Black Noise (35 page)

They left the Tube at Warren Street. Lia knew where Mari wanted to go: the Fitzroy Art Museum, her favourite place in London. There was one piece of art in particular that Mari liked. She could sit for hours sometimes watching it just to calm down and let the world spin on its way.

As they walked to the museum, Mari rang Craig Cole. He answered in Bradford.

Bryony Wade didn’t know anything about him, Mari reported. She had targeted him because he had visited her school and she had decided to take advantage of the opportunity.

‘I don’t think you’ll ever hear from her again,’ Mari said.

‘Thank you,’ Cole said.

His first broadcast on The Pulse was scheduled for the next day.

‘Everything is just fine here,’ he assured Mari. ‘More so than in a long time, now that you’ve told me that about the girl.’

How could he ever repay Mari and her colleagues for their trouble? Cole asked.

‘That isn’t necessary,’ Mari said. ‘But if I ever think of something, I’ll ask.’

The rustling of the thin black tape was familiar to Lia. She had sat in front of this piece of art in the Fitzroy Museum many times with Mari, watching as the two loops of plastic tape thrown between two large fans gyrated in the air current they made.

Double O
, the work of a Lithuanian artist, always calmed Mari’s mind. Usually she wanted to think about anything apart from the Studio’s work when she was here, but now she couldn’t shut it out of her mind.

‘I think Craig Cole will do all right now,’ Mari said.

Lia nodded.

‘Maggie can keep in contact with him,’ Mari said. ‘And the rest of us can listen to his broadcasts online sometimes. That will tell us how he’s doing. You can always tell from a person’s voice.’

Lia guessed in what direction Mari’s thoughts were turning. Philip Dillon and the men he had tortured in Zanzibar. It was clear that
Mari and the rest of them at the Studio were thinking about the trio’s future.

‘We aren’t touching Dillon,’ Mari said.

She said it quietly so no one walking the corridors of the museum would hear, but Lia could hear the resolution in her voice.

‘Dillon belongs to the police and the justice system now,’ Lia said.

‘And the media,’ Mari said. ‘And everyone who is going to make him famous. His audience.’

Lia closed her eyes and tried not to think about it, but heavy doubt loomed in the back of her mind.

Did we make a mistake leaving Dillon alive? Should we have just let him bleed to death?

‘I’ve been thinking about forgiveness,’ Mari said as if in answer to Lia’s mental questions. ‘I haven’t forgiven him. And I won’t.’

Only the norms of civilisation and rationality had prevented them from taking Dillon’s life in Zanzibar. They thought that was what they were supposed to do, so they did it.

‘People have a hard time believing extremes of greed and cruelty are real, as if they were some sort of illusion,’ Mari said. ‘Or just a form of mental illness. They aren’t. Dillon’s crimes were perfectly logical acts, just completely inhuman. His brutality makes him seem sick, but he is responsible for his deeds.’

And it wasn’t up to them what kind of celebrity Dillon would achieve.

Lia listened to the hum of the fans and the quick crackling of the rotating tapes and focused her thoughts elsewhere.

Theo Durand and Aldo Zambrano. They are more important now.

‘I have to go back to Zanzibar,’ Mari said. ‘It was important to get you and Rico home, and we all just wanted out of there. But I should have stayed. I’m going back with Paddy.’

She gave a brief sketch of her goals. Only two of them needed to return to the island. Each of them would focus on one of the victims – Mari on Theo Durand because she knew a little French. Both men were in intensive care, probably detached from the world by the strong drugs they would be on. But they had to return some day, and Mari and the others had to make sure that Durand and Zambrano
received the best possible care. Once the men returned home, Mari and the others would have to consider how to support their families.

‘It’s going to be dreadful,’ Mari said.

They had to prepare the families to deal with the post-traumatic stress reactions and their own shock, and do it all with as much secrecy as possible.

‘Isn’t there any other way?’ Lia asked. ‘Can’t we leave all that to the authorities?’

No, Mari said. These men would need small miracles now. They would need treatment programmes that weren’t available anywhere. But they could be created, with enough money and work.

‘I am a psychologist,’ Mari said, and Lia understood that she was saying it out loud as much to assure herself as anything. ‘This is my duty. Paddy and I are leaving tomorrow morning.’

Then Mari immersed herself in her thoughts again, watching the captivating randomness of the black loops of tape of
Double O
as they darted about in the air.

Lia looked at her friend. Just now she was filled with admiration and sympathy for Mari, but all the while doubt gnawed at the back of her mind. Would she ever know Mari completely?

At home in Hampstead, Lia showered. Then she rang her parents in Finland.

She saw Mr Vong in the garden with Gro and went out to meet them. Gro was overjoyed at their reunion, even though Lia had only been gone a few days. The time had felt much longer for both of them.

Lia stroked the dog, bewildered at how happy such a mundane meeting could make them both.

Mr Vong had read the book Lia gave him. He thought it was very moving.

‘I had no idea what a wonderful namesake Gro has,’ Mr Vong said. ‘I should follow the news more carefully.’

‘I don’t know about that,’ Lia said. ‘Maybe it’s better to keep your distance.’

She didn’t ask whether he wanted to keep Gro. She could see it in both of them.

‘Do you know, whenever we’re in the stairway, Gro’s tail wags at one door every time? Your flat, if you’re home,’ Mr Vong said. ‘If you aren’t home, it doesn’t wag.’

Bless you, Mr Vong. You always know the right words to say.

After her fitful night’s sleep on the plane and the restless day afterwards, Lia didn’t have the energy for an evening jog. After what had happened to them, in London and in Zanzibar, readjusting to normal life was difficult. It was as if she still had to be on constant alert because a new emergency could arise at any second.

On her home computer, she watched a few
Someone Cares
videos. She glanced at the news. An article about Zanzibar had appeared on the
New York Times
homepage: a major police operation was ramping up, but no details were available other than that the island was on lockdown. Due to ongoing police interviews, no one was being allowed off, not even tourists.

She wondered whether she should text Mari, but then she decided Mari had probably already seen and would want to go to the island anyway.

She considered ringing the gun range. It wasn’t late, and maybe Bob Pell would have a free lane.

But maybe not.

Zanzibar was still too close, the memory of running through the dark with a pistol in her hand and shooting Philip Dillon. She would want to experience the feeling of a weapon in her hands again though. Not now, not soon, but someday. As far as the proprietor went – Bob Pell could be an extreme last resort, someone to call if being alone became utterly unbearable at some point. Now being by herself was a relief.

One person was on her mind the whole evening. She logged on to Skype and tried to ring, but there was no answer. She left the machine on and logged in. Maybe her call would be noticed.

Half an hour later, Lia heard the Internet phone app trill. Mamia was on the line just returning Lia’s call.

Getting the video connection working took a few seconds. Mamia’s face betrayed her irritation.

‘Where on earth were you two this time?’ she asked.

Mamia had been worried and vexed that Mari hadn’t responded to her messages.

‘You kept an old lady worried for a week,’ she said reproachfully.

‘Oh, we were fine,’ Lia said. ‘Didn’t Mari send you a text message a few days ago?’

‘Yes, she did. It just said, “On a trip, talk when we can.”’

They had been in Africa, Lia said.

‘Africa? Any more precise coordinates?’ Mamia asked.

Lia laughed.

‘Ask Mari.’

‘I will. Is she all right?’

Lia thought for the space of a long intake of breath.

‘Yes. Yes, she is. We all are.’

Mamia’s face came closer to the camera.

‘I can even see through this pale computer screen that you’re not telling me everything again. But that’s fine. Just don’t think I don’t notice.’

‘Mamia?’

‘Yes?’

‘I have a question.’

‘OK.’

‘Tell me what happened that time at your family reunion, back all those years ago at Vanajanlinna Estate. Tell me all of it.’

‘You certainly are persistent,’ Mamia chided gently. ‘You seem to remember everything.’

Lia waited. She saw Mamia weighing the limits of their confidence.

‘You said once that night feels different in London from here,’ Mamia said. ‘Because there are more people to share it with.’

The same thing went for information, she said. Sometimes information changes according to how many people share it.

Lia nodded. Mamia’s eyes glistened a little. Maybe it was from the light reflecting from the screen, or maybe she was moved.

‘It wasn’t anything terribly dramatic that happened,’ Mamia said. ‘So much time has passed since then. It was mostly just sad. Such old, sad things aren’t really worth remembering.’

She hesitated, and then made her decision.

‘Yes, I can tell you. You want to understand. That’s important. Nowadays when so much information gets shared about people, we think knowing everything is important. Knowing every little detail. But the most important thing is
understanding
people, not knowing everything about them.’

First Lia had to promise one thing though, Mamia said.

‘That I’ll tell Mari what I know about her some day?’ Lia guessed.

Mamia nodded.

Lia looked straight into the tiny camera on the computer and at the old woman thousands of kilometres away.

‘I promise,’ Lia said.

Samuli Knuuti, Ms Adkins, Nina Gimishanov, Jarkko Moilanen, Elisa Nurmi, Martha Pooley, Salla Pulli, Antti Sajantila, Deborah Gold and Peter Kelley at Galop UK, Joël Le Déroff at Ilga Europe, Maija-Liisa Ojala and Ulla Vanttaja at the Finnish Ministry of Education and Culture, and the WSOY Literature Foundation which supported the writing of this novel.

Pekka Hiltunen is a Finnish author, whose debut novel in 2011 immediately became of the most acclaimed first novels in Finnish literature. The psychological thriller
Cold Courage
was nominated for the
Helsingin Sanomat
Prize for Best Debut of the year, a rare feat for a thriller. It won three literary prizes in Finland, including the Clue Award for Best Detective Novel of the Year, and it has been nominated for the Scandinavian Glass Key Award 2013.

Critics have pointed out that Hiltunen’s thrillers, called the Studio-series, started a whole new phase in Finnish crime lit. They combine global political topics with a smart urban setting and a nod to classical trickster novels.

Hiltunen also writes in other genres, and his books have been translated into six languages, including French and German. In 2013 he published a novel called
BIG
, about the tricky problem of the worldwide obesity phenomenon. Following a twenty-year career as a journalist in 2010 he received the Best Writing Editor Prize for his magazine articles. He specialises in extensive articles tackling social and political topics.

Hiltunen is a keen traveller. He loves the monthly supplements of quality British newspapers and devotes any free time to his two hobbies: holidaying away with his partner at a summer cottage by a small Finnish lake and inventing themes for imaginary surprise parties he wishes he could throw.

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