The Rabbit Factor - Hardcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

With a piercing and evocative style, Antti Tuomainen was one of the first to challenge the Scandinavian crime genre formula, and his poignant, dark, and hilarious The Man Who Died became an international bestseller, shortlisting for the Petrona and Last Laugh Awards. Palm Beach Finland was an immense success, with The Times calling Tuomainen ‘the funniest writer in Europe,’ and Little Siberia was shortlisted for the Capital Crime/Amazon Publishing Readers Awards, the Last Laugh Award, and the CWA International Dagger, and won the Petrona Award for Best Scandinavian Crime Novel.

David Hackston is a British translator of Finnish and Swedish literature and drama. Notable publications include The Dedalus Book of Finnish Fantasy, Maria Peura’s coming-of-age novel At the Edge of Light, Johanna Sinisalo’s eco-thriller Birdbrain, two crime novels by Matti Joensuu, and Kati Hiekkapelto’s Anna Fekete series (which currently includes The Hummingbird, The Defenceless, and The Exiled, all published by Orenda Books). He also translates Antti Tuomainen’s stories.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

I’m looking the rabbit in the eye when the lights suddenly go out.
     With my left hand I squeeze the tube of industrial-strength glue, with my right I hold the screwdriver, and I listen.
     In the half-dark, the rabbit seems to grow. Its head swells, its eyes bulge, the tips of its ears stretch upwards and seem to disappear into the dimness, its front teeth curve like an elephant’s tusks. In an instant, the three-metre figure looks twice as tall, twice as wide and considerably more threatening, as though it were guarding the darkness within it. Now it seems to be watching me as if I’m an enticing carrot.
     Of course, none of this is the case. The huge, German rabbit is made of hard plastic and metallic reinforcements.
     The hall is a large space, tall and empty. YouMeFun. It still smells of children’s horseplay and fast food; the saccharine sweetness of the bakery products seems to cling to your clothes.
     I’m standing between the Big Dipper and the Komodo Locomotive, and I wait. The ladder beside me casts a long shadow across the floor. Light seeps in from the lamp glowing above the main door and from the various lights, large and small, on the machinery and rides dotted throughout the hall. The result is a misty, soupy light tinged with hues of EXIT-sign green, stand-by orange and power-button red.
     Only a short while ago, in a situation like this, I would have assumed the reason for the sudden disappearance of the lights was surely a power cut or a technical problem with the lights themselves. But recent events have taught me that what once seemed likely, as per the laws of probability, is more often than not in the realm of the impossible. And vice versa: what once I would have been able to discount through a simple calculation of probability ratios and risk analysis is now in fact the entirety of my life.
     Footsteps. I don’t know why I didn’t hear them sooner.
     The final customers left the hall an hour ago. The last member of staff went home thirty minutes ago.
     Since then I have been working by myself, checking the rides and machines, and I’ve even crawled through the Strawberry Fields Labyrinth with rubber gloves on my hands; children leave all sorts of things in the labyrinth, everything from food and clothes to the contents of their nappies. I have climbed up umpteen platforms, terraces and doorways, cleaned the Ghost Tunnel and more than a few of the Turtle Trucks, checked that the vines in Caper Castle aren’t twisted round one another but are fully operational, attached to the poles and ready for tomorrow’s sticky-fingered little Tarzans. Then I began attending to the broken rabbit. I can’t understand how anyone managed to make its right ear fall off. The ear starts growing at a height of two and a half metres. The average height of our clients is around one metre, twenty centimetres, and the median is lower still.
     With some degree of exactitude, I identify the footsteps as coming from near the Curly Cake Café. They belong to someone trying to move as quietly as possible but whose sheer bulk makes this impossible.
     I move a few metres to the side, then take a number of quick steps back towards Caper Castle. Just then I catch my first glimpse of the new arrival. The stocky man, dressed in dark attire, is walking as cautiously as he can. He seems to be looking for me at the foot of the rabbit, but I’ve already made it to the protective shadows of the garage housing the Turtle Trucks. I continue moving backwards and head for the gates of Caper Castle. From there, a pathway runs behind the Secret Waterfall. This isn’t a real waterfall, of course; it’s a climbing wall made of blue ropes. Once inside, getting myself out of Caper Castle will be another matter altogether. That being said, I’m not planning on trying to escape in one of the Turtle Trucks, whose top speed is ten kilometres an hour.
     The man has come to a stop in front of the rabbit. I see him in profile, the emergency light above the front door illuminates him from behind, forming a toxic-green halo around his shaven head. He is carrying something in his right hand. Both man and rabbit are standing about twenty metres away, at a diagonal to me. The entrance to Caper Castle is about seven metres to my ten o’clock. I take a few silent steps. I’m halfway there when the man suddenly turns. He sees me and his hand rises into the air.
     A knife.
     A knife is better than a pistol. Quite simply. But I don’t hang around to calculate their respective probability ratios.
     I dive inside Caper Castle. I overcome the first section – the wobbly stairs – and hear the man behind me. He isn’t shouting for me to stop, isn’t bellowing. He’s come here to kill me. The room with the slanted floors is equipped with banisters that help guide me through the space. Escaping is harder and much slower than I’d expected. Light drips in through two plastic windows. The man appears at the entrance to the room. He stops, perhaps to gauge the situation. Then he sets off after me. With his free hand, he grabs the banister to give himself momentum, gripping it like he would a barbell. It works, and I’m beginning to doubt my plan.
     I reach the door, step into the freely spinning, metre-long Tumble Tunnel and instantly fall onto my right side. The barrel of the tunnel is turning as though it were a unit of its own, independent from everything else. I trip a few times before I’m able to get up on my hands and knees. I crawl towards the opening at the other end. The large man steps into the Tumble Tunnel, and all my equilibrium is gone. Even on all fours, staying upright is impossible. I hear the man slam against the walls and base of the barrel. He doesn’t shout. The sound he makes is more a loud snort, almost a roar. We roll around inside the barrel like two drunken, legless friends.
     He’s gaining on me.
     I make it to the other end of the Tumble Tunnel, crawl a metre, another, then clamber to my feet again. The world is spinning and swaying; it’s like walking in a squall. I approach what are called simply The Steps. The tips of these columns, designed for feet much smaller than mine, are part of my plan. This is why I’ve kept hold of the tube of superglue. I open the cap and squeeze glue across the steps behind me. The man’s progress is slowed now as he tries to maintain his balance, making the glue more effective on the soles of his shoes.
     I hobble onwards, leaving a trail of glue behind me. The Steps seem suspended in the air, somewhere between the first and second floors of the entrance hall. There’s more light. It’s as though all the individual spotlights in the room have joined together to allow me to walk unhindered. It feels like I’m walking a tightrope through a bright, star-lit night. I take care to stay on The Steps. There’s nothing dangerous beneath us, only a soft, deep sea of sponge. But falling now would fatefully slow my journey. I glance over my shoulder and see…
     …the knife.
     And right then, from the motion of the man’s arm, I remember a knife isn’t only designed for close combat. You can also…
     …throw it.
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