9

But why the museum? Because it is the most logical place. Because that is my mission. Because it advances both my investigations.

What I have just experienced in the petrol-station workshop seems to affect everything. Physically I am a wreck, mentally I am in shock. I’m on the edge, but despite this I seem able to think more clearly than in a long time.

Here’s how I see it now:

Grigori wanted the meteorite. Grigori and the giant are in Hurmevaara at the invitation of Tarvainen the rally driver. I already knew that Tarvainen wanted the meteorite, and what he told Grigori in the car only confirmed the matter. Judging by what he said, I imagine they must have had a disagreement and have subsequently been trying to further their own interests individually. At least that’s what the Russian duo has been doing, as, having met Grigori, I now know. Which probably leaves the big man still trying to get his hands on the meteorite by himself.

I doubt he will lie in the grease pit for long. And he will in all probability want to avenge his friend’s death – which is quite another matter. He will come after me. Except he doesn’t know who I am. Or does he? Did Grigori tell him in the Golden Moon that he was going after me? It’s possible.

On the other hand…

Tarvainen said Grigori doesn’t talk much. Maybe Grigori just said he was going outside and might be a while. This sounds logical, especially as Grigori must have thought I was an easy target: if bribery didn’t do the trick, he would simply get me out of the picture for good. Another factor that speaks to Grigori’s reputation as a man of few words was his professional approach. This was clearly not the first time he had handled a gun. He was a professional, and professionals don’t talk; they act. And the big man is doubtless in the same line of work.

But he will not walk all over me.

Whether he wants that meteorite or not, he’s not going to get it.

And neither will Turunmaa, Räystäinen, Jokinen or Himanka.

I’m not sure what to think about them. At the gym Räystäinen was either trying to harm me or send me a message. I don’t know which. There is a long scratch on his forearm, the same kind as that of the burglar lying in the snow. The four men’s furtive questions and insinuations all indicate that my guarding the meteorite is some kind of problem for them. But why? Because I’m in their way? Because I won’t go along with their plans? Or I’m messing them up?

And why have they all – directly or indirectly – made reference to my marriage? In one way or another each of them has mentioned Krista in a manner that suggests they have all discussed her on some level. But why would they sit around talking about Krista? Do they know something I don’t? Something about Krista’s current situation? About the situation in general?

Then there’s the most important question: is one of them the man I’m looking for?

There’s a certain raw attractiveness about Turunmaa; his voice is low and rasping, and he owns half a million euros’ worth of forest. Jokinen knows what Krista likes down to the last fruit, the last slice of cheese and chocolate bar, and brings our shopping to the door. Räystäinen’s stomach muscles could break a brick wall, and there’s something about his determination: he’s like a long-distance skier, pushing forwards all the time. Himanka is the joker in the pack: he’s not what he seems; he constantly surprises me with his youthful movements and, when he wants to, the clarity of his thought. With regard to Krista, he is probably the least likely culprit, but what about the meteorite? He has lived through a lot of hardship and might think he deserves a more affluent end to his days.

After going through the four of them, one at a time, I am forced to confront perhaps the most unbearable thought. What if they all know about Krista? More than that, what if these four men and a group of other people know all about the private lives of the village pastor and his pregnant wife? What if the whole village knows?

This is what jealousy does. It knocks your thoughts off kilter. Nothing is in the right proportion. I force myself to think calmly and rationally for a moment; and when I do, I don’t imagine many people are interested in my marriage or our current strife. I believe our secret is still a secret.

I eat the food I bought at Maiju’s Grill in the museum’s small staffroom kitchen. To see me through the night I ordered two meals: grilled sausage and chips and a double cheeseburger. I eat both of them and wash them down with a litre of cold semi-skimmed milk. On the wall there is a clock whose hands begin to tick more and more slowly. I make some coffee, drink two large cups. But the hands of the clock drag worse now than before. Eventually they stop altogether.

Krista and I are walking side by side along the village high street. She has slipped her arm round my elbow. It’s baking hot. The sun is high in the sky, searing down from directly above us; there are no shadows anywhere. It’s one of the few truly hot days at these northern latitudes. There is something wrong with the asphalt, our steps feel sticky, walking is slow and arduous. For some reason Krista finds it much easier than I do. She walks unhindered, with light, brisk steps. I force myself onwards; I’m startled as I glance to the side.

I realise we are in some sort of marathon; the sides of the road are lined with onlookers. And they all look familiar. People from the village – people I have seen this evening and others I know, faces I have seen around the village but which I can’t seem to name. I turn back to Krista, but by now she is well ahead of me. She is walking quickly. At first she is only a few metres in front of me, then ten, then fifteen. But that’s not the worst of it. Now I’m startled all the more.

Krista is naked. I try to shout out. She can’t hear me, and now my legs won’t move at all. The asphalt is like a pot of glue into which I have fallen. I look at my feet and realise I’m naked too. I can’t see Krista up ahead any longer; she has disappeared. I don’t know where.

The road is straight and the day bright as a pane of glass. The villagers are shouting instructions.

‘Raise your left leg!’

‘Lean forwards!’

‘Walk on your hands!’

Just as I’m about to run out of strength, it starts to rain. Heavily, pouring down, so hard that it presses down on my shoulders like a solid mass. The rain solidifies the asphalt. Now it won’t give way. It is hard, unyielding. Walking is easy again.

But only in this respect.

The road has become unfamiliar. I no longer hear people calling instructions from the sidelines. I look right, then left. The villagers have all disappeared. I am alone on the empty road.

The rain becomes cold. It whips me, thrashes me. Suddenly I see a stone building in front of me. It isn’t a house, but some sort of warehouse or factory. Its walls gleam from the rain. The road comes to an end at the brick wall. Just then I hear Krista’s voice. She is talking to someone. The other voice is low, and I can’t make out the words. All I know is it’s a man’s voice and that his words are directed at Krista. I can’t see her anywhere. I try to call her name, but no sound comes out of my throat.

There’s a door in the wall. I don’t know why I didn’t notice it a moment ago. I’m agitated; I pull the handle and dash indoors. Inside the building it is cold. I guess this must be because of the thick stone walls, the rain, the dark. The floor is made of concrete, and now it is covered in a thin layer of water a few millimetres deep. Every step makes a splash. I try to follow Krista’s voice. The building is longer than it looks. It feels as though I’m not making any progress at all. The far wall gets further and further away. And the voices of Krista and the unknown man seem to get further away too. As though the man were luring Krista somewhere. I can’t work out what they are talking about.

There’s something in front of me. I raise my hands. I feel first a chain then a hook. A meat hook. Strange, I think. What is Krista doing in an abattoir?

Then I hear her voice. She is nearby. And there she is, my wife, standing with her back to me. I step forwards. The water splashes and sloshes beneath my feet. Krista is talking to a man. This is the father of the child, that much I understand. I cannot see him; he is standing behind her, moves in time with her, remains invisible. The more I try to reach Krista, the more quickly the man disappears. I am right behind her and I cannot see the man at all. I don’t understand how he can have disappeared so quickly.

I raise my hand, and I am about to place it on Krista’s shoulder when something whooshes past my ear. The meat hook latches on to Krista and whisks her away. She is gone. I open my mouth but stop myself from shouting out.

In front of me is a pit, a black hole in the concrete floor. At the bottom of the pit lies a large man. He looks dead. I look at his face. Suddenly his eyes open wide. I take fright and turn around.

Only to be startled again.

Standing in front of me is Karoliina, the waitress from the Golden Moon. Her face is impassive; her expression tells me nothing of what she’s thinking. She is dressed in the same clothes as before – it’s quite a strange outfit for an abattoir, for this cold, stony, damp environment where meat hooks whizz above us and snatch people away.

Is that a bruise on her face? Is the corner of her eye swollen, or is it something else? A little smile, perhaps?

Her lips form a curve, the corners of her mouth rise slightly. I start to smile too. When I am finally about to speak she moves more quickly than anyone I know.

Her hand moves. Her fist is heading towards me; I can see it coming. Behind the fist her arm stretches out, and I can see her face. She says something. I can’t hear what, because the fist strikes me right in the middle of the face, I stagger backwards, fall…

From the chair. Slump, at least. I wake up. I manage to put my right leg on the ground, find my balance and stand up just as I realise I am awake and in the small staffroom at the War Museum. There’s a coffee cup on the table, the taste of grilled food in my mouth. It’s the early hours. The limbo between sleep and consciousness is gone in seconds.