Silence of the Grave by Arnaldur Indriðason

him.
When he had finished writing, his pallid hands slumped onto the quilt, and the book and pen with them, and he closed his eyes. Elínborg picked up the book and was about to read what the old man had written when the cardiac monitor that he was connected to suddenly started to beep. The noise was ear-piercing when it broke out in the silent room and Elínborg was so startled that she jumped back. She looked down at Róbert for a moment, unsure of what to do, then rushed straight out of the room, down the corridor and into the canteen where Sigurdur Óli was still sitting, his banana finished. An alarm rang somewhere.
"Did you get anything out of the old sod?" Sigurdur Óli asked Elínborg when she sat down beside him, gasping for breath. "Hey, are you okay?" he added when he noticed her puffing and panting.
"Yes, I'm fine," Elínborg said.
A team of doctors, nurses and paramedics came running through the canteen and into the corridor in the direction of Róbert's room. Soon afterwards a man in a white gown appeared, pushing in front of him a piece of equipment that Elínborg thought was a cardiac massage device, and went down the corridor as well. Sigurdur Óli watched the crowd disappear around the corner.
"What the hell have you been up to now?" Sigurdur Óli said, turning to Elínborg.
"Me?" Elínborg muttered. "Nothing. Me! What do you mean?"
"What are you sweating like that for?" Sigurdur Óli asked.
"I'm not sweating."
"What happened? Why is everyone running?"
"No idea."
"Did you get anything out of him? Is he the one who's dying?"
"Come on, try to show a bit of respect," Elínborg said, looking all around.
"What did you get out of him?"
"I haven't checked yet," Elínborg said. "Shouldn't we get away from here?"
They stood up and walked out of the canteen, left the hospital and sat down in Sigurdur Óli's car. He drove off.
"So, what did you get out of him?" Sigurdur Óli asked impatiently.
"He wrote me a note," Elínborg sighed. "Poor man."
"Wrote you a note?"
She took the book out of her pocket and flicked through it until she found the place Róbert had written in it. A single word was jotted there, in the trembling hand of a dying man, an almost incomprehensible scribble. It took her a while to puzzle out what he had written in the notebook, then she became convinced, although she did not understand the meaning. She stared at Robert's last word in this mortal life: CROOKED.
*
That evening it was the potatoes. He did not think they were boiled well enough. They could equally have been over-boiled, boiled to a pulp, raw, unpeeled, badly peeled, over-peeled, not cut into halves, not in gravy, in gravy, fried, unfried, mashed, sliced too thick, sliced too thin, too sweet, not sweet enough . . .
She could never figure him out.
That was one of his strongest weapons. The attacks always occurred without warning and when she was least expecting them, just as often when everything seemed rosy as when she could sense that something was upsetting him. He was a genius at keeping her on tenterhooks and she could never feel safe. She was always tense in his presence, ready to be at his beck and call. Have the food ready at the right time. Have his clothes ready in the morning. Keep the boys under control. Keep Mikkelína out of his sight. Serve him in every way, even though she knew it was pointless.
She had long ago given up all hope that things would get better. His home was her prison.
After finishing dinner he picked up his plate, surly as ever, and put it in the sink. Then went back to the table as if on his way out of the kitchen, but stopped where she still sat at the table. Not daring to look up, she watched the two boys who were sitting with her and went on eating her meal. Every muscle in her body was on the alert. Perhaps he would leave without touching her. The boys looked at her and slowly put down their forks.
Deathly silence fell in the kitchen.
Suddenly he grabbed her by the head and slammed it down on her