TH02 - The Priest of Evil

by Matti Joensuu

  Books lay in piles on almost every free surface. If you were to take a closer look at these you would notice that the majority of them dealt with different religions and astronomy – and that every last one of them had been stolen from the city library.

  The only item that might have been considered a luxury or a decoration was a poster hanging on the wall above the bed. The poster showed an image from the furthest reaches of space, nebulae joining together to create another Big Bang, a new universe, or perhaps it was simply a far off galaxy – it was impossible for any layman to know precisely what it displayed, but you might guess that the photograph had been taken by the Hubble Telescope.

  All in all, looking around that southern room, it contained everything that an ascetic person needed to live their modest life. That person’s spirituality must surely have been far richer. For without a doubt this nook was someone’s home, a gnome’s perhaps or an earth sprite’s, a cosy little nest of their own.

  11. Command

  ‘Faustus dies,’ he puffed each time he grabbed hold of another rung. He climbed upwards with the agility of an animal: hand, foot, other hand, other foot. This did not present him with the slightest difficulty as he was used to lots of walking. Besides, there was not a gram of excess fat on him; just bones, tough muscles and skin.

  ‘Faustus dies,’ he panted for the last time, as his head and shoulders finally appeared above the grille at the top of the shaft. He stopped there for a moment, listening. Or rather, he was taking the scent, as he put it. He could make out the rumble of traffic in the afternoon gloaming, the wail of the wheels of a freight train, and somewhere on the station yard an engine gave him a short signal: hu-huu!

  Nothing closer could be heard, which meant that there was no one on The Brocken or anywhere near it. He clambered up on to the grille and although a dim light still shone through from above, like the dusk of early evening, enough that you could just about see, he did not switch off his head-lamp yet. He stepped up to the right-hand opening, his very own front door, pulled the tarpaulin aside and moved his head slowly in both directions, the lamp’s yellowish light caressing the walls and boxes in the room. He had scented correctly: no one had been inside his home. It would have been a miracle indeed if someone had managed to find it: not only because of its location, but because he had protected it with holy triangles painted in pigeon’s blood.

  He drew the tarpaulin shut behind him, lit the storm lantern and switched off his lamp. Though it had been a long day, the excitement within him had not yet abated. He could not sit still, nor could he lie down on the mattress; he could only pace the floor, back and forth, from the piles of books to the tarpaulin, then back towards the sleeping bag, all the while the hem of his skirt trailing like a flag torn in harsh winds.

  The swirl was incredible! He had never seen anything like it before. That man’s spirit had contained a phenomenal amount of particles, perhaps even one and a half times as many as other human spirits, and on top of that they had been large, almost the size of sugar crystals. And they had come together to form a swirl that was an unfathomably deep shade of red. In his mind’s eye he could still see it. He could even hear it – it had given off a faint hum before disappearing completely. It had been sucked into the wall of the underground tunnel with such rage and power that rubble had almost flown out from the rock face.

  ‘Carboratum nexi datum,’ he sighed and removed the beret pulled down almost to his eyes. He then strode up to his bedside table, reached behind the storm lantern and picked up an aluminium mug containing his teeth, both the upper and the lower dentures. He popped them into his mouth and moved them into place with his tongue. His face changed dramatically. It was no longer the face of a sharp-chinned old biddy, but of someone considerably younger – and of a man. With both hands he flattened his hair back across his head towards his neck and dexterously tied it into a ponytail with a rubber band, making him look even less like the old woman who had just clambered up the rungs of the shaft.

  He stood still and rested his hands thoughtfully on his hips. He had hesitated for a split second, and it had almost proved fateful: the whole sacrifice had very nearly failed. The mouth of the Orange Apostle – indeed, this time it had been Advocatus Mamillus himself – had already sped past them, but he had decided to try nonetheless. And how he had succeeded! Advocatus Mamillus had snatched the victim into his arms; barely had he managed to cry out before he was gone. He had clearly sensed Maammo’s grateful smile, for she sent him a bunch of blessed beams, and this time they had been the colour of copper.

  He removed his dress, placed it carefully on the clothes hanger and hung it on the line by the doorway. Then he raised his hands between his shoulder blades, undid his bra and took it off along with his breasts. Once he had put on his hooded top he looked even more like a man.

  He put his hands to his groin and groped around. For a brief moment his face was empty, as though a spark had disappeared from within him. He then quickly took off his underpants – they were red and made of a shiny material with a broad strip of lace down the front – grabbed a thin leather belt, blackened with sweat, from on top of the sleeping bag, hooked it around his hips and fastened the buckle. He shifted the belt round so that the buckle was at his back and a leather sheath tightly crammed with sand lay against his stomach. It dangled between his legs and reached almost half way down his thighs.

  Finally he slipped on his underwear, a pair of boxer shorts covered in pictures of Hagar the Horrible, pulled on his trousers and took a pair of thick spectacles out of his pocket – the kind that President Kekkonen used to wear. Once he had placed them on his nose there was no longer the slightest hint of the woman Maammo had commanded him to become the previous night.

  He dimmed the light from the storm lantern. Of all others he had chosen that particular man because he had revealed his sinful ways. There had been a quiet smile on the man’s face, the kind of smile that meant he was clearly content with his life, happy even – but immediately he had understood why. That wretched man had been wallowing in sin and lechery, trampling the will of Maammo into dirt. Perhaps that very morning the miserable creature had held his hand between a woman’s legs, fondling it until it became moist with evil juices, shoved his member inside, and screwed her, teased her nipples and writhed until everything went black. Perhaps he had even thrust into her anus, or her mouth.

  ‘Diablo desum!’ he muttered hoarsely and a wave of disgust trembled through his hands. He flinched and his head moved like a dog shaking itself dry, but soon afterwards his eyes squinted slightly, almost as if he were smiling. And indeed he was smiling, for he knew: that man would never do any of this again. His fornication would no longer hold up the coming of the Truth, nor would he ever covet money and possessions again.

  ‘Ea lesum,’ he whispered, as if to bring an end to the matter. He had been so excited by the sacrifice that he had felt compelled to visit the underground platform a number of times that morning, and at several points he had been able to make out the thrilling stench of raw human flesh, like walking past the meat counter at the market. Yet not even this could satisfy him. He had felt the urge to mark out others for himself, even though he knew it was dangerous during the daylight hours. Rush hour was by far the best time for this, as people were crammed into the carriages, pushing and shoving each other, and did not notice as he secretly marked them as his own.

  ‘Ha!’ he snorted. Taking the risk had paid off, because in return he had been rewarded with a vision. Maammo had granted it to him and had commanded him to make it come true. This time the vermilion swirl had been great, but in the vision he had seen an even greater one, a swirl of giant proportions, one that would occur only when as many as ten or twenty people died at once and their spirits rose up together. And it would be a swirl so great that Maammo would take him into her embrace for all eternity.

  Indeed, he already had some idea of how to realise this. Maammo had prepared him for it, though at first he had not underst
ood. The key to everything lay beneath his bedside table. He was not quite sure whether he was to carry out the plan himself, and thinking about it now he felt that he should not. Perhaps not, though this would take him straight into Maammo’s eternal embrace, for as the earth spirit he must not be selfish. Selfishness was an affront to Maammo. He was more important to her the way he was, a quiet pioneer clearing the road to the Truth.

  In order to carry out the sacrifice he required someone else, a disciple of sorts. And already he was almost sure who that disciple would be. The girl did however have rather a quick temper, and for this reason he still had doubts. He felt he would have to examine her in a new light and maybe test her in some way.

  ‘Pica pica ecclesia,’ he muttered, concentrating hard as he folded both little fingers into his palms, tucked them beneath his thumbs and crossed the rest of them. He then pressed the tips of his fingers against his forehead and closed his eyes. A moment passed and he could see the girl – her cheeks ruddy, how she walked somewhat awkwardly due to her excess weight. It was enough, and he whispered to himself: ‘Tonight, at the compass in the railway station…’

  He moved his head, somewhat bewildered, as if he had suddenly come to, crept towards his bedside table and knelt down beside it. He held it round the corners, gently lifted it and moved it to the side, so carefully that the storm lantern did not so much as flicker and the water in his mug did not splash. There lay his key: four sweet, ripe sticks of dynamite, like four phalluses, caps on each one of them; and a coil of yellow and green wires inside that looked like the spilled guts of an animal.

  As he beheld all this, for a brief moment he could see the coming of the Truth, the new Holy Big Bang. It would incinerate everything and make it pure, taking with it all sinners and infidels, all the wrongs and suffering endured by those who know the Truth.

  ‘Alea iacta est.’

  12. Visitor

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Harjunpää sighed quietly – perhaps he merely thought it. His lips didn’t move, but his mind sighed for the umpteenth time. He rested his left hand on his hip, rubbed his forehead with the other and marched over to the office door as if he were about to go outside. Restlessly he returned to his desk, made for the door, then back again to the desk. ‘Jesus Christ…’

  ‘Good morning to you too,’ said Tupala. He had silently stepped up to the doorway and now stood there on tiptoes, bobbing up and down, his hands crossed behind his back. His expression was serious, as always, but his eyes betrayed an amused little smile. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘This underground business. I went over there and blurted out to the victim’s wife that her husband had died, and it turns out she’s about eight months pregnant…’

  ‘You weren’t to know. And someone would have had to tell her sooner or later.’

  ‘I know, I know… If only I’d thought to take Carita with me. But the woman lives just up the road in Merihaka. It seemed a bit pointless to drive through rush hour to the station and back.’

  ‘I doubt having a priest there would have softened the blow.’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s a good job she didn’t have a miscarriage. What do I know - they rushed her to the maternity clinic.’

  ‘I know how you feel,’ said Tupala after a moment’s silence, as if he had been wondering whether to go on or not. ‘Once, this woman was only half way through her pregnancy when her husband went and hooked up a vacuum hose to the exhaust pipe and stuck it through the car window. Money problems, apparently. And this woman made me tell her over and over that it wasn’t a painful death – you know the way people always want to know their loved ones haven’t suffered… So I assured her that it’s just like falling asleep. The next day I get a phone call from Kirkkonummi Police, because I’d given her my card. She’d driven up to their summer cottage and done the same thing. That’s when I realised what guilt really is.’

  They looked at each other in silence. Harjunpää decided not to mention that he had very nearly given the grieving wife the plastic bag containing her husband’s wallet. It was covered in blood of course, but he had remembered just in time, and managed to stuff it back in his pocket without her noticing.

  The wail of fire engines pulling up somewhere nearby could be heard, but neither of them bothered getting up to look out of the window: the alarms at the broadcasting company across the road went off accidentally at least once every other week.

  ‘Oh, there’s someone for you downstairs.’

  ‘There can’t be,’ said Harjunpää, flicking through his diary. ‘There’s somebody called Eränen coming at two o’clock about that bread knife incident, then the next one’s not until half three.’

  ‘This one just walked in and asked for the officer in charge of the underground incident. His name’s Kallio.’

  ‘That’s all I need. I’ve still got to come up with some relatives for our crazy dog man. Apparently they’re keeping him in the mental hospital for at least three weeks, but someone’s got to start taking care of his affairs pretty soon. And that dog’s got to be found a home. Keeping a thing like that at the vet’s doesn’t come cheap.’

  ‘I’ve told you, Timo, this is it. Things never change in this job.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ Harjunpää muttered and forced himself up from the desk. The spring in his stride almost replaced the momentary feeling of lethargy, though he had barely managed to take two steps before his phone rang.

  ‘Harjunpää?’ he all but snapped, but his voice softened once he realised that the caller was his wife Elisa. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing really, just feeling a bit sorry for myself, that’s all. My headache’s started up again.’

  ‘Poor you. What if I massage your neck and shoulders again this evening? It worked yesterday.’

  ‘You’re not staying on late?’

  ‘There’s someone coming in at three-thirty for an interview, but that’s it. I should be on the five o’clock train in any case.’

  ‘Aah.’

  ‘I’ve got some 800mg painkillers in my cabinet. Take one of them.’

  ‘Will do. Love you.’

  ‘Love you too,’ said Harjunpää. He switched off his phone, walked towards Tupala, who had discreetly moved to one side and added, ‘Elisa’s going back to work next week for the first time in years. She’s worried to death about it.’

  ‘Make sure you massage her well, eh?’

  ‘Oh I will.’

  The lift jolted into motion and Harjunpää listened instinctively to the sounds it was making this time. A few months ago one of the cleaners, a conscientious but soft-spoken woman had become trapped in this same lift. It had happened late one evening. Naturally she had pressed the emergency button and a group of service men had arrived on scene. But the cleaner had been too shy to respond to their calls, and because there was no reply the service men decided that there must not be anyone in the lift after all. In the end Hush-Hush Heli, as she became known, got out of the lift the following morning - after being trapped inside for fourteen hours. It was a miracle that nothing had ever leaked to the press.

  ‘Kallio,’ Harjunpää announced from the lift door; there must have been a dozen or so people waiting to be interviewed. A man sitting by the main entrance stood up. Harjunpää gave a quiet sigh. He was a youngish man who looked generally all right, but he was apparently hampered by some terrible looking spasms. As he walked one knee rose high into the air, while he dragged his other foot across the floor, and his arms rose and fell in an odd, arhythmic fashion. Harjunpää couldn’t recall the name of the man’s condition, but he thought he remembered that it didn’t affect a person’s mind.

  ‘DS Timo Harjunpää.’

  ‘Santeri Kallio,’ replied the man, and as he spoke his head jerked violently to one side and his mouth seemed to contort. Harjunpää found it hard to look at him – probably something he had learnt as a child telling him not to stare at disabled people. This time, however, he had no choice.

  ‘Wh
y don’t we go up to my office and have a chat?’ he suggested. The group of people in the waiting room had just watched the man awkwardly make his way across the floor and now stared in his direction, curious to see how well he could speak.

  ‘I know… I… thrash about… a lot,’ said Kallio once the lift had started moving. An unfamiliar knocking sound could be heard again, as if someone were hitting the lift shaft with their fist. ‘But… I’ve still… got all my… marbles.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Harjunpää. He then looked at Kallio. Regardless of all he had suffered his eyes were gentle and somehow sympathetic. There was something else too, as if he were imploring Harjunpää to do something.

  ‘I believe you,’ he said, and perhaps this was precisely what Kallio needed. In any case his whole body seemed to relax and his head stopped twitching so frequently.

  ‘That man. He was… pushed. Under the… train.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘He was… murdered. I saw.’

  ‘Are you referring to the man who died this morning in Hakaniemi Station?’

  ‘Yes. But… there were… people… in between. First… all I could… see was a… hip… shoving him. He… fell against the… wall of the… train. Then a… hand… pushed him by the… shoulder. The man… shouted… ‘Oy!’… and fell… in between the… carriages.’

  ‘Are you quite sure?’ asked Harjunpää. His voice was suddenly hoarse, rough as sandpaper, and his cheeks began to burn as if he had been hit with something. For a moment he questioned the man’s intelligence – in some way he had to question it – but then he conceded, for there it was right in front of him, the worst and most shameful nightmare scenario for anyone in Violent Crimes: visiting the scene of an accident without realising that it was in fact a crime scene.