Handling the Undead (29 page)

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.'

'In case I died. It wasn't completely without risks, that job. So I thought that if. .. that she would have something left.' He sighed. 'But I wasn't the one who died.' He sounded wistful. Eva's mother had died of cancer six years earlier and Sture was affronted, somehow, that it had not been him, the less valuable person.

Sture glanced at the dolls. 'I don't know. I probably thought ... something that would get her to remember.'

David nodded, thinking about what he would leave for Magnus. Piles of paper. Videos of himself performing. He had never made anything with his hands. Nothing worth keeping, at least.

David directed Sture through the city as best he could. Many times people honked at them, since Sture was driving so slowly. But they reached their goal. At ten minutes to twelve they parked on the field close to a hastily erected parking sign. Hundreds of other cars were lined up. Sture turned off the engine and they remained seated.

'We don't have to pay for parking, at least,' David said to break the silence. Magnus opened his door and got out, the basket in his arms. Sture's hands were still resting on the steering wheel. He looked out at the crowds of people outside the gates.

'I'm afraid,' he said.

'I know,' David said. 'Me too.'

Magnus rapped on the window. 'Come on!'

Sture took the dolls before he left the car. He held them in tightly

clenched fists as they walked toward Eva.

The area was bordered by a newly erected fence that raised the uncomfortable association of a concentration camp, which was what, in the purely literal sense of the term, it was. A gathering place. The perspective was distorted by the fact that the hordes of people were located outside the fence while the area on the inside was empty. Only the grey buildings scattered on the field, fenced in.

There were two gates and at each gate there were four guards.

Even if they had not had rifles or even batons, but were placing their trust in the self-control of the masses, it was difficult to see how this could be Sweden. David was tormented less by the repressive aura of the fence or the crowd than the general impression of carnival. An audience agog, eager to see what was concealed beyond the barriers. And that Eva was somewhere at the heart of this circus.

A young man came over and put a piece of paper in his hand.

DO YOU DARE TO LIVE WITHOUT GOD?

THE WORLD WILL CEASE TO EXIST MAN WILL BE OBLITERATED PLEASE, PLEASE, PLEASE TURN TO GOD

BEFORE IT IS TOO LATE

WE CAN HELP YOU

The flyer was well made; an elegantly printed text superimposed onto the pale background figure of the Virgin Mary. The man handing it out looked more like a real estate agent than a fanatic. David nodded thanks and walked on, holding Magnus by the hand. The man took a side step to stand in front of them.

'This is serious,' he said. 'This .. .' he pointed at the flyer and shrugged. 'This kind of thing is hard to express. We aren't an organisation, no church, but we know, OK? All of this .. .' His arm swept in the direction of the fence, 'all of this will go to hell if we don't turn to God.'

He threw a pitying glance at Magnus, and if David had been charmed for a couple of seconds by the man's humble words and his please, please, please, then thIs look convinced him that even if the guy was right, he was disgusting.

'Excuse us,' David said and pulled Magnus along. The man made no further attempts to stop them.

'Crackpot,' Sture said.

David thrust the paper in his pocket and saw others lying scrunched up, scattered in the grass. Something was happening in the crowd: a thickening, an increase in concentration. There was a puffing sound that David knew well; someone was testing a microphone.

'One, two .. .' They stopped.

'What are they doing?' Sture asked.

'No idea,' David answered. 'Someone must be ... going to perform.'

It was starting to look more and more like a festival of some kind.

Soon Tomas Ledin would climb up on stage and belt out a couple of numbers. David felt his stomach cramp up, his anxiety spreading to encompass the whole situation. The possibility of the whole thing coming apart; the agony of watching a comedian dying onstage.

The Minister of Social Affairs approached the microphone. There were scattered boos that died down when they received no support. David looked around. Despite the TV and newspapers covering little else but the reliving over the past few days, he had not been able to view this as anything but his own personal drama. Now he realised this was not the case.

Several TV cameras were sticking up out of the crowd, even more were gathered at the front by the podium where the minister was now straightening his suit jacket and leaning forward, tapping the mike-
ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls
-and said:

'Welcome. As a representative of the government I want, first and foremost, to apologise. This has taken far too long. Thank you for your patience. As you understand, this situation took us by surprise and we made a series of decisions that in hindsight can perhaps be judged as not the most enlightened ... '

Magnus pulled on David's hand, and he bent down.

'Yes?'

'Dad, why is that man talking?'

'Because he wants everyone to like him.'

'What is he saying?'

'Nothing. Do you want me to take Balthazar?'

Magnus shook his head and gripped the basket more tightly. David thought his arms must be tired, but let it go. He saw that Sture was standing with his arms folded over his chest, scowling. Perhaps David's fears of a disastrous performance had not been so far off the mark. Luckily the minister had the presence of mind to bring things to a rapid close and give the word to a man in a lightweight suit who introduced himself as the head of the Department of Neurology at Danderyd Hospital.

From his first words it was clear that he was critical of the whole carnival atmosphere, even though he did not say as much.

'So to my real point. There has been much speculation and many rumours, but the fact is that people can read each other's thoughts in the proximity of the reliving. I'm not going to dwell on how we have all tried to avoid facing these facts, to rationalise them or soft-pedal the issue. The fact remains ... ' he pointed toward the enclosed area with a gesture that David

felt was unnecessarily theatrical, 'when you pass through these gates you will hear what people around you are thinking. We still don't know how it is possible, but you must be prepared for the fact that the experience is not altogether ... pleasant.'

The neurologist went silent for a moment and let his last words sink in, as if he half expected people to split off from the crowd and start leaving, for fear of the unpleasant experience. This did not happen. David, whose profession it was to sense an audience's emotions, could feel a growing impatience. People were stirring restlessly, scratching-arms and legs. They were not interested in caveats, they wanted to see their dead.

The neurologist, however, was not finished.

'The effect is less noticeable now that your reliving have been separated-that is one of the reasons that we are here-but it is still present, and I would ask you, as much as humanly possible .. .' he tilted his head and said in a lightly jocular tone, 'try to think nice thoughts. All right?'

People looked around at each other, some smiled as if to confirm how nice their thoughts were already. The growing pain in David's stomach signalled impending calamity, and he crouched down, his hands clasped around his middle.

'Well, that was all I had to say,' the neurologist said. 'At the gates you will be informed of the exact location of the person you are looking for. Thank you.'

David heard a rustle of clothing as the mass of people started to move forward. If he moved, he would soil himself.

'Dad, what is it?'

'Just a little stomach ache. It'll be fine.'

Yes. The pressure momentarily subsided and he could straighten up, look out over the thousands of heads now dividing into two more compact masses around the gates. Sture shook his head, said, 'It's going to take hours like this.'

Eva, are you there?

Testing, David sent out the strongest thought he could muster, but received no answer. That field they were talking about-where exactly did it start, and why was it only the living could hear each other, not the reliving?

A police officer wandering around, underemployed in the wellmannered crowd, came up to them and said hello. They returned the greeting and the policeman pointed to the basket in Magnus' lap. 'What do you have there?'

'Balthazar,' Magnus answered.

'His rabbit,' David answered. 'It's his birthday today and ... ' he fell silent, sensing that an explanation wouldn't matter either way.

The policeman smiled. 'Well, congratulations! Were you planning to bring it in? The rabbit?'

Magnus looked up at David.

'That's what we'd been thinking, yes,' David said. He didn't dare lie for fear that Magnus would contradict him.

'I don't think that's such a good idea.'

Sture took a step closer. 'Why not?' he asked. 'Why can't he bring the animal?'

The policeman held up his palms, Only following orders. 'There aren't supposed to be any animals in there, that's all I know. Sorry.'

The policeman walked away and Magnus sat down on the ground with the basket on his lap. 'I'm not going in.'

Sture and David looked at each other. Neither of them was going to stay outside with Magnus, and leaving Balthazar in the car was probably out of