‘What are we going to do?’ asks Petri, again with good reason. His voice is hoarse, anxious.
‘I’m sure you appreciate we can’t let anyone find Tomi like this. He was so particular about his image and appearance, he wouldn’t want anybody to find him looking like this.’
‘But isn’t it a crime if…?’
‘Petri. He’s dead.’
‘But isn’t messing around with the dead a…?’
‘We’re not defiling the body. We’re here to help him.’
We stand facing each other in the Finnish summer’s evening, with Tomi sitting next to us. The scene is surprisingly natural given all that it entails. Petri is covered in mud from head to toe. I guess I must look fairly similar. And I know what’s keeping Petri here: his conscience. Unless they are utter psychopaths, people are like that.
Petri has wronged me but he is unable to tell me about it, so he’s trying to make up for his acts in another way. There’s a dialogue going on inside him, one that he’s probably unaware of. On one side of the scales are his previous deeds (sleeping with Taina, murdering me); and on the other side is the current situation (helping me dispose of Tomi). He can’t make the decision by himself, so I make it for him.
‘Lift him beneath the arms,’ I say and hand him a set of gloves. ‘Be careful of the sword, it’s sharp.’
Petri looks at me. ‘Where are we taking it? Him?’
‘To the car.’
‘Jesus Christ.’
‘He’d walk by himself, but this is Tomi we’re talking about.’
Petri shakes his head. ‘It’s … a long way back to the car.’
‘That’s why you’re here,’ I say patiently. ‘Come on, under the arms.’
Petri shakes his head a few more times, then pulls on the gloves. He takes a few wary steps round the bodybuilder and gets into position behind him. Slowly he slips his hands beneath Tomi’s arms and I grab hold of his ankles. Petri looks at me.
‘On the count of three,’ I say. ‘One, two, three.’
Tomi comes free of the mud. He has stiffened into his current position. Petri has to avoid the sword sticking out of Tomi’s head; it’s as if a stubborn unicorn is attacking him. Petri has to do most of the lifting. We manage to get Tomi onto the verge and lay him down on his back. With his legs hunched against his chest he looks like a giant beetle turned upside down, only with a Samurai sword jutting out of its head. We stop for a moment to catch our breath.
‘What now?’ asks Petri.
I think about this for a moment. I take off my shirt. It’s a good shirt, made of quality material. The sleeves are long and should hold.
‘Lift him a little.’
I turn the shirt into a sled: the strengthened section at the shoulders is beneath Tomi’s backside; the back of the shirt is beneath his back; I tie the sleeves firmly across his thighs.
‘Here,’ I say and point to his left ankle.
I grab the right ankle, and together we pull Tomi like dogs pulling a sleigh. Tomi slides across the grass. Neither of us utters a word; pulling him along is hard work. The mosquitoes eat at my bare flesh. Moving is slow, but we eventually reach the path. We stop, both of us soaked in sweat.
‘What now?’ Petri asks again.
‘We pretend we’re skiing, that’s what.’
I snap off some branches from a nearby pine tree and use the needles to create extra padding beneath Tomi. Petri sees what I’m doing and helps me. He’s making amends for his deeds, I can see it. He doesn’t know that what we’re doing involves him every bit as much as it does Tomi. For me this isn’t just about buying myself some time; I’m conducting an investigation. As long as Tomi and his sword remain missing, I’ll have nothing to worry about from either Asko or the police, and I can use what little time I have left for more important matters.
We gather a thick, soft layer of branches and pine needles beneath Tomi and secure the bundle with the shirt sleeves. And we’re off again. Tomi glides across the rough sandy path far more easily than the undulating meadow. Petri keeps an eye behind us, I watch ahead.
We reach the car. I open the boot, and with considerable exertion we manage to haul Tomi into the car. Almost all of him. Tomi is so big and the sword so long that the boot won’t shut properly. I ask Petri to give me his T-shirt. Initially he’s reluctant – apparently it’s his favourite T-shirt – and it’s then that I tell the first out-and-out lie, claiming that the smell of the body won’t come out in the wash. He sniffs his shirt and hesitates for a moment. I tell him the stench seeps in first and starts to smell the next day.
Petri looks at me and pulls off his shirt. I wrap the shirt around Tomi’s left foot and make it look like we’re transporting a large piece of furniture or something similar. Now for something to attach the boot lid. I find a short bungee cord. The result is crude, but it’ll have to do.
I glance around. At least nobody has seen us.
We are two shirtless men in a car on a summer’s evening. On closer inspection we are as dirty as pigs in a stall and we smell about as bad too. Petri looks as though he’s stopped breathing altogether. I drive calmly. I’m careful to avoid the town square, where people will be gathering for the evening market – busy families and kids with ice cream on their faces.
The windows are rolled down, and the sweat, mud and dirt is caked to our skin. In places the layers of grime are as thick as a shirt. When I run my tongue over my dried lips, the taste resembles a rancid pork pie. My throat is dry, and I start coughing. The fit is so powerful it makes my eyes water and blurs my vision. Suddenly it’s night, dark and impenetrable. Something heaves within me.
‘Watch out,’ Petri shouts.
I swerve to avoid the cab of the oncoming lorry and struggle to pull the car back to our side of the road. The fright wakes me up, brightening my eyes. I clench my fingers tightly round the steering wheel and glance to the side. Petri is clearly breathing now; his mouth is wide open and his chest is moving up and down.
‘It’s all right,’ I say. ‘Just a spot of dizziness.’
Petri says nothing. I turn onto the main highway leading to Neuvoton, a small village ten kilometres outside Hamina. With a name meaning ‘Clueless’ the place seems appropriate enough for what we’re about to do, but I’ve actually chosen it because of its stretches of uninhabited coastline rather than its name. I remember there’s a small marina in the village. We pass the neighbouring village of Summa. I increase our speed to ninety kilometres an hour, and the sun ahead of us slowly begins to set, lighting the sky in soft shades of red.
It is a summer’s evening.
I locate the marina easily enough and park as close to the shore as I can. We step out of the car. It’s just the two of us – three, if you count Tomi. And we have to count Tomi: he still weighs as much as he did a moment ago. We borrow a rowing boat that is moored at the quayside; Petri opens the locked chains with a set of bolt cutters and we pinch a couple of anchors from the nearby boats. I leave a few fifty-euro notes on the thwarts of each boat as payment and place a stone on top of the money. I’m not a thief.
Then we row out to sea. Or rather, Petri rows, and I attach the anchors to Tomi.
It looks as though the entire world is arching its way towards evening. Out at sea there’s a gentle breeze, with ripples shimmering across the surface. The intense crimson of the sky reflected in the water plays tricks on your senses. It is at once gleaming and metallic, yet soft as velvet. The thump as the oars plunge in; the splash as they are pulled out again; the quiet rippling of the water against the sides of the boat. Like zooming out of a photograph, the shore disappears behind us.
For a while I simply sit there and let Petri row us out to sea.
Then we roll Tomi overboard.
He sinks like a boulder.
As I drive Petri home I try to read his expression. He knows something I don’t, and I know many things that he doesn’t know. Our secrets bind us together, and now we have a shared secret too. I need them bo
th.
We cross the bridge at Tervasalmi, and I look down to the deck of the pub boat. Only a few short hours ago I was sitting there having a pint. It feels as though I’m working and moving at precisely the pace you would expect of a dying man. Events that in the past would have taken a year, now fit into a single day.
We arrive at Petri’s barn. I turn the car while he’s still sitting in the passenger seat.
‘Petri,’ I begin, ‘I imagine this goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. We don’t talk about this to anyone.’
Petri doesn’t look at me. His eyes are gazing out towards the edge of the woods. The point where the fields meet the trees is already dark, like a black hole in the landscape.
‘Petri?’
He gives a start.
‘Nobody,’ I say firmly.
He nods.
‘Say it.’
‘We talk to nobody.’
‘Good.’
He doesn’t move.
‘You can get out now,’ I say and tap him on the knee.
He opens the door, gets out and paces round the car. I put the car in gear and release the clutch. In the mirror I can see him walking towards the barn. I wonder how long he’ll be able to keep our secret. A day perhaps, maybe two or three. I try to guess who he’ll tell about it. I hope I’ve guessed right.
Taina’s car is parked outside; I pull up behind it. As I step out into the yard, I fill my lungs with fresh air, stuff my shoes and socks straight into the rubbish bin and steel myself to step inside. I have a good idea what I must look like, and I’ve decided how to explain it. I walk barefoot up the steps, feeling the cold of the concrete on the soles of my feet, and open the door.
The smell is mouth-watering: chicken in red-curry sauce, naan bread, basmati rice. My favourite food. I hear Taina’s footsteps, and she appears in the doorway. For the first time in all the years we’ve been together, I can’t read her expression. She seems unfazed as she looks at me, doesn’t so much as bat an eyelid.
She steps closer and smiles.
‘There’s a leech on your neck.’
9
A hot shower has never felt this good before. The water caresses me, lightens my burden, makes my skin feel like it’s my own again. The leech came off with a quick tug. I wonder why Taina still hasn’t asked why I looked like I’d been crawling through a ditch just a moment before. After all, it’s the truth. I doubt Petri has broken under the pressures of all his secrets. Not yet. There must be another explanation for Taina’s friendliness.
I let the hot water soften my face. When I look in the mirror after the shower, my cheeks are glowing and red, and I see that the leech has left a hickey on my neck. Otherwise I look like my old self, or thereabouts. I get dressed and go downstairs, and only now do I understand the evening’s theme.
Thailand. Of course.
I’d asked for this myself, suggesting we go on holiday and return to our bungalow. Or should I say ‘our’ bungalow? How much of our lives do we put in inverted commas, I wonder? Imaginations, assumptions, things we’ve made up, memories that remain so beautiful in our minds though the truth is something else. I realise that again I’m thinking the wrong things in the wrong place. I must remain alert, both figuratively and literally. The latter may be easier said than done. Today has been one long, uneven judo match.
Taina is busying herself, her hip against the countertop. Her fingers sprinkle something here, something there. Like a rerun of the previous evening, I walk to my place and sit down. My wife has clearly put a lot of effort into our shared evening meal. Presentation is everything, and she’s put a great deal of thought into it, right down to the oriental-themed napkins. An array of Eastern and Southeast Asian delicacies are laid out before me, and it seems there are more on the way. Taina is utterly focussed as she scoops something from the frying pan into a deep, black serving bowl. A cloud of thick, hot steam puffs up in front of her. There’s enough food here to feed an army.
‘I thought we were supposed to be lightening up,’ I say.
Taina looks over at me, and the sight appears to please her. That’s a first.
‘Exactly. Only parboiled vegetables today. The chicken is marinated in herbs and roasted in the oven. Fat-free yoghurt for the sauce. Wholegrain rice instead of basmati. Baby-leaf salad with seeds. The only thing old about it is that this is still your favourite food. What’s new is that everything is low fat.’
She smiles, and now I can read her expression more clearly. She’s looking at me like a child. It doesn’t feel flattering. I try not to show that I think she’s looking at me like an eight-year-old. I’m a middle-aged man, I’m wearing a pink Tommy Hilfiger shirt and beneath that a T-shirt, awkwardly stretched across my bulging baby bump, which I can’t seem to get rid of even by dying.
‘And after dinner,’ she continues as she hands me a dish of vegetables, ‘we can look at some holidays and talk about our plans.’
‘Great. Let’s do that.’
To be honest I’m not really in the mood for a lengthy conversation. My body is crying out for rest. I’ve just thrown a heavy-set muscle-man into the sea and before that I wrestled in the mud with my wife’s lover. Yet this might be the most important encounter of the day, more important than my meetings with anyone else, living or dead.
Taina is still staring at me, her gaze warm. ‘I must admit, I was surprised,’ she says.
‘At what?’ I ask, honestly. Any number of recent events would take most people by surprise.
‘The speech you gave this afternoon. About the shareholders and … everything else.’
I think I’m beginning to understand what is behind all this Asian hospitality.
‘We have a competitor, and they mean business,’ I explain. ‘I want us to come out of this battle on top.’
‘You seem very determined.’
She says this almost in passing, but her words are charged – and she’s still smiling. She’s not eating. This in itself is so out of the ordinary that it alone would catch my attention.
‘I suppose I’ve – how should I put it – woken up. What do you think? About making people shareholders, doing the harvest ourselves and, of course, doubling our production?’
Taina manages to keep a straight face, but I can see it’s difficult.
‘Well,’ she begins. ‘It would have been nice if you’d talked to me about it first.’
‘Everything happened so quickly. Everything seems to be happening quickly right now.’
Neither of us has eaten anything yet, though the table is laden with tasty morsels. What have I actually eaten today? A few chocolate bars, some fizzy drinks, half a pint of beer and maybe something else.
‘Life certainly is full of surprises,’ she muses, and I can see her forcing her eyes back to the table. ‘Let’s eat before it gets cold.’
I do exactly the same as I did last night. I ladle onto my plate everything I know I would normally enjoy, though this time I leave out the chilli sauce, just to be on the safe side. If Taina asks any questions, I’ll just tell her a pork pie played havoc with my stomach earlier this afternoon. I’ll leave out the fact that the pie’s name was Tomi.
‘Where did it all come from?’ she asks eventually. ‘All these changes?’
I shrug my shoulders, as if I make sweeping structural changes to the company every day. ‘The business has reached the point where we either have to grow or we’ll be forced to shrink. We can’t just tread water. It’s not an option.’
‘You sound terribly businesslike.’
Again the abruptness of her reply takes me by surprise. Now I understand where it’s coming from: she feels she doesn’t really know me, and that bothers her.
‘And you sound surprised,’ I reply.
I cautiously scoop some chicken and rice onto my fork and pop it into my mouth. Taina doesn’t look at me; she seems to be thinking about something. Outside the evening has darkened; the soft duskiness wafts inside. The light glowing dimly above the din
ing table creates a shelter around us.
‘The day-to-day running of the business has become quite … routine.’
‘I’ve always liked routines,’ I say.
Still Taina can’t bring herself to look at me as she skilfully uses her knife to place just the right amount of each element on her fork. I manage to swallow a tiny amount and feel the food sliding down my gullet.
‘I agree,’ she says. ‘Routines are good. But sometimes you’ve just got to strike, to make a move—’
Taina interrupts herself. She’s becoming agitated, agitating herself. She’s also starting to blush. I can see it.
‘You’ve got to take risks,’ she continues, now more subdued. ‘You showed us a good example today.’
I’m truly shocked: my own wife is flirting with me. I think of my hot, sweaty, rotund face, my pink stomach, the leech’s bloody kiss on my neck. I’m hardly Brad Pitt. The reason for her flirting is something other than my appearance. Taina is after something, but what? I’m going to die soon – isn’t that enough?
‘Thank you,’ I stammer and decide to play my part in the flirtation fest. ‘Thank you for taking all this on board in such a positive way. If I’m honest, I thought you might have some objections to these changes.’
Again Taina does her best to keep her expression friendly, her voice calm.
‘Why’s that?’
I recall Raimo’s comment as I ran out after Petri: It wouldn’t surprise me if someone was planning a few bigger changes around this place.
‘I just thought – or, I used to think – that you might have your own ideas about how to develop the business and that they might be slightly different from mine.’ My voice is full of warmth. I look her in the eyes. I am her husband, her friend.
‘Well—’ she begins.
I interrupt her: ‘Of course, that’s perfectly understandable. I’ve been deaf, stubborn, indifferent. Stuck in my ways, as they say. I’ve only done the bare minimum and never tried to broaden my horizons.’
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