John Lindqvist - Handling The Undead

When she'd rested for a while she took down the Pretty Woman DVD case and took out the razor blade she kept inside. Her parents had never found it during the phase when she used it.

The scars on her arms were from her amateur period, she had quickly moved on to cutting herself under her collar bones, shoulder blades. There were a couple of scars on the outside of her shoulder blades that were so deep it almost looked like a pair of wings had been cut off. A beautiful thought, but that time she had gotten scared; it wouldn't stop bleeding and it was around that time that the conversation with Elvy happened. Life became slightly more bearable and the wing-scars became the last.

She looked at the knife, unfolding it and turning it between her fingers and… yes. She hadn't been this close to wanting to hurt herself in a long time.

Her gaze ran over the titles in the bookcase I() sec i I slle wanted to read anything. There was mostly horror there, Stephen King, Clive Barker, Lovecraft. She had read them all, had no desire to re-read anything. Then she caught sight of a picture book, an author's name, and a little bell went off inside her head.

Bruno the Beaver Finds His Way Home by Eva Zetterberg. She took the book down, looked at the picture of the beaver standing in front of his house: a mound of sticks in the middle of a river.

Eva Zetterberg…

That's right. She had read about her in the paper. She was the one who could talk, the one who had been dead the shortest time.

'Too bad,' Flora said to herself and opened the book. She had the other one as well, Bruno the Beaver Gets Lost , which had come out five years earlier, and had been looking forward to the third one that she had heard would soon be out. Of all the books she had been given by her parents, she liked the Bruno books the best, except for Moomin. She had never been able to stand Astrid Lindgren.

What she had liked and still appreciated was the straightforward approach to sorrow, to death. In the Moomin books it had been called Marran, in the Bruno books it was the Waterman who posed a constant threat lurking in the river. He was death by drowning, he was the force that swept Bruno's house away, the destroyer.

After she had read part of the book she started to cry. Because there would never be another book about Bruno the Beaver. Because he had died with his creator. Because the Waterman had finally got him.

She cried and couldn't stop. Stroked the book and Bruno's shiny fur and whispered, 'Poor little Bruno… '

Koholma 17.00

Mahler drove through the seaside village, his car fully loaded, on his way home. The holiday season was over and there were few people in the cottages. By the weekend there would be even fewer.

The closest neighbour, Aronsson, was standing by the road watering his climbing plants. Mahler suppressed a grimace when Aronsson spotted him, waved him over. He couldn't wilfully ignore him. So he stopped and rolled down the window. Aronsson came up to the car. He was in his seventies, thin and bony and with a denim fisherman's hat on his head. It said Black & Decker.

'Hello, Gustav. So you're out here at last.'

'Yes,' Mahler said and pointed at the watering can in Aronsson's hand. 'Is that necessary do you think?'

Aronsson glanced at the sky where the clouds were piling up and shrugged. 'It's become a habit.'

Aronsson was protective of his creepers. Thick, luxuriant strands wound their way around the metal archway that framed the entrance to his property. A wrought iron sign at the top of the frame announced 'THE PEACE GROVE.' After his retirement, Aronsson had made his summer cottage into the tidiest Swedish paradise that could be imagined. There was currently water rationing but to judge from the greenery within the archway, Aronsson had paid no attention to that.

'You know,' Aronsson said. 'I took some of your strawberries. I hope you don't mind. The deer were after them.'

Mahler said, 'No. It's good they didn't go to waste,' even though he would rather the deer ate his strawberries than Aronsson.

Aronsson smacked his lips. 'You got some nice berries. That was before the drought, of course. By the way, I read what you wrote. Do you really think that, or was it just for… well, you know.'

Mahler shook his head. 'How do you mean?'

Aronsson immediately back-pedalled. 'No, I just meant… that it was well-written. It's been a while now, hasn't it?'

'Yes.'

Mahler had been letting the engine idle. Now he turned his face back to the road to demonstrate that he needed to get going, but Aronsson took no notice.

'And now you're out here and you have your daughter with you.'

Mahler nodded. Aronsson had a frightening grasp of everything that went on. He remembered names, dates, events; kept track of what everyone in the vacation village was up to. If a Koholma newsletter ever started up, Aronsson would be a shoo-in for editor.

Aronsson looked in the direction of Mahler's house; it lay beyond the bend and-thank God-could not be seen from here. 'And the little one? Elias. Is he…?'

'He's with his father.'

'I see. I see. That's how it is. Back and forth. So it's only you and the girl, then. That's nice.' Aronsson glanced into the back seat, which was filled with bags from the Flygfyren in Norrtalje. 'Are you staying long?'

'We'll see. You know what, I have to…'

‘I understand’. Aronsson jerked his head in the direction of the road behind them, adopting a pitying tone.‘The Siwerts have cancer, did you hear that? Both of them. Got the diagnoses only a month apart. That's how it is sometimes.'

'Yes. I've got to…' Mahler touched the accelerator even though he was idling and Aronsson took a step away from the car.

'Of course,' Aronsson said. 'Home to the girl. Maybe I'll look in on you one day.'

Mahler could not immediately think of a plausible reason to say no, so he nodded and drove home.

Aronsson. Somehow he had managed to forget that there were other people in the area. He had only seen the cottage, the forest, the sea. Not long noses that liked to poke in where they'd no business.

Who called the police as soon as an unknown car was parked a little too long in the area? Aronsson. Who had tipped off social security that Olle Stark, who was on disability, was working in the forest? No one knew. Everyone knew. Aronsson.

And what had he meant by that, do you really think that?

They would have to be careful. Damn it. Aronsson was a selfrighteous old bugger; why couldn't anyone get it together to burn his house down, preferably when he was asleep inside it?

Mahler clenched his teeth. As if they didn't have enough problems.

He got out of the car and started to unload irritably. When a handle on one of the paper bags broke and a couple of kilos of fruit and vegetables tumbled out he just wanted to swear and kick it all to hell. He managed to control himself-because of Aronsson, which just made him even angrier.

He walked toward the house with the bag in his arms and could not help sneaking a glance over his shoulder, checked to make sure Aronsson was not peeking from up atthe bend. He wasn't.

Mahler put the bag down on the kitchen table and called out 'Hello?' When no one answered, he went into the bedroom.

Elias was lying as he had left him, but now his hands were up on his chest. Mahler swallowed. Would he ever get used to him looking like this?

Next to the bed, on the floor, was Anna. She was lying like a dead person, wide eyes staring at the ceiling.

'Anna?'

Without lifting her head, she answered in a weak voice, 'Yes?'

A baby bottle was lying beside Elias' head. A little bit of liquid had spilled out onto the sheet. Mahler picked it up and placed it on the bedside table.