John Lindqvist - Handling The Undead

The graffiti clean-up crews had given up long since and the lower

portions of the buildings were a.profusion of spikes and real art. The court case to determine the party responsible for the demolition of the Heath had been underway for five years. Until it was resolved no one was going to do a thing. The Heath was a blot of shame on the city; a failed and slightly dodgy construction project, now a gathering place for those displaced from the rest of the city. From time to time the police went in and cleaned the place out, but since there were no resources for dealing with the results, they really didn't want to know.

Flora stepped from grass to asphalt. The sign on the building next to her indicated that she was now on Ekvatorvagen. A graffiti design around the sign made it look like a naked, laughing devil with dreadlocks holding an enormous erection in his hand.

Flora turned off her walkman in the pause between 'Tourniquet' and 'Angel with Scabbed Wings'. In order to have room for the album on the tape she had been forced to weed out some tracks and the choice had been simple. She took the earpieces out and turned her deafened eardrums toward the silence, chiding herself for the fear that whimpered in her stomach-

middle-class loser

– because the only thing you could hear in the area were the sounds of people. They had never got as far as planting trees and bushes, and therefore there were no birds, no rustling leaves. Only people; voices, cries. She turned with rapid steps from Ekvatorvagen onto Latitudvagen and came to Peter's courtyard.

Broken glass crunched underfoot and the sound was magnified, bouncing back and forth between the bare concrete walls. All of the buildings around were three storeys high and the courtyard was dominated by the large structure in the centre. According to Peter it had been planned as a combined laundry, social space and refuse centre. However, there was no water to wash with, no garbage collection, and no desire for social gatherings.

Flora gingerly made her way across plastic bags and strips of

cardboard, but could not help stepping on the glass. She was noticed. Someone who had been slumped against the iron door to the laundry room stood up and started to approach her. Flora kept moving, a little faster now.

'Hey there… babe…'

The man placed himself directly in front of her on the narrow path. Flora's eyes scanned the surroundings. There was no one else around. The man, who was a head taller than she, had a Finnish accent. A smell she could not identify wafted from him. When the man raised his hand and she saw the bottle, she recognised the smell: T-rod. He held it out to her; a juice bottle with something, maybe bread, stuffed down the neck like a filter.

'Hey Pippi Longstocking, do you want a drink?'

Flora shook her head. 'No, I'm good.'

Her voice appeared to spark some thought in the man. He leaned over, studied her face. Flora stood still.

'Jesus…' the man said. 'You're just… a kid. What are you doing here?'

'I'm here to see a friend.'

'Ah.'

The man stood swaying, thinking this over. He placed the bottle carefully on the ground next to him. Flora watched him closely, prepared to jerk into action if necessary. The man spread out his arms.

'Can I get a hug?'

Flora didn't move. Admittedly, the man did not look mean, just pathetic. But the bad guys only look bad in children's movies. The lowest buttons on his shirt were either unbuttoned or missing, revealing a white belly. His face looked too small for the swollen body and even in the weak light you could see the veins on his cheeks and nose. The man let his arms sink down.

'I have a daughter… had a daughter… she is alive, but… she is your age now, I think.' He reflected. 'Thirteen. Haven't seen her for eight years. Kajsa. That's her name.' He motioned to his pants' pocket, then let the motion die in a not-there gesture. 'Had a picture, but…'

He hunched his shoulders and Flora thought he was going to start crying. When she walked past him he stayed put, muttering something to himself.

Peter's window was at ground level and the glass was intact. Since his rooms were originally intended to serve as bicycle storage-and did actually function as such-the window was made of reinforced glass and it would take some determination to smash it. Flora crouched down and knocked.

She heard dragging steps behind her, turned and saw the Finn towering up above her. His arms were outstretched again and an image worthy of Manson flashed through Flora's mind-

crucified broiler

– then the Finn pouted and said in a baby-voice, 'Can I get a wittle hug?'

Flora stood up and moved out of reach. The Finn stayed where he was, arms spread, dog-eyed. Flora narrowed her eyes and tilted her head. 'Don't you get how disgusting you are?'

A flashlight went on behind the glass and she heard Peter's voice, 'Who is it?'

Without taking her eyes off the Finn, Flora said, 'It's me.'

She walked down the small stairs in the bike ramp and came to a locked metal door, decorated with a spray-painting of a summer landscape. It was one of the few doors in the area that had a lock, since Peter had put it in himself. The lock rattled and the door opened. Peter was holding a thin sleeping bag around himself with one hand; in the other he had a flashlight.

'Come in.'

Flora cast a final glance at the Finn who was still standing there, swaying, still with his arms outspread to the night and the memories. Once Peter had closed the door behind them and his flashlight swept across the room she could have been in any residential area. The bicycles were neatly

lined up along one side of the room while another wall was reserved for Peter's delivery moped.

Peter continued down toward the far end of the room, the divided section he had built himself, and opened the door hidden in the wall mural. He had managed to avoid eviction every time the police came in; they never noticed his hideaway in their cursory searches.

The room behind the wall was only six metres square. There was room for the bed that Peter had found in a skip and driven home on his moped, a chair, and a table where food items were arranged, a kerosene stove and a container of water-nothing more. On the floor next to the bed he had a boombox connected to a car battery. As if he was playing with the constraints of his environment, Peter used an electric toothbrush and razor. He had a Gameboy and an alarm clock, a mobile phone. The flashlight was an exception, of course. Flora usually brought batteries as a gift.

Peter locked the door and jumped into bed, unzipping the sleeping bag so it became a blanket. Flora took off her shirt and pants, curling up next to him and leaning her head against his shoulder.

'Peter… '

'Mm?'

'Do you know what's happened? Tonight?'

'No.'

She told him the whole story. From the part where she woke up at Elvy's to where she rode into town in the ambulance. When she finished Peter said, 'Strange,' and nestled his arm around her head. After a couple of seconds she heard his breaths deepen, asleep.

Dawn had made a light grey rectangle of the only window by then and Flora lay staring at it for so long that it hovered on her retina for a long time after she closed her eyes.

She, could tell by the pressure in her head that she had only been sleeping for a few hour, when she was woken by noise in the next room. She sat up in bed and looked through the peep hole. A man of Arab appearance-unusually well-dressed by the area's standards_ Was coaxing a bike out. Flora wasn't certain, but she thought she recognised him: he had a regular gig holding up one end of a protest banner on Drottninggatan.

The man took his bike and left, locking the door behind him. Peter had only given out keys to those who rented space there. It Cost twenty kronor a month to keep a bike in the locked and guarded space. Naturally, the deal came with no guarantee that the police wouldn't confiscate everything if they made a raid.