arms or lead by the hand. The breeze seemed to be picking up a bit. He had been standing there motionless for a while. There wasn’t a moment to lose: he had to find his friend who had been missing for so long.

Of course he was far too late, years – decades – too late, in the evening of his life, but he didn’t suppose it mattered. He sensed this was the only secret left to be uncovered, for himself as much as for anyone else. Again, the images flickered across his mind’s eye: the detectives on television, his late friend at sea, and suddenly he felt as if the landscape had come to life and was pressing in on him. The sensation vanished as quickly as it had begun. This happened increasingly often now.

The day had come, one autumn, when the fisher man’s life no longer suited him. It was time to go ashore, and so they had both made the move together. The one thing you have is your reputation, his mother used to tell him. A good provision in life. He had such warm memories of her; her kind manner, her encouraging words. He had tried to live by the same rules as her. There was less to be said about his father: a stolid man of few words. His childhood sometimes loomed so close, out of the deep past, while his years at sea were lost in a mist.

The open road had taken over from the sea; one fine day he had found himself at the wheel of a delivery truck instead of a boat. The same was true of his friend; another truck, the same roads. All those journeys, back and forth, one long road, year in, year out, without a beginning, without an end. And they had gone into it together, once again. He sensed he was getting close to solving the mystery here, in this place. The journey had seemed interminable, but he’d always enjoyed long trips. Driving the Ring Road had transported him back in time to the wheel of a much larger vehicle, carrying a valuable load from one side of the country to the other.

Although his friend had vanished without trace, the clue had led him here. The lake was off the beaten track, a picturesque spot that few ever got to see, and now here he was, alone. He edged a little closer, taking a few more steps, the stones crunching under foot, and somewhere in the distance the highland birds seemed to be calling him. The sun had sunk a little in the sky, as was only natural. He didn’t register this with his conscious mind so much as sense that the dusk was beginning to deepen ahead, the light losing its crystal clarity.

If everything fitted, this should be his best friend’s final resting place. He didn’t have much hope of finding his body, not after all this time, yet some impulse compelled him to try. Never give up. It had been a saying of his father’s – he remembered that now. What if his plan succeeded? It was too late to do anything now. It had happened such a long time ago. How long, in years, he couldn’t remember exactly, but that didn’t really matter. He closed his eyes, trying to get his bearings, then opened them again, letting the autumn colours filter in, one by one, hearing the landscape calling to him: Nothing matters any more.

He knew, even though everything else was veiled in a mist, that he had no one left. The few people who had been close to him were all gone, and the feeling wasn’t so bad: in some strange sense it meant he was free. At times he had visits from people he recognised, who stirred up hazy memories. This sort of thing broke up the day, of course, but it was exhausting trying to grope back to something that wasn’t there. At other times the visitors looked like strangers. He put up with this. Just smiled, because he had nothing to say to strangers. Come here.

He could have sworn his friend was calling him, though really he knew better. A trick of the autumn wind, no more. The clue had come to him in a dream last night. Pay attention to dreams, his mother used to say. She probably hadn’t meant it quite this literally. He had dreamt that his friend was here, in the lake, that this was where he had been all these years. Then there was the girl. He remembered her all right. That had probably been his one chance to put down roots and start a family.

He’d had such a powerful sense that they were meant to be together, and he could still picture her. Well, maybe not her features or her expression, just her smile and an impression of bright colours. And he could hear the music they had listened to. Golden oldies evoked the strongest reactions from him these days, as if he had been transported back to another place in his mind; dancing on shore leave, listening to the radio on the road.

She’d had such a winning manner. In hindsight, his biggest mistake had been to introduce her to his best friend. Sadly, that evening often came back to him, when so much else was hidden. It was somehow easier to remember the bad times than the good. He had realised at once that it had been a mistake to bring the two of them together; he had seen the sparks ignite at that very first meeting. Those cursed sparks. He could picture it all now, as he gazed over the lake; his memories clouded but the old emotions re-awakening. And somewhere, just out of reach, lurked another event he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Not yet.

Their relationship had begun so well, but little by little it had changed. So much pain, so much disappointment. He had wanted to spend his future with her, had let himself hope, too eagerly, which had only made the fall that much harder. It had been his best friend, of all people, who betrayed him.

And then...
Then what?

He noticed that there was a sprinkling of snow on the distant mountains, a sign of what was to come. A reminder of how cruel the winter could be, of how it could strike without warning. That was often the worst part; the lack of warning. It used to be cold at sea, indescribably cold, and on the roads too in winter. Life was cold. Not just cold but dangerous. And it was dangerous to picture a future that could never happen; to believe that an illusion could become reality. Sometimes he was aware that he was starting to forget things. At other times he couldn’t recall anything at all, but then the memories would start crashing over him like waves, one after the other, in relentless succession, or all at once in a welter of fleeting images and colours.

It was hard to kill a man. The fact came back to him at that moment. First a sensation, then a flash and finally a clear image. The memory was accompanied by a rush of terrible unhappiness, by so much grief, and yet there was solace in it too, because it was impossible to grieve unless you could remember. So hard, to kill. He’d had to summon up every ounce of his strength to overpower his friend, to tighten the grip on his throat until he could be sure he’d taken his last breath, the seconds dragging like minutes, and the only thought resounding in his head, like a deafening, booming echo: I’m going to kill him.

And he had done it. A fit of madness, you could say, but in reality the motive had been plain jealousy. A Saturday evening in Reykjavík. Autumn. All of a sudden that one evening stood out with stark clarity. The clouds lying low over the town, as if they had just touched down there; the evening light so unreal, otherworldly, fumbling, dreamlike. They had been around at his place, he and his friend, when a quarrel had broken out about the woman they both wanted. Blaring music in the background and alcohol littering the flat; half-empty bottles.

A weekend off driving, and a resentment that had been seething under the surface for too long. Shouts and crashing, then suddenly he’d had his best friend by the throat. The act of killing had been so hard, yet somehow it never crossed his mind to stop, fuelled as he was by a lethal combination of alcohol and hatred. But then that’s how he used to live in those days, taking decisions, both good and bad, and sticking to them. He could remember that much, but he knew that time had brought about changes. He was still determined, but he didn’t go through life as fast, and sometimes he couldn’t even remember what it was he had resolved to do.

Death had always seemed so remote, both then and now; but that long-ago Saturday evening had been different. He had held his friend in a throttling grip and the boundary between life and death had become so terribly thin, the power to choose – the power to take a life – had quite literally passed into his fingers.

He had taken a life.

He remembered how the breath had ebbed away, the energy evaporated, a man so vibrantly alive had been transformed into a lifeless corpse, and immediately he had been confronted by another problem. His action had changed everything, he knew that. His friend would never have the girl now, but the truth was that they were both out of the game. He would have to live with the murder, however he was supposed to do that. It was disorientating standing there on the stony beach, in the midst of all this breathtaking beauty, these glorious colours, while it came home to you that you had once committed a murder. To be knocked sideways by the memory of what had been forgotten for so long. A devastating shock, but also a chance to face up to the truth. And a chance to repent.

It occurred to him that of course it had been no ordinary dream; the clue hadn’t just materialised out of the blue. In his half-awake state the memory of what he had done had simply returned to him. But the events had appeared hazy, as if they were merely a gentle hint about where his friend could have lain hidden all these years. It had been a terrible struggle to move the body, alone. That was the problem with killing someone: you were always alone, you couldn’t talk to anyone; there was no help to be had. The body had been so heavy as he lugged it out to the truck under cover of night.

His present surroundings – the lake, the mountains – had made it easier for him to peer into the past. Because he had stood here before, at the same time of year but in different circumstances; decades ago, by this deep-blue lake, facing the future and seeing nothing ahead but unrelieved darkness. His mother, bright as an angel, and his taciturn father, they may have been different types but they’d both been good people. And they’d brought him up to be like them. He didn’t necessarily have to excel – modesty was a virtue – but he must never harm others. And above all he must never kill.

What the hell were you supposed to do with a body? Of course he had just got in the truck and driven away. It was what came naturally to him. To steer a boat, to drive. He had driven through the darkness, through the night, for hours, until finally he’d found the turn-off, the road that perhaps had always been there at the back of his mind; the same road that he had taken now, on this last autumn day.

The lake hadn’t changed, the mountains were the same, and as always he was alone. With an effort he had heaved his friend out of the car and laid him on the stones. Then – it was all too vivid in his mind now – he had dragged the body down to the lake. No one deserved a burial like that, yet it’s what he had chosen for his best friend. Somewhere in the middle, halfway between the truck and the lake, grief had overwhelmed every other feeling. Grief had provided a refuge, reminding him that he was – like his parents – a good person at heart, but that good people could make mistakes. Some of them more fateful than others.

How were you supposed to live, burdened by a sin like that? The lake had reminded him of the sea, where his friend belonged. In a place of such unearthly beauty, deep in the water. Somehow he’d had the presence of mind to weigh the body down with rocks to ensure that his crime would never be exposed. He had watched him disappear below the surface, the silence of the highlands in his ears, then retraced his steps over the stony ground to his truck, with never a backward glance. And carried on driving the open road, in darkness, alone. He had never come back to this place – until now. In the blinking of an eye the lake was transformed into the sky-blue sea, the encircling moss-green mountains formed an embrace, and he jumped, the water closing over his head, into the freedom of oblivion.

Translation by Victoria Cribb