John Lindqvist - Handling The Undead

'I'm not allowed to… what?'

'Dislike him.'

Mahler's fingers flickered, pointing indeterminately toward different areas of the kitchen. 'There was someone… here.'

The perception of a presence was still palpable in the skin of his back. Someone had been watching him and Elias. He stood up, walked over to the counter and rinsed his face with cold water. Once he had wiped himself with a kitchen towel his head felt clearer. He sat on a stool.

'I can't handle this.'

'No,' Anna said. 'I can tell.'

Mahler picked up the half-destroyed engine and weighed it in his hand. 'I don't just mean… this. I mean… ' his eyes narrowed, he looked at Anna. 'There is something. There is something I don't understand. Something else is going on here.'

'You don't want to listen,' Anna said. 'You've already made up your mind.'

She shifted Elias to the side so that he was lying on the rag rug in front of the stove. When you looked closely it was unmistakeable: Elias might have made some progress, nearing a kind of consciousness, but his body had shrunk further. The arms poking out of the pyjamas were just bone covered in parchment-like skin, his face a skull, painted and garnished with a wig. It was impossible to imagine a soft, wet, working brain inside.

Mahler made a fist and banged it against his leg.

'What is it I don't understand? What is it. I don't. Understand?'

'That he is dead,' Anna said.

Mahler was about to argue the point when there was the clomp of clogs on the stoop and the front door opened.

'Yoo-hoo in there!'

Mahler and Anna's eyes met and for a second they were united in panic. Aronsson's clogs thundered on into the house and Mahler rushed up from the table, placing himself as an obstacle in the kitchen doorway.

Aronsson looked up and pointed to Mahler's lip. 'Well, well. Been in a fight, have you?' He laughed at his own wit and removed his hat, fanning his face. 'How are you holding up in the heat?'

'OK,' Mahler said. 'It's just, we're a bit busy right now.'

'I understand,' Aronsson said. 'I won't interrupt. I just wanted to hear if they'd picked up your garbage.'

'Yes.'

'I see. But not mine. Not for two weeks. I've called and complained and they say they're coming out, but they don't come. And in this heat. They can't keep carrying on like this.'

'No.'

Aronsson knit his brows. He sensed something. In theory, Mahler could simply have wrapped his arms around him, carried him to the door and thrown him out. Later he would wish that this was what he had done. Aronsson peered past him.

'Fine company, I see. The whole family. That's lovely.'

'We were just going to eat.'

'I see, I see. Well, don't let me interrupt. I just want to say hello…'

Aronsson tried to get past, but Mahler put his hand against the door post so that his arm created a barrier. Aronsson blinked. 'What's wrong with you, Gustav? I just want to say hello to the girl.' Anna got up quickly, intending to greet Aronsson in the doorway so he wouldn't have to enter the kitchen. When Mahler lowered his arm to let her past, Aronsson ducked in.

'Well, goodness me,' he said and held out his hand to Anna. 'It's been a while hasn't it?'

His sharp eyes scanned the room and Anna didn't bother to say hello; it was too late anyway. Aronsson caught sight of Elias and his eyes widened, locking on like a radar that has finally found its target. His tongue appeared, licking his lips, and for one second Mahler debated whether or not he should hit him in the head with the cast iron pot holder.

Aronsson pointed to Elias. 'What is… that?'

Mahler grabbed him by the shoulders, dragging him into the hall. 'That is Elias, and now you have to go home.' He took the hat out of Aronsson's hands and pushed it onto his head. 'I could ask you to keep quiet, but I know there's no point. Go away.'

Aronsson wiped some spittle from his mouth. 'Is he… dead?'

'No,' Mahler said as he forced Aronsson toward the front door. 'He is reliving and I was trying to help him get better. But that's the end of that, if I know you.'

Aronsson backed out onto the porch with an inscrutable little smile pasted on his face. He was most likely figuring out who exactly he should call to turn them in.

'Well, good luck then,' he said and left, still backing up. Mahler slammed the door.

Anna was sitting on the kitchen floor with Elias in her lap.

'We have to leave,' Mahler said, expecting resistance, but Anna simply nodded. 'Yes. I guess we do.'

They tossed everything in the refrigerator into a cooler and packed Elias' things in a gym bag. Mahler was careful to include the engine and the other toys. The cell phone, some extra clothes. They didn't have sleeping bags or a tent, but Mahler had a plan. The past couple of days, particularly before he fell asleep, he had run through various scenarios, what they would do if this occurred, or this. Now this had occurred and in the plastic bag with the clothes he included a hammer, a screwdriver and a crowbar.

Past summers when they had gone out to sea for a whole day, the packing had taken over an hour. Now, when they were going to stay away indefinitely, it took ten minutes and probably they had forgotten about half of what they needed.

So be it. Mahler could return to the mainland at a later point and get provisions if needed. The thing was to get Elias out of the way.

They walked slowly through the forest. Anna was carrying the bags, Mahler had Elias. His heart wasn't giving him any trouble, but he knew this was one of those occasions when he could very well suffer an attack if he did not take it easy.

Elias was a statue in his arms. No sign of life. Mahler trod carefully, unable to look down, feeling his way with his feet over the roots that crossed the path. Sweat stung his eyes.

All this work. For this little scrap of life.

Svarvagatan 11.15

Sture's Volvo 740 was newly washed but a strong smell of wood and linseed oil still clung to it. Sture was a carpenter, and he lived in a hexagonal cottage with an extension at the front, designed by himself

for summer guests.

Magnus crawled into the back seat and David handed him the basket with Balthazar, then sat down in the passenger seat. Sture rifled through the maps that he had torn out of the phone book, scratching his head and trying to locate the place.

'The Heath, the Heath…'

'I don't think it's on the map,' David said. 'It's jarva field. Towards

Akalla.'

'Akalla…'

'Yes. North-west.'

Sture shook his head. 'Maybe it's better if you drive.' 'I'd rather not,' David said. 'I feel…1' d rather not.'

Sture looked up from the page. A smile flickered at the corner of his mouth and he leaned forward, opening the glove compartment.

'I brought these.' He gave David two wooden dolls, about fifteen centimetres tall, and started the car. 'I'll drive out to the E20 and then we'll see.'

The dolls were silken as only wood sanded down by hands and fingers can be. They were a boy and a girl, and David knew their story.

When Eva was little Sture had worked as a construction carpenter in Norway two weeks on, one week off. On one of his weeks at home he had

carved the dolls and given them to his then six-year-old daughter. To his delight they had become her favourite toys, even though she had both Barbie and Ken and Barbie's dog.

The funny thing was that she had given the dolls names: they were called Eva and David. Eva told him this story a couple of months after they met.

'It was inevitable,' she said. 'I've been fated to be with you since I was six years old.'

David closed his eyes, rubbing his fingers over the dolls.

'Do you know why I made them?' Sture asked, his gaze on the road.

'No.'