The Beaver Theory (eBook)
276 Seiten
Orenda Books (Verlag)
978-1-914585-87-6 (ISBN)
Finnish Antti Tuomainen was an award-winning copywriter when he made his literary debut in 2007 as a suspense author. In 2011, Tuomainen's third novel, The Healer, was awarded the Clue Award for Best Finnish Crime Novel and was shortlisted for the Glass Key Award. In 2013, the Finnish press crowned Tuomainen the 'King of Helsinki Noir' when Dark as My Heart was published. With a piercing and evocative style, 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 (2018) was an immense success, with The Times calling Tuomainen 'the funniest writer in Europe', and Little Siberia (2019) 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. The Rabbit Factor, the prequel to The Moose Paradox, will soon be a major motion picture starring Steve Carell for Amazon Studios.
By night, Somersault City smells very much the same as my own adventure park, YouMeFun: the plastic parts and metallic structures of the various attractions, the cleaning fluids and disinfectants, the residual aroma of the day’s offerings at the café. The air conditioning is humming; outside the icy north-east wind is a billow of snow, testing the durability of the tall metal walls. Otherwise, all is silent.
But I can’t claim to feel entirely at ease.
I am an actuary, not a burglar.
I’m only on my competitor’s premises to … gather information that I’ve been unable to obtain in any other way. But isn’t that too a form of theft? Is this how burglars defend their actions to themselves? That they are merely scouting out other people’s interiors and only taking the things they have otherwise been unable to get their hands on?
I take a deep breath. The time for such considerations is later. I remind myself that, in their short but all the more consequential career in the adventure-park business, the owners of Somersault City have threatened violence against me personally and made perfectly clear – this too, in person – their intention to drive my adventure park into bankruptcy, and the sooner the better.
Light seeps into the space here and there: from the windows by the ceiling a shimmer of the outside lights; the faint green glow of the emergency-exit signs; the Somersault City logo, lit up at the western end of the hall like a large, dim sun. As the seconds pass, my vision becomes clearer. The contours of the rides seem to sharpen, the space in front of me assumes depth and form, the different parts of the hall stand out from one another.
From my previous visit, I remember the topography of the hall with relative accuracy. And I’m only too aware of the lifetime ban I received on that occasion.
Meanwhile, I recognise the Dumbo Dodgems, the Kangaroo Course, the dizzyingly tall Eiffel Bungee and all the other rides, and again I wonder how on earth Somersault City is able to provide all this completely free of charge. In light of the known facts, their aim is either a precipitous descent into administration or they have financial backing from people for whom money is no object. Neither of these options seems especially plausible.
Naturally, I am something of an amateur when it comes to breaking and entering, but I note that at least I managed to select suitable footwear for the occasion. Not only are the cheap slippers I bought from a German supermarket chain colourful; they are soft too and have thick soles. My steps are silent. My first destination is the eastern end of the park, the administrative wing situated behind a climbing wall known as the Baboon Barrier. Of course, I don’t expect to find a report on the CEO’s desk neatly explaining how Somersault City plans to achieve the impossible: to run a profit while behaving in a way that is doomed to financial ruin. Nonetheless, I expect to be wiser by the end of my reconnaissance trip than I was when I arrived.
The baboons are quiet as I pass them. This is partly due to their plastic constituency, but the primary reason is that the electricity bringing them to life is switched off at night: there’s no point in the baboons scaling the barriers without any little competitors to keep them company.
A short flight of stairs leads up to the administration department. The doorway at the top of the stairs is open; there is no door or anything else to impede my view. I arrive in some kind of foyer. On the opposite wall there is a row of windows that allow me to see into what appears to be a conference room. I walk into the room and look around.
A long, greyish-white office table stands diagonally across the room; dark-blue plastic chairs have been left at a distance from the table. The only other item in the room is a flip chart. I walk towards it and flick back through its pages.
One page has clearly been dedicated to a straw poll of lunch options. Thai food received four votes, burgers narrowly lost with only three. I continue flicking through the pages until I reach the first blank page. I think for a moment, then turn back a page. All of a sudden, the page feels somehow crucial.
At the top, someone has written the year that has just started. Beneath that is a list of months. After January is the number 100. After February is the number 0. And after all the subsequent months, the numbers are negative:
March -100
April -200
May -300
And so on, exponentially, until we reach December (-1M).
Whatever these numbers are trying to express, their author has certainly opted for clarity and consistency of presentation.
I return to the foyer.
The right-hand wall is shorter and bears only a poster with a view of the national park – which feels rather curious given the park’s employees, whom I have met and who do not strike me as the hiking type – but on the left-hand side there are two doors.
The first door isn’t locked and opens the way most doors do: by simply turning the handle. The room beyond this door is more of a storeroom than an office, containing everything from a flat-screen television – still in its original cardboard packaging – to packets of oat biscuits destined for wholesale.
I look around for a moment and conclude that, given this space and the conference room, the people who tried to assault me and who have threatened the very existence of my adventure park are decidedly mundane in everything else they do. The next and last office space, however, appears to be the nerve centre of the entire park.
There are papers on the desk, but there are tools too. On top of one pile of papers is a set of pliers stained with chain oil, on another pile is a dirty workman’s glove. I cannot immediately see its pair anywhere. What’s more, I cannot see, at least not at first glance, the reports that were mentioned during my visit, reports whose figures I would be very interested to peruse. I walk round behind the desk and am about to begin a more detailed inspection when I flinch and realise two things at once.
My heart is beating so hard that I can’t hear anything.
In addition, I’ve been using a small torch in the room, though the blinds are still slightly ajar. I switch off the torch there and then and try to breathe calmly, but the humming and drumming inside me only seems to be getting worse. As I realised earlier: industrial heists are not my forte. Eventually, my heart steadies itself a little, the booming dies down. As I try to establish the reason for this sudden anxiety, I move towards the door.
This is clearly the right direction, because I hear a thud coming from somewhere in the hall and realise I heard a similar sound earlier too. I wait. For the time being, there are no more thuds. I proceed silently through the foyer and remain waiting on one side of the doorway. I wait in silence for a long while. Finally, I peer round the doorway into the adventure park, allowing my eyes to pan from left to right.
The Eiffel Bungee, the boxing kangaroos standing almost as tall, the hefty Dumbo Dodgems and…
The Beaver.
The eighteen-metre Beaver and its countless activities, including a DIY foam dam, a tail with a bouncy castle, and a network of slides, is the number-one attraction at Somersault City. The enormous Beaver is lying on its stomach right in the middle of the park; from this angle the gargantuan rodent is partially hidden behind the bungee tower and the elephants. I can see the Beaver’s mouth though. Its large, white front teeth gleam even in the dim. But that isn’t what catches my attention.
Lying on the ground, beneath the beaver’s teeth, there is … something.
I can neither see nor hear movement anywhere. The Beaver’s mouth is too far away to make out what it is about to eat. Of course, the steel-framed Beaver hasn’t been left any literal supper, but this certainly looks real enough. Just as I’m about to take my eyes from the Beaver, I see movement at floor level. At first it seems as though something is trying to extricate itself from an otherwise dark and homogenous mass, then I realise what is really happening.
A hand slumps from a chest. On the floor beside the hand – and this, too, I see only now – is a Stetson.
My heart starts to thump again, there’s a rushing sound in my ears, like standing beside a busy motorway. The calculation is simple – there are a very limited number of variables in the equation: someone is obviously injured and needs help, and it doesn’t really matter whether I am here as an actuary or in some other capacity. (I’m still unsure whether this visit meets the specific criteria for burglary.) And because there is nobody else in sight, I must help this injured person. The result after the equals sign is clear.
I start moving.
I have to walk in a long curve to reach the Beaver because my route takes me past many of the park’s other sizeable attractions. As before, my footsteps are silent. Finally, I walk around one of the Eiffel Bungee’s legs and almost end up in the Beaver’s jaws myself, but I stop before its teeth can reach me – and I...
Erscheint lt. Verlag | 12.10.2023 |
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Reihe/Serie | The Rabbit Factor | The Rabbit Factor |
Übersetzer | David Hackston |
Verlagsort | London |
Sprache | englisch |
Themenwelt | Literatur ► Krimi / Thriller / Horror ► Krimi / Thriller |
Literatur ► Romane / Erzählungen | |
Schlagworte | action and adventure • Anthony Horowitz • Anti • Antti Tuomainen • Anxious People • Beaver Theory • bella mackie • Black Humour • Caimh McDonnell • Carl Hiasson • Chris Brookmyre • Chris Hammer • Coen Brothers • Crime • Dark Comedy Crime • Doug Johnstone • eleanor oliphant • Fargo • Finland • Finnish Crime • Fredrik Backman • Helen Fitzgerald • Ian Moore • International Mystery & Crime • Jenny Lund Madsen • Jonas Jonasson • Kati Hiekkapelto • Lilja • literary fiction • literary satire • Little Siberia • liz nugent • Man Who Died • Marian Keyes • Mark Billingham • Mick Herron • Moose Paradox • Mystery thriller & Suspense • Noir • Nordic Noir • Orenda Books • Rabbit Factor • Rachel Joyce • Ragnar Jonasson • Richard Osman • Robert Thorogood • satire fiction • scandi crime • series • Slow Horses • Steve Carell • the herd • The Man Who Died • The Office • The Trees • Thirty Days of Darkness • Thriller & Mystery Adventures • Tim Dorsey • Tom Robbins • Translation • Vaseem Khan • Winners • yellow face • yellowface • You`d Look Better as a Ghost |
ISBN-10 | 1-914585-87-9 / 1914585879 |
ISBN-13 | 978-1-914585-87-6 / 9781914585876 |
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