The Farm

by Tom Rob Smith

  Norling picked up the bottle of water. He poured me a glass. I meekly accepted the water even though I was worried that he might use mind-altering chemicals, invisible to the eye, with no taste, a chemical that might make me speak and incriminate myself. I was so thirsty I raised the glass to my lips and drank. Within seconds I felt an instantaneous and overwhelming urge to talk, not a compulsion that came from my heart but an artificial desire, chemically stimulated. The idea occurred to me that this room was rigged with video cameras, tiny cameras, the size of buttons, or hidden in the tops of pens. Despite my fears the urge to speak grew stronger and stronger. I tried to keep the words down but it was no good. If I couldn’t control the urge to speak I could, at the very least, control the content of what I said, and so I spoke words that couldn’t hurt me, a description of my vegetable garden, how it was the largest vegetable garden we’d ever planted, producing lettuces, carrots, radishes, onions, red onions, white onions, chives, and fresh herbs, basil, rosemary and thyme. I must have spoken for five, ten, twenty minutes, I don’t know, but when I turned around Norling was seated in the exact same position, on that exquisite leather sofa, giving off the impression he was happy to wait forever. My defences crumbled.

  I told him everything.

  • • •

  MY MUM PULLED A newspaper clipping from her journal, the second that she’d shown me so far. She placed it neatly on my lap. It was cut from Hallands Nyheter, dated late April, only a few weeks after they’d arrived in Sweden.

  I don’t need to translate it for you. It’s a critical study of the adoption system, asking whether there needs to be a review of procedures following the suicide of a young girl. The girl was born in Angola, the same country Mia was adopted from, brought to Sweden when she was just six months old. Aged thirteen she killed herself using her adopted father’s gun. The journalist discusses the difficulties of growing up as a young black girl in remote rural Sweden. The article caused a sensation. When I rang the journalist to ask him about the story he refused to talk, saying he didn’t want to comment further. He sounded scared. He was right to be. This article only touches the surface of a much deeper scandal.

  • • •

  NO MATTER HER AVERSION TO CONCLUSIONS, it was time to ask: ‘Mum, what is this scandal?’

  ‘You must be able to see it.’

  Consistently she’d maintained a tight control over her account, precise and forceful, yet when it came to the conclusions, surely the most important part, I had the impression she’d much prefer to present them unshaped, like the model kits that required assembly. No matter how much guilt I felt over my lack of involvement during the summer, or over the last few years, I couldn’t collaborate in her accusations:

  ‘The police are going to ask direct questions. What happened? Who was involved? You can’t imply. You can’t ask them to infer. They weren’t there. I wasn’t there.’

  My mum spoke slowly and carefully:

  ‘Children were being abused. Adopted children were being abused. The adoption system has been corrupted. These children are vulnerable. They’re seen as property.’

  ‘Including Mia?’

  ‘Particularly Mia.’

  ‘Is that why she was murdered?’

  ‘She was strong, Daniel. She was going to expose them. She was going to save other children from having to experience the pain she lived through. She knew if she didn’t make a stand then it would happen again. And her story would be the story of other girls and boys.’

  ‘Who killed her?’

  ‘One of the men from my list, perhaps Håkan. She was his daughter, his problem, and he would’ve felt duty-bound to deal with her. Or it might have been one of the others – an encounter gone wrong, perhaps one of them became obsessed with her. I don’t know.’

  ‘The body?’

  ‘I can’t dig up forests or dredge rivers. That’s why we need the police to investigate.’

  ‘But the scandal involved more than just Mia.’

  ‘Not every adoption, not even the majority, but a minority, a significant minority. Earlier I showed you a map of Sweden. The cases aren’t in one village or town. They’re spread across a vast area. The journalist was right: the statistics don’t lie. Their failure rate was too high. Look at the numbers, the numbers don’t lie.’

  I sat back on the bed and crossed my legs, using my limited Swedish to read the article. Under pressure my mum had given me her allegation in summary form. There was a paedophile ring wired into the adoption system. There was a conspiracy to cover it up. The article confirmed that there was an issue with integration and listed several examples of failure, including one loss of life. I asked:

  ‘You believe the conspiracy involved many of the men you’ve spoken about – the detective, the mayor – even though they didn’t have adopted children?’

  ‘There were parties. That’s how your father became involved. He was invited to one. That’s a fact. I don’t know what went on at these parties, so I’m speculating. Some took place in Norling’s beach house. Others took place behind that second padlocked door. There was drink. They took drugs. One of the girls was brought out.’

  ‘I don’t know the others so I can’t comment. But I know Dad.’

  ‘You think you do. But you don’t.’

  My mum had connected a series of dots, some of which, I agreed, were highly suggestive and disturbing. However, the lines she’d drawn between them were her own. I tried to pull together the threads, searching either for an argument that could be clearly contradicted, or one that couldn’t be dismissed as conjecture. I asked:

  ‘The woman who killed herself in the barn?’

  ‘She must have discovered the truth. She must have! That’s what her message was referring to – “For-my-struggle-is-against-flesh-and-blood-against-the-rulers-against-the-authorities-against-the-powers-of-this-dark-world-and-against-the-forces-of-evil-in-this-earthly-realm.” Maybe her husband was involved. She wasn’t strong like Mia. She died of shame.’

  ‘You can’t be sure of that.’

  ‘Everything I’ve told you connects to this conspiracy. Why were we brought to that location? Cecilia knew. But she was too frail to fight it. She understood that only outsiders could expose the truth.’

  ‘Mum, I’m not saying you’re wrong. It’s also impossible for me to say you’re right. Cecilia never told you that.’

  Her response was strangely abstract:

  I told you earlier nothing is more dangerous than to be desired. I’ll add this: nowhere is more dangerous than the space behind closed doors. People will always find a way to follow their desires. If no legal options exist, people will turn to illegal ones. Håkan and others created an elaborate organisation to satisfy their needs. Mia was exploited. I’m not sure by how many. She wasn’t a daughter. She was an asset. She was property. Now, please, Daniel, let’s go to the police.

  • • •

  MY MUM FOLDED THE STITCHED FABRIC, packing it into her satchel. She was ready to leave. I placed a hand on hers:

  ‘Sit with me, Mum.’

  With some reluctance, she sat on the bed, so light and small in size that the mattress needed only a faint adjustment to her body weight. We were both facing forward, like two children pretending to ride a magic carpet. She seemed tired and sank her glance towards the plush carpet. Addressing the nape of her neck, I said:

  ‘What happened next? You told your theory to Dr Norling?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Did you claim that he was involved?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  He didn’t say anything. I sat there and he stared at me. His expression was blank. It was my fault. I told the story wrong. I started with my conclusions, presented in summary form, without the detail or the context. I’ve learned from those mistakes, which is why I’ve been much more thorough talking to you, beginning at the beginning, with my arrival in Sweden, following the chronology of events, not letting myself skip ahead despite y
our demands for quick answers.

  During the time I’d been talking, the blond butler had entered the room. He was standing behind me, summoned in somehow, a panic button perhaps because Norling hadn’t said a word. I asked if I could go to the bathroom, weakly at first, like a schoolgirl asking a teacher, then more assertively – I needed the toilet and they couldn’t refuse me that. Norling stood up, agreeing to my request, the first words he’d spoken since my accusation. He gestured for the housekeeper to show me the way. I said that wasn’t necessary, but Norling ignored me, holding open the study door. I followed the housekeeper, observing his sinewy arms. Suddenly I wondered whether this man might be an orderly from the hospital, in disguise as a butler, ready with drugs and restraints. He escorted me to the bathroom, not allowing me to deviate or wander off, and as I shut the door he looked into my eyes with pity. Or was it contempt – pity or contempt? They can be hard to tell apart.

  I locked the door behind me, reviewing my predicament. Instead of saying nothing, I’d said too much. My only option was to escape. I examined the window, but, as with everything in that house, it was bespoke, it didn’t open. The thick frosted glass couldn’t be easily broken, certainly not without making a great deal of noise. There was no escape. I was still holding the stitched quote and I folded it neatly, slipping it into my satchel with no intention of returning it, one of the most important items of evidence I’d collected. There was no choice but to emerge from the bathroom and find another way out. I expected both men to be there, waiting, arms outstretched. But the hallway was empty. I peered down, seeing them outside the study in conversation. I contemplated running in the opposite direction, finding another way out. But Norling looked up and saw me, so I walked towards him. I’d simply explain that I was tired and that I’d like to go home. They had no legal power. They couldn’t detain me. I laid down the challenge – I was going to leave.

  I’m leaving!

  Norling considered. He nodded, offering to drive me. Would it be so easy? I turned the offer down, explaining I wanted fresh air and would prefer to cycle. Norling gently protested, reminding me that I’d just claimed to be tired. I stuck by my decision, scarcely able to believe that my ordeal was coming to an end.

  Even though they weren’t open I walked towards the giant oak doors, waiting for these men to jump me, or stick me with a needle, but the manservant dutifully pressed a button and the great doors swung open and I exited into the sea breeze. I was free. Somehow I’d survived. I hurried down the steps to my bicycle.

  Once I was on the coastal track, cycling fast, I glanced back. Norling’s expensive car was emerging from his discreet garage like a spider creeping out of a hole. He was following me. I turned face forward and, ignoring the pain from my blisters, flattened my feet on the pedals and accelerated. Norling’s car could’ve overtaken me, but he was shadowing me into town. I raced across the bridge, turning sharply onto the cycle path alongside the river, glancing over my shoulder as Norling was forced to drive on the main road. At last I was free of him, if only temporarily, because there was no doubt in my mind he was heading to the farm. Maybe the doctor needed Chris’s consent in order to take me to the hospital. I skidded to a stop and asked myself why was I cycling back to the farm, what safety was there at this farm? My old plan was dead, I’d told them everything. Things couldn’t carry on as normal, there was no going back to life on the farm, our dream was over, the farm, the barn, the salmon fishing, it was over. I’d been lying to myself, pretending somehow the two lives could coexist, but they couldn’t. It was an investigation or denial, there was no compromise, and I’d made my choice.

  I was alone. I needed an ally. The only person I could think of, since you were in London, the only person who might give me a fair hearing, far removed from the events in this community, was my father.

  • • •

  MY MUM’S CHOICE SURPRISED ME:

  ‘You haven’t seen your father for fifty years. He didn’t even know you were in Sweden.’

  ‘I wasn’t going to him because we were close. I was going to him because of his character.’

  ‘Based on what? The man you knew as a child?’

  ‘He wouldn’t have changed.’

  ‘According to you Dad has changed. And over the course of just one summer.’

  ‘Chris is different.’

  ‘Different how?’

  ‘He’s weak.’

  Considering my dad had been accused of the most serious sexual crimes, I’m not sure why this insult struck me as particularly barbed. Perhaps it was the impression that of all the vices, my mum despised weakness the most. And, perhaps, because if Dad was weak then, surely, so was I:

  ‘Your father is strong?’

  ‘He’s incorruptible. He doesn’t drink. He doesn’t smoke. He was a local politician. Whereas that might be a joke to some, in his part of the country that meant he was scrupulous and highly respected. His image and reputation were everything. It didn’t matter that we were estranged. He’d be on the side of justice.’

  ‘Mum, he thought you killed Freja.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would you go back to him when you were looking for someone to believe you? You left him because he didn’t believe you!’

  Rather than talk over her shoulder, my mum rotated so that we were now both cross-legged on the bed, looking directly at each other, our knees touching, like two teenage friends baring our souls:

  ‘You’re right to query the decision. However, in this case, I wasn’t being accused. This was about other people’s crimes. And unlike last time, I had evidence and facts, dates and names. I was asking him to be objective.’

  I dared a provocation:

  ‘The only way this makes sense to me is if you accept that he correctly assessed the events of the summer of 1963. He got it right then. So you think he’ll get it right now?’

  My mum looked up at the ceiling:

  ‘You believe I killed Freja too!’

  ‘I don’t, Mum. But if your dad got it wrong, why go to him now?’

  My mum’s eyes filled with tears:

  ‘Because I wanted to give him a second chance!’

  Since the rationale was an emotional one, I stopped being obstructive, only pressing for some understanding of the logistics. Maybe there’d been communication that I wasn’t aware of over the summer:

  ‘When were you last in touch with him?’

  ‘He wrote to me when my mother died.’

  About ten years ago, I remembered my mum reading the letter at the kitchen table, surrounded by the remains of our breakfast. I’d been at school. It had been the summer term. Worried that the news would distract me before my exams, she’d tried to hide the letter, but I’d caught sight of the Swedish over her shoulder and asked about it. To me, the news had seemed so remote from our lives. My grandmother had never visited or been in touch. She was a stranger to us. The letter had been sent after the funeral, giving my mum no chance to return and attend. Since that was their last communication I asked:

  ‘Could you even be sure of his address?’

  ‘He’d never move. He built that farm with his own hands. He’ll die there.’

  ‘Did you phone first?’

  I decided not to. It’s harder to shut a door in someone’s face than it is to hang up a phone. So, you see, I had my doubts too. Obviously I couldn’t cycle all the way there. My only option was to steal our van and drive across Sweden. I abandoned my bicycle in the fields, approaching the farm through the crops in case they were watching the road. If you doubted me earlier when I said Norling was following me, you were wrong. His car was at the farm, parked in the drive – that didn’t surprise me. The problem was that he was parked in front of our van. There was no way out! I couldn’t accept that this was the end. I’d take the wheel of that van and smash my way out, ramming Norling’s expensive car onto the road.

  At the window I peered inside, seeing Norling with Chris. There was no sign of Håkan but he’d be comi
ng soon. I didn’t need to go inside since the keys were in my satchel. I ran as fast as I could to the van, opening the door, slamming it shut and locking myself in. I started the engine and the old van shuddered noisily. Chris ran out of the farmhouse. As I backed up, he banged his fist on the door, trying to get in. I ignored him, putting the van into gear and accelerating straight towards Norling’s car. At the very last second I changed my mind, driving around the car – otherwise he’d call the police and I’d be guilty of criminal damage. Instead, I drove onto my garden, my precious garden, crushing onions and marrows, months of work, straight into the hedge, bursting out onto the road. The van had lost a lot of speed and sat in the middle of the road. Chris was running after me. I could see him in the side mirrors, along with the damaged vegetables. The view was heartbreaking, but that dream was over – the farm was over. As Chris caught up with the van I accelerated away from him.

  It was inevitable that they’d pursue me, in expensive cars, racing up and down the narrow country lanes, hunting me, and a white van would be easy to spot, so I drove fast, dangerously fast, picking roads at random.

  Once I was clear, using a map of Sweden I plotted a route to my father’s farm, estimating it would take six hours. It was a tiring journey. The van’s difficult to drive, cumbersome and hard to handle. The weather changed markedly, from mild sun to bursts of rain. I crossed regional borders, leaving Halland and entering Västergötland, where I was forced to top up with petrol. In the service station the man behind the counter asked me if I was okay. The sound of kindness almost made me cry. I declared that I was more than okay. I was excited. I was on a great adventure, the last adventure of my life. I’d been travelling for many months, that’s why I looked a bit out of sorts, but I was almost home now.