Handling the Undead Read online

  He dug the phone out of his bag, staring at the ridiculous thing while it continued to play its cheerful little song. He started to laugh. With the phone in his hand he took a few steps away toward the corridor and leaned against the wall next to a sign that said ‘Turn off all mobile phones.’ He was still sniggering as he answered.

  ‘This is Mahler.’

  ‘Benke here. Hey, how are things out there?’

  Mahler looked back at the autopsy room, at the bodies that were moving in there. Green, blue, white.

  ‘Yes. It’s true. They’re alive.’

  Benke breathed into the phone. Mahler thought he was going to say something funny, thought he should hold the phone up to the room so Benke could hear. But Benke didn’t say anything funny. He said slowly, ‘Apparently it’s happening…at a number of places. All over Stockholm.’

  ‘They’re coming back?’

  ‘Yes.’

  They were quiet for a couple of breaths. Mahler imagined how the same scene was unfolding in other locations. How many dead people could be affected? Two hundred? Five hundred? Suddenly he went cold, stiff, asked, ‘The cemeteries?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The cemeteries. The ones who are buried.’

  Almost inaudibly, Benke whispered, ‘Oh my God…’ and added, ‘I don’t know…I don’t know…we haven’t had any…’ He broke off. ‘Gustav?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘This is a joke. Isn’t it? You are joking with me. You’re the one who…’

  Mahler held up the receiver toward the autopsy room, stared vacantly into space for a couple of seconds, then brought the receiver back to his ear. Benke was in the middle of a monologue, ‘…makes no sense whatsoever, how can it…here in Sweden…’

  He interrupted. ‘Benke. I have to go.’

  The night editor in Benke won out over the sceptic. He said, ‘You’ll get me some shots, right?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  Mahler put away the phone. His heart was beating wildly.

  Elias wasn’t cremated. Elias was buried in the ground, Elias was buried in the ground, Elias is at Råcksta cemetery, Elias…

  He got the camera out of the bag and snapped a couple of quick shots. The situation had been stabilised, everything was under control. Here, anyway. For the moment. One of the guards, holding onto an old gentleman whose head was bobbing up and down and up and down as if he wanted to say, ‘Yes, yes, I am alive!’ saw him and yelled, ‘Hey you! What are you doing?’

  Mahler made a sweeping gesture—don’t have time—and backed out of the room again. He turned and jogged toward the staircase.

  Outside the staff room there was an ancient stick-thin man, fingering the ruffles on his burial shirt. One of the sleeves had come off and the man’s mouth was hanging open as if he was wondering how he had ended up in this magnificent piece of clothing and what he should do now that he had destroyed it.

  There were several patrol cars parked outside the entrance and Mahler muttered, ‘Police? What are the police going to do? Arrest them?’

  Sweat was pouring down his whole body by the time he reached his car. The lock on the driver’s side was broken and he had to use the full weight of his body against the door to open it. As he did so, the lock ripped out of his hands and the asphalt under his feet rotated ninety degrees, hitting him over the shoulders and the back of his head.

  He was lying next to his car, staring up at the stars. His belly moved up and down: deep breaths, like bellows. He heard sirens in the distance, fine music for a newspaperman, normal. But he couldn’t go on.

  The stars twinkled at him, his breathing steadied.

  He focused on a point far beyond the stars, whispered, ‘Where are you, my darling boy? Are you there? Or…here?’

  After several minutes, feeling capable of action again, he crawled up, got into the car, started the engine and drove out of the hospital parking lot, toward Råcksta. His hands trembled with exhaustion. Or anticipation.

  Täby Municipality 23.20

  Elvy made up the bed in Tore’s room for Flora. The stubborn antiseptic hospital smell had been softened three weeks back by almond-oil soap and detergent. Of Tore there was nothing left. Only the day after he died Elvy had thrown out the mattress, pillows and all the bed linen and bought new ones.

  When Flora visited her the next day, Elvy had been surprised that she’d no objection to sleeping in the room where her grandfather had died so recently, especially in light of her sensitivity. But Flora simply said, ‘I knew him. He doesn’t frighten me,’ and that was that.

  Now Flora came in and sat down on the edge of the bed. Elvy looked at the Marilyn Manson shirt that hung to her knees and asked, ‘Do you have any other clothes for the day after tomorrow?’

  Flora smiled. ‘Yes. Even I have limits.’

  Elvy fluffed up the pillows, said, ‘Not that it matters to me or anything, but…’

  ‘The ladies,’ Flora filled in.

  ‘Yes. The ladies.’ Elvy frowned. ‘Or rather, I agree that one should…’

  Flora laid a hand over hers, interrupting. ‘Nana. Like I told you. I think it’s right to dress nicely for a funeral.’ She made a face. ‘Weddings, however…’

  Elvy laughed. ‘One day you’ll be standing there yourself,’ she said, and added, ‘Maybe. Or maybe not.’

  Flora said, ‘Probably not,’ and let herself fall back onto the bed, arms outstretched. She stared up at the ceiling, opened and closed her hands as if she were catching invisible, falling balls. When she had caught ten of them, she asked straight out into the air, ‘What happens when you die? What happens when you die?’

  Elvy didn’t know if the question was directed at her, but answered it anyway. ‘You go somewhere.’

  ‘Somewhere where? Heaven?’

  Elvy sat down on the bed next to Flora, smoothing out the already-smooth sheet.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Heaven is probably a name we’ve given to something completely unknown to us. It’s simply…somewhere else.’

  Flora didn’t answer, catching a few more balls. Suddenly she sat up, close to Elvy, and asked, ‘What was that before? What happened in the garden?’

  Elvy sat quietly for a moment. When she spoke, her voice was low, tentative.

  ‘I know that you don’t share my faith,’ she said, ‘but maybe you could look at it like this. Put aside God and the Bible and all of that, and think about the soul: a human being has a soul. Do you think that’s reasonable?’

  ‘No,’ Flora said. ‘I think we die and get burned up and then that’s it.’

  Elvy nodded.

  ‘Yes. Of course. But this is what I think. A person lives a life. Accumulates thoughts, experiences, love, and when she is eighty years old and still has a razor-sharp mind the body slowly begins to falter. Inside that human being is still the same person, just as fully alive and thinking, but the body is worn down, is worn away and at last the person sits there inside crying: No, no, no…and then it’s over.’

  ‘Yes,’ Flora said. ‘It is.’

  Elvy became excited, grabbed Flora’s hand and raised it to her lips, kissing it lightly.

  ‘But for me,’ she said, ‘for me that’s completely absurd. Always has been. For me…’ Elvy stood up from the bed, waved her hands, ‘it is completely obvious that a person has a soul. We must have one. To think that we are all—that a consciousness which can embrace the whole universe in an instant should be dependent on this kind of…’ Elvy swept her hand across her body ‘this kind of…sack of meat in order to exist…No, no, no. I can’t accept that.’

  ‘Nana? Nana?’

  Elvy’s eyes, which for a moment had been fixed far away, returned to her granddaughter. Elvy sat down on the bed again, clasped her hands in her lap.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘But tonight I was shown proof that the things I believe are true.’ She glanced at Flora and added, almost sheepishly, ‘I think.’

  After she had said goodnight and closed the door on
Flora, Elvy began to pace. She tried to sit down in the armchair, picked up Grimberg, read several sentences and then put it away.

  That had been one of her projects that she had promised herself she’d take on when Tore was gone: to read The Wonderful Adventures of the Swedish People before she died herself. She was well underway, was already half-way into the second volume, but tonight she would get no further. She was too restless.

  It was past midnight. She should go to bed. Admittedly, she didn’t need so much sleep these days, but frequently she’d wake up at around four in the morning and have to sit on the toilet for a couple of hours while the urine trickled out of her.

  Tore, Tore, Tore…

  Earlier in the day she had been down to the funeral parlour with his best suit, for the service scheduled two days later. Was he lying in the cold storage box at the church now, ready and dressed for his last big day? They had asked her if she wanted to dress him herself, but she had been more than happy to hand the matter over to them. She’d done her bit.

  It was ten years since she’d started to make his sandwiches; seven since she’d begun feeding them to him. For the last three years, he hadn’t been able to take anything by mouth except porridge and purées, needed supplements through a feeding tube just to stay…yes, alive. Or whatever you would call it.

  Confined to a wheelchair, unable to speak or, probably, think. Just occasionally when she said something to him a glint of understanding flickered in his eyes, only to disappear just as quickly.

  She had fixed his food, changed his nappy and his bag, washed him. The only help she received was in putting him to bed at night and getting him up in the morning—for yet another day sitting in his wheelchair unable to move.

  For better or worse, until death us do part. She had kept her promise without joy or love; but also without complaint or hesitation, for that was how it went.

  In the bathroom she removed her dentures, brushed them thoroughly and put them in a glass that she kept in the bathroom. Did not understand people who kept them next to the bed like a grinning reminder of time passing. Glasses, yes. The security of having one’s eyesight close at hand if anything should happen, but the teeth? As if something you had to chew was suddenly going to appear.

  She went into her bedroom, took off her clothes and put on her nightgown. She folded the clothes carefully and placed them on the rolltop desk. She paused, looked at the photograph on the desk. Their wedding picture, her and Tore.

  What a pair of lovebirds.

  The photograph was originally black and white, but had later been hand coloured in still-vivid hues. She and Tore looked like an illustration in a book of fairytales. The King and Queen—shortly after ‘and then they lived happily ever after’. Tore in tails, she in a white dress with a colourful bouquet of flowers at her breast. Both staring into the future with spookily blue eyes. (Tore had not even had blue eyes; the retoucher had made a mistake, but they’d never got around to having it corrected.)

  Elvy sighed, stroking the photograph with her finger.

  ‘That’s how things can end up,’ she said, not thinking of anything in particular.

  She turned on the bedside lamp, wondering if she should try another session with Grimberg before she fell asleep, but before she had made up her mind there was something at the front door. She listened. The sound came again. A…scratching.

  What in the name of heaven…?

  The clock on her bedside table said it was twenty past twelve. The scratching came again. Probably some animal, perhaps a dog, but what would it be doing at her house? She waited a while, but the scratching continued. Stray dogs were unusual round here. In the winter you might get a deer, wandering into the suburbs, but they never came to the door to pay a visit.

  She pulled on her robe and walked to the front door, listening. Not a cat, she thought. Partly because the scraping was too strong, and partly because it appeared to be coming from chest height. Elvy leaned against the door post and whispered loudly, ‘Who is it?’

  The scraping stopped. Now there was a low whimpering instead.

  It must be someone who’s been injured in some way.

  She stopped thinking about it and opened the door.

  He was dressed in his best suit, but it did not hang well on him. During his final years of illness he had lost about twenty kilos and the gabardine now drooped from his shoulders where he stood on the front steps, his arms dangling. Elvy backed up a couple of steps until her feet bumped the doorstop and she almost lost her balance, but grabbed the coat rack and straightened again.

  Tore was standing still, staring at his feet. Elvy looked down. His feet were bare and white, his toenails untrimmed.

  She stared at his feet and thought:

  They cheated. They haven’t trimmed his toenails.

  For it was not terror or horror that she felt when she looked at her husband, dead three years after their fiftieth anniversary, now returned. No. Only surprise and…a kind of exhaustion. Then she took a step towards him and said, ‘What are you doing here?’

  Tore did not answer. But he lifted his head. There were eyes, but no gaze. Elvy was used to this, she’d had the non-gaze turned on her for three years. It was just that now it was even more frozen, lifeless.

  This is not Tore. This is a doll.

  The doll took a couple of steps forward and entered the house. Elvy could not bring herself to do anything to stop it. She wasn’t afraid, but she had no idea what she should do.

  It was Tore, there was no sense in pretending anything else. But how was this possible? She had felt for his absent pulse; had held the little hand mirror to his mouth and seen that he was no longer breathing. She had heard the ambulance driver say it, she’d been given certificates confirming the fact that Tore was dead, deceased, gone.

  The resurrection of the flesh…

  He brushed past her and went on into the house. A cloud of chilled hospital smell reached her nostrils; disinfectant, starch…and something sweeter, more fruity underneath. She quickly pulled herself together, grabbed hold of his shoulder and whispered, ‘What are you doing?’

  He paid her no attention, and continued his steps—jerkily, as if each one was an effort—in the direction of the other bedroom. His room.

  It struck her suddenly that for the first time in seven years she was seeing him walk. Stiffly, as if unused to his new-found body, but walking nonetheless. Straight to the room where Flora was sleeping.

  Elvy turned around, grabbed hold of both his shoulders from behind and whisper-shouted, ‘Flora is sleeping in there! Let her be!’

  Tore stopped, the cold from his body seeping through the cloth into her hands. After they had stood like this for several seconds, a memory rose up: those times when Margareta was little and Tore had come home drunk. The daughter sleeping in her bed, Elvy playing sentry in the hallway to prevent Tore from stumbling into Margareta’s room and dribbling endearments over the terrified child.

  She’s sleeping! Let her be!

  Often it had worked. But not always.

  Tore turned around. Elvy tried to fix him with her gaze, nail him to the wall as she had done forty years ago. Make him stop moving, start talking. But it was like trying to pin a tack to a bowling ball; her gaze slipped, could not pierce his and for the first time she began to be afraid.

  Despite the shadows on his hollow cheeks, the sunken lips and the missing twenty kilos, he was still significantly stronger than she. And in his eyes there was no emotion, no recognition. She could not bear to look any longer and backed away, defeated.

  Tore turned and continued towards the room. Elvy tried to grab hold of him again, but just as his shoulders slipped from her grasp, the bedroom door opened and Flora came out.

  ‘Nana, what…’

  She caught sight of Tore. A whimper escaped her and she threw herself aside, out of the way of his cold determination. Tore appeared not to notice her and entered the bedroom as Flora stumbled and fell over the armchair and crawled to
ward the balcony door. She sat down on the floor, wide eyed and screaming at the top of her lungs.

  Elvy hurried over to her, took her in her arms and stroked her hair, her cheeks.

  ‘Shushh…shushhh…it isn’t dangerous…shushhhh.’

  The screaming stopped. Elvy felt Flora’s jaw muscles tense under her hand. Her body started to tremble and she leaned towards Elvy, still tensed, her gaze directed at the bedroom. Tore had walked over to his desk and sat down, as if he had just come home from work and had a little paperwork to get through before going to bed.

  They saw his arms moving, heard the quiet rustle as the papers moved over each other. They huddled there for a long time unable to move, until Flora freed herself from Elvy’s arms and sat up straight on the floor.

  Elvy whispered, ‘How are you going there?’ Quietly, so Tore wouldn’t hear.

  Flora opened and closed her mouth, made a half-hearted gesture at the coffee table, at the bedroom. Elvy looked over and saw what she meant. The cover of Flora’s video game, Resident Evil, was on the coffee table. Flora mumbled something and Elvy leaned forward.

  ‘What did you say?’

  Flora’s voice, less than a whisper, was quite clear, ‘This is…ridiculous.’

  Elvy nodded. Yes. Ridiculous. Laughable, except that neither of them was laughing—and the facts remained. She stood up. Flora fumbled at the hem of her robe.

  ‘Shh…’ Elvy whispered. ‘I’m just going to see what he’s doing.’

  She crept up to the bedroom. Why were they whispering, why was she creeping if all of this was so ridiculous? Because the ludicrous, the impossible, is located at the outermost limits of existence. One wrong move, the least little disturbance, and it falls. Or rises, roaring. You never know which. And you have to be careful; take precautions.

  Elvy leaned against the doorpost, but only Tore’s back and one elbow, pulled in, were within her line of vision. She took a step into the room, sliding along the wall to get another angle.