His mind was also filled with the revelation he had experienced earlier that day about the child disciple and the sacrifice, and now he realised that it would be better after all if the disciple were a boy; he could adopt the boy straight away by sacrificing three pigeons, at least one of which had to be a web-footed pigeon. To sacrifice his own son – that, if anything, would prove the extent of his devotion, and in return he would without a doubt be allowed to merge with Maammo and perhaps even to spend eternity as her all-seeing eye. He did not know any boys; yet the boy would surely cross his path if this were Maammo’s will.
Nonetheless he still examined and considered the woman standing in front of him: this one he would mark out as his own. She would have been particularly suitable, though she was rather on the young side. She was carrying a backpack too, and perhaps she was suitable precisely because of her age: beneath her tight jeans stood her pert behind, and something wet and seething hidden beneath its folds. Her breasts were crammed inside a bra embroidered with floral patterns or lace – he noted this as she stepped on board. All this was sinful and offended Maammo. Above all it represented greed in its most obscene and grotesque form. Her entire being greedily craved men, the feel of their paws upon her breasts and their pricks inside her. This in turn awoke greed in men too: the desire to take this vamp to their beds, to embrace her soft flesh and suckle on her nipples, and finally to shove their pricks into her depths.
‘Esox lucius,’ his lips stirred quickly. They stirred out of a profound disgust, for this represented the base greed of all people; that which made them yearn for more and more, better and better. It was with this greed that the human race defiled Maammo, raped her: chopping forests from her surface, drying up lakes and rivers, melting the polar icecaps, eating away like a cancer at the atmosphere. For this reason alone the coming of the new Big Bang was essential. It would destroy the human race, burn that army of lice to nothing, and thus open the path to the Truth and victory of the kingdom of Maammo.
‘Ea lesum cum sabateum!’ A torrent of holy words gushed through his mind and suddenly he felt the power and the grace of Maammo’s hallowed touch. His whole body seemed flooded with light, the fine green light emanated by Maammo herself, and he was once again certain that he was indeed her most beloved, the holiest of her earth spirits, and this in turn meant that he was like a nail thrust into a stick of dynamite. The explosion he would cause could set the process in motion and lead ultimately to the realisation of the Truth.
‘Faustus dies,’ he murmured to himself as he quietly wiped away a tear that had crept its way from beneath his glasses and down his cheek; at the same time he clasped his other hand tighter around the scalpel. However, this was no ordinary surgical knife, but a stamp blessed with the holy marks of Maammo. It was unique in that he had first snapped it in two almost halfway down and filed its jagged edges smooth so that it fitted better into the palm of his hand, ensuring that no one would notice it. He slid the knife down several centimetres, between his thumb and first finger, and removed its protective plastic cap, revealing the razor-sharp blade. How he wished to sink it deep into that woman’s pert, rounded buttock! How she would squeal! Oh and the burning pain she would feel in the very part of her body that most strongly radiated her greed for flesh – and which awoke that same greed in others!
He swallowed many times, forcefully, a bobbing motion showing on his throat. Naturally he managed to control his urge because this was not Maammo’s will – it came from him, from the human within him – and he could only control that urge because he was also an earth spirit. As such his purpose was to carry out Maammo’s bidding, and her bidding was not – on this occasion – to make that woman squeal and cry for her wickedness, but to slice a hole in her clothes or backpack between five and ten centimetres long. This was enough, for it worked in two ways: it opened a channel through which the greed could flow out of that sinful being while at the same time it allowed the power of the Orange Apostle to work its way inside the wretched woman’s thoughts.
Phiuu-phiuu, chanted the Apostle as he began to slow his speed. He noticed this himself – it was as if a great force were pulling his entire body forwards; people began moving, the hastiest amongst them standing up. His woman moved towards the door; he would have to move quickly and press himself against her. But the moment was not yet right; not until the doors had opened - when everyone was looking at the ground, at their feet, watching their step. That was the right moment.
He edged closer to the woman, so close that he could smell the stench of sin and seduction, and raised his hand up to waist-level, resting it against the bottom of the woman’s bag. The scalpel pierced it easily, sunk into it as though it were butter; he jerked his hand a palm’s length to the side; the channel had been opened. The woman was clearly none the wiser and no one else had noticed a thing. Only Maammo, the Apostle and he knew.
He did not make the mistake of hurrying away – this would have aroused suspicion. Instead he allowed himself to drift with the flow of people, first on to the platform, then on towards the escalators. As he approached the first rubbish bin he quickly stretched out his hand and bid the scalpel farewell: ‘Sed vitae discimus…’
And with that it struck him – the idea came from the backpack he had just slit open: the plan should be carried out in the manner of the Palestinians.
19. Note
Matti’s hands searched, frantic and shaking, but he couldn’t find it. He went through the pockets of all his clothes several times, but it was pointless. He was convinced he hadn’t lost it or thrown it away. What if his mum had got hold of it? It might have had something to do with his mood – he felt oddly uncomfortable, as though a strange, faceless threat hung over him; as though at any moment something terrible might happen. Above all he was afraid that he was going to die, or rather that someone was going to kill him. Although he didn’t give the matter much thought, he imagined that it would be a relief. Never again would he feel that niggling shame that he was somehow different, nor would he have to worry that someone might throw stones at him or humiliate him, pull his hair or threaten to throw him out of the house – after that he would never have to fear anything again. All he had to do was walk across the back garden and out towards the shore, wade out until he reached the steep drop in the sea floor and swim. He had read somewhere that it was easy: first you feel light, almost as if you were floating, before falling into a deep sleep.
‘They probably wouldn’t give a shit,’ he mumbled, barely audibly. The sobbing that followed came in violent bursts – the kind that a dog locked in a dark cupboard might make. Tears formed a wobbling pearl at the end of his chin, droplets every now and then falling on to his T-shirt. Eventually the crying broke his resolve. He slumped slowly to the floor, like a burst balloon, and a new wave of sobbing wrenched him. His orchestra lay strewn across the floor, smashed to pieces. The flute was missing a head, and the head a beak; the black goblin’s arm had broken off and the shell had cracked, showering red beads all around like blood.
The water in the sea was probably so cold that it would lead almost instantly to hypothermia, and though he wasn’t quite sure what it was, he imagined it might bring some kind of numbness, making it easier to die.
Then he spotted it: the note was on the floor beneath his desk; precisely the same white mass of paper the size of a sugar cube that Leena had given him. He crawled towards it, his hands and knees moving nimbly; he took the note between his fingers, clenched it in his fist and pressed it against his forehead. Instantly he felt better, as though there were still a chance for him; perhaps he wasn’t so terribly lonely after all. He sat up on his knees and hurriedly began to unfold the note, but a moment later he froze, puzzled. In a flash his cheeks felt red and hot, as if he had been running fast.
At the middle of the note was Leena’s mobile phone number, but around this there was something else. Hearts. They couldn’t have been anything else. Hearts drawn in red felt-tip giving off little rays all around
them.
‘What’s she playing at?’ he thought, and after a moment’s pause continued: ‘Surely she doesn’t think…?’
His mind seemed blurred, this time in a different way, and it occurred to him that he simply couldn’t bring himself to call her; that she would think the call was a response to these hearts, and for a long moment he sat there motionless, quietly whimpering to himself. He slowly stood up, as though he were still half asleep, and as if by a will of their own his legs began to carry him towards the living room.
He was alone. Mum and Roo had gone out somewhere again, secretly, without mentioning anything. No doubt they had gone shopping again. They bought all kinds of useless stuff; weed clippers and bread machines, electric whisks and other contraptions they only ever used for a few weeks before forgetting about them altogether. Even so, they still wouldn’t buy him a mobile phone of his own. Nothing much had come of the argument earlier that evening: lots of shouting, but none of the punching and shoving against the walls Sanna had once gone through. Roo had stood in the doorway puffing, but hadn’t said anything and hadn’t seemed prepared to attack him physically.
He placed the note on the table – it was the same veneer table that he and his father had once used to play chess – and though he had already picked up the receiver he hesitated for a moment longer. Then, his fingers stiff, he started dialling the series of numbers. The telephone only rang once before someone slightly out of breath picked up: ‘Leena!’
At first he couldn’t say a thing, then he stammered: ‘Leena, is that you?’
‘Yes. Who is this?’
‘It’s me, Matti,’ he whispered, and the relief he felt was so sudden and so strong that he started to cry again. He couldn’t help it – it was the same barking sound as earlier, but now he felt embarrassed at the thought that Leena might tell everyone at school.
‘Has something happened?’
‘Ye-yes.’
‘Did those guys beat you up? I’ll fucking show them.’
‘No… no, my mum…’
‘Shit. Your mum? Do you want to come over?’
‘No.’
‘What do you want then?’
‘Could we go and… see if we can find that… that guy you’ve been talking about?’
‘OK,’ she said, straight away - as if she hadn’t had to give it a second thought. ‘I reckon he’ll be down at the railway station. See you at the underground at half past.’
‘Oh, OK.’
20. A Moment Shared
Harjunpää kept his eyes closed; the stream of images had stopped for a moment. It had been like a corkscrew spinning furiously: his mind had been filled with the sight of the eyeless face lying limp at the bottom of the body bag; the pen falling from his jacket pocket and spiralling down from the balcony out of sight; Jaana, heavily pregnant, her round stomach, the shock on her face, the tears. Then there was the bloody hand and the wedding ring he had twisted from its finger. All this had spun through his mind the whole train journey home, but now it was over.
He lay on his back on the bed breathing calmly; he could feel Elisa’s side warm against his own, and the ebb of her breath – he could tell she was not yet asleep; it was as though she were waiting for something. He could hear the splash of water running in the shower – one of the girls, probably Pauliina, was still washing her hair. Every now and then came the faint sound of whistling: it was a song that had been on the radio all day.
In a soft, mellow way Harjunpää felt good – or rather, content. For once he was where he belonged, in his own world, surrounded by his loved ones. For him, home was far more than a place one simply lived: it was a spring, a source of energy, imperceptibly strengthening him for the day ahead.
He rolled on to his side and softly placed his hand on Elisa’s stomach, moving it gently along her bare skin, beneath her shirt, and cupping it around her right breast, at once both protective and questioning. But Elisa didn’t react the way she normally did, didn’t take a deep sigh and press her body tighter against his. Even her nipple seemed in a world of its own and didn’t begin to harden like a cherry.
‘Timo…’
‘Yes?’ he slid his fingers back towards her stomach.
‘I’ve got a million things going through my mind.’
‘Nervous about going back to work?’
‘Not exactly nervous. It’s just got me thinking.’
‘You’re worried you won’t be able to cope? Is it leaving the girls at home?’
‘They’re young ladies already. When I was away doing that course they learnt to take care of things by themselves. The laundry was always done, the rubbish taken out and everything hoovered. And whenever I left them some money and a list one of them would always do the shopping.’
‘I know.’
‘And after the course… it struck me that I’ve got a real vocation now. I’m a bookshop assistant.’
‘And that proves you’ll be just fine.’
‘Yes, it’s not really that either, it’s this change.’
‘It is a big step, but we’ll get through it. And think of the financial benefits it’ll bring.’
‘Sorry, it’s just my faith… I feel as though I was meant to get this job at the Christian bookshop.’
Harjunpää didn’t know what to say, but continued gently stroking his wife’s stomach and listened as a freight train rattled past on the nearby track. He had been happy for Elisa when she had discovered her faith. In every way it had seemed perfectly natural, there had been nothing fanatical about it, no revelations, no preaching, no speaking in tongues. Elisa had quite simply found some kind of inner peace, something that had had a calming effect on the whole family.
‘Are you worried because you’re only covering a maternity leave?’
‘No, it’s not that either. Somehow I feel that the future will sort itself out when the time comes.’
‘You’re right. And the commute into Helsinki isn’t all that bad, it only takes half an hour. After a while you learn to think of the journey almost as time out from everything else.’
‘So you’ve said.’
‘Come here,’ said Harjunpää as he turned on to his back. He held his wife’s head on his chest and placed his arm around her. He held her like a small child, rocking her gently from side to side. Ten minutes later Elisa was fast asleep. He could tell from her breathing and the faint movement of her limbs. But he could not sleep – his wife’s million thoughts had transferred themselves into his mind, and they troubled him. Something new awaited them, that was clear, but he didn’t like it and had an unnerving feeling that what was to come was something utterly unknown.
The strip of light around the door frame disappeared as Pauliina switched off her lamp.
21. Frog
Matti couldn’t help thinking that Mum had deliberately driven Sanna out – and Dad too for that matter. But why not him? He felt guilty, as though his mind were covered in thick scales like a bream, and he wished so much that the journey was over, but they had only come as far as Sörnäinen. More than that, he wished he had never agreed to the meeting in the first place. When Leena had first told him they weren’t going to buy a ticket, it had seemed right and even a bit exciting, but now he couldn’t stop worrying that the ticket inspectors in blue uniforms would come along and catch them. Imagine what a row it would cause at home! He knew his mum wouldn’t fall for the same excuses again: a month ago he had locked his bedroom door and gone out through the window. His Mum had somehow worked out what he had done, and had locked the window and put the double lock on the front door so that he couldn’t get back in. He’d had to sleep on the floor in the bike shed.
He let out a small wimper: took a few short breaths then breathed out slowly and heavily. Leena grabbed hold of his hand and held it in her lap. Her expression was one of true unhappiness – and it was all his fault.
‘He’ll think of something to help you,’ she said suddenly. ‘He’s a real guru, you know.’
‘B
ut what if he’s not there…?’
‘He’ll be there, I can feel it. He’ll be at the station, either where that Estonian guy’s always playing the flute or down a level by the compass.’
Matti didn’t reply. He sighed again and tried to pull his hand away, but Leena was holding on to it fast. Her fingers were sticky and she placed her other palm on his hand. Matti relented and stared out of the window. Now that they were in a tunnel it was completely black outside and the glass reflected everything like a mirror: both Leena and him. For a startling moment he imagined that his reflection was a more real Matti than he himself was, and that when the train came into the lights of the station the reflection would disappear and he would die.
‘Look,’ said Leena, trying to cheer him up. ‘We’re in Hakaniemi already and not a Smurf in sight.’
‘Maybe I’ll be OK after all,’ said Matti, but he didn’t dare look at Leena. His voice had changed too, as if his throat were a size too small.
‘What? You mean your mum’s going to throw Roo out for good?’
‘No…’
The Priest of Evil Page 10