The idea that the deceased shot himself won’t be the first thing that comes to any police officer’s mind.
But still. It has to be done.
I walk round the car in the freezing cold, tapping the numbers into my phone. I arrive at the passenger side, raise the phone to my ear, sliding it between the layers of scarf. I open the passenger door. Just then I hear the sound of a car and turn. The car is approaching so quickly that I lower the phone from my ear.
A lot can happen in half a second.
I don’t recognise the car, can’t see the registration number. The headlights are dazzling; they’re on full beam. What I can make out is that the only person in the car is the driver. And that driver is a giant. I glance to the side. Grigori has slid from his seat; somehow he has managed to slip free of the seatbelt. He is slumped in an unnatural position, hanging half out of the car, his grey hair almost touching the snowy surface of the road. The lights of the oncoming car are reflected in his open eyes and awaken a strange sensation in me, somewhere between life and death.
The half-second is over quickly.
The giant leaps from his car. I’m not sure whether the car actually came to a stop or not. The man is shouting his friend’s name. I look at Grigori, who by now has slid even further out of the car.
Afghanistan took a lot out of me. But it also taught me to remain focussed in exceptional circumstances. As the giant pulls a knife out of his boot, all my training and everything I have learned crystallises before me. I know exactly what to do.
I run for it.
A field separates this road from another, and the other road leads right back to the village. I hope I have the strength to run faster than this enormous man, who I assume must be even more ungainly than me.
The snow is deep, even in the tracks I find, left by a snowmobile. The giant is on my heels, bellowing, threatening to kill me, to skin me alive.
And he’s not ungainly.
The distance between us remains the same, though I increase my speed. In fact, the distance might even be getting shorter. The stars above us are bright and illuminate the snow-covered terrain in such pallid light that it feels like running through a negative image.
The field is broader than I’d thought. Still, there’s some benefit from being an active jogger. I know how to breathe correctly, and even once my legs are full of lactic acid I can still carry on.
The large man is propelled forwards with untrammelled rage. At least, that’s what it sounds like. He is running hard but still has the energy to shout. It’s a good thing too; there’s no uncertainty about it. He bellows that I killed his friend and that for every wound on his friend’s body I will repay with a hundred.
I finally reach the road. It slopes gently downwards, leading back to the village. I continue running and thank my luck that I wrapped the scarf round my head. If I manage to escape, it will be incognito. Breathing is hard; there’s not enough oxygen reaching my lungs. My throat hurts. In addition to my legs, my arms are starting to stiffen. The decline in the road is steeper. The nearest houses are now only a few hundred metres away. I peer over my shoulder to see how far away the man is.
It’s a mistake.
I slip.
As my back lands on the ground with a thump, the final remnants of air are knocked from my lungs. My back hurts from top to bottom. I haul myself to my feet and start running again, though I’m out of breath. Pain radiates from my coccyx, and my legs are about as agile as concrete blocks. I hear the giant running behind me. His steps echo, long and heavy.
I just have to reach the…
Through the trees I see the lights of the petrol station. I remember the yard at the back and have an idea, an idea I’ll have to put all my hope in. I pass the first house. The windows are dark. Then more houses.
At the next bend in the road, I turn. Snow has turned the hedgerows into walls. I can’t extend my lead on my pursuer enough to get behind them and hide, and, besides, my footprints would be visible in the snow. The man is constantly on my heels. He’s stopped shouting now. Perhaps he too has finally run out of breath.
We turn again. I pray it’ll be for the last time.
The road starts to rise gently, and the houses are behind us. The tall billboard at the petrol station is like a moon I’m desperately trying to reach. We are like two long-distance runners keeping a steady gap between them until they enter the final straight – with the difference that the big man can’t possibly know when the final straight will start or what it will be like.
Behind the petrol station is a large collection of assorted junk, a DIY repair area and old buses, snowmobiles, tractors, diggers and other workman’s machinery. I might be able to lose the man, gain enough of a head start to escape round the station, back to the road leading into the village, and from there head home.
From the road I jump into some even deeper snow. The billboard is much taller than the main building and casts a yellow light behind the station. I wade through the snow directly towards one of the buses, walk round the front and edge my way along the side of the bus towards the workshop. At the next bus I do the same. I find a route someone has clearly taken before. My footprints mix with those already there. I half run along already trodden pathways in the snow, using the enormous billboard to keep my bearings. Before long I’m behind the workshop. A lamp attached to the wall glows like the sun. I’ve ended up here so quickly that I haven’t given a thought to what happens next.
In the rear of the workshop there are two bay doors and one normal door. Both bay doors are locked, but the normal door opens when I turn the handle and push. I quickly peer inside.
The mechanics’ workshop is empty of people and cars. The space is dark. Light seeps through the windows in the bay doors and through the door at the back, which is ajar. This door presumably leads to the other areas of the workshop, right through to the shop front. My back hurts and I cannot run any further. I have to step inside.
Two metres deep and about a metre across, the grease pit between the tracks is like a canyon in the half-lit workshop. To the left of the pit is a platform about a metre wide, and to the right there are a few more metres of space. Behind that is another canyon, another grease pit.
The space is utterly silent. I make my way along the left edge of the pit towards the door at the far end of the workshop. I see another room, a storage space-cum-staffroom, and at the other side of that space another door. That door is wide open, and through it I see the station owner’s back. I can see half of his broad, white buttocks too, as he is sitting behind the counter on a tall stool with his back to me, his jeans sagging woefully. I slip away from the doorway; there’s no need to count my options.
Back to the rear door.
And as I make my way towards the door, I see it opening. The enormous man steps into the workshop and stops, twisting a knife in his hand. The movement is slick. It’s also completely unnecessary, because he’s already made a lasting impression on me.
I’m still wearing my thick, black winter coat and the scarf wrapped round my head. There’s no way he could recognise me. When I left the Golden Moon I only pulled my coat on once I was outside – and the scarf was tucked up my sleeve.
The man seems to take stock of the situation. It sounds as though he sniffs to himself. Either that or the shadows across his face shift position. The blade of the knife is sleek, the steel glints whenever a flicker of light from outside touches it. I move closer to the space between the two pits. He moves.
And then it hits me.
An awakening.
The workshop seems to change shape, to grow in height and width. It feels as though all my recent thoughts about Krista fill the space with light, as though this oil, petrol and metal-smelling workshop was in fact the most beautiful cathedral, a place that the setting sun filled with soft, golden beams. The cathedral glows with warmth and light. Its metre-thick walls protect us from the wind, from our enemies, and there I will be in perfect safety.
; The cathedral is within me.
I can’t run away from it anymore.
Here I stand.
My breath begins to steady. My muscles relax. I am filled with a renewed power.
I have nothing to fear. As I know only too well, the opposite of fear is not bravery. The opposite of fear is trust. Trust is faith.
It’s a peculiar moment to rediscover my lost faith.
The man steps nearer. He is close enough that I can see his face. He looks confused. We are standing on either side of the grease pit, separated only by a black emptiness a metre wide. I can imagine the situation from his perspective. The prey is no longer running but has turned to face him, his arms relaxed at his sides.
The man attacks. He leaps across the canyon, aiming his knife at my abdomen. His speed is impressive, but he doesn’t quite nail his landing. His centre of gravity shifts forwards. I grip the arm with the knife and twist.
The man yells, drops the knife, and does not regain his balance. His shoes fumble for support, but there is none. I twist more, again using his forward momentum to my advantage. He is like a runner who has gained too much speed on a downward slope; the only way to come to a stop is to fall forwards.
He dives forwards, head first, and raises his free hand in preparation for landing on the workshop floor – but there is no floor.
The giant plummets into the grease pit as though it were a lake. His speed is impressive, his descent precipitous. There comes a soft thump, then another. After that I hear nothing. I wait for a moment, walk to the edge of the pit and look down.
The man is lying on his back at the bottom of the pit. I crouch down and hear the sounds of life: breathing, moaning and spluttering that seem to come from the boundaries of consciousness.
I make my way back to the rear door, step outside.
My breath steams in the air. It is silent. The stars twinkle above.
I start walking towards the museum.
9
But why the museum? Because it is the most logical place. Because that is my mission. Because it advances both my investigations.
What I have just experienced in the petrol-station workshop seems to affect everything. Physically I am a wreck, mentally I am in shock. I’m on the edge, but despite this I seem able to think more clearly than in a long time.
Here’s how I see it now:
Grigori wanted the meteorite. Grigori and the giant are in Hurmevaara at the invitation of Tarvainen the rally driver. I already knew that Tarvainen wanted the meteorite, and what he told Grigori in the car only confirmed the matter. Judging by what he said, I imagine they must have had a disagreement and have subsequently been trying to further their own interests individually. At least that’s what the Russian duo has been doing, as, having met Grigori, I now know. Which probably leaves the big man still trying to get his hands on the meteorite by himself.
I doubt he will lie in the grease pit for long. And he will in all probability want to avenge his friend’s death – which is quite another matter. He will come after me. Except he doesn’t know who I am. Or does he? Did Grigori tell him in the Golden Moon that he was going after me? It’s possible.
On the other hand…
Tarvainen said Grigori doesn’t talk much. Maybe Grigori just said he was going outside and might be a while. This sounds logical, especially as Grigori must have thought I was an easy target: if bribery didn’t do the trick, he would simply get me out of the picture for good. Another factor that speaks to Grigori’s reputation as a man of few words was his professional approach. This was clearly not the first time he had handled a gun. He was a professional, and professionals don’t talk; they act. And the big man is doubtless in the same line of work.
But he will not walk all over me.
Whether he wants that meteorite or not, he’s not going to get it.
And neither will Turunmaa, Räystäinen, Jokinen or Himanka.
I’m not sure what to think about them. At the gym Räystäinen was either trying to harm me or send me a message. I don’t know which. There is a long scratch on his forearm, the same kind as that of the burglar lying in the snow. The four men’s furtive questions and insinuations all indicate that my guarding the meteorite is some kind of problem for them. But why? Because I’m in their way? Because I won’t go along with their plans? Or I’m messing them up?
And why have they all – directly or indirectly – made reference to my marriage? In one way or another each of them has mentioned Krista in a manner that suggests they have all discussed her on some level. But why would they sit around talking about Krista? Do they know something I don’t? Something about Krista’s current situation? About the situation in general?
Then there’s the most important question: is one of them the man I’m looking for?
There’s a certain raw attractiveness about Turunmaa; his voice is low and rasping, and he owns half a million euros’ worth of forest. Jokinen knows what Krista likes down to the last fruit, the last slice of cheese and chocolate bar, and brings our shopping to the door. Räystäinen’s stomach muscles could break a brick wall, and there’s something about his determination: he’s like a long-distance skier, pushing forwards all the time. Himanka is the joker in the pack: he’s not what he seems; he constantly surprises me with his youthful movements and, when he wants to, the clarity of his thought. With regard to Krista, he is probably the least likely culprit, but what about the meteorite? He has lived through a lot of hardship and might think he deserves a more affluent end to his days.
After going through the four of them, one at a time, I am forced to confront perhaps the most unbearable thought. What if they all know about Krista? More than that, what if these four men and a group of other people know all about the private lives of the village pastor and his pregnant wife? What if the whole village knows?
This is what jealousy does. It knocks your thoughts off kilter. Nothing is in the right proportion. I force myself to think calmly and rationally for a moment; and when I do, I don’t imagine many people are interested in my marriage or our current strife. I believe our secret is still a secret.
I eat the food I bought at Maiju’s Grill in the museum’s small staffroom kitchen. To see me through the night I ordered two meals: grilled sausage and chips and a double cheeseburger. I eat both of them and wash them down with a litre of cold semi-skimmed milk. On the wall there is a clock whose hands begin to tick more and more slowly. I make some coffee, drink two large cups. But the hands of the clock drag worse now than before. Eventually they stop altogether.
Krista and I are walking side by side along the village high street. She has slipped her arm round my elbow. It’s baking hot. The sun is high in the sky, searing down from directly above us; there are no shadows anywhere. It’s one of the few truly hot days at these northern latitudes. There is something wrong with the asphalt, our steps feel sticky, walking is slow and arduous. For some reason Krista finds it much easier than I do. She walks unhindered, with light, brisk steps. I force myself onwards; I’m startled as I glance to the side.
I realise we are in some sort of marathon; the sides of the road are lined with onlookers. And they all look familiar. People from the village – people I have seen this evening and others I know, faces I have seen around the village but which I can’t seem to name. I turn back to Krista, but by now she is well ahead of me. She is walking quickly. At first she is only a few metres in front of me, then ten, then fifteen. But that’s not the worst of it. Now I’m startled all the more.
Krista is naked. I try to shout out. She can’t hear me, and now my legs won’t move at all. The asphalt is like a pot of glue into which I have fallen. I look at my feet and realise I’m naked too. I can’t see Krista up ahead any longer; she has disappeared. I don’t know where.
The road is straight and the day bright as a pane of glass. The villagers are shouting instructions.
‘Raise your left leg!’
‘Lean forwards!’
‘Walk on your h
ands!’
Just as I’m about to run out of strength, it starts to rain. Heavily, pouring down, so hard that it presses down on my shoulders like a solid mass. The rain solidifies the asphalt. Now it won’t give way. It is hard, unyielding. Walking is easy again.
But only in this respect.
The road has become unfamiliar. I no longer hear people calling instructions from the sidelines. I look right, then left. The villagers have all disappeared. I am alone on the empty road.
The rain becomes cold. It whips me, thrashes me. Suddenly I see a stone building in front of me. It isn’t a house, but some sort of warehouse or factory. Its walls gleam from the rain. The road comes to an end at the brick wall. Just then I hear Krista’s voice. She is talking to someone. The other voice is low, and I can’t make out the words. All I know is it’s a man’s voice and that his words are directed at Krista. I can’t see her anywhere. I try to call her name, but no sound comes out of my throat.
There’s a door in the wall. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it a moment ago. I’m agitated; I pull the handle and dash indoors. Inside the building it is cold. I guess this must be because of the thick stone walls, the rain, the dark. The floor is made of concrete, and now it is covered in a thin layer of water a few millimetres deep. Every step makes a splash. I try to follow Krista’s voice. The building is longer than it looks. It feels as though I’m not making any progress at all. The far wall gets further and further away. And the voices of Krista and the unknown man seem to get further away too. As though the man were luring Krista somewhere. I can’t work out what they are talking about.
Little Siberia Page 11