Then a shot rang out.
In the small, enclosed space it sounded like an explosion. Their ears snapped shut. Wood splinters and sawdust rained from the ceiling and the smell of gunpowder filled the air. The back window smashed as it was struck by a falling plank, and Henrikson was there in the gaping window, his hands outstretched, his weapon aimed inside.
‘Nobody move!’ he shouted. ‘Police!’
But the shot had stunned everyone. The struggle had ended; the men and the woman stood perfectly still, their hands frozen in the air like a statue. Kauranen took their revolver and Harjunpää lowered his gun. The sound of running footsteps could be heard from outside and a moment later the Malmi officers were in the porch, panting, their guns raised.
‘What wickedness!’ came the old woman’s shrill voice as she stood up. Her cognac glass had fallen to the floor and she held both hands up to the area around her heart. ‘You devil! Shooting a gun in front of your mother. I tried so hard, but spare the rod and…’
The woman doubled over across her hands. A wheezing sound escaped from her mouth, almost like a sigh. Harjunpää bolted towards her, but it was too late: the woman collapsed on to the floor. There was a crack as her head struck the leg of a chair. Harjunpää knelt down and tried to turn the woman over, but she had gone limp.
‘Can anyone do CPR?’ he gasped. ‘Someone call an ambulance! Get the paramedics on the line. Tell him we’ve got an elderly woman with a suspected heart attack.’
He sensed that it was all futile, too late, but he had to try at least, always, for anyone. He felt the woman’s neck and wrists for a pulse, but couldn’t find any signs of life. Around the middle finger of her limp hand the woman was wearing a large golden ring with a dazzling ruby set in the middle. It couldn’t possibly be real, he thought, looking around him, and it was somehow too showy. It must have been junk. He stood up.
The young policewoman darted towards them, knelt down and began opening the woman’s clothes in rapid, self-assured movements.
‘Lundberg! You do the compressions,’ she shouted. ‘I’ll breathe.’
They got to work. Harjunpää drew further back; he suddenly felt rather weak. The dungaree-woman moved away from the others. She approached them, stopped and stood staring at the woman lying on the floor. Then she raised her eyes and looked at Harjunpää. They were the eyes of someone who had grieved for much. The corner of her mouth began to twitch and all of a sudden she burst into hysterical laughter. Harjunpää wondered whether he was mistaken; perhaps she was crying. Either way, her cheeks were wet with tears.
The spruce trees in the hedge surrounding the house at Joutsentie 3 were old, thick resinous giants. Their lower branches swept across the ground like the hem of a long skirt, and sheltered beneath that hem lay countless metres of spruce tunnels. The ground in these tunnels was covered in a thick, brown mattress of years of pine needles.
About halfway along the middle section of the hedgerow, right behind the red cottage, grew a larger, grander spruce like the mother or father of all the others. Perhaps whoever planted this hedge had taken inspiration from this very tree.
The pieces of branch scattered around the base of the Mother Spruce’s trunk betrayed the fact that someone in the tunnel had been busy with a saw. If anyone were to stand tight against trunk and look upwards, they would notice that certain branches had been cut away to create a small shaft, just big enough for someone skinny, leading straight up into the sky, with supporting branches left at regular intervals to form something almost like a ladder.
About halfway up the spruce, high above the cottages and ramshackle roofs, in the thickening evening darkness, sat an eagle owl. It was a rare bird in southern Finland – particularly in the city, right in the middle of an area of detached houses. What made this eagle owl even rarer was the fact that it had the body of a human.
The owl clearly considered this something of a deficiency, a
shortcoming
, but the Creator had made up for this deficiency by giving him a human mind, in addition to a bird’s mind, and the power of thought. Or something thereabouts.
At that moment the eagle owl was thinking for the umpteenth time that it had been a wise decision to cease being a human and to become a bird. He had done this because he was afraid of what humans called love, something that represented the greatest deceit in the world.
Humans said love was good, worth striving for, the most beautiful thing in the world. But they kept their mouths shut about the fact that those who had been blessed with love seemed to have a clandestine entitlement to destroy those who begged for love in return.
The eagle owl sitting in the tall spruce at Joutsentie 3 knew this very well. The first love in his life, the source of his former human life, every human’s role model, his own mother, had tried to kill him. In doing so she had struck an ineffaceable fear into the owl’s soul, a fear which, from that moment forth, had dictated his every decision and which his mother had used to control him throughout his life thus far.
The eagle owl had loved his sister, perhaps he’d loved her the most after his mother, and his sister had said she loved him back, even in the last few days, but she too secretly wanted to destroy the owl and that’s why she had deliberately given him the wrong advice and forced him into a trap. And as for the deliriously beautiful, blonde-haired woman for whose love the owl would have crawled on the ground… The eagle owl removed one of his hands from the resinous branch and felt the side of his head. The wound had stopped bleeding and the blood had dried to form a plug across it. Even this woman had tried to kill the owl, and still all he had wanted to do was give her love and to accept the love she offered him in return. It had been the first time in the eagle owl’s life that he had dared even to attempt such a thing.
The eagle owl leaned his head to one side and smiled the almost
sinister
smile of a bird of prey. He would never be trapped again. He
wouldn’t
beg for love from anybody ever again, wouldn’t offer his own love. He no longer had anything to offer; what he’d once had, had died along with the human being the eagle owl had once been. Best of all was that the owl had finally killed his human form himself, and had done it very skilfully.
After he’d escaped from the clutches of the people dressed in white, he had flown to Joutsentie and climbed up the ladder into his former nest without anyone seeing. There he had taken off his old clothes, his human clothes, and put on his shadow-grey coat of feathers that smelled of his new self.
He’d taken his wallet, stuffed it in the pocket of his red trousers and packed the trousers and the jacket, the shirt and the tasselled shoes into a carrier bag. Then he’d picked up the map in the telephone directory, selected a page with lots of sea and written on it the words ‘You’ll find me here’, and left the directory open on his bed. Then the owl had flown into the city, down to Mustikkamaa and emptied out the contents of the bag on the rocks by the shore.
The eagle owl was a wise bird. Of course he understood that there would be times when he would have to interact with humans, for the world belonged to humans, and was therefore a bad world. He knew that sometimes he would have to pretend to be human, and that’s why he had soared across the skies to Good Johansson’s place. Good Johansson had promised to make him a new human identity. The eagle owl had chosen the name
Huuhkaja
.
The eagle owl turned his head, listened to the night and looked down at the cottages beneath him. Things had slowly calmed down. He had been sitting up in the spruce when all the commotion had started; he’d seen the police arrive and peer through the windows, then came the shot that had made him tremble and keep his eyes closed for a moment – he remembered how he too had been shot – and that’s when the
commotion
had really started.
Blue lights had started flashing; men and cars came and went. The last to arrive was a white van into which they had carried a human body covered in a blanket. The eagle owl knew who it was: it was the witch. He had seen all the others in the yard, but not her.
And now she no longer existed. She had ceased to be. The eagle owl was puzzled that, though he thought about it time after time, he felt nothing, neither joy nor sorrow. Nothing at all. Perhaps he didn’t feel anything because the dead person wasn’t his mother: she was a witch.
Lasse had shot the witch. He was the only one the police had taken with them. And because they hadn’t taken Sisko or Reino that meant they couldn’t know that they were the ones that had paid a visit to the bank. And of course, Lasse had only shot the witch because he loved her. He’d always sworn he loved her, even as a little boy, crying, his backside raw.
His bird’s instinct told the eagle owl that it was time to set off. He released his grip on the tree and clambered down the ladder of branches to the tunnel with the pine-needle carpet. He stood for a moment staring
at the yard through the branches sweeping the ground, then flew towards the workshop gable, his wings beating silently.
He stood there for a moment and listened, grey and unnoticed, by the front wheel of the crippled digger. There was no movement, and no sounds came from inside, and he darted nimbly beneath the digger. It was like a bear, a real dead bear, a fresh corpse, and the eagle owl wanted to eat its flesh. He ran his hands along the underside of the digger’s frame until he found what he was looking for: a hole just big enough to fit your hand through. He worked his fingers inside the gap, groped further inside and found them: a number of tightly sealed copper tubes. There were three of them in the hole, and the eagle owl took all of them.
The eagle owl knew that there was nothing but Finnish marks in the tubes, but that suited him perfectly well – eagle owls weren’t migratory birds. He didn’t know how much money was in the tubes. No doubt it would be less than his share of the loot, but it would be enough to see him through the next few years. Perhaps there’d even be enough to buy a small nest with white walls somewhere far away.
And when the money eventually ran out, the eagle owl would start to hunt again. He’d hunt the way he should have hunted when he was still a human: he would scavenge for money, only money, the flesh of life, and if a human were to take him by surprise, he wouldn’t fly away again. He would fight back. He would strike Flame, his razor-sharp beak, right into that human’s chest.
The eagle owl stuck the tubes under his arm, listened for a moment, and when the coast was clear he fluttered into the air, flew towards the gap in the hedge, skimming the tall grass as he went, and made his way through to the path. Then he disappeared somewhere to the left.
Harjunpää climbed up the staircase, instinctively rushing, though
rationally
he knew that he wouldn’t find anything in Grandpa’s room that might put his mind at rest, and deep down he had a feeling that the time for rushing was already gone.
He stepped across the threshold and was met by the lingering smell of old pipe smoke. He stopped by the desk. It was exactly as Pauliina had said: Grandpa had left behind his nitrate pills and his hearing aid, and even his pocket watch. He’d never done that before; he’d kept the watch with him as though it were as important as life itself. Harjunpää’s shoulders went limp. He gently touched the thin golden chain, prodded it for a while, and after a moment somewhat hesitantly picked up the watch, wound it up, clasped it in his hand and pressed it against his chest.
‘Dad,’ said Pauliina. Harjunpää gave a start and almost guiltily put the watch back where it had been. ‘There was nothing we could do. He was supposed to be having a nap and we were all out in the garden. That’s why we didn’t even realise he was missing until dinner was ready… And now I think…’
‘Listen,’ said Harjunpää and turned around. He was tired and strangely on edge, broken on the inside; it had been such a gruelling day. He knew he mustn’t show it, because the girls would take it the wrong way. ‘Grandpa’s a grown man. He’s the one that has to take responsibility for himself and his actions. You weren’t supposed to guard him, just to make sure he was OK…’
‘But still. What if he’s…?’
Harjunpää looked at the desk and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘He’s probably down at Pilvikallio or sitting under the big spruce tree.’
‘But your expression… You don’t believe he’s there either.’
‘But I hope he is.’
‘Then let’s go and fetch him.’
‘I’d rather go by myself.’
‘Why?’
‘Pauliina,’ said Harjunpää and took his eldest daughter by the hand. ‘I’ve got to go by myself. He’s my father… You’ll understand one day. I have to do this by myself.’
They looked at each other for a moment and Harjunpää could see that Pauliina did understand, at least in some way.
‘Thank you.’
‘That’s a nice cardigan,’ said Pauliina blankly. ‘The colour… it’s as if you’re in love.’
‘Thanks. It’s Onerva’s. I’m just borrowing it.’
Harjunpää walked downstairs and went to the cleaning cupboard. The only torch in the house was there. He switched it on and gauged that there should be just enough battery power left.
‘You’re not taking us with you?’ asked Valpuri.
‘Not this time. I’m sure you understand… I’ll be able to look faster and over a wider area if I’m by myself.’
‘I suppose…’
‘OK. We’ll be back before you know it. But I think it’s past Pipsa’s bedtime.’
‘No it isn’t!’ his youngest retorted. Harjunpää was about to tell her off – but why do that? He contented himself with tickling Pipsa’s head.
‘See you in a little while…’
Harjunpää went out the front door and began walking up the
grass-covered
incline. Crickets chirped; night was already well underway. He chose the path on the left which led past the great spruce tree all the way to Pilvikallio, then on to the meadow and the woods, which stretched out like a wasteland almost all the way to the centre of Kirkkonummi. The path drew him further into the mysterious darkness, but when he looked up the sky shone above him as a lighter strip of blue.
He was no longer thinking of Onerva or of the old woman who had died right in front of him. He tried to block them from his mind. Perhaps
he wasn’t really thinking of Grandpa either, but rather of the strange notion that had occurred to him several times in Grandpa’s company: did he want something from the old man that he didn’t quite understand? Was he looking for some sort of answer to all his questions, something that would explain away all the ills of his life? Or was it advice, wisdom, something that Grandpa had realised long ago?
He gingerly crossed the planks laid out across the brook and, ever the policeman, stopped in his tracks and switched on his torch. He lit up the bubbling waters, first higher up the hillside then to the right, but all he could see in the stream were the same gnarled roots that had always been there.
He continued up the hill and suddenly found himself wondering whether the Kirkkonummi police had a dog patrol and that, if not, whether he knew any of the dog trainers from the Helsinki force well enough to call them out in the middle of the night. He felt almost as if he were on duty and only stopped and shook himself once he started thinking where it would be best for the police to park their cars to make their journey through the woods as short as possible.
‘Please be with Grandpa,’ he said suddenly. ‘Let him be OK…’ He had reached the great spruce tree, switched on his torch and lit up the trunk. At the base of the tree was a tangle of roots where it was nice to sit, but this time there was nobody there. He held the light to one side, but everything looked just as empty. He walked briskly around the tree and shouted: ‘Grandpa! Father!’ His cries echoed faintly, but no one answered. He felt a sudden disquiet, a sense of helplessness; the forest was so large.
He turned off the torch and continued along the path towards Pilvikallio. He was more worried than before, his concern edging deeper inside him. He was almost in a panic. Without noticing it he had quickened his pace with every step, and a moment later he was jogging forwards.
‘Grandpa!’ he hollered. ‘Father!’
He ran past Valaskivi and the tree where the woodpeckers were always drumming away, and the woods gradually became thicker; trees encroached on the path and the bushes kept catching on his cardigan making him stop for a moment. It was suddenly much darker. By the time he reached the small pool, the air felt much cooler.
‘Father!’ he shouted. ‘Father, where are you?’
The path began to slope upwards. He was approaching Pilvikallio. He knew it wasn’t far now, less than a hundred metres. The air smelled ever mossier. A very small animal took fright and darted into hiding.
‘Father!’ he shouted. ‘It’s me! Timo!’
The path became much steeper and he was already out of breath. Suddenly he caught the faint smell of smoke, though it wasn’t pipe smoke. It was a bonfire, or at least it had been. Now it was the smell of dying embers from which a barely visible trail of grey smoke rose up into the sky.
He slowed his step to walking pace. He could make out Pilvikallio, a dark mountain against the sky. He couldn’t see any light at the foot of the hill. At least not yet. He stepped closer and soon he could see the red glow of the embers. He switched on the torch and aimed it at the boulder they used as a chair.
‘Father?’ he said softly. Grandpa was sitting there, his elbows propped on his knees, motionless. ‘Father?’
‘Is that you, Timo?’
‘Yes.’
‘My shoulders are so sore. They do ache.’
‘Let’s go home. Then I’ll take you to the doctor. You must be freezing.’
‘Yes, I am rather. But, Timo…?’
Harjunpää lowered his head. His chest was full of something; it felt as though it was about to burst.
‘I… You’ve never… I’ve never been able to…’
‘But it’s true. You are my son and I… very, very much…’
Harjunpää brought his hands up to his face and pretended to rub his forehead. He wanted to tell his father that he loved him, but he couldn’t; his lips were trembling so much that he simply couldn’t. Later, he thought, maybe once I’ve got him home, and with that he took off the cardigan, wrapped it around his father’s shoulders and took him firmly by the arm.