Antti Tuomainen: The Healer

The station plaza was buzzing and bathed in the raw, naked glare of floodlights. The light was so bright that it seemed to shine right through the people on its way to the ground. All around there were shouts, arguments, pleas, entreaties, and threats. Trains headed north every hour, but even that wasn’t enough to lessen the flood of people. More and more people kept coming from the east, the south, and the west. The market on the plaza teemed with ticket scalpers and purchasers of valuables, hundreds of thieves and swindlers with hundreds of tricks and swindles, and, of course, ordinary people, each one more desperate than the next. Every other person walking by seemed to be a cop, a soldier, or a security guard.

The cries of children and the threats and demands of adults mixed into one big strain of panic. I ran with long, quick strides all the way to the station building, slowing only when I thought I’d come into the field of vision of the guards with their assault rifles. I got in line at the security checkpoint, tried not to think of the minutes lost, and looked around me.

I knew very well that the two other passengers mentioned on Väntinen’s ticket could be someone other than Tarkiainen and Johanna. I didn’t see any familiar faces in the spectrum of races and nationalities. The only familiar thing was the fear and helplessness lurking in their eyes. It was clear to all of us that only a fraction of those departing would find any sort of tolerable work, housing, or even food in the north.

Jaatinen was waiting for me as arranged. His face wasn’t quite as distracted and sour as it had been a few hours earlier, but he also hadn’t regained the self-assurance that had sustained him when we first met. Now he was a man who was clearly missing something, and he knew that it showed.

“Track twenty-one,” he said, before I had a chance to greet him.

I was about to continue straight to the platform when he grabbed me by the arm. His tight grip, just under my shoulder, brought me to a stop.

“Tapani,” he said in a low voice. “If we do find Tarkiainen—”

“We will find him, if we get moving,” I said, wrenching my arm loose.

He took a couple of quick steps and stopped in front of me, his eyes boring into me.

“If we do find Tarkiainen, I can’t arrest him.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“There’s a problem with the DNA results. To be precise, the problem is that the results are gone.”

I didn’t say anything. I just darted around him and headed for the door. He followed me and kept talking, but I heard only a few fragments of what he was saying: the server, crashed, backup copies missing, catastrophe. Track 21 was far off ahead and to the left. There were nine minutes until departure.

I made my way half-running through the heavy-looking suitcases, the backpacks stuffed full, and the people carrying them, some hurrying, some stuck in one spot. The hall under the high roof of the station was so full of noise that I could no longer hear Jaatinen’s footsteps, or my own, on the asphalt. I could smell food vendors and human desperation. It was Christmas Eve, but there was nothing there to indicate it.

I passed whole countries and continents, crossed languages and dialects. Helsinki had finally become an international city. But this wasn’t how we had imagined it.

Track 21 was jammed with people and their things, of course. The train stood at the platform, stretching out of sight. Väntinen’s seat was in car 18. I ran right to the edge of the platform, dodging the people waiting there. Jaatinen followed. We must have looked like two particularly inept tightrope artists as we tried to make our way along the narrow, empty edge as quickly as we could.

I tried to count the cars as I ran. The mass of people hid the sides of the train from view, and counting them while performing my high-wire act was difficult. When I got to what I thought was car 16, I pushed my way back through the wall of people. A large, black-bearded man shoved me out of his way as I tried to look at the car number. I dodged the dirt-encrusted giant and the clinging smell of his sweat and waited for him to move on.

Finally I saw the number. Fifteen.

I continued along the platform with my shoulder almost brushing the side of the train and heard the last announcement to board in Finnish, English, Russian, and some other language. It became harder to walk along the outer edge of the platform and I had to push through the crowd to continue forward. In return I got shouts and a few shoves. An older, coal-eyed woman with a scarf on her head gave me a painful jab in the leg with the long metal tip of her umbrella.

Car 18 was in front of me. I tried to see along its whole length. Jaatinen came up behind me. Before I had a chance to say anything, I heard him yell something and rush ahead. For a large, heavyset man, he moved quickly.

My first glimpse of Tarkiainen’s face was in profile. Maybe he sensed Jaatinen running toward him. Maybe the look on his face changed ever so slightly. In a fraction of a second he made his decision, turned, and took off at a run. I ran after both of them.

Jaatinen was about ten meters from Tarkiainen when a suitcase on the platform caught him in the legs. He let out a roar. His left knee was bent inward at a strange angle. He fell straight on his face with only his left hand to catch him. I could hear his wrist crack.

I reached him as he held his injured knee and rolled onto his back. His face was frozen in pain. He curled his broken hand and pulled it toward his chest, then pulled his gun from its holster with his good hand and gave it to me. I didn’t say anything—I had no time to even think. I just took the gun and kept running.

Tarkiainen jumped down onto the rails. I followed. I dropped off the platform and felt lactic acid already stiffening my muscles. My landing wasn’t a springy one, it was a thud and a stagger. But I kept my footing, heard the metallic voice announcing departing and arriving trains, and felt a tiny drop of rain on my skin. On the left I could see glass office buildings rising up, their black surfaces gleaming like water over ice.

Tarkiainen had a head start, and I gulped for breath as I tried to catch up. He was approaching the grassy cliffs and old villas that lined the tracks at Linnunlaulu. The gun weighed heavy in my hand. With each step it was harder to carry. I got my run into a rhythm, matching my steps to the ties between the rails. Tarkiainen’s back loomed larger. The rain, the dark night, and the wan light of the rail yard made visibility hazy and blurred. The crossbeams of electrical poles floated above us like an unfinished roof.

The cold, wet air tore at my throat and chest. When we reached the bridge at Linnunlaulu, where the rail yard narrowed between the stone cliffs, my legs felt very heavy. A commuter train arriving at the station rattled and wobbled on its tracks as it passed on our right. The tracks on the left were empty.

As I passed the cut stone of the cliffs, I was only fifteen meters behind Tarkiainen. But my legs were like cement—I was slowing down. The pistol felt heavier and heavier in my right hand, and I made a decision. I released the safety, as Ahti had shown me, lifted my arm straight toward the sky, and pulled the trigger.

Tarkiainen jumped, lost his balance, and stumbled. He looked behind him. I couldn’t speak, just aimed the gun at him. He stopped. I gasped for breath and concentrated on holding the pistol in front of me and holding myself upright. My lungs wanted me to bend over and rest my hands on my knees, or better yet fall to the ground and lie there on my back. For some reason, Tarkiainen wasn’t nearly as winded.

“You must be Johanna’s husband,” he said, not seeming at all surprised.