John Lindqvist - Handling The Undead

The man slammed the door.

When they were back out on the street again, Hagar poked her tongue out at the house and said, 'That didn't go too well.' She glanced at Elvy, who was holding her palm against her forehead, and asked her, 'What is it?'

Elvy closed her eyes. 'My head feels so strange.'

'It's the thunderstorm,' Hagar said and pointed up at the sky with the tip of her umbrella.

'No… ' Elvy laid her hand on Hagar's shoulder, steadying herself.

Hagar grabbed a hold of Elvy's arm. 'What is it, dear?'

'I can't quite…' Elvy smacked her hand against her forehead. 'It's as if… something else comes in. Another voice. That thing I said… "my house is open". I hadn't been intending to say that. The thought hadn't occurred to me. It just… came.'

Hagar leaned forward, examining Elvy's head as if she might find some kind of entrance to it, but she saw only the band-aid. She pursed her lips and said, 'Think of the disciples. They suddenly found they could speak in any language. Getting a little inspiration, that's no more extraordinary than Mary appearing to you, now is it?’

Elvy nodded, and straightened up. 'No. I suppose not.'

'Should we keep going then?' Hagar nodded at the house, where the man was now staring at them through the window. 'They were just dry old sticks in there.'

Elvy smiled weakly. 'The Lord has performed greater miracles than bringing buds to dead trees.'

'There we go,' Hagar said. 'That's the spirit.'

They walked on.

Bondegatan 18.30

Flora was sitting at the computer when her parents got home. She had logged onto a Christian chat forum and had presented a satanist's argument on the zombie issue, describing how black masses were being celebrated in her congregation in Falkoping in order to hasten Beelzebub's arrival. It had been the most fun in the beginning when the others still believed she was a devout evangelical who had seen the light. Or the dark. Now they were trying to lead her back on track. She had gone too far and lost them, however, by the time the front door opened and Margareta called out, 'Yoo-hoo! Is anyone home?'

Flora wrote, 'Goodbye. See you in hell,' and logged out. Theil she sat with her fingers resting on the keyboard and waited for the rustle. There it was. The rustle that always announced her parents' return from a trip. The shopping bags.

'Yoo-hoo!'

Flora closed her eyes, imagining her mother and father submerged in a sea of multi-coloured plastic balls. There was a hiss as their heads disappeared beneath the surface. She would have liked to put on Manson and block out their voices with a wall of guitar, but she was interested to hear how her mother had taken this thing about the dead. Elvy had rung and told her that Margareta had called from London, and had therefore been informed. Flora wondered how she was taking it.

Sure enough, the kitchen floor was covered in plastic bags with English boutique logos. In the midst of it all, Margareta and Goran were unpacking, Viktor waiting with ill-concealed impatience beside them for his battery-powered watergun. Flora crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the doorpost. Margareta's gaze landed on her.

'Hello darling! How have things been?'

'Fine.'

The question was asked as usual. Bright and perky. No hint that anything out of the ordinary had occurred, so Flora added, 'A little dead.'

A smile flashed across Margareta's face and away, like the lash of a whip as she searched through a bag. In the corner of her eye, Flora saw Goran give her a sharp look. Margareta got hold of a box and held it out to Viktor.

‘…and this is for you.'

Viktor frowned and opened the box, taking out an intricate statue of Gandalf and turning it in his hands. His disappointment was enormous. Flora saw the price tag on the box: 59.90. Pounds.

'They only had ones that looked like real ones,' Goran said and held out his hands. 'So it… '

'What ones that looked real?' Viktor asked.

'Rifles. And when you pulled the trigger there were sounds like from a real rifle. And it… we didn't think you should have it. So it was this instead.'

'What do I do with it?'

'You can put it in your room. Don't you want it?'

Viktor looked at the statue. His shoulders slumped.

'Yeah, sure. Course.'

Margareta had started to rummage through a new bag, and said without looking up, 'And what do you say?'

'Thank you,' Viktor said and gave Gandalf a death look.

Margareta got up with a new box that she handed to Flora. 'And here you are. Isn't this something you're supposed to have?'

The thing she was supposed to have was an iPod. Flora handed the box back to her.

'Thanks, but I already have one.'

Margareta pointed at the box without taking it.

'But you can fit… ' she turned to Goran, 'was it two hundred?'

'Three hundred,' Goran said.

'… three hundred records in there. Everything.'

'Yes,' Flora said. 'I know. But I don't need it. I have mine.' Silence fell. A plastic bag crumpled up with a sound like a sigh. Flora savoured it. Not everything can be bought, no, not everything can be bought. Goran smacked his hands together.

'I think,' he said, 'that both of you are incredibly ungrateful.'

'Don't you know what's been going on?' Flora asked.

Margareta shook her head: Don't talk about it now , and Flora pretended to misinterpret the gesture.

'Well,' she said, 'last night at around eleven… '

'Have you had anything? To eat?' Margareta interrupted and finally took the box out of Flora's hands. Without waiting for an answer she raised it in Flora's direction. 'Should we sell this then, or give it to someone else, is that what you want?'

Flora watched her mother's compressed lips as they opened for a second

second, let out a tremor in her lower lip, then closed again.

I could feel sorry for her. But I don't want to. 'Keep it yourself,' Flora said.

'What for?'

'I don't know. Phil Collins.'

Flora went back to her room and closed the door. Her head was sticky with guilt, anger and fatigue, all in a thick mixture. She put Portrait of an American Family on the stereo to try to blow it away, air it out. She lay on her bed and allowed herself to be pierced by the vibrations, Manson's voice a salve for what hurt, a pinprick for what had gone to sleep.

When the first song had blown away the worst of it, she skipped forward to 'Wrapped in plastic', lay back down on the bed and closed her eyes.

The steak is cold, but it's wrapped in plastic…

Flora floated away in a vision of all of Stockholm wrapped in plastic. Plastic over the sidewalks, a thin film across the water; when you tried to dip your fingers in the water the only thing you felt was the bulging plastic. Plastic over people's faces, liquid plastic to protect us from bacteria. A little dog rolling along in a bubble of hard plastic.

The volume dropped and she opened her eyes. Margareta was standing at the foot of her bed, arms folded.

'Flora,' she said. 'As long as you live with us…'

'I know. I know.'

'What is it you know?'

Flora knew the routine. The whole program. How you behaved, how basically every young person we know behaved. Clean behind your ears, plug yourself into the iPod, listen to Coldplay; let Avril Lavigne whine you into conformity. Take what you're given, be a little grateful. And give something back.

She wasn't going to bite. Not this time.

'Aren't you going to talk-about it?' Flora asked.

'About what?'

'About Grandfather?'

Margareta's arms rose… and fell…and rose again as she took a few deep breaths.

'What do you want me to say about it?'

Flora looked into Margareta's eyes and saw terror. Not her problem. She rolled over to face the wall and gave up.