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decided to turn from prey into hunter, I turned control of the situation over to Jyrki.
    I craved for a resumption of our little fling so much that my heart ached, and my body seemed to be splitting itself into two climatic regions, one of which was rather tropical. But what sort of woman goes and throws herself at the same guy twice? Say no more . . .
    What if I just swallowed my pride and risked rejection?
    This was such a painful possibility that I didn’t even want to entertain the idea — a matter that wasn’t remotely entertaining. The choice would be his. That’s the way it is.
    As I sat in the women’s loo during our brunch, which had extended well into the afternoon, I had to dig into my handbag, take out my wallet and stuff it between my teeth to make sure my miserable, frustrated whimpering couldn’t be heard in the adjacent cubicle, leaving a series of deep crescents impressed into the brown nappa leather.
    At dinner later that evening, it was barely ten o’clock when I complained of a headache, made my apologies and left the table, my glass of cognac untouched.
    I went back to my room and switched on the television.
    I had to keep my resolve.
    Still, I wasn’t entirely surprised when, half an hour later, there came a knock at the door.
    And no, it wasn’t Riitta bringing me a Nurofen.
     

 
     
     
     
    The doorbell rang. Might have been Tuesday.
    Didn’t answer. Probably the Jehovahs or something. If somebody wants me they can call, and if someone calls it’s up to me whether I answer.
    It doesn’t matter what time you open your eyes. The air's the same: grey and grainy. From the light you can tell day from night, if you want to.
    It’s night when the streetlamps shine a stain on the floor.
    It’s day when the stain isn’t there.
    It’s summer when there’s a stain there all the time.
    The quilt’s sticky and too hot. If I throw it off, soon I’m too cold as the sweat chills against m y skin. Crappy quilt, too thick. Could sleep with just a sheet if I had one. I think there’s one in the bathroom, in a heap in a corner. So many stains on it that it’s stiff in places. Blood and cum; some mine, some other people’s. Or maybe the blood's not mine. Or maybe it is. I get nose-bleeds.
    The grainy air is fizzing in front of my eyes. It could be any time of day.
    The good thing about winter is you can sleep whenever you like for as long as you like.
     

SOUTH COAST TRACK, TASMANIA
South Cape Rivulet to Surprise Bay
Tuesday, March 2007
     
     
     
Heidi
    It might be too late by the time we leave South Cape Bay, or so I’ve already heard Jyrki mention several times as he glances at his chunky multifunction watch. Clearing out the camp took much longer than setting it up, and the moment we step out of the camp and on to the sands along the beach I realize that we’re late. Crucially late.
    South Cape Rivulet is shallow, sometimes nothing more than a creek. It was from the side next to the beach, flowing out from the depths of the impenetrable thicket, that we had collected our drinking water the previous evening. As it flows towards the sea the current cuts across the sands at the bottom of the bay, forming a channel a couple of metres wide. Hikers normally just wade right through it, no problem, to reach the other side where South Coast Track — or Southy, as Jyrki has already started to call it affectionately — continues on its way towards Granite Beach. The water reaches up to your knees.
    At low tide.
    By now the rivulet is wide and deep, although through the brown water you can’t see quite how deep. To me it almost seems like the work of some malevolent magic. I can understand how the rivers flood in Ostrobothnia when the snow melts in the spring or during the monsoon season in tropical regions, but how a river can widen and deepen so dramatically twice a day is beyond my comprehension. It’s almost as though it’s breathing in horrifically slow motion.
    Jyrki looks out at the