The Farm Read Online Free PDF Page A

now. On some level I must have been hoping that a simple resolution could be found in this room, between the two of us, without involving doctors or detectives – a quiet end, a soft landing and a gentle return to our lives as they had been. However, my mum’s energies were so agitated that she was either very ill or something truly terrible had taken place in Sweden to provoke them.
     
    A vast amount depends on you believing me, more than is fair to place on your shoulders. I’ll admit that with so much at stake it’s tempting to exploit our relationship and play on your emotions. However, I’ll resist, because my case needs to stand on its own, supported by facts, not propped up by your devotion to me. For that reason you shouldn’t think of me as your mother but as Tilde, the accuser—
    Don’t be upset! Be objective. That’s your only duty today.
    Throughout you’ll be asking how Chris, a kind, gentle man, an excellent father to you, how can he be at the centre of such serious allegations? Consider this. There’s a weakness in his character that other people can manipulate. He prefers compromise to conflict. He surrenders easily. He’s susceptible to forceful opinions. And he has urges like everyone else. I believe he was led astray, manipulated in particular by one man – a villain.
    • • •

M Y DAD WAS A MAN WHO could name every plant and flower, a man who never raised his voice, a man who loved wandering among forests – allegations of wrongdoing didn’t hang easily off him. My mum sensed my hesitation and responded to it with impressive sensitivity:
     
    You mistrust that word?
    Villain.
    You think it sounds unreal?
    Villains are real. They walk among us. You can find them on any street, in any community, in any home – on any farm.
    What is a villain? They’re people who will stop at nothing in the pursuit of their desires. I know of no other word to describe the man I have in mind.
     
    In this satchel is some of the evidence I’ve collected over the summer. There was more but this was all I could smuggle out of Sweden in such a rush. It makes sense to address each article of evidence in chronological order, starting with this—
    • • •

F ROM THE FRONT POCKET of the satchel my mum lifted a black leather-bound Filofax, the kind that was popular twenty years ago. It contained papers, photographs and clippings.
     
    Originally intended as a place to jot down my thoughts, this has turned out to be the most important purchase I’ve ever made. Flicking through, you can see I took more and more notes as the months went by. Check the pages in April, when I first arrived at the farm. They contain only the occasional scribble. Compare that to July, three months later, writing squeezed into every line. This book was a way of figuring out what was going on around me. It became my companion, a partner in my investigation. No matter what others say, here are the facts written down at the time events took place, or at most a few hours after. If it were possible to analyse the aging of the ink then forensic science would support my claim.
     
    Every now and then I’m going to pause and refer to these notes in order to prevent any mistakes. No artistic licence is allowed. If I’m unable to remember a particular detail and it isn’t written down I won’t attempt to fill in the blanks. You need to believe that every word I say is true. Even a harmless descriptive flourish is unacceptable. For example, I will not state that there were birds singing in the treetops unless I can be sure of it. If you suspect I’m embellishing rather than presenting the bare bones of what actually happened my credibility will suffer.
     
    Finally let me add that I’d do anything for the troubles of these past months to exist solely in my mind. My God, that explanation would be easy. The horror of an asylum and the humiliation of being branded a fantasist would be a small price to pay if it meant that the crimes I’m