continue, encouraged by the patience of the other man.
"There's something about burning that makes me think of- well, you know – of Hell. And when I picture my girl..."
He stopped abruptly, slowly turning red. The other man stood motionless for a long time, and then finally gave him a pat on the shoulder and said, "You have to make a decision for ... your daughter? Is that right?"
Holland bowed his head.
"I think you should take this very seriously. It's like having a double responsibility. It's not easy, no, it's not." He shook his lean face from side to side. "And you should take your time. But if you decide on cremation, you'll have to sign a statement that she never uttered a word of objection. Unless she's under 18, that is, then you can make the decision for her."
"She's 15," he said.
The superintendent closed his eyes for a few seconds. Then he started walking again. "Come with me to the chapel," he said. "I'll show you an urn."
He led Holland down some stairs. An invisible hand had been placed over them, shutting out the rest of the world. They leaned towards each other, the superintendent to lend support, Holland to receive warmth. Downstairs the walls were rough and whitewashed. At the bottom stood a red-and-white floral arrangement, and a suffering Christ stared down at them from the cross on the wall. Eddie pulled himself together. He sensed that his cheeks had regained their colour, and he felt more at ease.
The urns stood on shelves along the walls. The superintendent lifted one down and handed it to Holland. "Go ahead and hold it. Nice, isn't it?"
He touched the urn and tried to envision what had been his daughter, that he was holding her in his arms. The urn looked like metal, but he knew that it was a biodegradable material, and it felt warm in his hands.
"So now I've told you what happens. That's all there is to it, I haven't left anything out."
Eddie Holland ran his fingers over the gold-coloured urn. It did feel good in his hand, with a solid weight to it.
"The urn is porous so that air from the earth can get in and speed up the process. The urn will disappear too. There's something mysterious and grand about the fact that everything disappears, don't you think?"
He smiled with reverence. "And we will too. Even this building, and the paved road outside. But all the same," he said, taking a firm grip on Eddie's arm, "I still like to believe that there's something greater in store for us. Something different and exciting. Why shouldn't there be?"
Holland looked at him, almost in surprise.
"On the outside we put a label with her name on it," he said in conclusion.
Holland nodded. Realised that he was still on his feet. Time would go on passing, minute after minute. Now he had felt a small part of the pain, moved a little bit down the path, with Annie. Imagined the flames, and the roar of the oven.
"It should say Annie," he said. "Annie Sofie Holland."
When he came home, Ada was bending over the sink, listlessly washing some muddy red potatoes. Six potatoes. Two each. Not eight, like she was used to. It looked so paltry. Her face was still set in pain, it had set rigid the second she bent over the gurney at the hospital and the doctor drew back the sheet. Afterwards the expression remained like a mask that she couldn't move.
"Where have you been?" she asked tonelessly.
"I've been thinking about it," Holland said. "And I think we should have Annie cremated."
She dropped the potato and stared at him. "Cremated?"
"I've been thinking about it," he said. "The fact that someone... assaulted her. And left a mark on her. I want it gone!"
He leaned heavily against the counter and gave her an imploring look. It was rare for him to ask for anything.
"What kind of mark?" she asked as if she hardly cared, picking up the potato again. "We can't have Annie cremated."
"You just need time to get used to the idea," he said, a little louder than before. "It's a beautiful custom."
"We can't have Annie cremated," she repeated, as she continued to scrub. "They called from the prosecutor's office. They said we couldn't have her cremated."
"But why not?" he cried, wringing his hands.
"In case they need to bring her up again. When they find the man who did it."
CHAPTER 7
Bardy Snorrason stuck a hand under the steel handle and pulled