Handling The Undead

by John Ajdive Lindqvist

  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…1 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 and 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 breakin 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 Labbsle.ir 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… Sundsledr… Remmargrundet…

  As long as they could follow the ferry route there were no problems. And he seemed to remember that the radio mast on Manskar would be right ahead of them until it was time to turn south. Then it got harder. The waters around Harnnskar 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 th
at 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 Botveskar?’

  Mahler squinted through the sun glitter, saw the white dot at the very tip of the island. Botveskar? In that case the dot straight ahead was Rankarogrund 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 Hamnskar. 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 Aland 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.’

  It was a two-room house, approximately twenty metres square. There was no electricity or running water, but in the kitchen there was a stove with two hot plates connected to a large propane gas tank. A water container with a tap sat on the kitchen counter. Mahler lifted it. Empty. He slapped his forehead.

  ‘Water,’ he said. ‘I forgot water.’

  Anna was carrying in Elias into the next room to put him to bed.

  She paused. ‘You know, I don’t get it.’ She nodded at Elias. ‘Why don’t we give him ordinary sea water?’

  ‘Sure,’ Mahler said. ‘We probably can. But what about us? We can’t drink sea water.’

  ‘There’s no fresh water at al1?’

  While Anna was tucking Elias in Mahler searched the kitchen.

  He found a number of the things he had expected to, and had not bothered to bring along: plates and cutlery, two fishing rods and a net. But no water. Finally he opened the refrigerator, also hooked up to a gas tank, and found a bottle of ketchup and a couple of cans of sardines in tomato sauce. He hesitantly unscrewed the gas tank and found it was empty.

  The tank for the stove hissed forcefully when he tried it and he

  immediately shut it off.

  Water.

  He had forgotten it for the same reason that they needed it: it was

  so basic. There was always water. There is no Swedish house without a well, or a well within walking distance.

  Except in the archipelago, of course.

  He stood in the middle of the kitchen and saw a troll painting in front of him. A pair of trolls grilling fish over an open fire. He’d had an almost identical picture over his bed when he was a child. Although… no, that wasn’t right. The trolls were painted long after his childhood.

  His gaze travelled across the kitchen one last time but no water

  appeared anywhere.

  Anna had put Elias in one of the beds and was leaning over it,

  studying a painting on the wall. The painting depicted a couple of trolls grilling fish over an open fire.

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘I had an almost identical one…’

  ‘Over your bed when you were little,’ Mahler said.

>   ‘Yes. How did you know? I didn’t think you ever came to see me and Mum at our place.’

  Mahler sat down on a chair.

  ‘I heard it,’ he said. ‘I hear things [romtime to time.’ ‘Do you hear… ‘ she nodded at Elias, ‘him?’

  ‘No, that is…’ he stopped.

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why haven’t you said anything?’

  ‘I have told you.’

  ‘No, you haven’t.’

  ‘Yes, I have. You didn’t want to listen.’ ‘If you’d said straight out that…’

  ‘Listen to yourself,’ Anna said. ‘Even now, when I’m telling you that yes, 1 can hear Elias, I know what is going on inside his head, even now you don’t ask what it is, you just try to put me in my place.’

  Mahler looked at Elias, tried to make himself empty, receptive; a blank slate for Elias to write on. His head was buzzing, fragments of images flashed by, disappearing before he could grab hold of them. They could just as easily be his own thoughts. He got up, opened the cooler and took out a carton of milk, drinking a couple of gulps directly from it. He felt Anna’s eyes on him the whole time. He held the milk out to her, thought: want some?

  Anna shook her head. Mahler wiped his mouth and put the milk back.

  ‘What does he say, then?’

  The corners of Anna’s mouth were pulled up. ‘Nothing you want to hear.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Just that he talks to me, he tells me things that aren’t meant for you to hear and therefore I’m not going to tell you, OK?’

  ‘This is ridiculous.’

  ‘Maybe so, but that’s how it is.’

  Mahler took a couple of steps through the room, picking up the guest book that was on the bureau and turned some pages compliments about the cottage, thanks for letting us stay-and wondered if they were going to write anything before they left. He turned around.

  ‘You’re making it up,’ he said. ‘There is nothing…I haven’t heard anything about the dead being able to… communicate with the living. This is something you’re imagining.’