14

The following morning is both very pleasant and very difficult.

It’s still quite dark beyond the windows while we are having breakfast. Laid out for breakfast are the things we bought together; we went to the supermarket the previous evening, together, for the first time. This was a turning point, in a financial sense too. We bought bread that was much more expensive than I would normally buy. We bought two kinds of cheese, yoghurt with different layers in it, organic eggs. I was taken aback at how little impact the sum total of our shopping – which, at a quick calculation, revealed that the average price of my breakfast was about to rise by one hundred and thirty-five percent – made on me.

I can tell that Schopenhauer is quite torn by the situation: he is clearly interested in Laura Helanto, though he is perplexed that someone else is spending so much time in his territory. The balcony door is ajar, and from time to time Schopenhauer goes outside to check on events in the yard, then inspects all the spaces inside the apartment, yet doesn’t seem happy with any of them. I understand him. My sentiments are quite similar. I don’t enjoy being in anybody’s company as much as I do with Laura Helanto, but I can’t stop thinking about the crocodile canoe that I filled only a few hours ago. I look at the clock on the kitchen wall. I want to get to the park before the others arrive. I don’t know what I’m going to do with the stuffed canoe, but whatever it is, it’ll have to be done during the quiet time of day. I glance up at the clock again and think that if I were to leave now…

‘You’ll be the first one in,’ says Laura.

I recall moments in the recent past when I’ve had the distinct impression that Laura Helanto can read my thoughts. Of course, this isn’t factually possible, but still: there are many times she seems to know what I’m about to say or do next. I don’t know how she does it. I don’t think I’m giving off any signals or any other indication of my intentions. On the contrary, I try to base all my decisions on careful, thorough planning, and I only speak or act once I am sure of what I am about to say or do.

‘I know how important it is for you to be on time,’ she says with a smile. This is a different smile from the one I saw the night before. ‘But you mustn’t forget that everybody at the park knows what they’re doing. Everything’s fine, right?’

I don’t want to lie to her.

‘A few problems with a device being taken out of use,’ I say. ‘I want to get everything wrapped up. No need to burden the others with it.’

This is all true: the Crocodile Canyon has been taken out of service and, as unpalatable as it is to admit, so has Otto Härkä. I must take care of the matter, and for very obvious and acute reasons, clearing up the mess is my responsibility. Laura looks at me.

‘That’s the cutest thing about you,’ she says.

‘What is?’

‘On top of everything else, you’re so … nice.’

I drive Laura Helanto to her studio, then I do something I’ve never done before: I exceed the speed limit. The park’s van isn’t designed for great speed. The brisk November wind shakes it about in exposed places, and the acceleration leaves much to be desired. I have always considered speeding a rather pointless thing. In built-up areas, the amount of time saved can be counted in seconds, minutes at most. But right now I need every minute I can get, every second. To my bewilderment, I note that my excessive speed still isn’t enough to overtake people driving even faster. It’s hard to imagine that they might have something more pressing to deal with and even harder to imagine what that something might be. Several men, several crocodiles? How many of these Audi drivers – because speeding seems to be a particular feature of this expensive German vehicle – are worried about what to do with an attacker hurriedly wrapped in a length of carpet? My thoughts are speeding too, and my eyes nervously flit between the clock and the speed dial.

I steer the car into the car park, which is still empty. I drive around YouMeFun and arrive at the staff car park – and sigh with relief. No cars, no bicycles, no vehicles of any description. I leave the car in my space, take the stairs up to the loading bay, stride across the steel platform to the door and open it. I go through the staff areas, noting that they too are empty and there is no one else in sight, then I open the door into the park itself and listen. Silence.

The situation is favourable, given the circumstances. I now only have one problem to solve instead of many. And sometimes a single problem, no matter how big, is actually preferable.

I pass the Trombone Cannons, turn the corner, then arrive at the Strawberry Maze, and just behind it I see…

Precisely nothing.

I have to hold on to the Strawberry Maze for support.

I manage to stay upright, though the room around me is swirling and my stomach is churning. The dizziness lasts only a few seconds, but it is followed by a clamorous rush, a mixture of fright and disbelief that fills my body. Even breathing normally requires the utmost concentration. Very cautiously, I release my grip on the Strawberry Maze and continue looking ahead, as illogical as everything feels right now.

The Crocodile Canyon has disappeared.

Not just dismantled and piled up. It’s completely gone.

There isn’t a single piece of it to be seen, neither the river nor the brushes, the oars nor the steel structure. And more crucially, I can’t see any of the canoes. Not one. Everything has gone. I force myself into motion and walk to the spot in the hall where I crossed the river only yesterday, where I deflected a bullet and adjusted the piles of canoes. But there is nothing there except for the cool indoor air of the adventure park. I know this because I even run my hand along the place on the floor where the piles of canoes once stood, where only a moment ago the river was flowing. I sniff the air, and my sense of smell confirms what my sense of sight told me earlier.

‘Boss,’ I hear behind me. ‘The leading operational manager has taken care of it.’

I spin around, and Kristian is right there. He looks the same as always: he is wearing a very tight-fitting, brightly coloured adventure-park T-shirt which enhances his defined pectoral muscles and his washboard stomach, and his expression is the usual mix of eagerness and excitement.

‘What?’ I ask, before I’ve had the chance to formulate the question in greater detail.

‘This morning,’ he nods. ‘I ordered the van for quarter to six; that way we got a twenty-percent discount. I got to work at half past three to take down what was left. This is a good system.’

‘What?’ I ask, again without any more specific formulation.

‘See, I’ve been reading this book,’ he says. He has appeared right next to me, his usual chirpy, strongly deodorised self, and he’s standing almost exactly where Otto Härkä fell face first into the river for the last time. ‘It’s about the five o’clock club. The trick is to get up at five in the morning, so you can get everything done before the people who only wake up at six, not to mention the ones that wake up at seven or eight or nine or … you get the picture. But then I realised something even better. I decided to get up at four. Then I read online that someone else had had exactly the same idea and started waking up at four. So I decided to get up at three instead. And here’s the result.’

Kristian raises his bulging arms. I realise he’s not actually trying to show off his muscles but simply to draw my attention to the empty space around us.

‘You appointed me to run this operation,’ he continues. ‘In secret. I haven’t breathed a word about it to anyone. Not even you.’

I’m still suffering from mild dizziness, and I’m still in some degree of shock. The process of putting the pieces together in my mind is painfully slow. Nonetheless, I can feel the next tidal wave of nausea building inside me and gathering strength, and the crest of the wave looks a lot like a certain thick, dark, shiny moustache. I hesitate before asking my next question, but ask it I must.

‘Where…’ I begin, and this time I try to be more specific ‘…did you send everything?’

By now Kristian looks unbearably pleased with himself.

‘Back where it came from, obviously,’ he says. ‘To Toy of Finland.’