3

Krista sits down on the living-room sofa. I put on the kettle, bring her a blanket and something to eat, make sure everything she wants and needs is within easy reach. I sense that she wants to be alone, that for one reason or another she doesn’t feel like socialising. It doesn’t feel particularly nice or homely, but right now it suits me fine. I pack a bag, pull on my outdoor clothes and leave the house. The temperature has dropped even further. The centre of the village is deserted, and I head north along the empty high street. There’s a loneliness I haven’t felt in years.

It makes me think of where this all began.

Afghanistan.

One sweltering day I stepped on a mine.

Our convoy left the old base at sunrise. We had reserved all the hours of daylight to undertake the journey. The sun was glowing, the journey was slow. The road network in Afghanistan was in terrible condition and much of the journey took us across unpaved roads. We were on a stretch of uninhabited territory between two villages when we noticed a problem with the personnel truck. The steering wheel kept veering to the right, and the problem was getting worse. We were forced to stop and disembark.

It was midday, the air hot and still. We tried to sit in the shadow cast by the truck but it was futile. The sun looked larger than I’d ever seen it. It was directly above us like a round, yellow inferno. The heat started as an unbearable itch, then in the space of a few minutes started to tighten our skin and singe it. Eventually it felt as if the heat was enough to tear the skin from our bodies.

Bringing the convoy to a halt was extremely dangerous. Roadside bombs, mines, snipers and ambushes were a risk even while we were moving quickly. But if we were forced or decided to stop, spontaneous attacks could be added to the list of dangers. Often these were combinations of various forms of attack – by one individual, maybe a few – and they were almost impossible to prevent, either with normal intelligence or by carefully planning the route in advance. These were crude attacks, born solely of opportunity.

As we disembarked from the vehicle, we tried to position ourselves to maximise our view of the surrounding area. We knew we were sitting ducks. We were surrounded by mountains and boulders, but they didn’t provide us with any cover.

The commander of our convoy made a quick decision: the rest of the convoy would continue on its way; the broken transporter would remain there along with its crew. We agreed, of course, though it meant we were left alone. Keeping the entire company there for hours would be far too dangerous.

Repairing the vehicle took a long time. The mechanics were working under extreme pressure. I kept my eyes on the shadowy blackspots between the mountains.

The first bullet split the chief mechanic’s skull. The shot came from almost directly in front of us – the direction in which we were heading. It came from high on one of the mountain ridges.

We returned fire. The mountain didn’t care for our bullets. But there was another purpose to our firing: we had to protect the remaining mechanic and allow him to work. That was our only hope. Our other hope was that this was a lone gunman. The shots came at fairly regular intervals, all from the same direction; and they were precise.

One soldier was hit in the arm. The wound wasn’t life-threatening. But it affected another of the soldiers in what was to be a fateful way.

He jumped out from behind the truck and began running towards the mountainside. Perhaps he wanted to reach a narrow gulley in the rock face; perhaps he saw a possible escape route.

The shooter picked up the pace. Bullets rained into the ground around the running soldier. I hurtled after him. It was an instinctive reaction. Or rather, as I came to think later on, it was a matter of faith. I had set off to Afghanistan to provide others with the support, comfort and security that I had to offer.

I was running fast and managed to catch up with the soldier. He wasn’t running in a straight line so his forward momentum wasn’t the most effective. I knocked him to the ground, said I’d take him back to safety. The soldier put up a fight. He tried to punch me, but his hands were just flailing in the air. Angry but imprecise. I hit him very precisely and with a rush of adrenalin.

I began carrying the unconscious soldier back to the truck. He was like an ungainly sack round my shoulders. The others were all firing at the mountainside as though they were trying to reduce it to rubble. The sustained barrage of bullets affected the sniper. He wasn’t as accurate now as before. But bullets still hit the ground ahead of me and, presumably, behind me too.

The embankment was steep, so I threw the soldier further up the verge. Another soldier darted out from beside the truck, snuck towards us, grabbed the unconscious man’s hands and began pulling him to safety. I was on all fours. A bullet struck the ground only a few centimetres from my right flank. I stood up, propelled myself forwards.

I don’t remember anything about the explosion.

My next memory is from inside the truck. I can’t hear anything, all I can see is a blur. I’m soaked in blood. Someone is tying something round my left leg. Then I lose consciousness again.

I was given a bravery award for saving the soldier’s life. He came to thank me in person at the field hospital. I was ambivalent about this; everything about my situation seemed temporary, transient – the kind of thing we can quickly get over and forget about.

The soldier I saved was considerably younger than me, and he was about to be sent home. I noticed he found it hard to look me in the eye. He couldn’t sit still. I guessed it had something to do with what had happened. He had panicked, done something stupid, and somebody else ended up paying the price. I told him I only did what he would have done if things had been the other way round. He stared at a spot next to the bed and asked if all the medications on the table were mine.

I had saved a pill popper.

I park the car outside Hurme Gym and step outside; Afghanistan quickly disappears from my mind. It’s a cold evening. Hurme Gym is situated in an industrial area on the outskirts of Hurmevaara. It’s a small area, but there’s plenty going on. You can find everything, from spare tractor parts to dried sauna whisks. The latter are naturally shipped to Helsinki, along with other items designed for the hapless millennial generation. The gym is housed in a former slaughterhouse.

I step inside, and the darkness outside is replaced by a fluorescent glare.

Räystäinen is waiting for me. Apart from him, the space is empty.

The large space is open-plan in every respect: there is plenty of room between the machines and barbell stations. Räystäinen is kitted out in white gym shoes, a black training jacket and a pair of grey tracksuit bottoms. Across his chest is the embroidered image of a heavy-laden barbell, bending at each end as though lifted by an invisible power.

Räystäinen is clearly nervous, and I guess I’m not at my most relaxed either. I remember the long scratch on his arm, the pain around my temples, the intruder lying in the snow.

‘Quiet evening,’ I comment and look around.

The gym is well equipped. There are countless machines of various types. Dumbbells are neatly stacked in their stands. Something about the empty barbells and motionless machines seems to heighten the sense of abandonment. I notice there’s no music either. I hear Räystäinen crack his knuckles. More than that, I hear the phone in his pocket beep as a text message arrives. Räystäinen casts his eyes over the high ceiling as he sticks his hand in his pocket.

‘Cardio day,’ he says as if to explain the lack of clientele. ‘People plan their workouts like that.’

Räystäinen glances at his phone. He doesn’t seem pleased at the message. I doubt whether his claim about cardio workouts holds water; it’s hard to imagine that yesterday the gym was full and today every client is out skiing or running.

‘This is perfect for us, though. We can do your assessment in peace and quiet. See what kind of shape you’re in and decide what direction to take.’

‘Precisely,’ I say, but Räystäinen has already turned his back and asks me to follow him.

We start with some deadlifting. It used to be my favourite exercise, back in the days when I did a lot of weightlifting. It’s a few years ago now, but I’ve still got the technique. Räystäinen seems impressed. Naturally he gives me advice, but I can hear in his voice that he had hoped to take a firmer grip on the proceedings, so to speak. The atmosphere lightens up when we start sharing our weightlifting experiences. He is still wearing his training jacket. And his phone is still beeping as messages keep arriving. Eventually he puts the thing on silent.

‘I didn’t expect you to be so familiar with this,’ he says as we move on to bench presses. ‘I always took you for a man of the spirit. You know, like you forget all about your body and concentrate only on what’s in the soul or whatever it is.’

He says this as though he were talking about Jesus. At the same time he sounds somewhat disappointed at the thought that I’ve come to his gym – in my own car – just like any other man, and haven’t, say, walked effortlessly across the snowdrifts or turned protein shakes into wine. I won’t be telling him how sinful I have been only this afternoon.

We spend a moment warming up, talk about the basic technique of the bench press.

I lie down on the bench and grip the bar. Räystäinen is standing behind my head to spot me, to give me some help should I need it. The idea is to establish your maximum lift. I position my palms along the bar and lift it from the stand. I balance the weight with my arms. Just then Räystäinen begins to speak.

‘That meteorite is worth a million, you know.’

He is right above me, upside down. In a second the atmosphere changes.

‘I mean, it’s hardly surprising somebody tried to break into the museum. That million euros is reason enough.’

Räystäinen brings his own hands nearer the bar and raises them upwards, preventing me from returning the bar to the stand.

‘Even if you split it into a couple of parts, there’s plenty to go round,’ he says. ‘You said there were two intruders, but by my counting even if there were three or four, you’re still talking about a nice sum of money.’

I lower the bar to my chest and try to lift it again. I know instantly that it’s too heavy.

‘It makes you think, you know, about family … I mean, starting a family is a difficult and expensive business. The Holy Spirit just won’t cut it.’

‘What?’ I gasp.

The bar will not move.

‘Well, I understand you – you two – are having a go.’

I put all my strength into trying to lift the bar.

‘I can’t…’ I almost bellow.

‘I know, we’re having trouble too…’

‘The weight,’ I say through clenched teeth.

‘If you combine your…’

‘No.’

‘If…’

‘No,’ I say, this time very loudly. ‘No, no to everything. No. Now lift it off.’

Räystäinen places his palms beneath the bar, but he doesn’t lift it. By now my muscles are stiff. Why won’t he lift the bar? It’s almost as if he’s wondering whether to help me at all. Slowly the bar begins to rise.

I have to push it all the way up. Räystäinen gives only minimal help. I get up from the bench, turn and look at him, trying to steady my breathing. Räystäinen’s expression has changed. I can’t read it. He just stares at me. There’s a metallic taste in my mouth, as though I’d bitten into the bar.

How much can I tell him?

If I let on straight away that I know where he got that scratch on his arm, he will know it was me at the cottage and that I failed to tell the police about it – assuming the scratch on his arm is from the museum window. And what did he just suggest to me? Nothing concrete, of course. He was just talking, thinking out loud maybe. But he very nearly left me lying there with the bar across my chest. That’s what it felt like, though it would be impossible to prove.

Just then he takes a quick step forwards, right towards me. I instinctively grab a five-kilo weight from the stand beside me. I’m not sure quite what I expect to happen next, but hearing Pirkko’s shrill voice is not high on my list.

‘Joel,’ she chirps. ‘I didn’t know you came here too.’

I turn quickly, the five-kilo weight still in my hand. Pirkko looks first at it, then at me.

‘Ah, you’re working out,’ she says, genuinely surprised. ‘And with dumbbells too!’

For the next half-hour we all stick to our respective roles. Räystäinen plays the part of the enthusiastic personal trainer. I play the student with a renewed interest in keeping fit. Pirkko plays at being interested only in her own workout and studiously pretends not to see us or listen to us.

As a teacher Räystäinen is both overly tense and completely vacant. Either he wants to continue our conversation about the meteorite or he would rather be somewhere else altogether. Or – and this occurs to me as I grip the cable pulley and see him watching the piles of weights moving up and down – maybe he is thinking of how best to get me stuck beneath a hundred-kilo weight again. I could be wrong. I’m tired, exhausted. The last twenty-four hours has sapped my energy, and on top of that, here I am, lifting weights.

Pirkko’s performance is almost as bad. The large, empty room serves only to heighten the sense of her presence, and I can’t help noticing how experienced she is in the gym. She is slightly older than me and she’s worked in the church office for years. She is divorced, and her adult son is studying in Helsinki. She is very pleasant, she’s good at her job, and I know I should apologise to her. My communication with her has been misleading. I’ve been selfish and thoughtless. The thought doesn’t do anything to alleviate my general sense of unease.

We reach the end of the session.

Räystäinen has been taking notes in a small jotter. In a loud voice he says he will put together a thorough personalised workout programme for me. The effective completion of the programme will involve me joining his gym and working out three times a week. I thank him but stop short of signing on the dotted line. Räystäinen’s expression reveals his disappointment. He is agitated too; you can hear it in the way he taps the computer keyboard next to the cash register. It’s me that should be agitated, I think. I’m thoroughly exhausted. I turn to Pirkko. She is nearby, busy doing abdominal exercises on the floor, and doesn’t see me.

‘See you tomorrow, Pirkko,’ I call out.

She stops her movement, remains on all fours and looks up at me. ‘Great,’ she says. ‘I’m doing legs tomorrow.’

I haven’t a clue what she means, I realise, and shake my head. ‘No … No, not here.’

‘Somewhere else?’

‘What?’ I ask before again realising her misunderstanding. ‘I mean see you at work.’

‘Oh, of course,’ she says. ‘We need to look at those hymnals.’

And with that, she winks at me. It’s an impressive wink too. She’s upside down, her eyes large and brown. Instinctively I look away towards Räystäinen, now standing beside me. He hands me a sheet of printed paper, presumably my personalised workout routine. I’m convinced he saw that wink, and I get the impression he’s waiting for an answer. I don’t have one.

I fold the piece of paper, place it in my pocket and thank him for everything. I glance at the barbell resting on its stand above the bench and leave.