John Lindqvist - Handling The Undead

The painful thing was not that they were joking about it. There had to be jokes, jokes were necessary if people were going to keep living. The painful thing was that it had happened so quickly. After the ferry Estonia sank, for example, it had taken six months before anyone tried to say anything funny about ferry salvage or bow doors, and then without much success. The World Trade Center had gone much faster. Only a couple of days after the attack 'someone said something about the new cut-price alternative Taliban Airways, and people had laughed. It had been far enough away to feel like it wasn't really happening.

Apparently the reliving fell into the same category. They weren't real, you didn't have to have any respect. That's why David's presence had been hard for the other comedians to take; he made it real. But in the end that's what the reliving were to them: a joke.

He slunk past the tightly parked cars that lined Surbrunnsgatan, seeing Balthazar's headless body wriggling in Eva's lap, and wondered if he would be able to see the funny side of anything ever again.

The walk from Norra Brunn had exhausted his strength. The hastily downed beer sloshed in his stomach and every step was an act of will. Most of all he wanted to curl up in the nearest doorway and sleep away the remaining hours of this horrible day.

He had to lean up against the wall in the entrance and rest for a couple of minutes before going up to the apartment. He did not want to appear so pathetic that Sture offered to stay. He wanted to be alone.

Sture did not offer. After reporting that Magnus had slept the

whole time, he said, 'I guess I should go home now.'

'Of course,' David said.

'Thanks for everything.' Sture looked searchingly at him.

'Will you manage, then?'

'I'll manage.'

'Sure?'

'I'm sure.' He was so tired, his speech was starting to sound like Eva's; he could only repeat what was said to him. They parted with a hug, instigated by David. This time he let his head drop onto Sture's chest for a few seconds.

When Sture had left he stood still in the kitchen for a while, staring at the bottle of wine, but decided that he was too tired even for that. He went and checked on Magnus, regarding his sleeping child for a long time. He had fallen asleep in almost exactly the position David had left him in: his hand under his cheek, the eyes slowly sliding under thin eyelids.

David crawled gently into bed, slipping into the narrow space between Magnus' body and the wall. Was only planning to lie there for a couple of seconds and look at the thin, smooth shoulder that stuck out of the blankets. He closed his eyes and thought… thought nothing. Slept.

Tomaskobb 21.10

When Mahler stepped ashore on the nearest island he saw the marker. It was fashioned from bleached boards and he had missed it in the dark. The inlet lay straight in. He climbed back into the boat, started the engine. It roared, sputtered and died.

He waggled the tank, pumped in new fuel and this time the engine ran long enough for him to reverse away from the island before it died again. He leaned his arms against his knees and stared in among the islands, velvet blue in the summer night. Lone trees stuck up from low islands, silhouetted against the sky like in documentaries from Africa. The only sound was the distant engine vibration from the passing ferry.

This isn't so bad.

He preferred recognising his surroundings to having fuel. Now he could at least see what was in front of him. With the oars it would take about half an hour to the island, gliding over the still water. No problem. If he just took it easy it would be fine.

He placed the rowlocks in their holes and set to work. He rowed with short strokes, breathing deeply in the mild air. After a couple of minutes he was in a rhythm and hardly noticed the work. It was like meditation.

Om mani padme hum, am mani padme hum… The oar strokes pushed the sea behind him.

When he had rowed for perhaps twenty minutes he thought he heard the call of a deer. He lifted the oars out of the water, listening. The sound came again. It was no deer, it was more like… a scream. It was hard to determine which direction it was coming from; the sound bounced between the islands. But if he had been asked to guess he would have said it came from…

He put the oars back in the water, and started to row with longer, more powerful strokes. He did not hear another scream. But it had come from the direction of Labbskar Island. Sweat broke out across his back and his calm scattered. He was no longer a meditating person, just a damnably effective motor.

I should have got fuel. …

Thick mucus collected in his mouth and he spat at the engine. 'Bloody shit-engine!'

But it was actually his fault. His, and no one else's.

To dispense with mooring the boat, he rowed straight to the shore and crawled out. Water seeped into his shoes and they sucked at the soles of his feet as he walked up to the hut. No lights were on; the house was simply an outline against the deep blue sky.

'Anna! Anna!'

No answer. The front door was closed. When he pulled on it there was a strong resistance until whatever was fighting him gave up. He jumped and put his arm up to shield his face, thinking there was something coming at him. But it was only a loose broomstick that fell forward and clattered to the ground.

'Anna?'

It was darker inside and it took a couple of seconds for his eyes to grow accustomed to it. The door through to the bedroom was closed and on the kitchen floor there was a… heap of snow. He blinked as the snow pile began to take shape, became a blanket and then Anna, who was sitting on the floor squeezing the blanket. 'Anna, what is it?'

Anna's voice was just a hoarse whisper from a screamed-out throat.

'It was here… '

Mahler looked around. The moonlight pouring in through the open door did not help much and he listened for sounds in the other room. Nothing. He knew how afraid Anna was of animals and sighed, saying with irritation, 'Was it a rat?'

Anna shook her head and said something he could not make out.

As he turned from her in order to go into the other room and check, she hissed, 'Take this,' and pointed to a small axe lying on the floor at her feet. Then she crawled across the floor with the bedding in her arms, pulled the door shut and sat down with her back against the door post, one hand on the door handle. The room became pitch dark.

Mahler weighed the axe in his hand. 'What is it, then?'

'… drowned… '

'What?'

Anna forced her voice to get louder and croaked, 'A dead man.

A corpse. Someone who drowned.'

Mahler closed his eyes, retrieving his memory of the kitchen; visualising the torch on the counter. He groped his way through the dark until his fingers closed around the heavy handle.

Batteries. …

He turned it on and a cone of light shot out, illuminating the entire kitchen. He trained the beam on the wall next to Anna so as not to dazzle her. She looked like a ghost; sweat-drenched hair hung in wisps over her face, vacant eyes stared straight ahead.

'Daddy,' she whispered without looking at him. 'We have to let Elias… go.'

'What are you saying? Go where?'

'Go… away.'

'Keep quiet now and I'11… '

He opened the door to the other room a crack, let the light in.

There was nothing there. He opened the door a little more, directing the beam of light inside.

Now he saw that the window on the opposite side was broken.

Reflected light glittered in slivers of glass spread over the floor and table. He squinted. Something was lying on the table, among the shards. A rat. He took a couple of steps closer.

No, not a rat.