The Farm

  Seeing my enemies lined up against me, I absorbed the depth of their expertise. They were pillars of the community. And they had an insider, Chris, an ally who could provide them with a host of personal details, perhaps he already had, perhaps he’d told them about Freja. The thought terrified me. But what surprised me most was the presence of the rusted steel box in the middle of the room on a table in among the conspirators, the rusted steel box that I’d placed under the sink many months ago, the box I’d saved from the well diggers, the box I’d found a metre under the soil containing no more than the water-destroyed blank old pages. Why was this worthless old box in such a prominent place? Dr Norling noticed that I was staring at it. He picked the box up, offering it to me as though it were a gift. His soft kind voice commanded me:

  ‘Open this for us, Tilde.’

  I hated the way he said my name.

  ‘Open it, Tilde.’

  So I did.

  • • •

  FOR THE SECOND TIME my mum took out the rusted steel box from the satchel. She placed it on my lap.

  Norling asked why I thought the box might be important. I didn’t know. And said so. It made no sense. Norling didn’t believe me, asking if I was sure. What a question! Of course I was sure. A person can always be sure of what they don’t know. They might not be sure of what they know. But I knew nothing about the reasons these men were suddenly so deadly serious about a collection of water-damaged sheets of paper, crinkled and discoloured and more than a hundred years old, pages that had been entirely blank when the box was first discovered.

  Go ahead and open the box.

  Take out the pages.

  Turn to the back.

  You see?

  They’re no longer blank! They’re covered in writing, beautiful old-fashioned handwriting, in Swedish, of course, traditional Swedish, old-fashioned Swedish. I was in shock. Was it possible I’d missed the writing on the back, presuming them all to be blank? It was so long ago I couldn’t clearly remember whether I’d checked every page or not. Norling asked me to read them. I exclaimed, in English:

  ‘This is a setup!’

  I didn’t know the Swedish phrase. Norling stepped forward, edging closer, asking why I thought it was a ‘setup’, repeating the phrase in English, translating it for Stellan the detective, with a knowing glance as if the phrase supported his theory that my mind was racked with paranoia, my head choked with conspiracies. I stated that the pages had been blank when I’d discovered them. There’d been no writing. Norling repeated his request that I read the pages aloud.

  Let me read these pages to you because your Swedish is not as good as it used to be. The translation will be rough. The Swedish isn’t modern. I want to add, before I start, that no one is claiming these pages are authentic – neither me nor my enemies. Someone has written these pages recently, over the summer. They’re a fabrication. That’s not in dispute. The question you must answer is who fabricated them and why.

  • • •

  I STOLE A GLANCE AT THE HANDWRITING, elegantly composed in unusual brown ink that appeared to have flowed gracefully from a fountain pen. My mum caught my glance:

  ‘I was planning to ask the question after I’d finished reading the diary to you. Since you’re ahead of me, I’ll ask now.’

  She handed me a page:

  ‘Is the writing mine?’

  Using her journal, I compared the two, prefacing my judgment with:

  ‘I’m not an expert.’

  My mum dismissed this:

  ‘You’re my son. Who could be more expert? Who else knows my writing better than you?’

  There was nothing similar about the two styles. I’ve never known my mum to own a fountain pen, let alone use one so fluidly, preferring disposable biros, often chewed at the end as she laboured over her accounts. More importantly, the writing didn’t seem to be a deliberate distortion or crudely disguised. There were no erratic jagged letters. The writing expressed a nature of its own that was complete and consistent. I took my time, trying to find some connection, even if just on a single letter. I couldn’t. My mum became impatient:

  ‘Is it my writing? Because if you say no then you have to accept that I’m the subject of a conspiracy.’

  ‘Mum, as far as I can tell, it’s not your writing.’

  My mum stood up, leaving the pages on the coffee table. She walked to the bathroom. I followed her:

  ‘Mum?’

  ‘I mustn’t cry. I promised, no tears. But I’m so relieved. This is why I came home, Daniel. This is why I came home!’

  She filled the sink with hot water and unwrapped the individual portion of soap, washing her hands and face. She took note of the neat stack of towels, using the top one, drying her face. She smiled at me, as though the world had been put to rights. The smile caught me by surprise, a reminder of her great capacity for happiness. Yet today it felt more like the appearance of a rare and exotic bird, glimpsed only briefly. She said:

  ‘A weight has been lifted from my shoulders.’

  If the weight had been lifted from her shoulders, it now rested on mine.

  She turned the light off, returning to the main room, taking my hand as she passed me, guiding me back to the window, where we watched the last of the sun slip away.

  These pages are an elaborate deceit. Their purpose is to suggest that I’m the author and therefore unwell and requiring help. When I read them aloud, you’ll appreciate the depth of their trickery. There are cunning references to my life. I won’t need to point them out – you’ll hear them. But the handwriting is nothing like my writing, and when you tell the police that simple fact then we have evidence, not opinion, evidence that my enemies are guilty. They claim these diary entries were the product of my sick imagination, that I’d created the journal of a fictional character, a woman living on our farm over a hundred years ago, in 1899, a woman suffering from loneliness and isolation. It’s a bold and creative attack, I’ll grant my enemies that, far subtler than the mushroom trickery in the forest. However, they didn’t count on you, they didn’t take into consideration that I could escape Sweden and find you, my precious son, someone separate from the events of this summer to confirm that this is not my writing and I did not write this diary.

  • • •

  WITHOUT TAKING A SEAT, my mum picked up the pages. She took on the appearance of an actor reading the text to a stage play, but a play she had little respect for, communicating her contempt and distance from the words.

  1st December – Life is lonely on this farm. I’m looking forward to the day my husband returns from his travels. Hopefully that will be any day now.

  4th December – There’s not enough dry wood to last another week. I will have to venture into the forest and chop some more, but the forest is far away and the weather is bitterly cold. There are deep snowdrifts. I will ration the remaining timber, hoping for the snow to ease and my husband to return.

  7th December – The need for timber is desperate and cannot be put off any longer. Snow continues to fall. It will be hard to reach the forests and even harder returning with whatever timber I manage to cut. Once I collect the timber, I’ll pile it on my sleigh and drag it back. I’ll set out tomorrow regardless of the weather. I have no choice. I cannot wait any longer.

  8th December – My first visit to the forest was a success. I dragged the empty sleigh up the frozen river since the snow is thinner on the ice than on the land. My progress was slow but steady. At the edge of the forest my intention was to search for trees that had fallen during the winter storms since these would be the easiest to chop for timber. After some time I discovered one such tree and chopped it up as best I could. Fully loaded, the sleigh was far too heavy for me to pull and I was forced to put most of the wood back. I’ll retrieve the logs tomorrow. But I am happy and tonight for the first time in weeks I’ve enjoyed the warmth of my fire.

  9th December – On my return to the forest to collect the remaining timber I saw a giant elk standing in the mi
ddle of the frozen river. When the creature heard the sound of my sleigh on the ice it turned and looked at me before disappearing among the trees. My joy lasted until I discovered that the timber I’d cut was missing. Someone had stolen it. There were footprints in the snow. It was desperately cold, so it shouldn’t have been a surprise that other people were looking for timber, except our farm is remote, there’s no one near us, and these footsteps went deeper into the forest, not back towards habitable land. Could someone live in these woods?

  10th December – There was no sight of the elk today. I walked further than before. The deep snow makes it hard to find fallen timber and I was exhausted. I came back with very little.

  11th December – I saw the footprints again. Even though they were heading further into the forest I decided to follow them, hoping to find my stash of timber or the person who’d stolen it. The footprints led me to an island in the middle of the frozen river. On this small island there was a timber cabin. It was much smaller than a farmhouse. There was no light in the windows and I’m not sure what purpose this cabin served. It was too small to be a home. Outside there was the timber I’d cut. I knocked on the door but no one answered. Seeing as the timber was mine, I took as much of it as I could. Nervous of being caught, I hurried away from that strange cabin.

  14th December – For several days I’ve been too afraid to go back to the forest in case I encounter whoever lives in that cabin. However, my stock of wood was depleted and I was forced to return, determined to retrieve some more wood from the cabin. I’d confront the person who’d stolen my timber if necessary. Reaching the island, I saw light in the window of the cabin. There was a man inside. I was scared and decided this was dangerous. I hurried away, dragging my sleigh, except the steel runners scratched the ice and made a noise and when I turned back I saw the man outside the cabin. He began walking towards me. I was so afraid that I abandoned my sleigh, running as fast as I could, slipping on the ice, not looking back until I’d left the forest. It was foolish. Now I have no timber and no sleigh. I am in despair.

  17th December – The farm is freezing. I can’t keep warm. Where is my husband? There’s no word from him. I’m alone. My fingers struggle to hold this pen. I must retrieve my sleigh. I will confront the man in the cabin. He has no right to keep my property. Why did I panic? I must be strong.

  18th December – I returned to the island, and the cabin, ready with my axe to defend myself if need be. From a distance I saw light in the cabin window. Smoke rose from the chimney. I told myself to be brave. At the tip of the island I found my sleigh loaded with cut timber. It seems I was wrong about this man. He was not my enemy. He was my friend. Feeling great joy, I decided to thank him for the work he’d kindly done. Perhaps all he desired in return was my company. It must be lonely living in these woods. I knocked on his door. There was no reply. I opened the door. In front of me I saw a deformed woman, her stomach swollen, with arms as thin as sticks. I was about to scream when I realised that the woman was my reflection in a curved mirror. What a strange mirror to own! But there were more strange discoveries to be found in this cabin. There was no bed. Instead, there was a pile of wood shavings in the corner. There was no food in the cabin and no kitchen. What kind of home was it? I grew uncomfortable and left. I didn’t want to thank this man any more. Back at the farm, making a fire of my own, I noticed that all the logs I’d brought home had faces carved into them. They were grotesque faces with awful eyes and sharp teeth. I couldn’t keep them. They scared me. I threw them all onto the fire, a wasteful act, forming a pyre of burning faces. Suddenly I felt a terrible itch on my back as though a creature were chewing into my skin. I ripped at my shirt, throwing it to the floor, but no insect dropped out, just a curl of coarse wood shaving. I picked it up and tossed it onto the fire, promising myself that no matter how cold I became, I would never go back to that cabin. But I am afraid that I will go back. I’m afraid there is no choice. And I am afraid of what will happen when I do.

  • • •

  DURING MY MUM’S READING her contempt for the words had softened. By the end, she’d become caught up in the story and unable to maintain her original distance from the material. I had the impression my mum was aware of the mixed signals she’d been sending. No longer speaking with scorn, she returned the pages to the box:

  ‘That’s the last entry.’

  She closed the lid and looked at me:

  ‘What do you make of it?’

  The question was dangerous, the same as asking whether we were going to the police, or the doctor’s.

  ‘It’s elaborate.’

  ‘That’s how serious and determined my enemies are.’

  ‘Could Chris really have written this?’

  ‘It wasn’t your father. It was Dr Norling. Håkan advised him.’

  ‘Why would he agree to do it?’

  ‘He’s involved.’

  ‘Involved in what?’

  ‘Mia’s only the tip of the iceberg.’

  ‘You’re going to explain what you mean by that?’

  ‘Very soon.’

  I returned to her chronology of events:

  ‘What happened next? You’re at the farm, in the living room. There’s the detective, the doctor. There’s Chris and Håkan. They’ve made you read these pages in front of them. They’re watching you. And then?’

  I was scared. But I pretended to be calm. I refused to take the bait and claim that they were written by Håkan. The diary was a trap. They wanted to provoke me. They expected me to become furious, claiming it was one of them. I had no evidence for their involvement. My tactic was to seem perplexed and a little stupid. I said these pages were a fascinating insight into life on this farm, as though I thought they were genuine. With a theatrical yawn, I then declared that I was tired, it had been a long day and I wished to sleep. Norling asked if I was prepared to visit him tomorrow, in his house, for a talk – just the two of us, no one else – and seeing as this was the only way I could get rid of everyone, I agreed. I’d happily see him tomorrow, after a good night’s sleep. With that promise they left. I suggested to Chris that he spend the night in the unfinished guest lodgings, saying it would be impossible for me to sleep beside him after the way he’d behaved.

  But I didn’t go to sleep. I waited until it was late, three or four in the morning. I crept out of bed and turned on the computer, sending you an email. I was so panicked by the bright light of the computer screen I didn’t have the courage to type for very long. There was so much I wanted to say. I was cautious because Internet searches aren’t secure, they can be monitored and intercepted, nothing is secure, they can find out anything, even after it’s deleted, it doesn’t disappear, nothing ever disappears, so in the end I settled for a single word, your name.

  • • •

  THIS SUMMER OUR LIVES HAD INTERSECTED on only a tiny number of occasions. My dad had taken advice from Håkan and Dr Norling long before he’d even informed me of what was going on. In this war council of men gathered at the farm I’d had no seat and no voice. Either that was because, as my mum claimed, they were working together to cover up a crime, or because I’d so effectively written myself out of my parents’ lives that my dad considered me of little use in this predicament. His reasoning would’ve been that I offered nothing and might myself have required attention when he had none to spare. Therefore believing in the conspiracy flattered me – it absolved me of responsibility, I’d been excluded for devious reasons rather than for deficiency of character. Troublingly, I wondered whether my mum had seen my absence as further evidence of a conspiracy against her. My absence offered her a hook from which to hang the notion that those men were set against her for a specific reason based upon local events. Up until this point I’d been ashamed of having played no part in events. But I was wrong. By not being there I’d played a very specific part. If everyone my mum loved had gathered in the farm that night, from both England and Sweden, could she have so conclusively believed that we were all against
her? If I’d been there, with Mark by my side, there would’ve been no easy way for my mum to incorporate our support for my dad into her narrative, so far only hinted at, but which seemed to be about the sexual exploitation of a vulnerable young woman. I saw my name clearly in the otherwise blank email:

  Daniel!

  My reaction to her desperate email had been breezy complacency. I had no idea that I was being shaped in my mum’s mind as the alternative to my dad, a loved one who’d believe her. Her conspiracy had already begun to live in me:

  ‘I should’ve flown out to Sweden, Mum, after that email.’

  My mum gestured for me to take a seat and I obeyed. She joined me:

  ‘What’s done is done. And I’m here with you now. We’re almost at the end. There’s only one last piece of evidence.’

  My mum opened her purse, as though she were about to give me pocket money:

  ‘Open your hand.’

  I offered her my palm.

  It’s a human tooth. No animal teeth look like this, burnt black, no flesh or tissue remaining.

  Now you’re going to ask if I believe this is Mia’s tooth. You want to ask the question because if I say yes, then you have your proof. I’m insane and you must take me to a hospital.

  My answer is this—

  It’s a milk tooth, a child’s tooth. Mia was sixteen years old so it can’t be her tooth, and I never claimed it was.

  The tooth came into my possession a few hours before Dr Norling’s assessment. My appointment was scheduled for the afternoon – he selected the time, not me, a fact that struck me as irrelevant, but this was of great importance, the sequence of events is crucial, a sequence they hoped would drive me mad.