I heard Fridrik take a step towards the direction of my voice. ‘Agnes, I don’t know if he’s dead.’ His voice caught on the last word. ‘I can’t tell if he’s dead.’
My heart stopped still. My fingers would not move. I was pushing them across the gritty boards, trying to find the lamp, but my knuckles had seized and would not bend. He hasn’t killed him. He’s a boy. He hasn’t killed him.
Somehow I found the lamp. I scooped it up, my hand grazing against the splinters of the floor.
‘Agnes?’
‘I’m here!’ I snapped back. The tone of my voice surprised me. I did not sound as frightened as I was. ‘I need to light the lamp.’
‘Hurry then,’ Fridrik said.
I felt my way to the corridor, where a single candle stood alight in a wall bracket. I lit the lamp, and then turned back towards the badstofa. My hands were trembling and the light of the lamp flickered uneasily over the rough walls, towards the black mouth of the badstofa. When I reached the room I felt my throat close from fear. I didn’t want to go in there. But I needed to see what Fridrik had done.
At first I thought he’d tricked me. When I extended the lamp towards Natan’s bed, I saw his blankets, and his sleeping face. Nothing seemed wrong. Then Fridrik said: ‘Here, Agnes, bring the lamp here,’ and as the light crept across the bed I saw that Pétur’s head was crushed. Blood darkened the pillow. Something glistened on the wall, and when I looked I saw several drops of blood slowly running down the planks.
‘Oh God,’ I said. ‘Oh God. Oh God.’
I looked at the hammer he held in his hands, and there was something stuck to it – it was hair. I was sick then, on the floor.
Fridrik helped me to my feet. He was still gripping the hammer, holding it out at the ready. ‘Have you hurt Natan?’ I asked, and Fridrik told me to bring the lamp closer to the bed. Natan was bleeding also. One side of his face looked strange, as though his cheekbone had been flattened, and what I thought was Pétur’s blood was pooling in the cavity of his neck.
A scream erupted from my chest and strength left me. I dropped the lamp again, and fell to the floor in the darkness that erupted over us.
Fridrik must have fetched the candle from the corridor. I saw his face shine as he entered the room. Then, we both heard a voice.
‘What was that?’ Fridrik quickly walked over to my side and pulled me to my feet. We were trembling. The sound came again. A groan.
‘Natan?’ I grabbed the candle from Fridrik and lurched towards the bed, holding it close to Natan’s face. I saw his eyelids twitch in the bright flare, and he tried to stir on the bed.
‘What did you do to him?’ Fridrik was as white as a corpse, his pupils so dilated they looked black.
‘The hammer . . .’ he mumbled.
Natan groaned again, and this time Fridrik bent close, listening.
‘He said “Worm”.’
‘Worm Beck?’
‘Maybe he’s dreaming.’
We stood still, watching Natan for more signs of life. The silence was deadening. Then Natan slowly opened one of his eyes, and looked right at me.
‘Agnes?’ he murmured.
‘I’m here,’ I said. A rush of relief went through me. ‘Natan, I’m here.’
His eye moved from me to Fridrik. Then, he swivelled his head and saw Pétur’s staved-in skull. I saw that he knew what had happened.
‘No,’ he croaked. ‘No, no no no.’
Fridrik stepped backwards from me. I wasn’t going to let him leave.
‘Look what you’ve done!’ I whispered. ‘Look at your work.’
‘I didn’t mean to! Natan, I swear.’ Fridrik began to pant, staring at the bloody hammer by our feet.
Natan cried out again. He was trying to get up from his bed, but screamed when he put weight on his arm. Fridrik had crushed it.
‘You wanted him dead!’ I cried, facing Fridrik. ‘What are you going to do now?’