TH02 - The Priest of Evil by Matti Joensuu Read Free Book Online

following what was happening inside the cupboard. He could hear panting, whining, the dog crying, but not growling, which he thought must be a good sign, as he vaguely remembered hearing that dogs only growl when they are about to attack.
    ‘I’ll open the door and grab it,’ he said finally. His mouth was dry and he didn’t like it, because he knew that dogs smell fear. He licked his lips and reached into his jacket for his revolver, but decided to leave it there for the time being. Instead he walked over to the coat rack in the hallway and picked up the leash hanging there. It was a robust piece of material, clearly made for a large, powerful dog.
    Harjunpää stepped right up to the cupboard door. He slid one of his feet along the edge to stop the dog from bounding out and placed his hand on the handle – his palms, by now, were sticky with sweat. There came asharp click as Rummukainen cocked his gun. Harjunpää glanced behind him – the last thing he wanted was to be struck by a stray bullet – but Rummukainen nodded reassuringly and pointed his gun at the floor. He was obviously preparing himself for the worst. But now his expression was resolute once again, and the six-year-old boy who had just a moment ago peeped out through his eyes was nowhere to be seen.
    ‘And how are you, Daddy?’ said Harjunpää trying to make his voice as friendly as possible. Something told him it would be wise to keep talking. ‘Come on out of there, boy. No, it’s not nice in there, is it?’ He pulled the door handle down and the padding stopped. The dog was clearly standing right by the door. Harjunpää still couldn’t hear any growling.
    He pulled the door wide open and the smell intensified. The dog was incredibly big. It had to be a cross between a Great Dane and another large dog, because it certainly wasn’t a pedigree – even with its head slightly drooping it was still level with Harjunpää’s chest. It was completely black, and perhaps this made it seem even larger than it actually was.
    ‘Come on out Daddy, you old mutt,’ said Harjunpää, trying to coax it out of the cupboard. The dog sniffed the air loudly and suspiciously, then took a few steps forwards.
    ‘Come on, boy, and we’ll take you for a walk.’
    With slow, heavy steps Daddy finally plodded out of the cupboard and cried, whining constantly. Harjunpää thought how terribly sad it looked, almost as if it knew precisely what had taken place: its mother had died and, in a way, so had its master. It began sniffing Harjunpää’s hand, patting it with its dry nose, and finally licked his fingers.
    There came another click as Rummukainen replaced the safety catch on his revolver.
6. M. M. M.
    Someone called out his name; rapidly, over and over, as if they were thrashing him over the head with a twig. ‘Mikko! Mikko!’
    But he didn’t answer. He didn’t want to.
    ‘Mikko!’
    He didn’t want to be Mikko again, clutching terrified at someone’s legs or round their neck; he didn’t want to keep watch at the door any longer, because it was nasty and said bad things.
    He read through the opening again very slowly, thinking about every word, but it was pointless. His eyes saw the words in front of him, saw the rest of the text, but he couldn’t hear it in his soul. His soul was broken. He had lost count of how many years it had gone on. His sense of rhythm had vanished, and when it came to writing prose, rhythm was everything: it dictated the words, their length and order, the form and structure of sentences, paragraphs and chapters, their size and relation to one another – an ear for rhythm was vital.
    His soul had a good ear for rhythm. But now it felt castrated, a pile of rust and rubble, and in a hushed but persistent voice it argued against everything he did, making things seem shameful and bad and ugly, and simply not allowing him to be good.
    Yet again he felt a strange sorrow slowly awakening within him. Though normally he would have