To Steal Her Love

by Matti Joensuu

Genres: Literary Fiction

Synopsis

A strange nocturnal visitor tiptoes through apartments in Helsinki. Nothing is stolen, nothing is destroyed. Numerous women wake to the unknown presence in their bedroom, but in the light of morning, it all seems a dream. At first the police take little notice, and the women themselves began to doubt their own sanity. But evidence accumulates, and the net closes - Tweety, a skilful picker of locks, falls in love with one of his night-time women. He shadows her, daring to approach her secretly only at night. But then, Tweety's lock-picking skills are needed for a break-in by some of his professional criminal brothers. The results of falling in love and a life of crime are tragic for Tweety. For police sergeant Timo Harjunpaa, times are also hard. He is forced in his private life to reassess his values, the significance of those dearest to him, and the nature of love and guilt.

Release date: July 8, 2008

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 216

Sample

The night emitted a faint sound, or perhaps it was a smell, imperceptibly wafting out of the darkness, something soothing like the smell of boats and wet jetty planks, and though Tweety couldn’t quite put his finger on it, he could feel the effect it had on him. It triggered something inside him, opened a hatch long clamped shut at the bottom of his mind, and in a flash he realised that his powers were intact after all.

The power fizzed within him. Particularly around his groin and calves, but more than anywhere else it nested in his chest, residing there like something alive, a cat maybe, or a bird, a silver, gleaming bird spreading its wings in a coat of arms, and there was no doubt: it thrilled him. More than what he had felt in Brownie’s flat, or the emotions Little Foal’s corsets had stirred within him; more than the redhead on Temppelikatu with the black-seamed nylon tights and a pussy shaved as smooth as porcelain. But still he pretended nothing had happened. He stood on the spot, just as before, trying his best not to think about it.

But Tweety knew what he was doing. You couldn’t think about the power; it was forbidden, like laughing was forbidden too. And it wasn’t just any old Tom, Dick or Harry who’d said so; it was God himself. Best not think about that either.

Besides, just thinking about the power frightened the hell out of him. As chilling as when he was little, when the willy-eaters started grinding their teeth in the dark, when you’re suddenly sure a cancer is lurking in your bones or that you’ll catch AIDS if you don’t manage to cross the road before the lights turn red. He imagined Reino dying, Mother Gold too, that he’d killed them somehow, accidentally, without meaning to. And this was more than just spite, it was punishment for thinking about the power, for the fact that the power existed, that he existed. And when all this flooded his mind at once: farewell, power. After that the most stunning woman in the world could have staggered past, stone drunk, her arse and tits almost bare, ready and waiting, but trying anything would have been pointless.

Tweety waited a moment longer. And when nothing started gnawing away at him he glanced around casually, briefly scanned the street in both directions, then let his eyes linger on the other side of the road where the word Nightclub glowed in red lettering. But nothing important happened yet. Only the night danced, its skirt billowing across the sky, and he caught the smell of the bay at Töölönlahti, the faint smell of August, that hazy, dreamy smell that always arose when the swallows flocked during the day.

‘Summer is dying,’ he whispered solemnly, as though he were standing at an open grave, and after a short silence he gently touched the front of his jacket, almost as though he were crossing himself, right by the pocket where the pouch and the knife he had meticulously sharpened earlier that evening lay biding their time. The movement was entirely unintentional, but there was something startling about it, as though within him stirred a barely controllable urge to send someone to the bosom of the earth.

He wasn’t really thinking anything like that; he was thinking that his time would soon be up. His internal clock told him so, it never got fast or slow. He was thinking about how he could walk through doors, and above all about how he was invisible. In that, at least, he was right, as few people would ever have noticed him, though he wasn’t even trying to hide but stood leaning against the wall in his regular spot beneath the archway where so far everything had always begun well. He stood perfectly still – at this, he was a master – and his clothes were carefully chosen and grey. They were even the same shade as the granite of the surrounding masonry, and at first glance he looked undeniably like a part of the building, a pillar or something only dogs would notice before leaving a puddle at its foot.

But Tweety wasn’t waiting for dogs. He was waiting for a woman. It didn’t matter that he didn’t yet know which woman, what kind of woman, but somewhere deep inside he sensed that tonight she might be blonde, a bit like Wheatlocks, maybe even a bit chubby, the kind of woman with supple, bouncing breasts and a sprightly, round behind. And if she had a figure like that, she might be wearing a bodysuit or a camisole – and he loved them. He could just see how it fitted around her: clinging tight against her body, like a second skin. Its straps would be like silk threads, decorated with a small rosette or a flower. And he knew it would have lace cups to hold her breasts like a pair of tender hands.

‘Jesus,’ he sighed and was about to drift off, but he didn’t have time. The nightclub’s door jolted once, twice, but then the person coming out hesitated; perhaps they were waiting for someone. They kept their hand on the handle and held the door ajar letting yellow light spill out into the street like liquid that wouldn’t disappear no matter how much the darkness tried to lap it up. Sounds darted from inside. They were nothing but pounding echoes, but you could tell what it was like in there: dim lamps and expensive drinks, leather and hardwood furnishings, women dressed in silk, threads of perfume streaming through the air like vines. Though all this he knew already; he had sniffed the clothes of many people who had come out of that door.

Tweety looked around: there were no taxis in sight. That was a good sign, it filled him with warmth, and in a flash he was certain that the person about to step outside would be The One.

But it was a man that came out. Arsehole. He was fairly drunk and stumbled out of the door sideways, as though the building itself had popped out a lump of shit. His suit was appropriately brown, too, but in every other respect he looked like the kind of man whose life consisted of nothing but Rolex watches and BMWs. He stood there holding the door open, and a moment later a woman appeared, blonde, and something surged inside Tweety, so much that he had to lower his gaze. He glanced at his shoes long enough to say their names out loud – the left was Pessi and the right Moses – and only then did his throat feel loose enough that he dared take another look at the woman.

By God, she was stunning! His own age, perhaps in her thirties. Strangely she was both slim and well built, like a doll. Her face was beautiful in a doll-like way, almost symmetrical, and her dark-red mouth glowed like a berry ready to be eaten. And her hair… It was almost white and covered her forehead like a curtain, but around the ears it went wild and gushed in curls down over her shoulders.

She certainly had good taste: her blazer was like cream, beneath it she wore a jumper that looked like it was made of silk, and inside that there appeared to be just the right amount of life. It almost certainly had lacy frills, then there was the smell of perfume and skin and armpits warm from dancing. But best of all was her skirt: a very short skirt, green and dazzling like a jewel. It didn’t even try to cover her bottom, and it was just the kind of bottom a woman should have: one that you notice, then immediately want to know what it feels like to the touch.

They didn’t hang around. They headed right in the direction of Töölönkatu, side by side, though with enough distance between them to indicate that this was clearly the first time they had met. You could see this on them too; you could smell it. The man suddenly turned frisky, moved closer to the woman and wrapped his arm around her waist in a familiar, possessive gesture. He might even have given her a shifty squeeze; the woman stumbled, then giggled immediately afterwards. She had a nice giggle, like the sound of a hare bounding away with a little bell around its neck.

Tweety continued to stand where he was. He never starting moving straight away; not even this time, though he was certain they hadn’t spotted him. In any case, he still had to christen them.

‘And your name shall be Silkybum,’ he whispered and stared at Silkybum’s buttocks, and they were certainly worth looking at. They swung pleasingly beneath her skirt as if they were laughing together. They had reason enough to laugh: they knew from experience exactly what kind of fun awaited them.

‘And you can be the Corpse,’ he continued, almost a snarl, and cast a glance somewhere between the man’s shoulder blades. He didn’t really know why a name like this sprang to mind; he normally christened the men Pig or Swine. The name Corpse startled him slightly, like seeing a flag at half mast, but it was too late to change it now. Once the Corpse, always the Corpse, and this Corpse was strolling towards the corner of the park with his arm around Silkybum, and turning left.

Tweety shook his head, dispelling the unpleasant thought, then listened to the night once again, but this time he listened with action ears, pointed ears with hairy edges, like those of a troll or a sharp-toothed beast. A car hummed along Mannerheimintie, only its lights visible, and somewhere in Kallio an ambulance howled, moaning like a suffering dragon being dragged along the street. But the night was still charged and promising, like the opening bars of Thus Spake Zarathustra. But this time it was the strains of Carmina Burana that began ringing in his head, and he pushed himself away from the wall.

Pessi and Moses flashed silently across the pavement; Tweety’s step was quick and relaxed. But this was just for show; he was ready to stop at any moment, to break into a run, to stagger around like a drunk or sink like a shadow behind the cars. He wasn’t even aware that he could do this for everything was stored on a mysterious disk in his mind so that, in any given situation, the right programme would start running by itself.

He came to the corner. Silkybum and the Corpse had passed the hotel and were walking straight ahead. They seemed unhurried, in a way that suggested they didn’t have far to go, and more than likely they were going to Silkybum’s flat, because both outside the nightclub and at the corner of the park she had gestured almost imperceptibly to show the way. Seeing them again, he noted that the Corpse was actually quite stocky, but he didn’t give the matter another thought. He generally never paid any attention to the men involved until it was time to take care of them. And in that, too, he was a true master.

Perhaps he didn’t want to think of the Corpse because he himself was rather short and slender, petite even, right down to his gaunt face and thin fingers, worn away by hard work. Only his head didn’t fit the pattern. It was as though it belonged to someone else, like the bird in Tweety and Sylvester where his nickname came from. It was also because, ever since he was a child, he had wanted to be a bird. His real name was Asko, but he had never liked it. Even before he had gone to school the other children had worked out how to put the letters S and P in front of it.

They walked single file through the night, a fair distance between them, but every now and then Tweety caught Silkybum’s scent in the air, the thrilling smell of sweet perfume, the sour smell of the wine she had drunk that evening. At moments like this he wanted to speed up and close the gap between them, just enough to hear the hiss of her nylon-covered thighs as they brushed against one another. But he let go of the thought and was content with the knowledge that he would be able to stroke them naked later on. It occurred to him how magnificent it would have been to be her corset; he would have spread across her skin, caressing her all over, all at once, though of course it would have felt strange that his face was suddenly elastic and his lips were a row of jutting hooks. But it would have been worth it – unless she decided to throw the whole thing in the washing machine when she got home.

The air was thick with the smell of grass and mud and earthworms. Hesperia Park was just ahead of them. But Silkybum and the Corpse walked past it, carried on along the pavement, crossed the road, and turned right at the end of the hedgerow, and Tweety could sense that they were almost home; it all but radiated from Silkybum. She was getting ready for something; she’d changed the rhythm of her footsteps and even started swaying a little, and she’d just checked that she still had her handbag. Her keys were probably in there. Tweety sped along beside the row of hawthorns.

He stopped when the hedges came to an end, and now his eyes were nothing but two watchful slits. All he could see was Silkybum, then she suddenly disappeared round the corner. It had to be Vänrikki Stoolinkatu, the one that rose up a steep hill. Tweety darted between the cars and, as though it had a will of its own, his right hand kept slipping into his jacket pocket. The bottom of his pocket was full of small pieces of tightly rolled-up paper, like small birds’ eggs, and he selected the second one that came to his fingers – he wasn’t sure whether he could trust the first one, it might have been nothing but a scaredy cat – then with practised fingers he began rolling it tighter still.

Tweety leaned against the wall, held his free hand against the stonework and peered round the corner; skilfully, in such a way that he seemed to grow with the wall just enough to see what he wanted. He had guessed right: they had stopped halfway up the hill and were now standing barely twenty metres away from him. The Corpse had his hands on his hips and Silkybum was rummaging through her bag, gutting it like a fish. There was a jangle of keys and they both burst out laughing.

Silkybum went up the stone steps, the Corpse close behind her, exuding both power and a certain rubberiness, and Tweety realised that they were far drunker than he had guessed. But that was a good thing: the Corpse would last one session at the most, and after that they would have no difficulty falling asleep, and they would sleep very soundly indeed.

The door opened and they stepped inside, or rather the corridor sucked them in, and in a flash Tweety was on the move. With his legs moving like a sewing machine needle he sprinted up the hill, the hand holding the ball of paper outstretched and ready. Magically he could see that there were no other people walking about, no beady eyes, and he could see that the door had already started to close. But he didn’t panic. He was less than ten metres away and, besides, he knew the doors in this house. They were stiff, as slow as mating whales, and the pumps in their mechanisms often held them ajar for a full few minutes.

Pessi reached the step first, followed swiftly by Moses, and with his free hand Tweety grabbed hold of the door handle; it was a thick copper tube and reminded him of a horse’s penis. He didn’t stop the door altogether, he just slowed it down a little. The fingers of his right hand fumbled for the latch, finally located the cold metallic plate and immediately started pressing the paper egg into its angular nest.

Tweety loosened his grip on the handle. As the door stood ajar he caught a glimpse of Silkybum and the Corpse; they were waiting for the lift, standing with their backs to him. The Corpse had his hand beneath Silkybum’s blazer and was fondling her neck. Then the door swung shut. Tweety tried to control his panting as he gasped for breath; he wanted to hear what the lock had to say. And it said ‘click’, but the ‘clack’ that should have followed didn’t sound, and the warm joy of success flooded into his chest.

‘The damn lamp’s broken!’ he snarled almost immediately, as though he were afraid of his sudden happiness. The words themselves startled him; he wasn’t even sure what they meant, but still they bubbled out of his mouth from time to time, often just as his excitement was about to culminate. But now wasn’t the time for culmination or relief, it was the time for fingers tickling in his stomach and for being on his guard. Tweety looked around, this time without waving his arms about. He carefully scrutinised the street, the cars and the houses, and the windows in particular, but he couldn’t see any lights, not even the old lady who often couldn’t get to sleep and who snuck about peering out at the street so that she wouldn’t have to face death so frightfully alone.

He crossed the street and hoped that Silkybum lived on that side of the building, but didn’t turn round to look up at the windows just yet, it would have been too soon, and he imagined the lift arriving and the Corpse holding open the accordion door. CHILDREN UNDER TWELVE MUST BE ACCOM AN ED… read the defaced instructions. And now Silkybum was extending the key towards the lock, and perhaps she was annoyed that the smell of next-door’s meat gravy made the entire stairwell smell like sweaty armpits.

Tweety stopped by the wall of the house opposite and turned around. Silkybum’s house was imposing; five stories high with large, recently replaced windows that gleamed with darkness. He tilted his head; he imagined them walking into the hallway and he sensed that a light would flicker on somewhere very soon, unless her flat really did face on to the courtyard. Still, that wouldn’t be a problem; he could get into the courtyard through the stairwell. Another option would have been to make his way up to the floor where the lift had stopped, and after that it wouldn’t be hard to work out where she lived by listening behind the doors.

A light came on! It was on the third floor, the window on the far right; something inside him registered this immediately. Already he began envisaging the landing, and he knew that Silkybum’s door would be the last on the left after coming out of the lift. The light shining through from the hallway was pale at first, but soon afterwards a lamp was switched on in the living room. It was one of those rice paper globes that women seemed to like so much, and he had often wondered how a thing like that would blaze if he were to hold a flame to its lower rim as a leaving gift.

A figure came to the window and pulled down the blinds. Tweety sensed that it was Silkybum; there was something so graceful about the figure and, after all, it was her flat. The Corpse was probably taking off the fabric excrement he was wearing, but Tweety didn’t want to think about him any more. Neither did he want to stand around loitering for too long; someone might ask him what he was doing or at the very least notice him standing there. Besides, he knew from experience that waiting was bad for him; the power might drain away between his toes, and at the moment he set off he didn’t want to be Asko again, the man who forced his way into his skin and took over his body for days at a time, who stole his clothes and used them as if they were his own, leaving him nothing but rags.

Tweety started walking up the hill. He stared fixedly at the pavement, but in fact he was looking inside himself, examining all that he could uncover in his mind. His mind was an unusual one. Like old sailing ships it had a bridge and a deck and innumerable levels in between which were so dimly lit that you had to carry a lantern at all times. The lowest decks were so far down that the faint smell of formic acid hung in the air and all around came the sound of rustling and whispering, and on Sundays you could hear music that sounded like the insects’ harmonica orchestra.

On the first deck, a naked woman sat in a glass chair, but Tweety didn’t pay her the slightest attention; he couldn’t very well crawl around outside. He knew exactly what he wanted. After a day at work, he wanted to come home to Wheatlocks.




‘Hello, my love,’ said Wheatlocks as she greeted him at the door; she must have heard his Mercedes pull up in the drive.


‘Hello, love.’


‘Looks like you’ve had quite a day,’ she continued. Her voice was comforting, and when she spoke it was as though she gave him permission to be tired, to be himself.


‘You’re not wrong. They faxed the spring collection through from Brussels, but Weckman had forgotten the high heels, of course.’


‘He’s such a dimwit.’


‘Sometimes I’d really love to give him the boot, but he’s got an unbelievable eye when it comes to fashion. It’s as if he can smell next season’s colours.’


‘My love,’ said Wheatlocks once again and moved closer to him, and that meant to hell with Weckman and his shoes. What a magnificent woman, fair-haired, poised and, above all, intelligent. She was his wife. And just then the smell of roast beef and garlic potatoes came wafting in from the flat behind them, while from the living room streamed the soft, relaxing tones of Herbie Mann’s flute.


‘My love,’ she sighed and wrapped her arms around him, and there she remained, tight against him, soft and warm, then she laid her head against his neck and tasted it with tiny kisses. She loved him. And not only because she needed him, benefited from him, spent his money. This was LOVE, like a warm power surging into him through her fingers, and it made him feel good and he knew that life had a meaning after all.


‘My love,’ she ran her fingers down his back, and only then did he realise she was wearing a silk dressing gown that he had brought her from London. It slid open by itself, and he moved his hand to her waist, and her skin felt like velvet. His fingers searched further – and beneath the dressing gown she was wearing a black bra, stitched with yearning like a poem, and a pair of panties, so small they could have fitted in a matchbox, and thin, lace-edged suspenders.


‘My love,’ she whispered, gently unzipping his trousers, then they started moving towards the bedroom. Wheatlocks went first, her buttocks tightly pressed against his groin, and with his right hand he caressed her breasts, their raisin tips, while his left hand slid downwards along her smooth belly, down beneath her knicker elastic; between his fingers there was cotton grass, then suddenly honey too.


‘My love,’ Wheatlocks uttered. ‘First from behind, then the missionary position, then sitting in the armchair and over the desk and…’ He didn’t say anything. His hands spoke on his behalf; he lifted up her dressing gown and pulled down her little panties, Wheatlocks sighed and bent over, and there in front of him were her white hips and her buttocks, and his cock was like a copper door-handle.


Tweety turned on to Vänrikki Stoolinkatu; he came from Hesperiankatu just as before, only this time from a different direction. The first thing he did was look up; Silkybum’s window was dark, just as it should be. They’d had well over an hour.

He headed straight towards the main door, his steps now calm as though he were walking home. Just before he reached the door, he unzipped his coat and put his hand into his inside pocket, and the first thing he felt was the handle of his knife. He fingered it for a moment, long enough to locate the silver skull he had pressed into the wood, the eye sockets, the teeth, and only then did he check that the pouch was there too. And there it was, like a second heart. It was a thin purse made of chamois leather, and when he moved it a soft metallic jangling sound came from inside, as though it contained a collection of brass tacks and an animal slowly gnawing away at them.

He stood on the front step, grabbed the handle, pulled, and the door opened. Of course it opened, he’d never doubted it. He scooped the paper egg from the latch, slipped it back into his pocket and stepped inside, and Carmina Burana began ringing in his head once again, the part where the women’s voices are at their loudest. He stood on the doormat, perfectly still, listening to it, listening as the door pulled itself shut. The blue wedge of streetlight on the floor became narrower and narrower, then it disappeared altogether and the lock said ‘click-clack’, and everything was just as it should be.

Tweety didn’t switch the lights on; he never switched the lights on. He allowed his eyes to accustom themselves to the darkness in peace and tried to imagine what position Silkybum was sleeping in. He had an inkling that she might be lying on her front, her hands beneath her head and her legs slightly apart. Perhaps her camisole was on the floor, now nothing but an empty shell, but it would still carry her scent, and perhaps he’d be able to hold it as he came, low and silent, lying along the skirting board like a giant boa constrictor.

Harjunpää had got a stone in his shoe back on the footpath, and he wondered whether to stop and take it out, but by now it had stopped chafing his foot and he decided to let it be and quickened his step in the hope of maybe getting home sooner, but above all so that he could keep up with the woman in front of him, and to his slight amazement he found that he almost envied her. She was ploughing ahead energetically, amusingly even, in a way that made him think of a bird, a sandpiper or some other quick-footed wader, and he got the nagging feeling that, in comparison, he was like a tractor, an old green Zetor that had trouble getting started.

The woman talked incessantly, explaining what she had discovered again and again. Maybe it was something about her voice. In one way it was beautiful, like the sound of a woodwind instrument, but too refined, and perhaps it was this that made her seem somehow dishonest – not like the people he normally dealt with. The only person this woman was deceiving was herself, and she had a right to do so if she so wished. Harjunpää hadn’t been listening to her for a while, but mumbled politely every now and then. ‘Yes.’

On top of that, he hoped that the woman was wrong, that it wasn’t a body after all but a sunken log or a stone – surely he might at least be afforded this much good luck after all the pain, the crying and the crawling about under trains of the previous night. But the main reason for his sullenness was that it was very early on a Sunday (it was ten to six in the morning; he had checked as he got out of the Lada), and his twelve-hour night shift was almost behind him, or rather it was inside him along with the fatigue, and together they weighed him down like a chest filled with lead and the multicoloured glass found at crash sites.

‘Or what do you think?’

‘Yes, sorry?’

‘I said, what do you think?’ the woman repeated and stopped in her tracks, and for a brief moment Harjunpää thought of answering her honestly: he was thinking of the man run over by a freight train in the early hours, and in particular he was thinking of the man’s left hand, which they hadn’t been able to find anywhere, and the furore that would erupt in the media should it be dislodged from the undercarriage somewhere further north: GRUESOME DISCOVERY AT PROVINCIAL TRAIN STATION!

‘Pardon? I didn’t hear.’

‘I can see that. And to be perfectly frank, I don’t think you’re taking this very seriously – or me, for that matter.’

‘I’m sorry… It’s been quite a night. Three deaths, one manslaughter and a man run over by a train. And now this. And on top of that, a woman was raped and my partner had to go out there by himself. He’s only been in the force a few months.’

‘Well!’ the woman exclaimed, more to her Great Dane than to Harjunpää. She yanked on the lead and the dog cowered in surprise, and Harjunpää admitted to himself that he didn’t like the woman; he hadn’t liked her from the start, though he couldn’t say why. She was in her fifties and, just like her speech, there was something very prim about her, her old jogging suit notwithstanding. On her wrist she wore an intricately braided golden chain and her perfume was one of those familiar, expensive fragrances. As her address she had given the rather exclusive Granfeltintie. Perhaps Harjunpää was truly envious of her, or maybe it was because you simply can’t like everybody.

‘I did say who I am, yes? My name is Helen Ekstam-Luukkanen.’

‘Yes, madam, I’ve written it down.’

‘And my husband is Risto-Matti Luukkanen.’

‘Yes,’ Harjunpää muttered, keeping his expression impassive, though he realised that the woman was expecting a reaction of some sort, at the very least a raising of the eyebrows. She gave him a flimsy smile and set off again. The path soon became narrower, nothing but a furrow running between the twigs and tussocks. Spiders’ webs sparkled in the air, heavy with the scent of dew and moss and the mushroom season. The name Risto-Matti Luukkanen didn’t mean anything to Harjunpää. It only served to remind him that the name of the assistant in the hardware store in Kirkkonummi was one Taisto Luukkanen, and this reminded him that the roof of his daughter Valpuri’s rabbit hutch had broken after Pipsa had used it as a trampoline and he had promised to buy some new wire mesh a week ago.

‘I asked you whether you believe he drowned here.’

‘Let’s take a look at him first… Still, they can drift for miles, you know. If it isn’t a stone, that is.’

‘This is not a stone. My morning jog has taken me past this spot for seven years. Those three to the left are stones, but this is a body, I could tell straight away.’

‘Yes.’

‘My first husband said “yes” all the time, and after a while it became quite unbearable.’

‘Yes… absolutely,’ Harjunpää corrected himself and took a firmer grip on his bag. The handle had been repaired with iron wire and now it had started rubbing against his thumb as if it too had something against him. Be a stone, he thought, just please be a ston