A voice echoed through the fog of thoughts, a voice she knew well. She opened her eyes, lifted her head and saw her grandmother for the first time in four days. On stage, with Hagar standing right behind her.
She was so flabbergasted that she lost control of the Power and was overwhelmed by a wave of jumbled, frightened thoughts that drowned out the sound of her Nana’s voice. She caught something about ‘souls’ before Elvy was forced down from the stage. Flora ran over.
A guard was holding Elvy by the shoulders, but he let go just as Flora arrived, his attention now directed at a besuited man by the sound equipment. The guard raised a finger at the man, at the amplifier, ‘…get the hell away from those things. You stay right here.’
‘Nana!’
Elvy looked up and Flora winced. Elvy had aged so much since they last saw each other. Her face was grey and sunken; she had dark circles under her eyes as if she had not slept in several days. The arms that embraced Flora were slack and thin.
‘Nana, how are you?’
‘Fine.’
‘You don’t look well.’
Elvy fingered a scab on her forehead. ‘Perhaps I’m a little…tired.’
The guard shoved the younger man over to Elvy and said, ‘Now you get away from here, right now.’
Many people had assembled around them, mostly older women who walked over to Elvy, patting her and whispering among themselves.
‘Nana,’ Flora said. ‘What are you doing?’
‘Hi,’ the younger man held out his hand and Flora shook it. ‘Are you Flora?’
Flora nodded and dropped the man’s hand. She could not read him through the murmur, which was both an unusual and disconcerting feeling. Hagar came over and patted Flora’s arm. ‘Hello dearie. How are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ Flora said and gestured at the stage. ‘What was that?’
‘What? Oh, sorry,’ Hagar fiddled with something behind her ear. ‘What did you say?’
‘I’m just wondering what you’re doing.’
The man answered for Hagar.
‘Your grandmother,’ he said in a tone that implied that Flora should be proud to be her granddaughter, ‘received a message that people need to be saved. That there isn’t much time. That it has to be done now. We are her assistants in this struggle. Are you a believer?’
Flora shook her head and the man gave a laugh.
‘That’s almost comical, isn’t it? From what I understand you ought to have been the first to sign on after what both of you experienced that evening in the garden…’
Flora felt creeped out that the man knew about an experience that she herself had not shared with anyone. Elvy was being taken care of by her old ladies and for a moment Flora had a vision that her haggardness was because those helping hands were in fact sucking the life out of her.
‘Nana? What is the message you have received?’
‘Your grandmother…’ the man started, but Flora ignored him and walked over to Elvy, laying a hand on her arm. Perhaps because they were so close to the reliving Flora found a sharp image projected into her head: a woman in a television screen, surrounded by a bright light.
…Their only salvation is to come to me…
The television turned off, the image faded and Flora stared into Elvy’s tired eyes.
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know. Just that I have to do something. I don’t know.’
‘But you can’t handle it. I can see that.’
Elvy closed her eyes half-way and smiled.
‘Oh, I think I can handle it.’
‘Why don’t you answer when I ring you?’
‘I will. I’m sorry.’
One of the women came over and stroked Elvy’s back.
‘Come along, love. We’ll have to think of something else.’
Elvy nodded faintly and allowed herself to be led away. Flora called out to her, ‘Nana! I’m going in to see Grandpa.’
Elvy turned around. ‘You do that. Give him my best.’
Flora stayed where she was, her arms hanging, unsure what to do. When all of this was over, when she had seen what there was to be seen she would go out to Elvy’s and…free her? Well, do something. But not now. Now she had to see.
She joined the line, trying to recall the image that Elvy had sent to her. She did not understand. Was it a television program? She thought she vaguely recognised the woman, but could not place her.
An actress? Daddy all the flowers his hand the lid the earth
It was impossible to think logically with all of these people around. She was forced to put her thoughts in a sealed box, which floated and bobbed around in the others’ streams; she could not focus.
In front of her there was a child holding a man by the hand. Next to them was an older gentleman, fidgeting. The incomprehensible image of a rabbit flashed through her head. It hopped around for a couple of moments in the streams and was washed away by coffins, earth, vacant eyes, guilt.
Their only salvation is to come to me.
Yes, Flora thought. People needed some kind of help, that much was clear. She was almost up at the gates now and could see with her normal vision how the people around her were becoming grimmer, more determined; she felt how they tried, and failed, to damp down their fear. Like children on their way into the ghost train for the first time: what is it in there, anyway?
Someone pushed her in the back, she heard a woman’s voice: ‘Lennart, what is it?’
The man’s voice was throaty, ‘Well, I don’t know…I don’t know if I…can handle this…’
She turned around and saw a man being supported by a woman. The man’s face had a greyish cast, his eyes were wide. The gaze met Flora’s and he pointed into the area and said:
‘Dad…I didn’t like him. When I was little, he used to…’
The woman pulled on the man’s arm, shushing him and smiling apologetically at Flora who instantly saw their whole marriage, the man’s childhood. What she saw made her turn away from them with a shudder.
‘Eva Zetterberg.’
It was the man in front of her who spoke, the man with the child. The guard with the lists asked, ‘And you are?’
‘Her husband,’ the man replied and pointed to the boy and the older man. ‘Her son, her father.’
The guard nodded and flipped through to one of the last pages in his packet, running his finger down the column.
The rabbit, the rabbit…
Bruno the Beaver. And a rabbit. A baby rabbit in a pocket. Even the boy, Eva Zetterberg’s son, was thinking about a rabbit. The same rabbit. This is what they looked like, her family. And they were thinking about a rabbit.
‘17C,’ the guard said and pointed into the compound. ‘Follow the signs.’
The family set off quickly through the gates. Flora caught a sense of relief and she memorised 17C. The guard looked sternly at her.
‘Tore Lundberg,’ Flora said.
‘And you are?’
‘His granddaughter.’
The guard looked appraisingly at her, evaluating her clothing, her black-painted eyes, her big hair and she realised she would not be let in.
‘Can you prove it?’
‘No,’ Flora said. ‘Afraid not.’
It was meaningless to engage in a debate; the guard was thinking about cobblestones, youths prying up cobblestones.
She walked away from the gates and followed the fence, letting her fingers trail across the chain links. The streams of thoughts faded away, becoming fainter the farther away she got and it was like coming inside after a storm. She continued until the people inside her died away then sat down in the grass, taking a mental breather.
When she felt OK again she continued along the fence until the angle of the buildings shielded her from the guards at the gate. The fence looked perverse, quite disconnected from the people it was supposed to keep out or keep in. A military neurosis.
There would be no real problem climbing it, the problem was the open area between her an
d the buildings. It surprised her that there were no other guards on; if it had been a concert, for example, they would have been posted every twenty metres. Maybe they hadn’t been counting on people wanting to sneak in.
So why the fence?
She heaved her backpack over, grateful that her favourite sneakers had fallen apart and she’d worn her boots; their narrow points fit perfectly into the wide links and she was over in ten seconds. She crouched down on the other side—pointlessly, since she stood out like a swan on a telephone wire—and eventually concluded that her break-in didn’t seem to have triggered any activity. She wrestled her pack back on and walked toward the buildings.
Koholma 12.30
Mahler had been prepared for the situation they now found themselves in. The boat at the dock was bailed out and fuelled up. He laid Elias down, stepped into the boat and took the bags and the cooler Anna held out to him.
‘Life jackets,’ Anna said.
‘We don’t have time.’
Mahler saw the vests hanging on the hooks in the shed, saw also that Elias had outgrown his.
‘He’s lighter now,’ Anna said.
Mahler shook his head and stowed the bags. Together they made a bed for Elias on the floor with a blanket and Anna cast off while Mahler tried to start the engine. It was an antique twenty horsepower Penta and as Mahler pulled the cord he wondered if there were any statistics on exactly how many heart attacks troublesome outboard motors had caused through the ages.
…don’t av…ight…ack…elker
After eight futile attempts he had to take a break. He sat in the stern and rested his arms on his knees.
‘Anna? Did you just say, “You don’t have the right knack, Mr Melker?”’
‘No,’ Anna said. ‘But I was thinking it.’
‘Ah.’
Mahler looked at Elias. His shrivelled face was unmoving, the half-closed black eyes staring at the sky. During their walk down to the dock Mahler had felt very clearly what he had earlier only guessed: that Elias was lighter, much lighter since that night four days ago when he had risen from his grave.
There was no time to think. How long would it take before Aronsson called, before someone came? He rubbed his eyes; a faint headache was starting.
‘Take it easy,’ Anna said. ‘I’m sure it’ll take at least half an hour.’
‘Can you please stop,’ Mahler said.
‘Stop what?’
‘Stop…being in my head. I get it. You don’t have to prove it.’
Anna said nothing as she crawled down from the bench and sat down on the blanket next to Elias. The sweat ran into Mahler’s eyes, stinging. He turned to the motor and jerked so forcefully on the rope that he thought it would snap. Instead the engine roared into life. He eased the choke, put it in drive and they glided off.
Anna sat with her cheek lightly resting against Elias’ head. Her lips were moving. Mahler brushed the sweat out of his eyes and felt there was a secret here he was not privy to. He had read about the telepathic phenomena with regard to the reliving but he couldn’t read Anna. Why not, when his own consciousness was an open book to her?
The wind, as promised by the shipping forecast, was weak to moderate. The waves clucked against the plastic hull as they zoomed out of the sound. Occasional breakers could be seen out in the bay.
‘Where are we headed?’ Anna shouted.
Mahler did not reply, simply thinking Labbskär Island in defiance.
Anna nodded. Mahler turned the throttle up full.
It wasn’t until they reached the Finland ferry route and Mahler had checked that there were no ferries around that he realised he had forgotten to bring the map. He closed his eyes and visualised their course.
Fejan…Sundskär…Remmargrundet…
As long as they could follow the ferry route there were no problems. And he seemed to remember that the radio mast on Manskär would be right ahead of them until it was time to turn south. Then it got harder. The waters around Hamnskär were treacherous and lined with reefs.
He glanced at Anna and received an inscrutable look in return. She knew that they did not have the map and were in danger of getting lost. Probably she also saw the outline of the map he was trying to sketch inside his head. It was unpleasant, like being watched through a two-way mirror. He didn’t like the fact that she could read his thoughts. He didn’t like the fact that she could read that he didn’t like the fact that she could read his thoughts. He didn’t like the fact that…
Stop it!
That’s just how it is. For an instant when he had started the motor he had heard her. Why only then? What had he done in that moment that had led to…
He looked up and felt his heart lurch. He did not recognise their surroundings. The islands gliding past were nondescript, unfamiliar. A couple of seconds after he thought this, Anna sat up and looked over the railing. Mahler’s gaze roved across the blurring landmasses with growing panic. Nothing. Just islands. It was like waking up in an unfamiliar room where you’d passed out drunk: complete disorientation, the feeling of being in another world.
Anna pointed across the port railing and shouted, ‘Is that Botveskär?’
Mahler squinted through the sun glitter, saw the white dot at the very tip of the island. Botveskär? In that case the dot straight ahead was Rankarögrund and…yes. The map fell into place. He veered east and within a minute he was back in the main passage again. He looked at Anna, thought thank you. Anna nodded and returned to Elias.
After travelling in silence for a quarter of an hour they drew close to Remmargrund. Mahler was looking south, trying to find the inlet where they should turn in, when he heard a sound through the roar of the motor. A deep, bassy thumping sound. He looked around but there was no sign of the ferry he was expecting to see.
Foumfoumfoum.
Was it in his head? The sound was completely different from the whining that had shot through him in the kitchen. He turned back again and this time he managed to glimpse the source of the sound: a helicopter. The instant he formed the mental picture helicopter, Anna sank to the floor and pulled the blanket over Elias.
Mahler tried to sift through various courses of action and found there was only one: sit still and do nothing. They were alone in a little boat out at sea. It was not possible to hide or defend themselves in any way. The helicopter—a military helicopter, he now saw—was almost overhead and movie images began to flash through his head: a thumb on the trigger, rockets, cascades of water, the boat shattering, the three of them flying metres up into the air, perhaps catching a glimpse of the earth from another perspective before everything went black.
Sweden, he thought. Sweden. That sort of thing doesn’t happen here.
The helicopter passed them and Mahler tensed, expecting a voice in a megaphone, Turn off the engine or something, but the helicopter continued, turning abruptly southward and becoming smaller and smaller. Mahler laughed with relief as he simultaneously cursed himself.
The islands. Freedom. Indeed. And less than a nautical mile from the outermost part of the archipelago which housed the large military base at Hamnskär. But did that matter?
Where do you hide the letter that mustn’t be found? In the waste basket, of course.
Perhaps it would be an advantage.
He kept his gaze trained on the shrinking helicopter and then spotted the inlet, swerved and followed in the tracks of the enemy.
The water level was so low that many of the most hazardous reefs stuck up above the surface, or appeared as greenish patches over which the waves broke differently. To his amazement, he remembered the way quite well. After another twenty minutes at half-speed they were there.
His biggest concern was that there would be people in the cottage. Mahler didn’t think it was likely at this time of year, but he couldn’t be certain. He throttled back, gliding through the narrow sound between the islands at a couple of knots. No boat was tied to the dock and that was more or less cast-iron proof that no one was there
.
The trip had taken almost an hour and Mahler had become chilled by the wind. He turned the motor off and floated in to the dock. Here between the islands there was almost no wind and the silence was wonderful. The afternoon sun glittered in the still water and everything breathed peace.
They had been here a couple of times before; eaten sandwiches on the rocks and swum. He liked this stark island, almost at the edge of the Åland sea. Mahler had fantasised about one day being able to buy one of the two fishing cottages, the only buildings on the island.
Anna sat up and peered over the railing. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Yes.’
The naked rocks down by the water were covered, farther in towards the island, in a blanket of low junipers. Meadows of heath; the occasional alder. The island was small, you could walk around it in fifteen minutes and not find much variety in the vegetation. A little world; one that could be known completely.
They tied the boat up in silence, carried Elias and their things to one of the cottages. Mahler had done most of the talking for the past few days. When he no longer needed to speak, it was quiet.
They laid Elias wrapped in the blanket on a patch of heath and started to look for the key. They checked the pit toilet fifty metres behind the house and noted that the waste at the bottom was dried up. No one had been here for a long time. They looked under the loose stones around the steps, in hollowed-out spaces, under logs. No key.
Mahler laid the tools out on a rock, looked at Anna and received her assent. He jammed the crowbar in the crack of the door, bashed it in deeper with the hammer and applied pressure. The lock gave way immediately. The door frame was somewhat rotten—the mortice was ripped off and the door flew open.
A gust of stale air rushed out, so the cottage was not as drafty as you might have imagined. A good sign if they had to stay here for any length of time. Mahler examined the lock. A large piece of the door post had come away and it would be difficult to repair for whoever owned the place. He sighed.
‘We’ll have to leave a little money for them.’
Anna looked around, took in the island basking in the afternoon sun and said, ‘Or a lot of money.’
Handling the Undead Page 24
