The Man Who Died

by Antti Tuomainen

  Asko raises his glass. The sea stretches out in front of me; Asko is sitting facing the town and the old Tervasaari bridge. I look at the water – at the waves that could carry me anywhere.

  ‘When I was a boy,’ Asko begins, ‘jumping off that bridge used to be the kind of thing that gave a man a certain reputation. If you jumped head first, nobody would bother you again. People thought you were a hard man. Of course, jumping off a bridge has its risks. There might be something in the water that you can’t see, pieces broken off a ship or washed in from the wharf. After all, it’s a good ten, twelve metres down to the surface. You can’t see anything. Especially not at night, which was when people jumped the most. Me too. We’d have some liquor in the square, hop on our bikes, take the girls with us, and jump. It was all a show for the girls, of course. One time we went over there, right in the middle of the bridge. It was a warm night and the girls were…’

  Asko waves his hand towards a couple cycling along the quayside. A golden retriever is galloping between the bikes. It’s like watching a circus act. Asko looks at me, a quizzical expression on his face.

  ‘Where was I?’

  ‘On the bridge,’ I reply. ‘At night.’

  ‘We were that drunk the bridge wasn’t enough for us. We climbed up to the rafters holding the thing up, all the way to the top. That’s four metres higher – fifteen in total; high enough that, no matter how warm the night or how much you’ve had to drink, it’s still bloody high. But, of course, by that point it’s too late to pull out, when you’re up there in nothing but your underwear and the girls are watching. And that’s where we were.’

  Asko looks over at the bridge.

  ‘Me and the Similä brothers. After all the bravado, none of us knew what to say. We looked at one another. By now nobody was shouting at us to jump head first. But we’d said we’d do it, it was a promise. I looked down to the footpath across the bridge where the girls were standing. They seemed small. The water was like the surface of the moon, and at least as far away. Then all of a sudden Ville dived. Head first. It took an eternity for him to hit the water. Then came the sound.’

  Asko takes a sip of beer.

  ‘Like a pair of pincers falling into a tin barrel with only a few centimetres of water at the bottom, or like taking an axe to a branch lying in a puddle. Right beneath the surface was a submerged log. A big one. Ville hit it head first. In the night-time silence, the sound of his skull cracking was like a gunshot.’

  Asko looks at me.

  ‘We didn’t know it at the time – that he’d split his skull open. All we saw was a human-shaped figure in the water that floated for a moment then slowly sank out of sight. His brains must have spread out across the surface of the water and been washed out to sea. The girls didn’t shriek. They jumped on their bikes and cycled off. Me and Kalle climbed down and peddled back to the shore in our underwear. We stood in silence and stared at the black surface of the sea in the moonlight, then we called for an ambulance and the police.’

  A pause.

  ‘One of us had gone,’ he says eventually.

  My armpits are so wet, it feels as though I’ve just stepped out of the sea myself. I have to squint and rub my eyes. Perhaps it’s to do with the sunshine, perhaps the stubborn flickering of light that seems to emanate from somewhere behind my temples. I’ve only taken a few sips of my pint.

  I never know what to say in situations like this. In films people say they are sorry and express their condolences. In real life we so rarely find ourselves in this position that it’s impossible to establish a routine. Besides, Asko is well over fifty years old, and if he was a teenager at the time of the bridge-jumping episode, then it must be about forty years since it all happened. I might as well express amazement at the moon landings or my own birth.

  ‘Sad story,’ I force myself to say.

  Asko wakes from his reverie. ‘What?’

  ‘Your story. It’s sad. Well, not so much the story itself, but the end. The end was sad.’

  Asko leans back in his chair. He is a sinewy hunter.

  ‘That’s not the end of it,’ he says. ‘We’ve lost Tomi. That’s the bigger of the two. You know who I’m talking about.’

  ‘I think I do,’ I reply. ‘And how exactly have you lost him?’

  Asko looks at me.

  ‘We can’t get hold of him, can’t find him. He’s not at home, won’t answer the phone.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really,’ he says and sizes me up, his eyes blue as icicles. ‘It got me thinking, Tomi was pretty upset with you for breaking into our premises and for being cocky with him…’

  ‘I did not break in,’ I say firmly. ‘And I don’t think I’ve been cocky with anyone. Not deliberately, at any rate.’

  Asko sips his beer, then slowly places what is left of his pint back on the table.

  ‘Then there’s the matter of the sword.’

  ‘Not really,’ I interrupt. ‘I haven’t touched your sword.’

  I realise this statement isn’t necessarily true.

  ‘Well, perhaps I did touch it. If I touched it, it was when I was … visiting your premises. You can see on the security footage that I put the sword back on the wall and did not return.’

  ‘We saw nothing of the sort. When we were looking into your burglary, the system went haywire.’ Asko glances out to sea.

  ‘Haywire?’

  ‘It switched itself off,’ he explains.

  ‘That’s not really my fault though, is it? And if the sword disappeared after I’d left the building, then obviously I couldn’t have stolen it.’

  ‘You could have come back again. Perhaps you were so taken with the sword that you had to come back and steal it from us.’

  I shake my head. ‘I wasn’t taken with it. Remotely.’

  Asko thinks this over. ‘Then Tomi disappears. He was talking about you. He was angry at you. Really angry.’

  ‘I can’t understand why,’ I say, quite honestly.

  ‘He didn’t like you.’

  That much I’ve noticed, I think to myself.

  I want to get away. The set-up is too obvious for comfort: I’m being interrogated; I’m a suspect. Nonetheless it’s a relief that Asko seems genuinely concerned about Tomi’s disappearance.

  In all other respects the plot seems to have thickened further: these guys looking for their missing friend have reported me to the police and suspect me of stealing their sword. Their missing friend, a man who for some reason harboured a peculiar grudge against me, is now impaled on said sword. The two people I suspect of murdering me are in contact with the same police officer who is investigating the sword theft. Under normal circumstances I would probably drink my beer and order another one, sunshine or no sunshine.

  ‘It’ll all come to light one way or the other,’ says Asko. There’s something comradely in his voice, something approaching friendliness. ‘When Tomi turns up, with or without the sword.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ I say, relieved. I can hear in my own voice how keen I am to end this conversation.

  Asko gives me an odd, warm smile. ‘He easily jumps to conclusions, our Tomi. Who knows, he might have buggered off to St Petersburg. He does that sometimes, comes back in his own time. I suppose we’ll just have to wait. He’ll turn up again when the time’s right.’

  ‘Exactly,’ I agree again, this time in a more conciliatory tone, and suddenly realise something.

  I’ll have to make a short stop on my way home.

  8

  Petri is hard at work, the large garage doors wide open. This time he seems to be working on some kind of motorbike: a long front fork, a low frame and a seat shaped like a saddle. Hip-hop blares from a set of loudspeakers, its lyrics defiant of the police and the authorities. The music couldn’t be less suited to the idyllic Finnish landscape around us, with its open fields, the jagged rows of pine trees serrating the skyline, and the yard at the western edge of which, next to a disused well, stands a bone fide 1950s tractor
. It wouldn’t surprise me if Petri had renovated that too.

  Petri lives with his mother. I know the official reason for this: he has recently divorced; the split was messy and, as far as Petri was concerned, the terms were particularly unfavourable. His former wife managed to secure the couple’s house and boat for herself. Knowing the official story doesn’t, however, stop me from imagining all sorts of other reasons: the young foal lives with his mother where he can enjoy enough cake and milk to give him the stamina to play the role of the stallion with my wife.

  From here it’s only six kilometres into Hamina town centre. We could be anywhere at all in Finland. There’s an old country house and a large barn, which Petri has commandeered for his motors. I stand in the doorway and watch Petri as he works. He could be in a trance. His hands fiddle with the motorbike’s engine and his left leg appears to be living a rhythmical, hip-hop life of its own.

  I’ve spent the drive out here gathering my strength. I’ve eaten both chocolate bars I picked up at the kiosk and drunk almost a litre of Coca-Cola – the full-sugar version. I feel noticeably better than an hour ago sitting on the deck of the pub boat. I can feel the sugar in my blood; after all I have the equivalent of a hundred spoonfuls of the stuff rushing through my system.

  I move in the doorway, and my shadow passes into Petri’s field of vision. He turns as though he’s had an electric shock. And he looks like it too.

  ‘Jaakko,’ he says.

  ‘Sorry if I startled you. Great place you’ve got here.’

  I step inside the barn and look around. The space is full of engines and car parts; cluttered yet tidy at the same time. Tools hang in neat rows on the walls. I come to a stop in front of him.

  ‘Thanks,’ says Petri. ‘Cars and bikes like this and…’

  To describe Petri’s expression as confused would be an understatement.

  ‘Petri, I need your help. And a few tools. It’s a delicate matter. I need someone I can trust.’

  Petri sits silently as we drive back towards Hamina. The summer’s evening hums mild and soft through the open windows. We pass only a few isolated houses on the way. It’s like driving through an exhibition of works by the great nineteenth-century landscape artists: forests, fields, the glint of water. No people, no traffic. The radio is switched off, and I drive calmly.

  Petri stares straight ahead, trying to find a suitable place to put his hands. Secrecy and shame are a powerful combination. He hasn’t even asked where we’re going yet.

  ‘It’s about a friend of mine,’ I begin. ‘We’re going to help him, do him a favour. He’s had a little accident. Do you want some Coke?’

  Petri shakes his head as I offer him the bottle. I take a long sip. The black, sugary liquid is like an elixir.

  ‘It’s the kind of accident my friend doesn’t want to talk about. You’ll understand when you see him. I’m sure of it. Sometimes things happen; things that we can only tell our closest and most trusted friends about.’

  Petri says nothing. The dirt track comes to an end, and I steer the car onto the main road. The asphalt is like a pillow beneath us.

  ‘As soon as I heard about his accident, I thought of you.’

  Petri turns his head a centimetre or two towards me.

  ‘You’re young, you’re strong,’ I say, ‘and you can keep his accident between us.’

  I glance at Petri. I can see his Adam’s apple rising and falling. I gulp down the rest of my Coke.

  ‘Have you got a friend like that?’ I ask.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Have you got a good friend? Someone you trust?’

  His Adam’s apple bobs again. ‘I … don’t know.’

  ‘Let’s look at this from a different perspective. Do you have any secrets? Maybe only one secret? One is enough.’

  ‘I don’t know … Maybe.’

  ‘And who knows about it?’

  ‘I really don’t…’

  I wave my hand, swipe the issue out into the summer’s evening. We’re almost there. I want Petri to be functional when we arrive.

  ‘You understand the principle,’ I say. ‘My friend and I had a secret. Our friendship was the secret. I don’t think anybody else knew about it. Maybe you have or used to have a friend that nobody else knows about.’

  Petri says nothing.

  ‘I’m telling you all this so you’re not surprised when you meet him. You’ll recognise him. Even though, since his accident, he looks a bit … different.’

  ‘What kind of accident?’ asks Petri.

  I tell him the truth. ‘The Japanese kind.’

  We arrive at Hovimäki. I drive to the end of Simonkatu and am relieved to realise I’ve remembered the place correctly. The road comes to an end. In front of us is a narrow, sandy path that seems to lead in the right direction. I think for a moment, turn the car and reverse it as far into the trees as I can, then switch off the motor. I pull the keys from the ignition, take two pairs of rubber gloves from the dashboard and tell Petri we’ll walk the rest of the way. We step out of the car, and I gesture to him to walk in front of me. I quickly glance behind me. The car is hidden from view.

  The sandy path leads us right into the heart of the green, darkening evening. Between the thick, verdant trees are scraps of meadow and tangles of undergrowth, confirmation, as if any were needed among the surrounding green, that nothing can hold life back; even amid all this beauty, life is erratic, powerful, chaotic and utterly uncontrollable. There is no order to it whatsoever.

  Petri glances over his shoulder every twenty metres or so. We carry on until I can see the trees thinning on my right, and the ground disappearing then rising up again further ahead. That’s where the stream runs. We descend almost to the water’s edge, then turn and follow the course of the stream. It’s important that nobody can see us from the path above.

  The summer’s evening is full of insects. The air is thick with mosquitoes pushing their way into my mouth. I can feel them stinging my neck and arms. For the first time in my life I’m not worried about ticks either. Our pace is slow, as the grass is tall and the ground soft. Our shoes are already ruined. I stop and listen. We’ve almost reached our destination. I want to make sure we’re the only people around. All I can hear is the buzz of mosquitoes and the sound of Petri walking.

  ‘Petri,’ I call out before the final bend in the stream.

  He stops and turns around.

  ‘I don’t want you to be frightened,’ I explain. ‘My friend’s accident was both strange and serious. I need you to remain strong.’

  We trudge round the final corner and catch sight of Tomi.

  Petri vomits.

  A moment later we’re wrestling in the mud.

  You could say Petri isn’t quite at full capacity; he’s been caught off-guard. My weight is to my advantage, as is the fact that being further up the embankment gives me a better position to wrestle with him. I quickly straddle him, my knees on both sides of his chest, and press his hands into the earth. He thrashes and struggles, sputtering a series of incomprehensible gurgling sounds. Thankfully he doesn’t shout out. It seems panic is the same, whether we’re awake or asleep: our legs won’t carry us, our voice is suddenly mute. I talk to him, try to calm him.

  ‘Petri, you can see for yourself that Tomi’s not in trouble anymore. He’s sitting over there as peacefully as can be. I’m going to let you go now. Do you promise to behave, to keep calm?’

  Petri is staring up at the sky, his eyes wide. He stops wriggling. I clamber off him and take a deep breath; I’m at the limits of my physical capabilities. Petri’s eyes are still gazing up at the great beyond.

  ‘Why?’ he asks and swallows. ‘Why?’

  ‘Tomi is – was – very temperamental. Even I was surprised to find out quite how temperamental he could be. It all happened very quickly.’

  Petri shakes his head in the mud.

  ‘Why? Me? Why me?’

  Now I understand what he means.

  ‘He’s a big man, p
robably sixteen stone. I’d never be able to lift him by myself. You’re going to help me.’

  Petri opens and closes his eyes. He sits up in the mud and cautiously looks over towards Tomi, slowly inching his head round a little at a time, as if steeling himself to take in the sight again. Perhaps this is the only way to do it. Looking at Tomi is hard for me too, though at least I wasn’t surprised by what I saw.

  The pensive bodybuilder in yellow shorts with a Samurai sword sticking out of his head like an antenna is certainly an imposing sight. His skin is entirely marble-white, except for the fist holding the sword, and the arm and knee beneath it, which are covered in blood that by now has dried and turned pitch black. Tomi’s posture is sturdy and poised; he hasn’t moved an inch since the last time I saw him. The surrounding terrain – the branches beneath his armpit and elbow, the tree trunks behind his back, the mud into which the soles of his feet have sunk – everything seems to hold him firmly in its embrace. He looks like a grotesque work of art.

  I can smell something putrid in the air.

  ‘An accident?’

  Petri’s question is understandable.

  ‘This probably isn’t quite how Tomi thought it would end,’ I explain, telling him the truth. ‘But he had some bad luck.’

  ‘You two are friends?’

  ‘We were,’ I say, stressing the past-tense nature of the matter. ‘For a brief while, but we were friends all the same.’

  Petri says nothing. He looks like he’s thinking this over. Perhaps he’s not thinking any more than usual. In the last few weeks it seems to me as though Petri would rather fit in with other people’s plans than make decisions by himself. I give him as much time as I can. But we have to get to work. I take Petri by the arm and lead him towards Tomi.

  Yes, the rotten stench is coming from the body. I look at Tomi and try to think of the best way to do this.

  First we have to lift him from the bottom of the stream and onto the verge. Then we’ll have to move him from his sitting position into a shape that’s easier to carry.