PROLOGUE
1935
She didn’t know what scared her the most: the man, or the lake.
Both looked dull and familiar, but she knew dark shadows lurked underneath. She had known it all along, without ever admitting it to herself; she had just gone about her day, steering clear of both. She had thought that would be enough, but she was wrong. When the man threw open the door of the barn, where she sat huddled with the boy, she took a sharp breath as a cold wave of panic washed over her body.
“Temptress,” he called her, spitting out the word as if it tasted bitter. “Whore.” He said it like he meant it, and then he took a step towards her, a cattle whip in his hand, his eyes narrowed. She pushed the boy aside and lunged for a corner of the barn, squeezing her body through the opening she had used to get inside. Black windowless walls surrounded her; the only way out was over the lake. If the man stayed where he was, she could slip past the house, keeping close to the shore, and get away.
She stifled a sob. Maybe he wouldn’t come after her. Maybe he’d just whip the boy, who wouldn’t mind so much – he was used to it. Her mind was wiped blank by fear. Not even for a fleeting moment did she consider going back to explain herself; in her panic, she couldn’t think of a way to make him understand she had only meant well.
The sharp crack behind her meant the man wasn’t going to stay inside. He was hacking at the wood with an axe, widening the opening.
She decided she stood a better chance with the lake.
It was late spring, but only the calendar knew this. It was snowing heavily, fat, damp snowflakes clinging to her hair and dress, muffling every sound. No one would be out in this weather. No one would help her. The frozen lake stretched white and peaceful as far as her eye could see, but she knew better. Towards the north shore, where a stream fed into the lake, patches of white gave way to heavy grey slush. That was where the man drove her.
She looked over her shoulder as she ran, slipping on the ice. The boy on the shore would not help; he was paralysed with fear. All he could do was stand there, his eyes wild and pleading, and watch the man chase her.
“You’re dead, Lara,” the man said, not even out of breath. His voice was quiet, not menacing. He was stating a fact. She headed straight towards the north shore, where the ice wouldn’t hold his tall frame. He realized that and stopped. She stopped as well, panting, facing the man across five yards of thin, treacherous ice. Her crimson dress was like a drop of blood, trickling onto a white shroud. She was lighter than the man, but not light enough. The ice would give way at some point. Viewed from up close, it seemed illuminated from within, by some mythical creature, by a sea monster coiled below. The man sat down slowly, stretching his legs out in front of him, thrusting his hands into his pockets. He’d wait her out. He had all the time in the world.
She sat on the ice, too, and looked at the shore, its ragged skyline of tall dark trees and windowless walls, black on black. She refused to look at the man. She still hoped that if she waited long enough, he’d get tired and leave. Then she had an idea. A prayer! A prayer to her guardian angel. The words came easily to her, but she only got to the end of the first sentence when, with a gentle shush, the ice beneath her started to cave in. She gasped. She had stayed still for too long. The water was so cold it stopped time. It bit at her ankles, worked its way into her boots. Her heart jammed somewhere in her throat, but her mind was miraculously clear. She could still escape. This was bad, but not as bad as the man waiting for her. And she knew what to do – everyone who grew up in this country did. No brisk movements. She spreadeagled her body on the ice and started to glide forward, making herself light. Like a bird. She inched her way forward until she managed to drag her lower body out of the water. Now she could crawl. Her feet were frozen, but she couldn’t afford to stop.
Then she remembered: the man. He was still waiting for her, and he was smiling. For an instant, his clear blue eyes locked on hers. There was nothing in them at all.
It doesn’t matter if I lose some toes, she thought. Doesn’t matter at all. I’ll just stay here like this until morning comes. There will be people then. Ice fishermen. Children sent to replenish water reserves. The man will have to leave. Until then, I can’t move.
Her veins were full of ice, and her thoughts slowed. Would her mother come looking for her? Would the boy on the shore call for help? The snow before her eyes was the colour of dead fish.
“You look like a fallen angel, Lara,” the man said. “And that snow on your hair – like a tiara. Do you remember those garlands you made, last summer? Do you remember?” The last question was for the boy, who was approaching them with small cautious steps, his eyes shiny with tears.
The man shook his head in disgust and thrust a hand into his coat pocket.
“Goodbye, Lara,” he said again, and opened his hand. He was holding a rock the size of her fist. He aimed carefully.
As the stone left his hand and flew towards her, she realized what he was doing.
The boy screamed. One piercing note, mouth wide open, eyes screwed shut.
The rock shattered the ice right in front of her face, and she could just glimpse the inky water beneath before it swallowed her whole.
PART I
Beware
1
Hella
26 February 1953, Helsinki
The judge was old and irritated. He peered at me over the wire-rimmed glasses that sat on the tip of his nose.
“Anything to add, Miss?”
My lawyer fluttered nervously by my side. He was fresh out of law school, and much too impressed by the grand mahogany-panelled hall we were in to add anything of value. Still, he cleared his throat, pulling at his too-short jacket sleeves. His wrists were as thin as a boy’s. “Your Honour, in my closing argument —”
The judge waved an impatient hand. “I have already heard your closing argument. What I want to know is what the defendant has to say.” He pointed at me. “You! Why did you attack that man?”
There was whispering from the bench to my right where my victim was sitting, his one remaining eye glaring at me.
“Your Honour,” I said. “I am afraid you misunderstood —” My lawyer drew a sharp breath. That was about the only thing he had told me before the proceedings started: never contradict the judge. Never. And that was exactly what I was doing now. “The accuser was the one who attacked me. I was merely defending myself.”
“With a rusty nail?” The judge’s voice was carefully neutral, sympathetic even.
“It was the only thing I had on hand.”
“Is that right?” the judge said, his beady eyes never leaving mine. “You were in a logging camp in Lapland, which is to say in the middle of nowhere. You ventured into a place inhabited by men, where no respectable woman would ever expect to set foot. Worse, you were in that gentleman’s bedroom. Did he drag you there?”
“No.”
“Then you came to his sleeping quarters of your own accord?”
“I did, Your Honour. That is not an invitation to be raped.”
Next to me, my lawyer buried his face in his hands. Even in his limited experience, I was a crackpot.