‘What happened?’ I ask, struggling to keep up with Esa.
‘Breakdown of surveillance protocols, I’m afraid,’ he replies. ‘This little commando climbed on top of the wall with the Trombone Cannons and fell off. Probably trying to eliminate the enemy with superior fire power. Admirable boy-scout preparedness, but back-up was AWOL.’
‘Have you called an ambulance?’
‘Yes,’ says Esa. ‘But I told them there was no rush.’
I’m sure I must have misheard. The hall is packed with screaming, running customers brimming with the strength of a new morning.
‘What?’
Esa repeats himself, and I hear the same thing again.
‘Why, for god’s sake?’
‘I performed a quick field bandage,’ he says. ‘The casualty’s mother and father provided first-aid assistance too.’
After the Banana Mirror, we take a sharp left turn and arrive in the area where parents can wait and relax. We find the correct booth, and I see the child lying on one of the sofas. In light of everything that has happened, the child, a boy, seems perfectly fine – except for the scare and his copious weepy tears. As for the parents…
‘Who is responsible for this?’ the father bellows as he leaps to his feet. He is around my age with short, gleaming, dark hair combed to the side in an austere right-hand parting. He is wearing a dark-blue sweater with a logo on its chest showing a silhouetted figure playing polo. The child’s mother has long blonde hair and a white turtle-necked sweater in which the same silhouetted figure continues the same endless polo stroke. Her face is red, her eyes too. She looks agitated.
‘Responsible for what?’ I ask sincerely.
‘Julius’s leg,’ says the father, and points at the boy’s leg.
Credit where credit’s due, Esa has done a good job. The bandages are neatly tied around the leg, and beneath them, serving as a splint, is a straight section of one of the trombone rifles.
‘If Julius is a minor – and it looks like he is,’ I begin. ‘Then I assume his parents are responsible for him and his leg…’
The father shakes his head as though he has just heard the most unfathomable statement ever made.
‘I want to see the manager,’ he says.
‘I am the manager,’ I reply.
‘And I want the police here too,’ he informs me.
‘The police just left,’ Esa says before I have a chance to respond.
I turn around.
‘What?’ the father and I ask in tandem.
‘The detective that was here talking to you before…’ says Esa. From the position of his head and his tone of voice, I can tell he is addressing these words to me. I also realise I have to stop him in his tracks. Osmala, I think instantly. He’s been here this morning. He must already know about the drowning incident on the cycle path.
‘Thank you, Esa,’ I say, and turn my attention back to Julius’s mother and father. ‘What’s most important is that Julius is just fine.’
‘But he isn’t just fine, is he?’ his mother shrieks.
‘It’s only a fracture,’ I say.
‘How can you say such a thing?’ she asks.
‘It’s a fact,’ I say – again sincerely. ‘He is not in any mortal danger.’
‘Mortal danger?’ the father roars. ‘You mean Julius might have died?’
‘Julius, you, me,’ I say, both in reference to my recent experiences and leaning on the principles of actuarial mathematics. ‘Anybody could die anywhere. It’s more likely in some circumstances than others, but the fact remains that it can happen anywhere to anybody at any time.’
Once I have reached the end of my sentence, three things happen simultaneously. Despite the fact that I know I am completely, unquestionably, factually correct, I feel as though I have said something I shouldn’t have. Secondly, the father seems to be trembling, and the ruddiness of the mother’s cheeks seems to deepen further. Esa adjusts Julius’s bandages. Where is the ambulance? I think. For a moment, nobody says a word, then everything explodes at once.
‘This pig wants Julius to die right here in this park,’ the father hollers. ‘I’m going to sue your ass and take your poxy park to court. I’m calling my lawyer right this minute.’
The father takes out his phone but doesn’t call anyone. The mother is kneeling next to Julius, stroking his hair.
‘If he’s left with any kind of trauma…’
‘He only took a hit in the leg, ma’am,’ says Esa.
The mother bursts into tears.
‘You’ll be hearing from us, you con artist,’ the father growls.
Now I am beginning to get agitated. That allegation is unfair and wholly unsubstantiated.
‘I am not a con artist,’ I say.
‘Oh yeah?’ the father shouts and gestures towards the signage by the entrance. ‘Is this what you call fun and games for all the fucking family?’
‘We also inform customers about the rules,’ I explain. ‘And we expressly forbid climbing on top of the rides.’
‘Julius is a free spirit, aren’t you, darling?’ the mother says, her voice bleary with tears.
‘You don’t get to tell me or my kid what we can and can’t do,’ says the father. By now his chest is almost touching mine.
‘It seems I have to,’ I say. ‘The rules apply to everyone equally. That’s the basic principle of rules. Otherwise we’d have anarchy, and that’s a demonstrably worse option.’
The father is about to open his mouth and raise his right hand when I see a group of men dressed in white appear behind him. Without looking at us, they kneel down next to Julius.
Our attention moves to the men in white. They work quickly and precisely. There is nothing about the situation to increase their pulse by so much as an extra beat.
A moment later, Julius is carried out to the ambulance. He looks perfectly calm and happy. His parents huddle on both sides of him, and from their tones of voice I assume they are giving instructions to the paramedics and presumably already accusing them of professional malpractice.
Esa returns to his control room. I decide to forget about repairing the step in Caper Castle for a moment. Osmala’s morning visit bothers me, but I don’t know what I can do about it. Then I think, the least I can do is make sure he has left the park. Is his car still parked outside? I walk into the foyer, pass Kristian, who is on his phone, and move outside. I take a few steps beneath the cool blue sky and allow my eyes to pan across the car park from one side to the other. I don’t think I can see Osmala’s relatively new, deathly green Seat anywhere. The late autumn chill quickly works its way beneath my shirt, and the tie on top of my shirt doesn’t provide much warmth either. The wind catches the tyre mark on my back. I look around one last time, then turn and walk back indoors.
Kristian ends his call as I approach the ticket office. He smiles, the collar of his blue uniform shirt like a pair of tectonic plates, large, stiff and magnificent. His cropped hair is spiked with gel.
‘Fabulous day, isn’t it?’ he says.
‘Hello,’ I reply curtly as I don’t have any superlatives to describe this day. ‘I see Venla hasn’t turned up again.’
I don’t know why I am even asking. Maybe it’s more about solving a mystery than asking as a concerned employer. I notice Kristian no longer seems embarrassed at the question.
‘The key to success as a salesman is true dedication,’ he says. ‘You’re not just selling milkshakes or a hoover or whatever, you’re selling yourself. Success is a state of mind.’
Kristian smiles. Again. Perhaps he never stopped smiling. It takes a moment before I realise quite what has happened. My next thought is that I have created a monster. Kristian took me at my word. He really has taken those courses: the path to becoming the general manager is finally opening up.