The Farm (23 page)

Daniel!

My reaction to her desperate email had been breezy complacency. I had no idea that I was being shaped in my mum’s mind as the alternative to my dad, a loved one who’d believe her. Her conspiracy had already begun to live in me:

‘I should’ve flown out to Sweden, Mum, after that email.’

My mum gestured for me to take a seat and I obeyed. She joined me:

‘What’s done is done. And I’m here with you now. We’re almost at the end. There’s only one last piece of evidence.’

My mum opened her purse, as though she were about to give me pocket money:

‘Open your hand.’

I offered her my palm.

It’s a human tooth. No animal teeth look like this, burnt black, no flesh or tissue remaining.

Now you’re going to ask if I believe this is Mia’s tooth. You want to ask the question because if I say yes, then you have your proof. I’m insane and you must take me to a hospital.

My answer is this—

It’s a milk tooth, a child’s tooth. Mia was sixteen years old so it can’t be her tooth, and I never claimed it was.

The tooth came into my possession a few hours before Dr Norling’s assessment. My appointment was scheduled for the afternoon – he selected the time, not me, a fact that struck me as irrelevant, but this was of great importance, the sequence of events is crucial, a sequence they hoped would drive me mad.

With the morning at my leisure I decided not to work. I needed to be fully rested and have my wits about me. If I failed Dr Norling’s evaluation then I was finished, as an investigator and as a free individual. My liberty was at stake, decided not by a fair audience but conducted by one of my enemies. Was I
compos mentis
? If I failed their tests they’d drive me from his beach house to the hospital, where Norling would personally oversee my admission. I couldn’t skip the appointment even though it was self-evidently a trap. My absence would be taken as proof of madness and I’d be hunted down. So I’d attend, on time, punctual, well turned out – I’d attend and give them nothing – that was the key, give them nothing! Walk into their trap and wriggle right out! I wouldn’t talk about murder and conspiracy, not a word, instead I’d discuss my plans for the farm, the barn conversion, salmon fishing, vegetable gardens, home-made jam, I’d play the part of a docile and harmless wife entirely at ease with her new life, challenged, yes, tired from hard work, certainly, but looking forward to many happy years. Give them nothing, not a furrowed brow, not a single allegation, not a dark thought, and then what could the doctor do?

My plan was a good one. I intended to spend the next few hours avoiding anyone who might disturb me. I toyed with the boat. I swam. I was relaxing on the jetty, my feet in the water, when, in the distance, from the forest, I saw wisps of black smoke rising into the sky. I knew – I just knew – that the smoke was coming from Teardrop Island.

I jumped into the boat, barefoot, setting off upstream, using the electric motor at full speed, passing Håkan’s farm, noticing that his boat wasn’t docked. He must be on the river. Maybe he was already there. I pushed on, eyes fixed on the rising curl of smoke. As I reached the forest, there was a chemical smell. This wasn’t a natural fire. It was a petrol fire. Up ahead, Teardrop Island was ablaze. The cabin at the back was engulfed in flames twice as high as me. Embers fizzled on the surface of the river but I didn’t slow down, I took aim and rammed into the tip of the island, powering onto the muddy rim with a thud, jumping out, standing before the flames, cowering from the intense heat. Fortunately there was a container in the boat to shovel out rainwater, and I filled it from the river, throwing bucket after bucket at the base of the fire, plumes of steam erupting. Quickly the entire cabin collapsed. I used an oar to knock some of the burning planks into the river, where they spat and hissed.

My initial conclusion was an obvious one. The fire had been started for a simple reason – to destroy evidence. Almost certainly the people who’d started it were in the woods, watching the fire burn, and now they were watching me.

Let them watch!

I wasn’t scared. With the island smouldering I set about carefully pouring water on the ash until the area cooled down. Once that was done, and the water no longer turned to steam, I raked through the remains, running my fingers through the ash and the sooty puddles, the black water, finding a lump – the tooth you now hold. If I were mad I would’ve jumped to some sensational conclusion, screaming out:

‘Murder! Murder!’

I didn’t. I sat on Teardrop Island, staring at the tooth, sat and sat, and thought and thought, and asked myself – what was this doing here? No corpse had been burnt on that island, where was the skull, the bones? The idea was ridiculous. Where had this tooth come from, this tiny tooth, this milk tooth, not Mia’s tooth but the tooth of a young child? It was then that I realised the true purpose of the fire was not to destroy evidence but to destroy me. The tooth had been planted there, possibly with several others, a handful of teeth to ensure I found at least one. My enemies had planted this shocking and provocative evidence before setting fire to the island.

Consider the sequence. Why now? Why would they have started a fire now, today, in the morning? Why not wait until I was at Norling’s house, by the sea, far away – I wouldn’t have seen the smoke, there was nothing I could’ve done. As an attempt to destroy evidence the fire makes no sense! The discovery of the tooth was too easy. The real purpose of this fire had been to unsettle me before Norling’s examination. They wanted me to walk into Norling’s house stinking of smoke and ash, with mad sooty hair, clutching this charred tooth, they wanted me to declare the black tooth as evidence of murder – to cry out:

‘Murder! Murder!’

A simple laboratory test would reveal it was the tooth of some little girl, safe and well on another farm. She’d brought it to the island to show a friend, or some such lie. Where would I be then? What could I say? I’d be sent straight to the asylum.

I shook my fist and cursed my enemies hiding among the trees. I wasn’t the fool they thought me to be.

I’m no fool!

But they’d already won a small victory. I was going to be late for my appointment with the doctor. I hastily climbed back into the boat, noticing for the first time that one side of my foot was burnt from the hot embers, bubbling with blisters. It didn’t matter. I had no time to spare.

Returning to the farm as fast as I could, late for my appointment, I stripped off, tossing my smoke-stinking clothes aside, and swam in the river, hastily washing myself. I couldn’t wear those clothes again, so I ran naked to the farm, where I changed into fresh clothes, hiding the charred tooth in my satchel.

Chris was standing by the white van wearing his smartest clothes. When does your father wear anything other than jeans and a jumper? The reason was obvious. He was primed for his role at the hospital, for his appearance before the doctors and nurses, the devoted loving husband, wanting to appear at his best – which is to say, his most convincing. Gone were the T-shirts that stank of pot. Gone were the ugly old boots. Just as a mugger might borrow a suit that doesn’t fit for a court hearing, Chris had dug out clothes he never normally wears. He didn’t mention the smoke in the sky, didn’t ask where I’d been, didn’t pick up on the fact that I’d taken the boat. He studied me carefully, disappointed to find me
compos mentis
. He offered to drive. I didn’t trust the offer. I expected there’d be another incident, some frightening item placed on the seat, something to shock me, so I refused. I said we had very limited petrol, which was true, very little money, which was also true. I was more than happy to cycle and mentioned some small details that needed attending to on the farm as though it was inevitable I’d be returning soon, life would continue, this was not the end! He’d dressed up in his best clothes for no reason. There’d be no visit to the asylum today!

Leaving the farm on my bicycle, I slung my satchel over my shoulder, refusing to abandon it for their examination. I even dared to turn around, acquiring a knack for deceit, giving Chris a carefree wave goodbye, calling out a dishonest:

‘I love you!’

• • •

I
ASKED:

‘Mum, don’t you love Dad any more?’

Without pausing to reflect, she shook her head:

‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Of all the things you’ve said today, I find the idea that you don’t love Dad the hardest to believe.’

My mum nodded, as if this sentimentality was to be expected from me:

‘Daniel, this isn’t about what you want to be true. I wanted to grow old on that farm with your father. I wanted to build the home I’ve dreamed about since I was a child. I wanted that farm to be our family’s little corner of the world and for it to be so special that you’d start to visit us again in a way that you haven’t done for a long time.’

I sensed no attack intended in her final comment. It was a matter-of-fact description of her dream. I said:

‘Didn’t Dad want the same?’

‘Maybe once. But there was temptation. And he was tempted.’

‘Mum, you said it yourself. You and Dad were an unbreakable team. It can’t just be gone. In one summer, it can’t be. I refuse to believe it.’

I was afraid that I’d overstepped the mark. To my surprise, my mum didn’t seem annoyed:

‘I’m glad you’re defending him. I defended him too, in my mind, for months and months. I loved the man you know as your dad. But I don’t love the man I discovered in Sweden. I could never love that man.’

‘You believe he was involved in the murder of Mia?’

I’d pushed too far.

‘Conclusions sound far-fetched without any context. This is why I asked you not to jump ahead. Allow me to tell it my way.’

It was late and the hotel would soon offer a turndown service, bringing ice to the room and making the bed. I said to my mum:

‘I’m going to put a sign on the door so no one interrupts.’

My mum followed me as I hung the sign around the handle. She checked the hallway then pulled back into the room. I said:

‘You were about to have your meeting with Dr Norling.’

Standing in the middle of the room, she closed her eyes, as though sending her thoughts back to that moment. I chose to perch on the edge of the bed, sensing that it was unlikely my mum would sit down again. As I waited, I couldn’t help but reminisce about the times when my mum had read me a bedtime story. She opened her eyes:

Despite being late I cycled slowly, breathing deeply, wanting to recapture some of that early morning calm. My plan was a good one. All I had to do was pretend, smile, to speak like a contented wife and hard-working farmer, to talk about my hopes and dreams, to say how much I loved this area and remark how friendly the people were. Stick to the plan and I’d be okay.

Dr Norling lives by the sea, a house directly on the waterfront among the dunes and shrubs, the stretch of desolate coast where I’d go running. He had somehow managed to position his extravagant house on protected coastland – a house so intimidating that people didn’t feel comfortable walking nearby. They sensed it must have protectors – keep away, the house communicated, because it could only have achieved planning permission by corruption and close connections with power. Ordinary people didn’t live in houses like this. Approaching the grounds, I slowed down, but there was no need because the gate automatically sprang to life before I could dismount. He’d seen me coming. My confidence faltered. Could I really play the part of an unsuspecting wife and hold my tongue? I wasn’t sure.

Outside the house I stood my bicycle on the gravel and waited. There was no doorbell to ring. There were two giant doors, enormous timber doors – castle doors – twice the height of a person. Simultaneously both doors gracefully opened and out he came, the renowned and respected Dr Olle Norling. He was dressed casually. His shirt was unbuttoned, slyly signalling that I had no reason to fear this appointment, a signal I reversed, understanding the exact opposite. I had everything to fear! Whereas Chris had been blind to my injuries, Norling noticed my awkward walk immediately, asking if something was wrong, but I assured him it was nothing – a splinter, might have been the lie I told, not wishing to mention the fire, a subject which must be avoided. I kept saying to myself:

Stick to the plan!

I was determined not to be impressed, a silly thing to be determined about, and anyway, I failed. His house was magnificent, not opulent, this wasn’t gaudy wealth to be dismissed with a roll of the eyes, it was simple in style, minimalist, if you can apply the word minimalist when confronted with those huge glass windows, cathedral windows pulling the sea and beach into the house, and I wondered why I was so amazed when I cycled along the coastal track with the exact same view. But this was different, the windows were framing the sea as if they were a private work of art, possessing what cannot be possessed, turning private what was once public – this view was power, and even though it wasn’t sunny, no dazzling blue sky, only a flat grey sea, I might actually have gasped, not at the beauty but at the power, the power to frame the sea. Only a handful of people in this world have that power. Norling was one of them.

There was another person present, a man, a housekeeper dressed in household livery, laughable if he hadn’t been so solemn. He was a handsome man, in his thirties, with hair slicked to the side, like a butler from 1930s England, a blond butler, and he spoke to me in deferential tones, asking if I required anything to drink. I declined, too abruptly – defensive, fearful the drink might be spiked. Norling missed nothing, immediately asking for a bottle of water, two glasses, but specifying that the bottle of water should be unopened and sealed and no ice in the glass. I’d expected him to take me into a small room, somewhere intimate and intense, but he escorted me outside onto the decking, onto the sweeping platform sprawling over the sand dunes. There I faced my first test, the first of three. He took a match and lit a fire, a modern gas contraption in a copper drum surrounded by padded seats. Flames sprang up and Norling gestured to the chairs around it, positioning me directly beside these flames. You must accept that this was a reference to the fire on Teardrop Island because there was no other logical reason behind lighting it on a summer’s day. He wanted me to see the flames and produce the charred black tooth, he wanted me to jump up and down shouting—