Raid and the Blackest Sheep by Harri Nykänen

porch. The stronger the storm, the more he enjoyed it. Thunder and lightning only heightened the thrill.
         Once, when the forecast had predicted thunderstorms from the south, he had made a pair of wings out of fertilizer sacks and some old lath. He had climbed to the top of a grassy hill that sloped steeply toward a lake and waited there with the wings on his back. When the storm broke, he ran down the hill, leaping as high as he could until the wind filled his wings, threw him to the ground and tore the fabric off the lath.
         Another time he had built a tree house high in a dense birch, and when autumn storms arrived, he had crept secretly into the fort to sway in the branches with the wind howling all around.
         The moisture in the earth had seeped through his clothes and Raid got up reluctantly.
         A moped whined into the neighbor’s yard. Its headlight stretched across the field almost to the lake. The driver killed the engine and went inside.
         It was quiet again.
         Raid went back into the house. The whiskey bottle was on the kitchen table and Nygren lay face down on the living room sofa, breathing heavily. Exhaustion had evidently caught him by surprise.
         Raid pulled off Nygren’s Mexican boots, lifted his dangling legs back onto the sofa, then tossed a blanket over him.
         Afterwards, he locked the door and stacked two pots and a frying pan in front of it.
         He took another blanket from the closet, went into the bedroom and turned off the lights. He took off his shoes, but didn’t bother with his clothes. Then he watched out the window for a while. The sky was clear, the lake glinting in the moonlight.
         Raid lowered himself onto the cot and pulled the covers up to his shoulders.
         The television antenna on the roof plinked in the wind like a loose-strung harp. The steel roof rattled.
         Raid listened for a moment to the sounds of the night before falling asleep.

 
     
     
    8.
     
    On Friday, Jansson resolved to put down his own rebellion. If he wasn’t going to participate in the rehabilitation, he may as well just leave. But after Anna’s visit, he didn’t want to anymore.
         Jansson resolved to keep his foot on the brake, but still wanted to see what might come of things.
         He had been married for thirty years and had never once strayed. On a few occasions, however, he had come close. Most recently a few years prior, when Huusko had coaxed a couple of dozen nursing students into attending the homicide unit’s Christmas party. One of the ladies would have readily ravished Jansson if he hadn’t fled the scene.
         As far as Jansson was concerned, his wife had performed her role so well that he had no reason to complain or prowl.
         Up until a few years ago, his wife had been the only woman that he had had sexual dreams about.
         Jansson had even bragged to his wife that he was unquestionably the only man in town who had only had sexual dreams about his own wife.
         But last night, Jansson had had a sexual dream about Anna. In the dream, Jansson had shed thirty pounds, and his hair was as thick as it was twenty years earlier.
         He was on a boat, which he had sold years ago after growing tired of its upkeep. On the boat, he had prepared a glorious dinner, complete with champagne and candles. Anna had stepped in naked. She poured champagne over her head and Jansson had licked it off of her soft skin. The parts he remembered were so prudish that he figured he’d forgotten the more sordid details. They must have been hot, though, as Jansson was full of erotic charge and tender longing when he awoke.
         It took a long time before he let go of the dream’s satisfying aftermath and fell back asleep.
         Before breakfast, Jansson forced himself to consider the situation in the cold light of reason. He knew he was in danger of falling in love. He reminded himself