Black Noise

by Hiltunen, Pekka

  Paddy wanted to know everything Lia had to report about the operation the police were planning, but that wasn’t much.

  ‘Twelve places,’ Paddy said, thoughtful. ‘In London.’

  ‘We landed on the right place with eight cameras,’ Lia said.

  ‘Still. Twelve places under surveillance is… outrageously few.’

  As Lia was leaving the Studio, Paddy asked how Mari was.

  That was hard to answer. What could she say to that, she couldn’t say that Mari was probably just lying in bed? She couldn’t tell about Mamia or the Laboratory.

  ‘I don’t really know,’ Lia said truthfully. ‘She needs time.’

  How was Mari really doing? Lia wondered that night in Hampstead. She knew that Mari would get in touch if she needed urgent help. But how long could she keep to her flat, sheltered from the world? Was hiding at home good or bad for her? Might Mari disappear somewhere as she had done before?

  With Gro by her side, Lia set out on a run. The dog was excited to get out, but she was also clearly nervous. She wasn’t used to spending the day alone in a small flat, and she didn’t understand where her previous life had gone. She constantly tried to stay close to Lia.

  Lia felt like the best thing she could do for her was tire her out, so they ran late into the evening.

  We’re quite the pair. A frightened dog and a frightened woman.

  The paths of Hampstead Heath were quiet. At the same time around the city hundreds of police officers were preparing for an enormous manhunt.

  Somewhere in London, at a gay bar, someone might become the next victim.

  Lia ran with Gro until she couldn’t go any further herself. She had to go home and sleep. Her body was giving way although her mind was occupied with difficult questions.

  Will they catch him tonight? What will come of all of this?

  And how is Mari doing, really?

  25.

  Mari lies at home in Hoxton, in her own bed, awake but eyes shut tight. She dreams of Berg.

  Berg is in her dream with her. They walk cobblestoned streets, they walk asphalt streets. What is this place? Sweden, the land of Berg’s ancestors and where his family still lives.

  Mari smiles at Berg, and Berg smiles back.

  Mari has never been to Sweden with Berg, but in this state between dreaming and waking they are there. Dear old man, Mari thinks.

  ‘Would you like to meet my relatives?’ Berg asks. Berg’s placid voice that always says how much he respects others.

  ‘No,’ Mari says. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’re dead.’

  The peaceful old man in the overalls turns serious.

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  Mari knows her dream is absurd. She knows she is in some sort of stupor, but she can’t force herself out of the state.

  She sees Berg’s relatives arriving. They gather around him. Are you dead? they ask him. Women and men and teenagers and children. Berg has many relatives, and they are amazed to find that he has died.

  ‘I did it,’ Mari tells them.

  Some of them turn to look at her. Finally they are all quiet, looking at her.

  A strange dream, an evil torpor, Mari thinks, and the dream continues even though she knows she’s dreaming.

  This is the moment of her confession. Mari doesn’t say anything, and no one else in the dream says anything else any more either, but everyone knows what happened.

  Berg is dead. Berg is dead because years ago Mari approached him, befriended him and asked him to join the Studio.

  Mari did Berg a favour. She tied him to herself with kindness.

  The Miracle Girl. That was what Berg called her then. Mari offered Berg a job that was a dream come true, but there had been much more to it than that. A deep respect had grown between them. An unassuming, convivial regard, and a shared satisfaction with the things they created.

  It is an indisputable fact that Mari used kindness to draw Berg to herself and that he wanted to come. It is just as indisputable a fact that by founding the Studio, planning its dangerous work and using that to change the world without regard for the risk, Mari has been playing God. She wanted to feel powerful. She imagined she could create her own little world.

  And here are the results.

  Mari weeps. In her daydreams Berg’s family comes to her, their skin pale and faces twitching. They accuse her. How could you? they say. They are right. How could she?

  Mari weeps with eyes closed and swollen, hurting from crying. She thinks of the man she brought into the Studio, the man she has now let fall.

  She thinks of all the people Berg has been taken from. Who have been robbed of his intimacy. Berg was happy at the Studio, but it wasn’t his whole life, unlike Mari. Berg had a family he kept in touch with, and friends. The events of Rich Lane will spread in slow waves of loss touching more and more people’s lives.

  And when Mari thinks of the small street in Kensington and the man who dragged the body of his fourth victim there, the weeping stops. Her weeping stops, breaking off like a dry branch.

  Snap.

  This man. The video killer. Who is he?

  Mari asks the silent question. Who are you?

  At home in Hoxton, in her bed, Mari opens her eyes.

  Suddenly she knows something about this man.

  26.

  The morning news didn’t report anything about the police surveillance operation the previous night.

  Lia flipped through all of the main channels and searched online. Nothing.

  Not a word about an increased police presence at gay bars, nothing about investigators patrolling near them. There were still several stories about the video killings, mostly dealing with the grief of the victims’ loved ones and their friends and colleagues’ memories.

  One channel interviewed Annie Bayhurst-Davies from Gallant. She summed up the situation: after Brian Fowler’s death, four out of five victims were snatched from gay bars and three of them were gay men. The fifth victim seemed like a heroic bystander who failed trying to intervene. ‘We’re waiting for an immediate police inquiry into why an attack is being waged against the entire LGBTI community,’ Bayhurst-Davies said. ‘If the investigation ignores the special characteristics of hate crimes, it may prevent solving these terrible crimes and increase the suffering of those touched by this tragedy.’

  Gallant had received reports of possible leads. They had directed these reports to the police but were not convinced the information would be investigated immediately and thoroughly.

  Lia took Gro outside. She could sense Lia’s intense concentration on something else. She ran around Lia’s legs a couple of times, but when Lia wasn’t interested in playing, she sniffed at the corners of the statue garden.

  She wasn’t particularly interested in Poundy, the canine statue Lia held so dear. Most likely to Gro the statue just looked like a block of stone, lifeless and insignificant, instead of a frozen dog.

  In the courtyard of the residence hall, Mr Vong approached them.

  ‘I do not believe we have been properly introduced,’ Mr Vong said, indicating Gro.

  Lia wondered whether Mr Vong was pleased or irritated at the appearance of a dog in the building, but deducing anything from his face was difficult. Fortunately he bent down to scratch Gro behind the ear, and fortunately Gro graciously allowed herself to be scratched.

  ‘Beautiful dog,’ Mr Vong said. ‘She must be rather lonely when you are at work, Ms Pajala.’

  ‘Has she been making a noise?’ Lia asked, worried.

  Mr Vong shrugged. ‘Only a little, when I walk past your door.’

  ‘I could…’ Mr Vong continued, ‘I could have use for an assistant of this kind during the day.’

  The offer took Lia by surprise.

  ‘That would be marvellous,’ she said quickly.

  ‘She could accompany me when I do my rounds fixing things. And if I need to visit somewhere else during the day, she could stay in my flat, w
hich is somewhat larger than your otherwise charming abode.’

  Lia nodded. Mr Vong spoke with such sinuous courtesy. How could such a small, everyday offer of help cause such a deep sense of relief?

  ‘What is her name?’ Mr Vong asked.

  Gro, Lia said, after a famous Norwegian politician, Gro Harlem Brundtland.

  ‘I have never heard of her,’ Mr Vong said.

  Brundtland was an influential woman and winner of many awards for public service. Even after she retired she continued doing good. A wonderful person, Lia assured Mr Vong.

  ‘I have never heard of her,’ Mr Vong said apologetically.

  ‘Just as wonderful as the man Gro used to belong to,’ Lia said but then realised she was sharing too much.

  Mr Vong’s sensitivity and tact did not fail for even a moment. If Lia had ever doubted it, here was evidence. She almost felt like hugging Mr Vong.

  The old gentleman did not say anything. He took the dog with both hands and scratched and patted, listening to her small growls of pleasure.

  ‘Naturally such a lovely dog would belong to a lovely person,’ Mr Vong said.

  Out of consideration he did not even glance at Lia, who had to look away to control her surge of emotion.

  The whole day was busy at Level, and when Paddy rang in the afternoon, it took Lia a moment to understand what he was really asking.

  ‘Do you want to learn to shoot?’ Paddy asked.

  The idea felt disagreeable. They had talked about it before, and Paddy had promised to teach her if she wanted, but Lia hadn’t really considered it seriously.

  ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a useful skill,’ Paddy said.

  There wasn’t anything special about it, Paddy explained. Shooting was a skill with a frightening reputation, but when you tried it, the emotions surrounding it started to fall away.

  ‘Or, actually, they change. A lot of people fear shooting, but learning how to do it lessens the fear. Instead you have a new experience, the feeling of overcoming fears.’

  ‘Why right now?’ Lia asked.

  ‘It’s a skill you need for your own safety,’ Paddy said. ‘At least the basics of handling a weapon. If you want we can continue beyond that later.’

  Of course Lia grasped the underlying reason: what had happened to Berg. And the idea could have come from Mari originally. Paddy certainly wasn’t ringing at Mari’s behest right now, but they had probably talked the issue over previously at the Studio.

  Lia was tired, and the thought of handling a weapon aroused difficult emotions. But Paddy and Mari considered it important, and Lia knew they were right in a way.

  If I need to learn to shoot someday, then why not now?

  After work and after checking with Mr Vong that he could keep Gro through the evening, she went to the address in Harrow Paddy had given her.

  She was surprised when she arrived. Lia had expected to see other people practising at the firing range, but Paddy took her into a basement that turned out to be almost completely deserted.

  At the Harrow Rifle & Pistol Club only the dark-eyebrowed proprietor, Bob Pell, was on the premises. Pell greeted Paddy as an old customer.

  ‘First we need to establish our own rules,’ Paddy explained.

  Britain’s weapons laws were among the strictest in Europe, and for all practical purposes handguns had been outlawed since the 1990s. Behind the ban was a series of dreadful mass shootings, and strict regulations had been imposed even for target shooting. The Harrow range usually operated completely legally, but Pell also ran a side business: secret unauthorised practice with handguns.

  ‘Everything else happens according to the same safety regulations as legal practice sessions,’ Paddy assured Lia.

  No new members had been allowed into the shooting club for years, and their activities were limited as well. Pell had known everyone who came for years and could offer certain trusted customers turns on the range when they could be more flexible about the legal issues. At any other range Lia never would have got anywhere near a gun this quickly without membership and a careful police background check.

  Paddy taught the basics of weapon handling with precision and so calmly that Lia immediately forgot they were doing anything illegal. It was almost as if she were learning to play a musical instrument. Paddy told her that he remembered teaching all of the Studio’s employees the same way.

  ‘Including Maggie?’ Lia asked, astonished. ‘And Mari?’

  ‘Yes, them too.’

  Maggie hadn’t been particularly interested, but Mari was quite a good shot, Paddy said. Mari didn’t like guns, but Paddy had never met anyone who approached learning as efficiently as her.

  ‘I think she can learn just about anything in a matter of minutes,’ Paddy said.

  The thought of Mari as a quick learner gave Lia chills. Just a couple of days earlier she had heard from Mamia about the Laboratory and Mari’s strange childhood.

  ‘And Berg?’ Lia asked.

  Berg was an excellent marksman.

  ‘That wasn’t why Kensington happened,’ Paddy said seriously. ‘He could have hit that bastard from any distance. The killer was just faster. The thought of shooting a person was so foreign to Berg that he probably couldn’t believe the man would really shoot him.’

  Lia was impressed by the strict rules followed even at a range like this. There were specific commands that ensured safety: you couldn’t fire a single shot until the range master declared Commence fire. Weapons always had to be carried muzzle-down, breech open and ammunition clip removed.

  Paddy had Lia practise a relaxed but completely controlled firing stance for a long time before letting her even touch a gun. The first shots were with a light air pistol like many beginners all over the country used.

  When Paddy brought Lia a Heckler & Koch P7 pistol, the mood changed. Just taking it in her hands, Lia felt her senses sharpen. Paddy had chosen this weapon specifically for her because it was relatively small and had an unusual safety mechanism, a lever that prevented the weapon from discharging unintentionally when the shooter released her grip on the gun.

  ‘Easy,’ Paddy said. ‘This one is going to kick more.’

  The first shots with a real pistol were like jumping into cold water, Lia thought. Everything tingled, and she felt like running away. She ordered herself to keep going.

  Since the shooting itself happened so fast, she had to struggle to keep up with the situation. Her arms began to fatigue, but she shook them between practice rounds.

  She liked that the gun felt like a precision instrument and that she had to learn a completely new way of gripping something. A grip you did with your whole body. Paddy watched her stance and eyes the entire time.

  ‘Very good,’ he said, praising her aim.

  Aiming was difficult for a lot of people at first, he said. Often it was difficult to get used to finding the right trajectory for the bullet. But Lia did it naturally.

  Bob Pell dropped in from time to time to check on their progress. He eyed Lia, clearly interested, but Lia ignored his glances. He looked like he was nearing fifty after all.

  ‘There isn’t any hurry for you to learn this,’ Paddy reminded Lia between firing sessions. ‘It’s important you go at your own pace.’

  And in time, if Lia wanted to keep practising, Paddy would show her how to shoot at something other than a round target on the back wall of a firing range.

  Lia considered Paddy’s words.

  ‘You mean human-shaped targets,’ she said.

  Paddy nodded.

  ‘I’m never going to shoot a person,’ Lia said. ‘I’m never going to be in a situation like that.’

  As she said it she comprehended the reality of the situation.

  Here I am imagining I’m not really shooting an illegal weapon. That this isn’t even a real gun.

  Berg was shot. If I’m working for the Studio, even I could end up needing a gun.

  ‘Show me now,’ Lia said.

 
; Paddy started spoonfeeding her.

  There were different places on a person you could shoot for different objectives, Paddy said. Hitting the hands was difficult, but that was a way to prevent someone from injuring you or another person. The chest had the most surface area to target, but shooting there was always a big risk because it was often fatal.

  ‘If you’re in a really bad spot and there isn’t any other way, then you shoot at the head. That kills your enemy the fastest.’

  But the most practical thing was to shoot the person in a place that wouldn’t end their life but would hurt them enough that they couldn’t move properly any more or retaliate because of the pain.

  ‘What place is that?’

  Paddy indicated precise locations on the outside thighs.

  ‘There are several centimetres of tissue here before you hit the big veins,’ he said, pointing to his own legs. ‘If you hit the side of the thigh here, you get maximum effect. The shot won’t kill, but the pain will stop anyone.’

  Another option was to try to aim for the knees, but then you had a bigger chance of hitting a major blood vessel.

  ‘But the hands would still be usable,’ Lia said.

  ‘Yes. But shooting for the legs almost always works. Except in the worst cases.’

  Lia imagined a human pelvis on the round target at the back of the firing range. She raised her weapon. Breathe out, squeeze.

  After the explosions had ceased, Paddy removed his ear protection and looked at how she had done. He knew what she had been trying for.

  ‘Pretty good,’ he said. ‘One went straight into the thigh where it should. A couple went wide. One hit more in the testicles. But there are blokes who need to be prevented from reproducing.’

  Lia grinned, not feeling the slightest bit guilty.

  ‘First time?’ Bob Pell asked Lia as he followed them out.

  Lia nodded.

  ‘Pretty good for a beginner,’ Pell said to Paddy. ‘Where do you keep finding them?’

  This earned Pell enough points in Lia’s mind that as she left she threw him a quick wink.