The site is located slightly above the rest of the terrain, the rockface provides shelter from the eastern winds. But a cold wind has started gusting from the north, and at this particular location and at this time of night it is biting cold. My hat and gloves have disappeared. I take the thick, red scarf from around my neck and wrap it round my head and across my face, leaving a narrow slit for my eyes.
This is Hurmevaara on a frozen January night: it will take the police at least three quarters of an hour to get here from Joensuu, and I don’t much like the thought of sitting in the car and keeping Grigori company.
I take my phone from my pocket. I don’t know what I’m about to say or where to start. Maybe I should just inform them of the situation, of what I see in front of me: an SUV, a dead man. Then once the police arrived I could start taking the story to pieces and tell them about the events leading up to this: Grigori’s self-assassination, the rally driving, Tarvainen. It doesn’t take military training to know it doesn’t look too good when two people have a disagreement and one of them ends up shot to death – even when the one left alive is a man of the church.
The idea that the deceased shot himself won’t be the first thing that comes to any police officer’s mind.
But still. It has to be done.
I walk round the car in the freezing cold, tapping the numbers into my phone. I arrive at the passenger side, raise the phone to my ear, sliding it between the layers of scarf. I open the passenger door. Just then I hear the sound of a car and turn. The car is approaching so quickly that I lower the phone from my ear.
A lot can happen in half a second.
I don’t recognise the car, can’t see the registration number. The headlights are dazzling; they’re on full beam. What I can make out is that the only person in the car is the driver. And that driver is a giant. I glance to the side. Grigori has slid from his seat; somehow he has managed to slip free of the seatbelt. He is slumped in an unnatural position, hanging half out of the car, his grey hair almost touching the snowy surface of the road. The lights of the oncoming car are reflected in his open eyes and awaken a strange sensation in me, somewhere between life and death.
The half-second is over quickly.
The giant leaps from his car. I’m not sure whether the car actually came to a stop or not. The man is shouting his friend’s name. I look at Grigori, who by now has slid even further out of the car.
Afghanistan took a lot out of me. But it also taught me to remain focussed in exceptional circumstances. As the giant pulls a knife out of his boot, all my training and everything I have learned crystallises before me. I know exactly what to do.
I run for it.
A field separates this road from another, and the other road leads right back to the village. I hope I have the strength to run faster than this enormous man, who I assume must be even more ungainly than me.
The snow is deep, even in the tracks I find, left by a snowmobile. The giant is on my heels, bellowing, threatening to kill me, to skin me alive.
And he’s not ungainly.
The distance between us remains the same, though I increase my speed. In fact, the distance might even be getting shorter. The stars above us are bright and illuminate the snow-covered terrain in such pallid light that it feels like running through a negative image.
The field is broader than I’d thought. Still, there’s some benefit from being an active jogger. I know how to breathe correctly, and even once my legs are full of lactic acid I can still carry on.
The large man is propelled forwards with untrammelled rage. At least, that’s what it sounds like. He is running hard but still has the energy to shout. It’s a good thing too; there’s no uncertainty about it. He bellows that I killed his friend and that for every wound on his friend’s body I will repay with a hundred.
I finally reach the road. It slopes gently downwards, leading back to the village. I continue running and thank my luck that I wrapped the scarf round my head. If I manage to escape, it will be incognito. Breathing is hard; there’s not enough oxygen reaching my lungs. My throat hurts. In addition to my legs, my arms are starting to stiffen. The decline in the road is steeper. The nearest houses are now only a few hundred metres away. I peer over my shoulder to see how far away the man is.
It’s a mistake.
I slip.
As my back lands on the ground with a thump, the final remnants of air are knocked from my lungs. My back hurts from top to bottom. I haul myself to my feet and start running again, though I’m out of breath. Pain radiates from my coccyx, and my legs are about as agile as concrete blocks. I hear the giant running behind me. His steps echo, long and heavy.
I just have to reach the…
Through the trees I see the lights of the petrol station. I remember the yard at the back and have an idea, an idea I’ll have to put all my hope in. I pass the first house. The windows are dark. Then more houses.
At the next bend in the road, I turn. Snow has turned the hedgerows into walls. I can’t extend my lead on my pursuer enough to get behind them and hide, and, besides, my footprints would be visible in the snow. The man is constantly on my heels. He’s stopped shouting now. Perhaps he too has finally run out of breath.
We turn again. I pray it’ll be for the last time.
The road starts to rise gently, and the houses are behind us. The tall billboard at the petrol station is like a moon I’m desperately trying to reach. We are like two long-distance runners keeping a steady gap between them until they enter the final straight – with the difference that the big man can’t possibly know when the final straight will start or what it will be like.
Behind the petrol station is a large collection of assorted junk, a DIY repair area and old buses, snowmobiles, tractors, diggers and other workman’s machinery. I might be able to lose the man, gain enough of a head start to escape round the station, back to the road leading into the village, and from there head home.
From the road I jump into some even deeper snow. The billboard is much taller than the main building and casts a yellow light behind the station. I wade through the snow directly towards one of the buses, walk round the front and edge my way along the side of the bus towards the workshop. At the next bus I do the same. I find a route someone has clearly taken before. My footprints mix with those already there. I half run along already trodden pathways in the snow, using the enormous billboard to keep my bearings. Before long I’m behind the workshop. A lamp attached to the wall glows like the sun. I’ve ended up here so quickly that I haven’t given a thought to what happens next.
In the rear of the workshop there are two bay doors and one normal door. Both bay doors are locked, but the normal door opens when I turn the handle and push. I quickly peer inside.
The mechanics’ workshop is empty of people and cars. The space is dark. Light seeps through the windows in the bay doors and through the door at the back, which is ajar. This door presumably leads to the other areas of the workshop, right through to the shop front. My back hurts and I cannot run any further. I have to step inside.
Two metres deep and about a metre across, the grease pit between the tracks is like a canyon in the half-lit workshop. To the left of the pit is a platform about a metre wide, and to the right there are a few more metres of space. Behind that is another canyon, another grease pit.
The space is utterly silent. I make my way along the left edge of the pit towards the door at the far end of the workshop. I see another room, a storage space-cum-staffroom, and at the other side of that space another door. That door is wide open, and through it I see the station owner’s back. I can see half of his broad, white buttocks too, as he is sitting behind the counter on a tall stool with his back to me, his jeans sagging woefully. I slip away from the doorway; there’s no need to count my options.
Back to the rear door.
And as I make my way towards the door, I see it opening. The enormous man steps into the workshop and stops, twisting a knife in his hand. The movement is slick. It’s also completely unnecessary, because he’s already made a lasting impression on me.
I’m still wearing my thick, black winter coat and the scarf wrapped round my head. There’s no way he could recognise me. When I left the Golden Moon I only pulled my coat on once I was outside – and the scarf was tucked up my sleeve.
The man seems to take stock of the situation. It sounds as though he sniffs to himself. Either that or the shadows across his face shift position. The blade of the knife is sleek, the steel glints whenever a flicker of light from outside touches it. I move closer to the space between the two pits. He moves.
And then it hits me.
An awakening.
The workshop seems to change shape, to grow in height and width. It feels as though all my recent thoughts about Krista fill the space with light, as though this oil, petrol and metal-smelling workshop was in fact the most beautiful cathedral, a place that the setting sun filled with soft, golden beams. The cathedral glows with warmth and light. Its metre-thick walls protect us from the wind, from our enemies, and there I will be in perfect safety.
The cathedral is within me.
I can’t run away from it anymore.
My breath begins to steady. My muscles relax. I am filled with a renewed power.
I have nothing to fear. As I know only too well, the opposite of fear is not bravery. The opposite of fear is trust. Trust is faith.
It’s a peculiar moment to rediscover my lost faith.
The man steps nearer. He is close enough that I can see his face. He looks confused. We are standing on either side of the grease pit, separated only by a black emptiness a metre wide. I can imagine the situation from his perspective. The prey is no longer running but has turned to face him, his arms relaxed at his sides.
The man attacks. He leaps across the canyon, aiming his knife at my abdomen. His speed is impressive, but he doesn’t quite nail his landing. His centre of gravity shifts forwards. I grip the arm with the knife and twist.
The man yells, drops the knife, and does not regain his balance. His shoes fumble for support, but there is none. I twist more, again using his forward momentum to my advantage. He is like a runner who has gained too much speed on a downward slope; the only way to come to a stop is to fall forwards.
He dives forwards, head first, and raises his free hand in preparation for landing on the workshop floor – but there is no floor.
The giant plummets into the grease pit as though it were a lake. His speed is impressive, his descent precipitous. There comes a soft thump, then another. After that I hear nothing. I wait for a moment, walk to the edge of the pit and look down.
The man is lying on his back at the bottom of the pit. I crouch down and hear the sounds of life: breathing, moaning and spluttering that seem to come from the boundaries of consciousness.
I make my way back to the rear door, step outside.
My breath steams in the air. It is silent. The stars twinkle above.
I start walking towards the museum.