Handling The Undead

14 August II

Vallingby 11.55

When Anna had been gone for three quarters of an hour, Mahler started to worry. He walked out onto the balcony and scanned the courtyard, her apartment. A fatherly feeling-what the hell is holding her up-gripped him and he immediately suppressed it. Caring was the operative word here. Caring and understanding.

For the past few years he had been more of a co-parent than a grandfather to Elias. Perhaps he was trying to recapture what he had lost when Anna was little, when he was in the middle of his career. His babysitting and daycare pick-ups had allowed Anna to live with a measure of freedom that he thought she did not take full advantage of, but since he knew she resisted his advice-don't you think it's a little late for that-he tried not to judge her.

And it was probably all his fault anyway. Anna's inability to settle down, to hold onto a job or complete an education was a learned behaviour. And who had taught her this? Gustav Mahler, the career journalist.

They had moved five times during her childhood, every time he got a better job at a bigger paper. By the time Anna was nine and he finally landed a position as a crime reporter for Aftonbladet, Sylvia-Anna's mother-had had enough. She left him. But actually he was the one who had left her, much earlier.

So he had certainly taught his daughter how life should be lived.

She had studied psychology for six months and before she dropped out she had learned enough to be able to tell him it was all his fault. He agreed whole- heartedly, although he did not say this to her, since he believed that each person was responsible for his or her own fate. Theoretically, anyway.

His relationship to Anna was marked by ambivalence. He thought that she should stop making excuses, pull herself together and do something. He also thought it was his fault that she made excuses, and neither pulled nor did. Yes. He was entitled to think that it was his fault; she was not.

Mahler lit a cigarette and had time for a single drag before three men emerged from Anna's front door. He ducked down, crushing the cigarette on the concrete floor-

so the enemy won't see the smoke

– and listened attentively to hear if the men were approaching his door. No. They left the courtyard, conversing. He could not hear what they said. He tore off the blackened end of the cigarette and lit it again. Inhaled twice. His fingers trembled. They had to get out of here. Now.

He had unplugged the phone and turned his mobile off for fear that someone would call and say something that he would have to pay attention to. Just as he was plugging the phone back in to check the messages, the front door opened and he froze.

'Daddy?'

His fingers relaxed again. He pulled the cord out of the jack as Anna walked into the room, a suitcase in her hand. She put it down and walked over to the balcony window, peering out.

'They left,' Mahler said. 'I saw them.'

Anna's lower lip was bright red from nervous biting.

'They searched the entire apartment. Pushed away the Legos and looked under the bed.' She snorted. 'Grown men. They said that I should… that I had to let them take care of him.'

'Who were they?'

'Police. And a doctor. They had a notice from the epidemi… something. Told me that it was illegal to… that it was dangerous for Elias.'

'You didn't say that he was here?'

'No, but…'

Mahler nodded, closed his laptop and collected the necessary cords. 'We have to leave immediately.'

'To the hospital?'

Mahler closed his eyes tightly and made an effort to keep his voice calm.

'No, Anna. Not the hospital. To the summer cottage.'

'But they told me…'

'I don't give a damn what they told you. We're going.'

When Mahler had finished packing up his computer and turned to walk into the bedroom, Anna was standing in front of the door with her arms crossed over her chest. Her voice was collected, cold.

'You are not the one who makes this decision.'

'Anna, can you move? We have to go. They could turn up at any moment. Take your bag.'

'No, you're not in charge. I'm his mother.'

Mahler's lips curled and he looked Anna straight in the eye as he said, 'I think it's wonderful that you suddenly feel such a great need to be a mother to him, which you haven't done much about for the past few years, but I intend to bring Elias with me. You can do what you like.'

'Then I'll call the police,' Anna said, and the ice in her voice started to crack. 'Don't you understand that?'

Mahler had the ability to manipulate people. If he had wanted, he could have used a mild voice and subtle accusations to get his daughter where he wanted in a couple of minutes. Out of kindness, or lack of time, he did not do this and instead gave his anger free rein-which he thought was fairer play. He put the bag on the table and pointed toward the bedroom.

'You just said that it wasn't Elias! So how the hell can you be his mother?'

It was like opening a vacuum-pack of coffee. Anna sank into herself a little and began to cry. Mahler cursed himself inwardly. Not fair play at all.

'Anna, forgive me. I didn't mean to…'

'You did.' She amazed him by straightening up and wiping her tears with the back of her hand. 'I know full well that you don't give a damn about me.'

'Now you're not being fair,' Mahler started to lose his grip and back-tracked. 'Haven't I been taking care of you this whole time? Every day…'

'Like a package, yes. Something to do. And now the package is in the way, and you have to move it. You have never done anything out of consideration for me. It's your own guilty conscience you're looking after. Give me a cigarette.'

Mahler stopped his hand half-way to his breast pocket. 'Anna, we don't have time…'

'We have time. A cigarette, I said.'

Anna took it and the lighter, lit up and sat down in the armchair, on the very edge of the seat. Mahler stayed where he was.

'What would you say,' Anna started, 'if I told you that this whole ti me T really wanted to be left alone? That I think it's been a complete drag to have you running in and out every day. I've been eating at the hot dog stand down on the corner, I haven't needed your food. But I let you do it so that you would feel better.'

'That 's not true,' Mah lcr said. 'You mean to say I should have let you lie there alone, day after day…'

' I haven't been alone. Some evenings when I felt up to it I've called someone I know and… '

'Oh you have, have you?' Mahler's voice sounded more taunting than he intended.

'Oh give me a break. Each to their own. At least I've grieved for Elias. I'm not sure what you've been grieving for. Some kind of forlorn hope of atonement. But I'm not doing you any more favours.' Anna put out the half-smoked cigarette and walked into the bedroom.

Mahler stood motionless, his arms hanging at his sides. He was not abashed. What Anna said about him made no impact. It was possible that it was true, but he did not think so. The new information she had shared with him, however… He wouldn't have thought she had it in her.

Elias lay on the bed with his arms outstretched, a helpless alien. Anna sat on the edge with her finger in his curled fist.

'Look,' she said.

'Yes,' Mahler said and pressed his lips together in order not to add, 'I know.' Instead he went and sat down on the other side of the bed and let Elias curl his other hand around his finger. They sat like this for a while, each with a finger in his hand. Mahler thought he could hear sirens in the distance.

'What should we give him?' Anna asked.

Mahler told her about the salt. There was the germ of acquiescence in Anna's question, but he did not want to push it any further. Anna would have to decide now. As long as she didn't make the wrong decision.

'What about sugar?' she asked. 'A glucose solution?'

'Maybe,' Mahler said. 'We can try.'

Anna nodded, kissed the back of Elias' hand, coaxed out her finger and said, 'Let's go then.'

Mahler drove the car to the front door and Anna carried out Elias, wrapped up in the sheet, laid him on the back seat and crawled in after him. The car was a sauna after having been parked in the lot all day. Mahler rolled down both windows and popped the sunroof.

Up by the square he parked in the shade and half-ran to the drugstore. He placed ten packets of grape sugar and four bottles of lotion in a basket. A couple of syringes. He ended up lingering in front of the baby items. Then took several baby bottles as well. Made sure they were the kind with only one hole in the nipple.

He did not want to leave Anna and Elias in the car for too long, but the selection in the drugstore bewildered him. His gaze travelled over the shelves of band-aids, mosquito repellent, anti-fungal cream, vitamins and liniments. There must be something else that could help.

At random, he picked out a number of jars of vitamins and herbal remedies.

The lady at the register glanced at his body, then at the items he was purchasing. Mahler saw the cogs move beneath her businesslike mask, trying to see a connection between this amount of sugar, bottles, body lotion-and him.

He paid cash, took his over-stuffed single bag and was wished a nice day.

They were silent the whole way to Norrtalje. Anna sat in the back with Elias, in her lap, staring fixedly out the front with his finger in her hand. As Mahler took the turn-off to Kapellskar she asked, 'Why don't you think they will come looking out there?'

'I don't know,' Mahler said. 'I guess I'm hoping they're not so… motivated. And it is more relaxing out there.'

He turned on the radio. There was no music on the public stations, only the commercial stations carried on as if nothing had happened. He kept P1 on for a while, but it added little to their knowledge. Eight reliving were still missing.

'I wonder what the other seven arc doing right now,' Mahler said,;llld turned it off.

'Something similar,' Anna said. 'How can you really think we're doing the right thing and everyone else is wrong?'

Mahler lifted his gaze from the road in order to turn his head and look at Anna for a couple of seconds. Her question was genuine.

'I don't know if we are doing the right thing,' he said. 'But I know that they don't know either. In my line of work… you would be amazed at how many times the authorities do something without knowing why, without knowing the consequences… only so it will look as if they're doing something.' Now they were on their way he dared to ask something himself. 'Don't you think we're doing the right thing?'

Anna was quiet for a moment. In the rear view mirror Mahler saw that she looked down at Elias and a swift grimace flashed across her face. 'Can you open the window a little more?'

Mahler rolled down the window as far as it would go. Anna leaned back so far that her head tipped back over the neck rest. She spoke into the ceiling, 'Why doesn't he stop smelling?'

Mahler glanced back again. Elias' dark green face with its black spots peeked out of the sheet; it made him look even more like a wrapped mummy.

'I don't want to give him up,' Anna said. 'That's all.'

The vegetation around the cottage was overgrown and dried up. The enormous honeysuckle vine around the porch had grown tremendously at the beginning of the summer, but was now a ropy tangle, as if the porch had been wrapped in packing materials.

Mahler stopped the car ten metres from the front door and turned off the engine.

'Well,' he said and looked out over the brown grass. 'Here we are at last.'

The cottage lay at the end of the loop that was Koholma vacation area. You had to walk a couple of hundred metres through the forest to get to the water, but when Mahler got out of the car he still felt the seaside quality in the air. He drew a deep breath and the promise of freedom filled his lungs.

Now he knew what he had been thinking.

The cottage felt more secure than the apartment. Of course it was the sea that gave you that feeling. The great blue out there. If they came, there was always the option of…leaving. Out to the islands.

The reason that he had even been able to afford the house fifteen years ago now announced itself: a dull thundering filtered through the forest, made the car body vibrate slightly. He sighed.

Five hundred metres to the south lay the Kapellskar Ferry Terminal. Since ferry traffic to Finland and Aland had increased fifteen or twenty years earlier and the ferries had grown and become a recreation for the masses, the real estate values in the adjacent areas had fallen by almost half. It was not quite as bad as living next to an airport, but almost. The ferries came and went around the clock and it would take almost a week to learn not to hear them.

They started to unpack.

Mahler lifted Elias from the backseat and carried him to the house, fishing the key out of the drainpipe and unlocking the door. The house smelled stale. Mahler carried Elias to his room where the treasures of past summers-feathers, stones and pieces of wood-lay scattered on window ledges and shelves.

He laid Elias on the bed and opened the window. The salty air whirled into the room, inviting a dance.

Yes. It had been the right thing to come here. Here there was space and time. Everything they needed.

Taby Municipality, 12.30

After Flora's late-night call, Elvy had trouble falling asleep. She would have to spend some more time with Grimberg. Fittingly-or not-she had just arrived at Gustav II Adolf's death. The description of the widowed Queen Maria Eleonora's bizarre relationship with his corpse kept her glued to the page.

Maria Eleonora had refused to let go. She visited the body again and again, keeping it company the entire length of the journey from Germany. When she was eventually pried away she had managed to acquire the heart (it irritated Elvy greatly that Grimberg never explained how she acquired it) and threatened them with it in order to gain access to the body once again…

'Which she ponders, showers with marks of honour and caresses, with no regard for the fact that it blackens and decays, almost beyond the point of recognition,' as a Swedish diplomat wrote during the funereal journey.

Elvy had lowered the book and reflected on this. The difference of views. If the king had arisen from his coffin the jubilant queen would most likely have taken his rotting flesh into her arms. Why was it so different? Was it Elvy who was heartless?

A kind of explanation was to be found several pages on. Maria Eleanora had had a double coffin prepared, with spaces for the dead monarch and herself. Her motive for this was that she had 'so little enjoyed' the king during his life. Now that he was dead she wished to take full advantage.

This was a problem that Elvy did not share. She had been able to 'enjoy' Tore plenty during his life. This man ten years her senior who had been kind enough to take a hysterical woman in matrimony, to care for her and lead her through life without ever understanding her-she had simply seen enough of him by the time he gave up the ghost. She harboured little animosity-he had done the best he could-but she was done.

Calmed by this thought, she put the book down and tried to sleep, but it wouldn't come. At half past four she had to get up and sit on the toilet for

half an hour and when she lay down again the bedroom was getting light. She let the blinds down, took a couple of sleeping pills and finally managed to nod off. She floated in and out of sleep until it was past eleven, at which point she woke up properly, energetic and full of anticipation.

Until she looked at the news.

Hardly a word was said about anything of significance. It was as if it did not exist. From time to time, some minister or bishop was allowed to say a few words, and what did they speak about?

Anxious relatives, the church hotline, the anguish many people felt in this kind of situation, blah blah.

Elvy felt no anguish. She was furious.

Statistics, images of the night's exhumations. They had dug up almost all of the relevant graves by now, and some extras (people who had been dead longer than two months and had predictably remained dead); the number of reliving was close to two thousand.

The Prime Minister had landed a little while ago and was accosted immediately at Arlanda by the reporters. In order to stress the gravity of the situation, he removed his glasses, stared nakedly into the cameras and said:

'Our nation. Is in a state of shock. I hope that everyone. Will help. Not to make the situation. Worse than it already is. I. And my government. Will do everything. In our power. To give these people. The care. That they need.

'But let us not forget…'

His index finger went up and the Prime Minister looked around with an expression that approximated sorrow. Elvy tensed her entire body and leaned closer to the television. It was coming. Finally. The Prime Minister said, 'We shall all go down this road one day. Nothing separates these people. From us.'

He thanked everyone and a path was made for him to get to the waiting car. Elvy's jaw dropped.

Not even him…

She knew that the Prime Minister knew his Bible, he liked to borrow sayings from it. So the disappointment that now, in this hour of need, he hadn't so much as nodded towards the Holy Book was all the worse. When it was actually appropriate.

We shall all follow this road one day…

Elvy snapped off the TV and spoke out loud. 'What a damned… clown!'

She paced through the house, so upset that she didn't know what to do with herself. In the guest room she took out the copied psalms, spotted with Tore's fluids, crumpled them up and threw them in the bin. Then she called Hagar.

Of all her friends from church, Hagar was most on the ball. Over the past twelve years the two of them, along with Agnes, had done the coffee for the Saturday meetings and taken turns providing the cake. Since Agnes had been stricken with sciatica and become less active, it had mainly been Elvy and Hagar who kept things going these last three years.

Hagar picked up on the second ring.

'612-1926!'

Elvy had to hold the receiver away from her ear since Hagar, who

was slightly deaf, was almost screaming into the telephone.

'It's me.'

'Elvy! There has been something wrong with your…'

'Yes, I know. Have you…'

'Tore! Has he…'

'Yes.'

'Come back…'

'Yes. Yes.'

There was silence for a moment. Then Hagar said, a little lower, 'I see. Home to you, then?'

'Yes. But they came for him. It's not that. Did you see the news?'

'Of course. All morning. It's completely incredible. Was it awful?'

'With Tore? Yes, a little in the beginning perhaps, but… it went well. It's not that. Did you… did you see the Prime Minister?'

'Yes,' Hagar said, sounding as if she had bitten into something sour. 'What about him?'

Elvy softly shook her head, forgetting that Hagar could not see her gesture. She stared at a little icon hanging in the hallway, and said slowly, 'Hagar. Are you thinking what I'm thinking about this?'

'About what?'

'About what's happening.'

'The Resurrection?'

Elvy smiled. She had known she could count on Hagar. She nodded at the icon-Jesus as the ruler of the world-and said, 'Yes, exactly. They aren't even talking about it.'

'No,' Hagar's volume went up again. 'It's despicable! To think it's come to this!'

They spoke for several minutes in complete accord and hung up with a vague promise to do something, without having discussed what that was.

Elvy felt a little better. She was not alone in what she was thinking. There were probably others. She walked up to the balcony window and looked out, as if searching for them, the others who realised what all this was about. She caught sight of something else, something she had not seen in several weeks: clouds.

These were not the fluffy summer clouds that serve only to emphasise the blueness of the sky. No, these were strong thunder clouds, gliding so slowly in dark banks that they appeared immobile. She felt a tingle in her stomach. Was this it? Was this how it was going to look?

She wandered around over the house for a while, yawning and trying to prepare herself. She did not know how to prepare.

Let him which is on the housetop not come down to take any thing out of his house: Neither let him which is in the field return back to take his clothes.

There was nothing to do. She sat down in the reading chair and looked up Matthew 24 since she had forgotten the rest of the passage. She became frightened by what she read.

For then shall be great tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world to this time, no, nor ever shall be.

She saw concentration camps, she saw Flora.

But for the elect's sake those days shall be shortened.

There was no mention of pain and suffering in a regular sense. Only tribulation greater than what has come before. A way of suffering that we have not yet experienced. But perhaps that was the Swedish translation. The original might speak unequivocally of purely physical, unbearable pangs. Elvy's lids grew heavy.

Perhaps in the original translation… Septuagintan… forty monks in forty rooms… one hundred monkeys at one hundred typewriters for one hundred years…

Elvy's thoughts drifted away in an unruly mishmash of images and she nodded off where she was sitting, her chin on her chest.

She was awakened by the television turning on.

The insides of her eyelids turned orange and when she opened her eyes the light from the TV screen was so blinding that she had to close them again. The television glowed like a small sun and she opened her eyes tentatively, squinting.

As she grew accustomed to the intense light she saw that there was a central figure around which the brightness billowed. Or else the rays were streaming out from the figure itself. The woman. Elvy recognised her immediately; trepidation welled up in her chest.

The woman wore a dark blue shawl over black hair, and in her eyes one could discern the grief of someone who had just seen her child die. Who had stood at the foot of the cross and seen them prise the nails from her son's hands with a crowbar. The curved, stiffened fingers that had once been small, and eager for her breast. The grinding of metal pressed through wood, the hands shredded. And everything lost.

Elvy whispered, 'Holy Virgin… ' and did not dare to look. Because suddenly she understood what it meant, tribulation, such as was not since the beginning of the world. It was what could be read in Mary's eyes. The suffering of a mother confronted with her dead child-and that child the sum of all goodness. Not simply the pain of watching the child that you have nursed and cherished be tortured and executed, but the suffering, too, that there is a world in which such things happen.

From the corner of her eye Elvy saw Mary spread her arms in a gesture of welcome. Elvy was on her way up out of the chair in order to kneel on

the ground but Mary said, 'You can sit, Elvy.'

The voice was light, almost a whisper. No great thundering voice from beyond the heavens; rather a beggar girl's shy plea for a spare coin, something to eat.

'You can sit, Elvy.'

Mary knew her name, and in the words there was a hint of the knowledge that Elvy had been running and working all her life, that she now deserved to sit for a while. Elvy dared to glance quickly at the screen and saw that tiny stars glittered on the tips of Mary's fingers. Or drops of water, tears wiped from her eyes.

'Elvy,' Mary said. 'A task awaits you.'

'Yes,' Elvy whispered, without any sound being heard.

'They must come to me. Their only salvation is to come to me. You must make them understand.'

This had occurred to Elvy, and even in the gravity of the moment she saw her neighbours-people, hard eyes, her approaches rebuffed-and she asked, 'How? How will I get them to listen?'

For one second she stared straight into Mary's eyes and was filled with terror. For in them she saw the suffering that would befall mankind if it did not repent, seek redemption in her arms. Mary held out her hand, said, 'This shall be your sign.'

Something touched Elvy's forehead. The television went off. She fell sideways on the chair and her head exploded.

The edge of the glass table was pressed against her forehead when she opened her eyes. Her head hurt. Dizzy, she straightened up on the chair, looking at the table. There was a smear of red on the corner. Several drops of blood had fallen on the rug.

The television was dark, quiet.

She stood on shaky legs and walked out into the hall, looked in the mirror.

A cut, completely level, three centimetres long but shallow, ran like a minus sign across her forehead above her eyebrows. Blood still welled thickly from the wound and she wiped a drop from her eye.

She blotted the rest of the blood away in the kitchen with a wad of paper towel. She could not bring herself to throw it away, so she placed it in a glass jar, screwed on the lid.

Then she called Hagar.

While the phone rang, she closed her eyes and saw Mary before her. There was one thing she did not understand. When Mary reached out her hand to touch her forehead, Elvy had momentarily glimpsed what it was that glittered on the tips of her fingers. It was hooks. Tiny, thin ones, no larger than ordinary fishing hooks were sticking out of her flesh.

In a way that she could not fully articulate she was convinced that Mary was only an image, created for her human eyes. She was a representation in the form of the Holy Mother. But the hooks? What did the hooks mean?

When Hagar answered, Elvy pushed these questions aside and began to relate the greatest moment of her life.

Koholma 13.30

Anna lifted the bags out of the boot as Mahler disappeared into the house. She carried them across the yard, past the pine tree where Elias' swing was wrapped around the trunk, past the outdoor table that was dry and cracked from having been out in the weather all year. She stopped there and put the bags down. She stood still, taking stock of the situation.

How had this happened? How had she been reduced to some kind of servant while her father took care of what had been her child?

The heat was oppressive in a way that foretold thunder. She looked up at the sky. Yes. The sky was covered with a paper-thin white membrane and from inland a dark mass of clouds was moving toward the coast. It was as if all of nature was trembling with anticipation. The grasses conferenced in whispers about the mercy that was about to pour from the heavens.

She felt dizzy, almost nauseated. For over a month she had lived in a vacuum, restricting her movements, her speech, to a minimum so as not to attract attention from life and allow it to start tearing and clawing at her. For over a month she had been as good as dead.

And then, suddenly: Elias back, the police poking around, flight and action, talk and decisions. She could not decide. Her father made her decisions. She had slipped out of the picture.

Anna left the bags where they were and walked into the forest.

Last year's dried leaves crunched underfoot, the shallow roots of pine trees protruded out of the turf, pressed up into the bottoms of her feet. The rumbling from Kapellskar hovered in the forest like an anxiety. She walked aimlessly down toward the boggy areas closer to the sea.

There was a tangy smell of sun-cooked pine needles and thickly layered sludge when she reached the open, moss-covered expanse. Even the moss, which was normally a bright green from the moisture of the wetland

had dried up and become light green, beige in places. When she walked on it, it crackled until her foot sank into the mossy underlayers, as if she was walking on crusty snow.

She waded out toward the centre. The deciduous trees that encircled the bog raised their crowns into a cupola, pierced in places by the sun. She lay down when she reached the centre. The moss accepted her, welled up around her. She stared up at the lazy movements in the lattice of foliage, and disappeared.

How long had she lain there? Half an hour? An hour?

She would have stayed longer if her father's voice had not called her home.

'Anna… Aaannaa!'

She stood up from the bog's embrace, but did not answer. She was too preoccupied with the feeling that had taken up residence in her body, especially her skin. She looked back at the place where she had lain. The contours of her body were clearly visible in the moss, which was now-with an almost audible groan-resuming its old form.

She had changed her skin. That was how she felt. What she was looking for was her old skin which should be lying there wrinkled and used up in the mossy depression.

It wasn't to be found, but the feeling was so strong that she had to pull up the sleeve of her T-shirt and check if the tattoo was still there.

Yes. Bad to the bone was still etched on her right shoulder in tiny block letters. Some kind of pride had forced her to keep it instead of having laser removal, even though it was twelve years since she had severed contact with the world to which the tattoo belonged.

'Aannaaa!'

She walked to the edge of the bog and cried, 'Here I am!'

Mahler stopped where the moss began, as if it were quicksand. He put his hands on his hips.

'Where have you been?'

Anna pointed out to the centre. 'There.'

Mahler frowned and looked out at the depression in the moss. 'I've carried everything inside,' he said.

'Good,' Anna answered and walked past him towards the house. He walked behind her, his hand brushing off her back.

'Look at you,' he said.

She didn't answer. Her steps across the roots were feather light. There was something delicate and precious in her that might shatter if she spoke. They walked silently toward the house and she was grateful that he did not start to explain her own behaviour to her, as he had done when she was younger; that he let her be.

On the table next to Elias' bed there was a packet of dextrose, salt, a jug of water and a measuring cup, two syringes.

Anna could not see any change. Mahler had spread a clean, white sheet over Elias whose old-man hands rested at his sides, two shrivelled bird claws. She was looking at a corpse. The corpse of her son. Maybe something could be changed if only he wanted to open his eyes and look at her. But under the half-closed lids there was only that hint of lifeless plastic, like a dried contact lens. Nothing.

Maybe there was a way back. Her father seemed to think so. But in that case the way was so long that she could not imagine its start, far less its

end. Elias had died. A shadow of him lay here, but nothing of the boy she had loved, of whom she held memories she wanted to cherish unspoiled.

Mahler came in and stood next to her. 'I gave him sugar solution with the syringe. He drank some.'

Anna nodded, and crouched down next to the bed.

'Elias? Elias? Your mummy is here.'

Elias did- not move one millimetre. Nothing indicated that he heard her. The delicate stuff inside her contracted, became dislodged, and the black grief towered up inside her chest. She quickly got up and left the room. The kitchen smelled of freshly brewed coffee and everything fell back into place.

She would take care of him. She would do what she could. But she was not going to entertain for one second the notion that she was going to get her boy back, did not intend to imagine in any way that her son was buried inside that mummified form somewhere, struggling to get out. That would break her for sure; that would hurt too much.

She poured two cups of coffee and put them on the table. She was calm now. They could talk. Outside, the covering over the sky was turning to grey. A faint breeze rustled the trees. She glanced at her father.

He looked tired. The bags under his eyes were more pronounced than normal and his entire face seemed pained by gravity, pulled down toward the earth in folds and wrinkles.

'Daddy? Don't you want to rest a little?'

Mahler shook his head so that his cheeks wobbled.

'Don't have time. I called the paper and someone's been looking for me: the husband of the woman who… well, they wanted me to write more, but I'll have to see… and we need food and things…'

He shrugged and sighed. Anna took a few sips of coffee; stronger than she liked, as always when her [ather made it. She said, 'You can go. I'll stay here.'

Mahler looked at her. His eyes were small and bloodshot, almost disappeared into the swollen flesh.

'You'll manage, then?'

'Yes, of course.'

'Are you sure?'

Anna put the coffee mug down, forcefully. 'You don't trust me. I know that. But I don't trust you either. It runs deep. I don't know what you want.'

She got up from the table and went to the fridge to gel some milk for the coffee. The fridge was empty. When she came hack to the table, Mahler had sunk into his chair.

'I just want everything to be all right.'

Anna nodded, 'I believe you. But you want it to be how you think it should be. How you've planned, in your extremely rational way: Go on. I'll manage here.'

They made a list of items they needed to buy, plann i ng the pu rchascs as if stocking up for a siege.

When Mahler had left, Anna checked on Elias, then walked around the house and shook out the rugs, brushed dead flies From the window sills and vacuumed. As she was wiping the kitchen counter she caught sight of the two unused baby bottles. She put the vacuum cleaner away and went in to Elias. She shook some dextrose into the bottle, filled it with water and shook it until it dissolved. Then she sat there with the bottle in her hand and looked at Elias.

Simply feeling the shape of the bottle in her hand brought back memories. Right up until the age of four, Elias wanted to have a bottle of milk in bed when he was going to sleep. He had never used a dummy or sucked his thumb, but he wanted his bottle.

She had sat like this on the side of his bed countless times as he was going to sleep. Kissed him and said good night, then given him his bottle. Felt that feeling of satisfaction as his little hands took hold of it, his mouth sucked onto the nipple and his gaze grew distant. That he managed.

'Here, Elias… '

She brought the teat to his mouth. Mahler had said that would come later, that Elias couldn't manage to drink by himself yet. But she wanted to try. The dry rubber nudged his lips. He did not move them. Carefully she pushed it in between his lips.

Something happened. At first she thought an insect was crawling on her stomach and she looked down. Elias' fingers were moving slightly. Stiffly, slowly, but they were moving.

When she looked up at his face again, his lips had sealed themselves around the teat. And he was sucking. Tiny, tiny movements in the tinder dry lips, a muscle in his throat faintly working.

The bottle shook in her hand and she clapped her other hand over her mouth so hard that she felt a metallic taste on her tongue.

Elias was drinking from the bottle.

It hurt so much she could not breathe, but when the first wave of pain, of hope, had stilled, her hand reached out and she caressed his cheek as he continued to drink. She bent her head over him.

'My boy… my good little boy… '

Kungsholmen 13.45

Children, children, children…

David stood in the school yard and watched as the children poured out of the school like a liquid. Three, four, ten, thirty multicoloured little beings with backpacks ran down the stairs. Pieces of humanity, a mass to direct and discipline. Four hundred of them were stuffed into this building six hours a day, four hundred were let out again when those six hours were up.

Material.

But zoom in on one single child and there you had an upholder of the world. A child with a mother and father, grandparents, relatives and friends. A child whose existence is necessary for the proper functioning of many lives. Children are fragile, and carry so many lives on their frail shoulders. Fragile is their world, controlled by adults. Everything is fragile.

All day David had walked around as if in a dream. After the visit to the Medical Examiner he had gone to a pizzeria and drunk a litre of water, then lain down under a tree in the park and slept for almost three hours. When a barking dog woke him up, he opened his eyes to a world that had shut him out. People were having picnics, children were running on the grass. He was no longer part of this life.

The only thing that seemed to have anything to do with him was the black clouds that were slowly approaching. As yet, they were still distant, but they looked to be closing in on Stockholm. He heard a roaring in his ears, felt an itch behind his eyelids. The sunshine did not reach in under his tree, so he curled up against the trunk, picked up the newspapers and read the article again. This too seemed to be about him.

Without really knowing what he wanted to say, what he actually wanted, he took out his cell phone and dialled the newspaper. He told them who he was and said he was looking for Gustav Mahler. He learned that Mahler was a freelancer; unfortunately they could not give out his number, however they would pass on a message and was there anything in particular he wished to say?

'No, I just wanted… to talk to him.'

This would be relayed.

David took the subway back to Kungsholmen. Everyone in the subway carriage who was talking, was talking about the dead. They all thought it was horrible. Someone noticed him, realised who he was and went silent. No condolences this time.

Even on his way toward the school he felt how the threads that usually connected him to the world were severed. At most he was a pair of eyes hovering through the air, avoiding obstacles, stopping for a red light. At the school he grasped a black metal railing, held onto it.

Then the bell rang and the children came pouring out. He opened his eyes and saw the mass of biological tissue that hopped and skipped its way down the stairs and he held onto the railing so that he would not float away.

When the flood had spread out across the schoolyard and started to gush through the gates, Magnus came out. Pushed open the doors with all his might and ended up standing up on the landing, looking around.

David became aware of the railing in his hand. Aware that he had a hand that was holding onto the railing; that the hand was attached to a body that was his. He fell back into his body and became… a father. He was back in the world and he went to meet his son.

'Hi buddy.'

Magnus hoisted his backpack and stared at the ground.

'Dad… '

'Yes?'

'Has Mum become like one of those orcs?'

Evidently there had been talk at school. David had gone back and forth about how to tell him, how he would take it one step at a time, but now that possibility was gone. He took Magnus by the hand and they started to walk home.

'Have you talked about it at school today?'

'Yes. Robin said that it was the same thing as the orcs, that they eat human flesh and stuff.'

'Well, what did the teacher say?'

'Said that it wasn't like that, that it was like… Dad?'

'Yes.'

'Do you know who Lazarus is?'

'Yes. Come on…'

They sat down on the edge of the sidewalk. Magnus took out his Pokemons,

'I've traded five cards. Do you want to see?'

'Magnus, you know…'

David took the cards out of Magnus' hand, and Magnus let him. He stroked the back of his son's head; the thin summery white-blond hair, the fragile skull underneath.

'First of all. Mum hasn't become one of those… orcs. She has just been in an accident.'

The words dried up, he did not know how to go on. He flipped through the cards; Grimer, Koffing, Ghastly, Tentacool; all more or less terrifying creatures.

Why does everything in their world have to be about horror?

Magnus pointed at Ghastly. 'Scary, isn't he?'

'Mmm. You know, it's… you know what you were talking about today. It has happened to Mum. But she is… much healthier than all the others.'

Magnus took back his cards, sorted through them for a while.

Then asked, 'Is she dead?'

'Yes, but… she's alive.'

Magnus nodded. 'So when is she coming back?'

'I don't know. But she is coming back. Somehow.'

They sat quietly next to each other. Magnus went through all his cards. Looked carefully at a couple. Then his head pulled down to his shoulders and he started to cry. David threw his arms around him and Magnus curled up into a ball, pressed his face against David's chest. 'I want her to be home now. When I get home.'

The tears welled up in David's eyes as well. He rocked Magnus back and forth, stroking his hair.

'I know sweetheart…I know.'

Bondegatan 15.00

The curved stone staircase to Flora's apartment on the third floor was worn by generations of feet. Like most of the old houses, this building on Bondegatan was aging with dignity. Wood and stone bulged or wore away; there was not the crack and break of concrete. A building with character, and Flora loved it despite herself.

She knew how each one of the forty-two steps looked, knew each irregularity in the stairwell walls. About a year earlier she had drawn an anarchist symbol the size of a fist down by the front door in felt pen. She had been jarred herself by the sight of it each time she walked by, and was relieved when it was painted over.

Her head was spinning when she reached the top of the stairs. She had eaten nothing all day and had only had a few hours' sleep at night. She opened the door and had time to hear a couple of seconds of grinding techno from the living room before it was turned off. Then an agitated whispering and rapid movements.

When she reached the living room, Viktor-her ten-year-old brother-and the friend, Martin, at whose place he had spent the night, were each sitting in an armchair absorbed in a Donald Duck comic.

'Viktor?'

He answered 'Mmm' without raising his eyes from the magazine. Martin raised his comic so she couldn't see his face. She did not waste her breath on them, instead she pressed the eject button on the VCR and took out the tape, holding it out to Viktor.

'What the hell are you doing?' He did not answer. She snatched the comic from his hands. 'Hello! 1 asked you something.'

'Give it a rest,' Viktor said. 'We just wanted to know what it was.'

'For an hour?'

'Five minutes.'

'That's a crock. I know by the music where you were. You almost saw the whole thing.'

'How many times have you seen it then?'

Flora banged the video-The Day of the Dead-into Viktor's head with a judicious amount of force.

'Stay away from my stuff.'

'We just wanted to see what it was’

'I see. Was it fun?’

The boy exchanged glances and shook their heads… Viktor said, 'But it was cool when they pulled them apart.'

'Mm. Really cool. We'll see what kind of dreams you have tonight.'

Flora did not think they would dip into her video library anymore. She sensed the childish revulsion and fear seeping from their bodies. The movie had made its mark. Probably Viktor and Martin would now be haunted by the images the way she had been after seeing Cannibal Ferox at an older friend's house when she was twelve. It had never left her.

‘Flora’ Viktor asked. ‘Is it true that they’ve come up out from the graves? For real?’

‘Yes’

'Is it like it is on there?" Viktor pointed to the cassette in Flora's hand. ‘That they eat people and stuff?'

'No.'

'So what is it then?'

Flora shrugged. Viktor had been very sad about their grandfather's death, but Flora had intuited that it was less the person he grieved for than the fact of death itself. Death meant that people actually disappeared. That everyone was going to disappear.

'Are you scared?' she asked.

'1 was super scared when 1 walked home from school,' Martin said. '1 kept thinking everyone was one of those zombies.'

'Me too,' Viktor said. 'But 1 saw one for real. He was totally sick in the eyes. Man, I ran so fast. Do you think Grandpa will get like that?'

'Don't know,' Flora lied and went to her room.

She nodded at Pinhead who was staring at her from the poster on the wall, and then she put the video back on the shelf. She should eat something but did not have the energy to go to the fridge and get it all the together. It felt good to be hungry-ascetic. She lay down on the bed and her body was at peace.

When she'd rested for a while she took down the Pretty Woman DVD case and took out the razor blade she kept inside. Her parents had never found it during the phase when she used it.

The scars on her arms were from her amateur period, she had quickly moved on to cutting herself under her collar bones, shoulder blades. There were a couple of scars on the outside of her shoulder blades that were so deep it almost looked like a pair of wings had been cut off. A beautiful thought, but that time she had gotten scared; it wouldn't stop bleeding and it was around that time that the conversation with Elvy happened. Life became slightly more bearable and the wing-scars became the last.

She looked at the knife, unfolding it and turning it between her fingers and… yes. She hadn't been this close to wanting to hurt herself in a long time.

Her gaze ran over the titles in the bookcase I() sec i I slle wanted to read anything. There was mostly horror there, Stephen King, Clive Barker, Lovecraft. She had read them all, had no desire to re-read anything. Then she caught sight of a picture book, an author's name, and a little bell went off inside her head.

Bruno the Beaver Finds His Way Home by Eva Zetterberg. She took the book down, looked at the picture of the beaver standing in front of his house: a mound of sticks in the middle of a river.

Eva Zetterberg…

That's right. She had read about her in the paper. She was the one who could talk, the one who had been dead the shortest time.

'Too bad,' Flora said to herself and opened the book. She had the other one as well, Bruno the Beaver Gets Lost, which had come out five years earlier, and had been looking forward to the third one that she had heard would soon be out. Of all the books she had been given by her parents, she liked the Bruno books the best, except for Moomin. She had never been able to stand Astrid Lindgren.

What she had liked and still appreciated was the straightforward approach to sorrow, to death. In the Moomin books it had been called Marran, in the Bruno books it was the Waterman who posed a constant threat lurking in the river. He was death by drowning, he was the force that swept Bruno's house away, the destroyer.

After she had read part of the book she started to cry. Because there would never be another book about Bruno the Beaver. Because he had died with his creator. Because the Waterman had finally got him.

She cried and couldn't stop. Stroked the book and Bruno's shiny fur and whispered, 'Poor little Bruno… '

Koholma 17.00

Mahler drove through the seaside village, his car fully loaded, on his way home. The holiday season was over and there were few people in the cottages. By the weekend there would be even fewer.

The closest neighbour, Aronsson, was standing by the road watering his climbing plants. Mahler suppressed a grimace when Aronsson spotted him, waved him over. He couldn't wilfully ignore him. So he stopped and rolled down the window. Aronsson came up to the car. He was in his seventies, thin and bony and with a denim fisherman's hat on his head. It said Black & Decker.

'Hello, Gustav. So you're out here at last.'

'Yes,' Mahler said and pointed at the watering can in Aronsson's hand. 'Is that necessary do you think?'

Aronsson glanced at the sky where the clouds were piling up and shrugged. 'It's become a habit.'

Aronsson was protective of his creepers. Thick, luxuriant strands wound their way around the metal archway that framed the entrance to his property. A wrought iron sign at the top of the frame announced 'THE PEACE GROVE.' After his retirement, Aronsson had made his summer cottage into the tidiest Swedish paradise that could be imagined. There was currently water rationing but to judge from the greenery within the archway, Aronsson had paid no attention to that.

'You know,' Aronsson said. 'I took some of your strawberries. I hope you don't mind. The deer were after them.'

Mahler said, 'No. It's good they didn't go to waste,' even though he would rather the deer ate his strawberries than Aronsson.

Aronsson smacked his lips. 'You got some nice berries. That was before the drought, of course. By the way, I read what you wrote. Do you really think that, or was it just for… well, you know.'

Mahler shook his head. 'How do you mean?'

Aronsson immediately back-pedalled. 'No, I just meant… that it was well-written. It's been a while now, hasn't it?'

'Yes.'

Mahler had been letting the engine idle. Now he turned his face back to the road to demonstrate that he needed to get going, but Aronsson took no notice.

'And now you're out here and you have your daughter with you.'

Mahler nodded. Aronsson had a frightening grasp of everything that went on. He remembered names, dates, events; kept track of what everyone in the vacation village was up to. If a Koholma newsletter ever started up, Aronsson would be a shoo-in for editor.

Aronsson looked in the direction of Mahler's house; it lay beyond the bend and-thank God-could not be seen from here. 'And the little one? Elias. Is he…?'

'He's with his father.'

'I see. I see. That's how it is. Back and forth. So it's only you and the girl, then. That's nice.' Aronsson glanced into the back seat, which was filled with bags from the Flygfyren in Norrtalje. 'Are you staying long?'

'We'll see. You know what, I have to…'

‘I understand’. Aronsson jerked his head in the direction of the road behind them, adopting a pitying tone.‘The Siwerts have cancer, did you hear that? Both of them. Got the diagnoses only a month apart. That's how it is sometimes.'

'Yes. I've got to…' Mahler touched the accelerator even though he was idling and Aronsson took a step away from the car.

'Of course,' Aronsson said. 'Home to the girl. Maybe I'll look in on you one day.'

Mahler could not immediately think of a plausible reason to say no, so he nodded and drove home.

Aronsson. Somehow he had managed to forget that there were other people in the area. He had only seen the cottage, the forest, the sea. Not long noses that liked to poke in where they'd no business.

Who called the police as soon as an unknown car was parked a little too long in the area? Aronsson. Who had tipped off social security that Olle Stark, who was on disability, was working in the forest? No one knew. Everyone knew. Aronsson.

And what had he meant by that, do you really think that?

They would have to be careful. Damn it. Aronsson was a selfrighteous old bugger; why couldn't anyone get it together to burn his house down, preferably when he was asleep inside it?

Mahler clenched his teeth. As if they didn't have enough problems.

He got out of the car and started to unload irritably. When a handle on one of the paper bags broke and a couple of kilos of fruit and vegetables tumbled out he just wanted to swear and kick it all to hell. He managed to control himself-because of Aronsson, which just made him even angrier.

He walked toward the house with the bag in his arms and could not help sneaking a glance over his shoulder, checked to make sure Aronsson was not peeking from up atthe bend. He wasn't.

Mahler put the bag down on the kitchen table and called out 'Hello?' When no one answered, he went into the bedroom.

Elias was lying as he had left him, but now his hands were up on his chest. Mahler swallowed. Would he ever get used to him looking like this?

Next to the bed, on the floor, was Anna. She was lying like a dead person, wide eyes staring at the ceiling.

'Anna?'

Without lifting her head, she answered in a weak voice, 'Yes?'

A baby bottle was lying beside Elias' head. A little bit of liquid had spilled out onto the sheet. Mahler picked it up and placed it on the bedside table.

'What is it?'

The feeling of irritation was still there. It had been a lesser form of hell to run around Norrtalje in the oppressive heat, dutifully fetching and carrying. He had hoped to come home to a little peace and quiet. But now there was something new. Anna did not answer. He wanted to poke at her with his foot, but restrained himself.

'Come on, what is it?'

Anna's eyes were swollen, red. Her voice was only a whisper through layers of old tears. 'He's alive…'

'Yes. I know.' Mahler picked up the baby bottle, shook it. There was a pinch of undissolved sugar at the bottom. 'Have you given him this?'

Anna nodded mutely. 'He drank.'

'Yes, well, that's wonderful.'

'He sucked.'

'Yes.'

Mahler knew he should be more enthusiastic about this news than he could manage; his head was a daze of sleep deprivation, exhaustion and heat.

'Can you help me unload the rest?'

Anna lifted her head and looked at him. For a long time. Regarded him as if he were a creature from another planet that she was trying to understand. He wiped his forehead with his sleeve and said, annoyed, 'I have frozen food that will melt if we don't…'

'I'll get it,' Anna said and stood up. 'I'll unpack. The frozen stuff.'

There was something that needed to be said at this point. Something had gone wrong. He did not have the energy to think. When Anna went to the car he locked himself in his room and lay down on the bed. Distractedly he noted that the room had been cleaned while he was gone. Only the tangles of cobwebs in the cornices betrayed the fact that no one had lived here for a while. In a daze he heard Anna come in, the rustle of paper bags as she put things away in the kitchen.

The larger bag says it all…

He wasn't sleeping, but his body sank slowly down to the point where he jerked, a click and he opened his eyes, feeling much more alert than he had all day. He lay in bed for a while, enjoying the fact that he no longer felt as if he had sand under his eyelids. Then he got up and went out into the kitchen.

Anna was sitting at the kitchen table reading one of the books he had checked out of the library.

'Hello,' he said. 'What are you reading?'

Anna showed him the cover: Autism and Play, then returned to her reading.

He hesitated for an instant, then walked into the bedroom and stopped short. Elias was lying in bed with a baby bottle that he was holding by himself. Mahler blinked, walked closer.

It was probably only his imagination, sparked by the fact that Elias was doing something that any child could do, but he thought Elias' face looked slightly… more healthy. Not as stiff and hard, not as old man-like. As if a smidgen of light and relief had spread across the dry skin.

The eyes were still closed and with the bottle in his mouth it looked mOre as if he was… savouring it. Mahler sank to his knees by the bed.

'Elias?'

No answer, not a single movement that indicated that Elias saw or heard. But his lips were moving in a barely perceptible sucking motion and his throat was swallowing. Mahler reached out his hand and gently touched the curly hair. It was soft and smooth under his hand.

Anna had put the book down and was looking out the window on the wall of pine trees and the lone, tall ash tree where the sketch of a tree house-some planks and boards-was attached between the branches. She and Elias had started to build it last summer; Mahler was not one to climb up ladders.

Mahler stopped behind her and said, 'Fantastic.'

'What? The treehouse?'

'No. The fact that he's drinking. By himself.'

'Yes.'

Mahler took a deep breath, and let it out again. Then said, 'Forgive me.'

'For what?'

'Because I…I don't know. For everything.' Anna shook her head.

'It is what it is.'

'Yes. Would you like some whisky?'

'Yes.' Mahler poured a little in two glasses, then put them on the table. He raised his to Anna and said, 'Truce? For now?'

'Truce. For now.'

When they had each swallowed a sip, they sighed at the exact same time which made both of them smile. Anna told him how she had massaged Elias' hands and fingers for a long time until they felt softer, how she had then put the bottle in his hands.

Mahler told her about Aronsson, that they had to be careful, and Anna made a terrible face, mimicking Aronsson's inquisitorial expression.

Mahler picked up the book that Anna had been reading, asked, 'What do you think?'

'It's good. But this whole… training routine that they describe, it's for…' Anna's voice faltered, 'for healthier children.' She covered her face in her hands. 'He's in such a bad way.' The air pushed out of her lungs in a convulsive exhalation.

Mahler stood up, came up next to her and held her shoulder and head against his stomach. She let him. He stroked her hair and whispered, 'It will be fine…It will be fine… just look at what happened today.' She pressed her head against him and he said, 'We have to have hope.'

Anna nodded against his stomach.

'I do. And that's what's so terribly fucking painful.'

Suddenly she jerked away, wiped her eyes and got up, said, 'Come on.'

Mahler followed her into the bedroom. They sank down onto Elias' bed next to each other. Anna said, 'Hi sweetie. Now both of us are here.' She turned to Mahler. 'Dad. Look at his face. Tell me if I'm crazy.'

Mahler looked. Whatever it was he had seen when Elias was holding the bottle was gone. His face was closed, lifeless. His heart sank. Anna turned down the sheet. Mahler saw that she had dressed him in a pair of his old pyjamas that had been left at the cottage and that only reached to his knees.

Anna placed the index and middle fingers of one hand on Elias' thigh. Then she started to walk her fingers up toward his belly while she sang:

A mouse is coming… it crawls and walks…

She walked her fingers across his hip.

It crawls and walks… and suddenly it says…

She poked Elias' bellybutton.

PEEP!

And Mahler saw. Only a suggestion, like a faint twitch. But it was there.

Elias smiled.

Taby Municipality 18.00

Hagar patted her right knee.

'We'll have rain, I think. I've felt it in this old knee all afternoon.'

Elvy leaned against the window and looked out. Yes. She didn't need a psychic knee to know something was coming. The cloud masses were close enough to block the sun arid turn the afternoon to evening. The air was loaded with static. To Elvy it could only mean one thing. She rinsed out the empty tea cups and said out loud, 'We have to go out this evening.'

Hagar nodded in agreement. She was prepared. Over the telephone Elvy had told her to wear something decent, in case it turned out that they needed to get started on their task immediately.

The dark blue silk dress with tiny stars that Hagar had chosen was perhaps a little showy for Elvy's taste, but Hagar had said it was a 'momentous occasion' and she could hardly argue with that.

Hagar had no doubts. When Elvy told her about the vision, she chuckled with delight and congratulated her. That Mary would show herself at the End of Days wasn't unexpected; that it was be Elvy to whom she'd shown herself just meant Elvy was enormously lucky, but then people you'd never heard of won millions in the lottery, so…

Truth be told, Elvy was not completely pleased with how lightly Hagar was treating the whole thing. Putting on her party frock, then making this comparison with the lottery.

The encounter with Mary had been a profound shock for Elvy, probably the biggest thing that had ever happened to her. But Hagar only looked at the wound in her forehead, clapped her hands together and said, 'How marvellous! How wonderful!' Elvy nursed a suspicion that Hagar would have reacted similarly if she said she had been abducted by aliens. It was as if Hagar was overjoyed that something was happening, regardless of what it was.

Hagar had been married three times. Since her last husband, Rune, died ten years ago Hagar had done nothing but attend seminars and meetings. For the past three years she had had a relationship with a man her own age, but hadn't moved in with him. They had simply had their little 'tete-a-teres' as Hagar put it. She had ended it when the man started to get senile.

A flighty woman, then; completely different from Elvy. And still they were best friends. Why? Well, for starters she had the same sense of humour. That could get you a long way. And in addition she was educated and still lucid, which was not true of all of Elvy's old friends. And even if they had different opinions most of the time, they understood each other.

But Elvy could not view this matter of Mary with the same levity as Hagar. Did not wantto. This was serious. Hopefully Hagar would understand that.

Hagar rubbed her knee, making a face.

'How should we start? You never become a prophet in your own country, you know. Maybe we'll have to go somewhere else with our prophecies.'

Elvy sat down on the other side of the table, pinning Hagar with a look. Hagar's gaze started to flit about. 'What is it?'

'Now Hagar, you have to understand… ' Elvy rapped her knuckles on the table for emphasis, 'We are not starting a three-ring circus. You may think this is exciting, like winning the lottery or something. But if you want to be part of this you have to understand…'

Elvy brushed the band-aid on her forehead. The wound had started to itch. She went on, 'what this is about. The Virgin Mary, Holy Mother of God, has personally told me that 1 should bring people to her. Do you understand what that entails?'

Hagar mumbled, 'That they should believe.'

'Precisely. We are not to get them to grow beards or give away their possessions or anything else. We must give them faith, through the power of our own convictions. And now 1 ask you, Hagar… ' Elvy was almost scaring herself with the tone of her own voice, but went on nevertheless, 'do you believe in the Lord Jesus Christ?'

Hagar squirmed on the chair, looking shyly up at Elvy like a pupil reprimanded by the teacher and said, 'You know I do.'

'No!' Elvy's index finger shot up in the air. She always spoke more loudly when she was talking to Hagar, but now her voice rose even further. It was as if she was possessed. 'No, Hagar! 1 ask you: do you believe in the Lord Jesus Christ, God's only son?'

'Yes!' Hagar made fists. 'I believe in Jesus Christ, God's only begotten son, who suffered under Pontius Pilate, was crucified, who ascended into heaven and on the third day rose again, yes! I do!'

Whatever had come over Elvy receded. She smiled.

'Good. Then you are accepted.'

Hagar slowly shook her head. 'Goodness, Elvy. What is going on with you?'

Elvy had no answer.

The sky had grown darker, lying like a lid across the earth, when they ventured out. They both had their umbrellas. Hagar complained that it wasn't just a twinge in her knee, it was really hurting. It was going to be one heck of a storm.

But there was no rain yet. The birds sat silent in the trees, the people were inside their houses, waiting. The air pressure made the blood rise to the head in an intoxicating rush. Elvy was happy. It would probably be this very night. Maybe she was only one of many who had been called. She would perform her allotted task.

They started next door at the Soderlunds', Elvy knew that the man was a mid-level manager at Pharmacia, the woman a librarian who had taken early retirement. They had lived in the area for a long time but Elvy had never had close contact with them.

It was the husband who answered the door. He had a little pot belly, a checked jersey, a bald patch and a moustache.

Elvy had not prepared herself, trusting that inspiration would strike when it was time. The man recognised her and smiled amiably.

'Well, well, Mrs Lundberg, you're out and about… ' 'Yes,' Elvy said. 'And this is Hagar.'

'I see. Good evening.' The man's gaze travelled from Elvy to Hagar. 'How may I be of service?'

'Can we come in? We have something important to tell you.' The man raised his eyebrows, looked back over his shoulder as if to check that he really had a home to invite them into. He turned back to them and appeared to be on the verge of asking something, then simply said, 'Of course. Please come in.'

As Elvy stepped into the hall, Hagar on her heels, the man gestured to her forehead. 'Have you injured yourself?'

Elvy shook her head. 'Quite the opposite.'

The answer did not satisfy him. He frowned and backed up a few paces to give them room, then stood with his hands resting on his belly. The decor in the hall was spare and elegant, seemingly at odds with his personality and probably the work of his wife.

Hagar exclaimed, 'How lovely!'

'Yes, well… ' the man looked around and it was apparent that he felt differently. 'I guess you could call it… a certain style.'

'Excuse me?' Hagar said.

Elvy shot Hagar an angry look while the man repeated what he had just said. Then he waited. Before Elvy had decided what she was going to say, the words flew from her mouth.

'We have come to prepare you.'

The man stretched his head out a little. 'I see. For what?'

'For the return of Jesus Christ.'

The man's eyes widened, but before he had time to say anything, Elvy went on, 'The dead have arisen, as you have most likely heard.'

'Yes, but… '

'No,' Elvy interrupted, 'Not But. My own husband came back last night, the same thing has been happening all over. The scientists are at a loss-"impossible, inexplicable" they say. But it is completely self-evident and we all knew it was going to happen. Are you simply going to sit here and act as if this is an everyday phenomenon?'

The woman of the house came out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a tea towel. Elvy heard her and Hagar exchanging greetings. The man asked, 'But… what is it you want?'

'We want… ' Elvy held up her hand and without being aware of it, she made the sign of peace, her thumb against the inside of her index finger, the other fingers stretched out. 'We want you to believe in the Lord Jesus.'

The man looked at his wife, a slight panic in his eyes. The woman returned his look with an expression that was closer to saying that this was an offer they had to take a position on. The man shook his head. 'What I believe is my business.'

Elvy nodded. 'Absolutely. But look around you. Can you reasonably interpret all this in any other way?'

The woman cleared her throat. 'I think we have to… '

'Wait a little, Matilda.' The man put up a hand to halt his wife and turned back to Elvy, 'Why are you doing this? What is it you want?'

Before Elvy had time to reply, Hagar said, 'The Virgin Mary appeared to Elvy and told her to do it. She has no choice. Nor do I, because I believe in her. And Jesus.'

Elvy nodded. For the first time she realised the point of having Hagar with her. Like the Lord Jesus-without making too much of the comparison-had had Peter, the rock.

'We're not making demands,' Elvy said. 'You must do as you wish. We cannot force anyone to do anything. We simply want to let you know that you may be on your way to making a terrible mistake if you turn away from God now that… now that we have all the evidence.'

The woman looked anxiously at her husband as if Elv y and Hagar were offering them a vaccine against a ravaging disease and she sensed that he was about to refuse it.

And sure enough, the man shook his head angrily and walked past Elvy and Hagar, opening the front door.

'I think it sounds a lot like a threat.' He used his hand to indicate that they should leave. 'But good luck to you. There are plenty of lost souls.'

Elvy and Hagar stepped out onto the landing. Before he had time to shut the door Elvy said, 'If you change your mind… my house is open, always.'

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.

'Nothing. Bring your psychologist,' she said.

'What?'

'I said: bring your psychologist. Leave me alone.'

She felt Margareta's presence behind her for a couple more seconds, then it left her and slammed the door.

The little man…

That was what frightened Margareta.

Six months ago-after coming horne from a talk at I he Youth Psychiatry Service Margareta had forced Flora to attend – Margareta had sudden;y opened up and started to talk about her father.

'I can't take it,' she said. 'I can’t handle that vacant stare, the way he doesn't say anything, just sits there.'

At that point she had not been to visit her father for several months.

'And all the time,' she went on, 'all the time, it's like I'm imagining that inside my father, somewhere inside his head there's… a little man… a little man who thinks clearly and looks out onto the world and he's accusing me, he's thinking: Why doesn't my daughter come to see me? He's sitting in there and waiting and… But I can't handle it.'

And Flora sensed that her father was one of the main topics of conversation between Margareta and the psychologist she saw once a week (twice a week when Flora had been doing the most self – cutting).

Even back then, Flora had thought it would have been better if she had just dragged herself out to Taby. But Margareta believed in psychology. She thought it was possible to become whole. That if she worked her problems out conscientiously, one by one, she would finally attain a state of harmony. Possibly also a diploma. Every problem had a solution except for those that did not.

And what could you do about them? Ignore them! Little men in your head? No such thing. Not worth speaking or even thinking about.

Now the little man had come out. Now he was walking around with vacant eyes. Now the pointing finger of accusation was waiting for Margareta at Danderyd.

But it was an insoluble problem. Therefore there was no problem.

It did not exist.

Flora skipped back and raised the volume.

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

Yes. Come to our house. The steak is cold, it may even be rotting, but now we have wrapped it in plastic, we promise that you won't smell anything. Stay a while.

Gladwrap.

The thunder that started rumbling half an hour later interfered with her internet connection. Flora tried to call Elvy but no one answered. When she called Peter, he answered on the first ring.

'This is Peter.' His voice was low, almost a whisper.

'Hello it's me, Flora. What is it?'

'The police. They're cleaning house.'

Even though his voice was electronically flattened, Flora could hear the hatred in it.

'Why?'

There was a crackle on the line as Peter snorted. 'Why? I don't know. They probably think it's fun.'

'Did you manage to save the scooter?'

'Yes, but they've taken all the bikes.'

'No.'

'Yes. I've never seen so many of them. Eight SWAT units and a van. They're driving all of them away now. All of them.'

'What about you?'

'No. I can't talk any longer. Have to keep quiet. See you.' 'Sure. Good…'

The connection was broken.

‘…luck.'

Kungsholmen 20.15

As the first flash of lightning split the sky above Norrmalm, David was standing in front of the freezer staring at a packet of frozen raspberries. The rumble that followed a couple of seconds later stirred him from his trance and he stuffed the raspberries to the back, taking out a bagged loaf of bread.

Roast'n Toast. Best before 16 August. When he bought the bread a week ago everything was normal; life a sequence of great or not-sogreat days to pile one on top of the other. He shut the freezer door and lost himself in the bread instead.

How long?

How many days, how many years before even one good memory would be attached to a moment after Eva's accident? Would that ever happen?

'Dad, look.'

Magnus was sitting at the kitchen table, pointing out the window.

Fine chalk lines blinked on the blackboard of the sky and the claps of thunder that rolled in shortly afterward did not appear to have anything to do with it. Magnus counted quietly to himself and said that the thunder was three kilometres away. Sheets of water slid down the window.

David took a couple of rock-hard slices of bread from the bag and put them in the toaster for Magnus' evening snack. He had burned the spaghetti sauce for dinner and neither one of them had eaten much. Later they had watched Shrek for the fourth time and Magnus had downed half a bag of chips while David drank three glasses of wine. He wasn't hungry anymore.

The house shook with detonations that were drawing closer. David managed to coax Magnus into eating a piece of toast with cheese and marmalade, and a glass of milk. He alternated between regarding Magnus as a machine that had to be taken care of, and as the only other life that existed on this earth. After the wine, it was the latter view that had started to dominate and he had to hold back tears as he looked at his son.

Magnus went off to brush his teeth and at the instant he disappeared from view, panic started to burn in David's stomach. He drank the dregs of the wine straight from the bottle and leaned against the kitchen table, watching the lightning.

After a minute Magnus came back and stood next to him.

'Dad, why does the light move faster than the sound?'

'Because…' David rubbed his hands over his face. 'Because… good question. I don't know. You'll have to…' He broke off. He had been on the verge of saying: You'll have to ask Mum. Instead he said, 'You should go to bed now.'

He tucked Magnus in and said he was too tired to tell him a goodnight story. Magnus asked him to read one instead, and he read the one about the leopard that lost a spot. Magnus had heard it many times, but always thought it was funny when they got to the part where the leopard counted its spots and discovered that one was missing.

This evening David lacked his usual storytelling verve. He tried to act out the leopard's consternation, but Magnus' dutiful giggle was so pitiful that he had to stop, and simply read the story as it was written. When it was over they were both quiet for a long time. When David made a move to get up, Magnus said, 'Dad?'

'Yes.'

'Is Mum coming back here?'

'How do you mean?'

Magnus curled up and drew his knees up to his chest.

'Is she going to come back like how she is now and be dead?'

'No. She'll come later. When she is well.'

'I don't want her to come here and be dead.'

'She won't.'

'Are you sure?'

'Yes.'

David leaned over the bed and kissed Magnus on the cheek, and on the mouth. Normally Magnus would make trouble-want to play the Angry Game, make funny faces-but now he just lay still, allowing himself to be kissed. When David stood up Magnus was lying with his brows knit. He was thinking about something, wanted to ask something. David waited. Magnus looked him in the eye.

'Dad? Are you going to be all right without Mum?'

David's jaw froze. The seconds ticked by. A sensible voice at the back of his consciousness shouted at him: Say something, say something now, you're scaring him. Finally he managed, 'Go to sleep, buddy. Everything is going to be fine.'

He left the bedroom door open, went to the bathroom and turned on the bathwater, hoping that it would drown out the sound of his sobs.

He had imagined Eva dead many times. Tried to imagine. Wrong.

Many times the thought of Eva's death had been forced upon him. Yes. Because things happen, you read about them in the paper every day. Photographs of roads, lakes, some nondescript forest glade. Someone had been in a crash, someone drowned, someone was murdered. And he had thought. A life of emptiness: routines, duties, perhaps eventually a bit of light from somewhere. But now, when it had happened, of course the worst pain came from things he had not been able to imagine.

Dad? Are you going to be all right without Mum?

How could an eight-year-old say that?

David sat on the floor with his head bent over the bathtub where the water was slowly rising. Maybe it was wrong of him to hide his grief from Magnus. But Eva was not dead, he was not allowed to grieve. And she was not alive, so he could not hope. Nothing.

He turned off the water, pulled the plug and walked out to the kitchen and opened a new bottle of wine. Before he had time to pour himself a glass, Magnus came out wrapped in his blanket.

'Dad, I can't sleep.'

David carried him to his and Eva's bedroom, tucked him in again. Magnus almost disappeared in the big bed. He used to toddle in here when he was little and woke in the night. Here was security. David lay down next to him, his hand on his shoulder. Magnus squirmed in and sighed deeply.

David closed his eyes, wondered, Where is my big bed?

He had been afraid that his mother would have seen the morning news, but she had not, so when she called in the afternoon and exclaimed about the evening's events he let her talk for a while and then said he had no time. Both she and Eva's father had to be informed, but he couldn't bring himself to do it just now.

Magnus' breathing deepened. His head was wedged in David's armpit.

Where can I go?

The only thing he saw was the kitchen counter where the full bottle of wine was waiting. He would go there as soon as Magnus was fully asleep. Because it was Eva who was his big bed, his only haven, and he could not go there. He lay with his head deep in the pillow, looking at the blue light that occasionally flickered across the ceiling. The rumbling was more distant now, giants mumbling behind the mountains. The rain was fairies tiptoeing across the window ledge.

… and the dead have awakened…

A thought glided past and he took hold of it gratefully.

If everything… if everything impossible starts happening now.

Yes. If vampires came out. If things floated, disappeared. If the trolls came out of the mountains, if the animals began to talk or if Jesus returned. If everything… became different.

David smiled. He smiled at the comforting thought. The continued normality of society-picnics in the park and automated phone systems-was a mockery, and its collapse into the supernatural would be a relief. The attempts of scientists to understand the phenomenon from a biological perspective had nothing to do with him. Come angels, come fairies, it is starting to get cold.

Taby Municipality 20.20

In two hours they managed to visit twelve houses, perhaps twenty people. Some shut their doors as soon as they heard what it was about, but more were willing to hear them out than they had expected. Elvy had herself received visits from the Jehovah's Witnesses several times and treated them with courteous dismissal. Once she had been sitting at the kitchen window and followed their progress, how quickly they were back on the street after visiting each house. It went much better for Elvy and Hagar.

Perhaps it was due to the extraordinary circumstances, or the passion of Elvy's conviction. Even though Elvy had had her vision, had been given her task, she was not naive enough to think she could immediately convince everyone else. Things like that did not even happen in the Bible.

The pressure front of the storm was wrapped around them the whole time like invisible muslin, but it was as if the storm had folded his arms and was waiting for them to finish their task before letting loose.

Most of the people they had managed to interest or convince were women their own age. But there were a couple of men too. The one who embraced their mission with the greatest enthusiasm was

a man in his thirties. He was a computer consultant, he explained, and he offered them his services in case they needed help in setting up a web site to spread their message via the internet. They told him they would think about it.

By eight o'clock the storm was no longer able to contain itself. It was already as dark as a winter evening when the wind started to ruffle the treetops, and shortly afterwards the rain came. In a few minutes it had grown to a downpour.

Elvy and Hagar unfurled their umbrellas and the rain streamed down the fabric, creating a curtain of water around them, smattering against the metal roofs of parked cars with such intensity that they could hardly hear each other's voices. Arm in arm, they continued homeward.

'Poor old horses of the apocalypse!' Hagar shouted and Elvy did not know if she was referring to them or their legs, but there was no sense in asking since there was no way Hagar would hear over the din of the rain. They trudged on in silence with the water rushing around their flat shoes.

It was raining so hard that there was hardly any air left to breathe. They proceeded slowly under their buckling umbrellas so as not to exhaust themselves. The first bolt of lightning struck at the exact moment they reached Elvy's house, and the thunder rolled down the street a couple of seconds later like a drumroll of doom.

Hagar closed her umbrella and shook it out. 'Phew!' she laughed. 'Is this the End, do you think?'

Elvy smiled crookedly. 'Your guess is as good as mine.'

'Oh my, oh my… ' Hagar shook her head. 'The heavens have opened, as they say.'

Elvy's reply was inaudible; the storm had drawn closer and a blast sent a shudder through the house, rattling the wineglasses in the cupboard. Hagar jumped and asked, 'Are you afraid of lightning?'

'No. Are you?'

'Not really. I just have to…' Hagar tilted her head and turned something on her hearing aid. Then she said, a little louder, 'Now I can't hear so well, but the thunder… it gets too much.'

The thunder came at closer intervals and Hagar shot a frightened look at the ceiling. The part about her not being afraid of thunder was probably not entirely true. Elvy took her hand and Hagar squeezed it gratefully, allowing herself to be led into the living room. Elvy herself felt nothing other than… reliance. Everything was as it should be, and they had done what they could.

When they reached the living room Elvy noted that the ceiling lamp was swaying slightly. Then it went out. All the lamps in the house went out and it became pitch dark. Hagar squeezed Elvy's hand harder and asked, 'Should we pray?'

They made their way onto the floor, easing their stiff legs into place. Hagar grimaced with pain as she got down on her knees, said, 'I can't… my knee…'

Elvy helped her up again and they sat next to each other on the couch instead, hip to hip. They interlaced their fingers and lowered their heads in prayer while the rain continued to run down the roof and thunder filled the world.

When the power had been out for ten minutes and the lightningstrobe of the storm was still playing on the house, Elvy let down the blinds and lit two candles on the coffee table. Hagar, half-lying on the couch, resting her bad knee, was transformed from storm-lit movie monster to dignified saint.

Elvy walked up and down in the room with a rising sense of irritation.

'I don't know,' she said. 'I don't know.'

'What?' Hagar cupped her fingers behind her ear, but Elvy waved the gesture away. She had nothing important to say.

Why is nothing happening?

It wasn't that she had expected an immediate conversion of the masses, but something… something that made this undertaking greater than just two old ladies tottering around together hawking their faith. After all, she had been chosen, personally singled out and marked. Was it like this for all visionaries?

Probably. The thing was to hold onto her vision, not let go.

But for how long, Lord? How long?

She was back in the hall on one of her circuits when there was a gentle knock on the door. She opened up.

Outside stood a sodden likeness of her next -door neighbour. Her

hair straggled, her dress spotted with dark patches of moisture. A I '

series of lightning bolts illuminated her and she made an altogether

miserable picture.

'Come in, come in,' Elvy said and guided her into the hall.

'Excuse me,' the woman said, 'but you said that… well, that your house was open. And my husband has been very odd since you left. He drank a great deal and then he went out and… if this really is going to be the last night… '

'I understand,' Elvy said, and did. 'Come in.'

While her neighbour was towelling her hair in the bathroom, there was another knock on the door.

Why all this knocking…

But then Elvy remembered that the power cut must also have knocked out the doorbell. Fearing that it was her neighbour come to fetch his runaway wife she opened up, with a speech about freedom of association ready on her lips.

But it was not the neighbour. It was Greta, one of the older women who had appeared to be swayed when they visited earlier. She came better prepared than the neighbour. A vivid green rain poncho was draped over her head and shoulders, and she pulled a basket out from underneath.

'I brought a little coffee and some home-made pastries with me. So We can keep vigil together.'

It was not long until yet another of the women came. She had brought a box of candles with her, in case they did not have any. Finally Mattias arrived, the young man with the computer background. He said that he had thought about bringing his laptop but that there was no point while the storm was still going.

When they were all assembled in the living room with extra candles lit, coffee poured out and pastries served, there was a general outbreak of explanations. The thunder had died down so Hagar was able to turn up her hearing aid and take part.

It was the storm, they all agreed. It had driven it home. If tonight was going to bring the end of the world, or at least a complete change in life as they knew it, they did not want to sit alone when there was the option of gathering with like-minded people.

When they had spoken about this for a while, everyone's gaze turned to Elvy. She realised they expected her to say something.

'Well,' Elvy said, 'of course, on Our own we can do nothing. Faith only lives when it's shared. It was a blessing that you came here. Together we are greater than the sum of Our pans. Let us now sit vigil through this night and if it is the last, We will at least meet it together. Hand in hand.'

Elvy finished her speech abashed. It was not inspired. She had simply tried to say what they had been expecting her to say. The others considered her platitudes quietly, until Hagar cried, 'Do you have

mattresses?'

Elvy smiled, 'Where there is heart, there is room, and so forth.'

'Should We sing something?' the young man asked.

Yes, of Course they had to sing. Everyone scoured their minds for something appropriate. Hagar looked around.

'What is it?' she asked.

'We want to sing something,' Elvy said loudly. 'We're trying to think of something.'

Hagar thought for a second, then piped up: Nearer My God to Thee…

Everyone joined in as best they could. They sang at the top of their lungs and the candles flickered in their outgoing breath, as they drowned out the storm.

Bondegatan 21.50

Someone's fiftieth birthday party was in full swing in the party room upstairs. The storm had died down and from her room Flora could hear the partygoers' laughter echoing in the stairwell. In the background, they were singing along to 'Girls Just Want to Have Fun' and Flora could not for the life of her understand how they could play it without feeling ashamed.

She lay still, savouring her contempt for the middle-class world she had been born into. You were allowed to be a little bit of an individual as long as you did it tastefully. Anything beyond that was a job for a psychologist. She was never at home: the tolerance wrapped her up like a straitjacket and she just wanted to wave her arms and scream.

Viktor had been sent to bed at half past nine, and Flora had declined a party invitation issued in a tone of brittle gaiety.

She rolled out of bed and walked into the living room, turned on the television to check the news. She had heard nothing from Peter and she did not dare call and break his silence.

The news was focused almost exclusively on the reliving. A professor of molecular biology explained that what they had at first believed to be an aggressive decomposition bacterium had revealed itself to be a co-enzyme called ATP, the cell's primary energy supplier. The perplexing thing was that it could survive at such a low temperature.

'It's as if you put a batch of dough out in the snow and it still rose,' explained the professor, who also made appearances on popular science shows.

ATP's baffling liveliness also explained how the newly deceased could overcome their rigor mortis, since it is precisely the breaking down of ATP that locks the muscles.

'Let us for the moment assume that we're talking about a mutated form of ATP. However…' The professor pinched his index finger and thumb together to emphasise the point, 'we do not know if it is this enzyme that has caused them to awaken, or if the behaviour of the enzyme is a consequence of their awakening.'

The professor held his arms out and smiled: cause or effect? What do you think? Flora did not like his smug way of talking, as if the whole thing was a debate about over-fishing cod stocks.

But the next item made her draw several inches closer to the television screen.

That afternoon a television crew had been allowed into Danderyd. There was vision of a large hospital ward where around twenty reliving were sitting on the floor, on beds, in chairs. At first you could see their faces. The remarkable thing was that everyone had the same expression: mute amazement. Eyes wide open, mouths slack. In their blue hospital gowns they evoked a group of uniformed school children watching a magician.

Then the camera tracked out and you saw what they were looking at: a metronome. Perched on a rolling cart, it was ticking back and forth, back and forth before the enraptured audience. A nurse was sitting on a chair next to the metronome, upright, aware of the camera.

Must be the one who starts it again when it stops.

The voiceover outlined how the situation at the hospital had improved now that they'd discovered the thing with the metronome, and that the search was now on for other methods.

The weather would continue to be changeable.

Flora turned off the television and sat looking at her reflection in the screen. Noises from upstairs cut through the silence. They had started to sing a sea shanty, in rounds. When the song was over she heard raised voices, laughter.

Flora leaned back, stretching out onto the floor.

I know, she thought. I know what's missing there. It's death. Death

doesn't exist for them, it's not permitted. And for me it's everywhere.

She smiled to herself.

Come on, Flora. Mustn't exaggerate.

Viktor emerged from his room. He looked so thin and frail in his underpants that Flora was overcome by a sudden tenderness.

'Flora?' he said. 'Do you think they're dangerous? Like in that movie?'

Flora patted the floor next to her. He sat down and pulled his knees to his chin as if he was cold.

'The movie… it's all made up,' she said. 'Do you think there really is a basilisk? Like in Harry Potter?'

Viktor shook his head.

'OK. Do you think that there's… do you think there really are elves and hobbits? Like in Lord of the Rings?'

Viktor hesitated for an instant, then shook his head and said, 'No, but there are dwarves.'

'Yes,' Flora said. 'But they're not walking around with axes, are they? No. The zombies in that movie are just like the basilisk, just like Gollum. They're just made up. It isn't like that at all in real life.'

'What's it like in real life?'

'In real life…' Flora stared at the black monitor. 'In real life they're nice. At least, they don't want to hurt anyone.'

'Are you sure?'

'I'm sure. Now go to bed.'

Svarvargatan 22.15

The clock on the bedside table said quarter past ten when the phone rang. Magnus had been breathing evenly for a long time and David eased out his tingling arm, walked out into the kitchen and picked up.

'This is David.'

'Hi. My name is Gustav Mahler. I hope I'm not calling too late. You wanted to speak to me.'

'No, it's… nothing,' David caught sight of the bottle and the glass, poured himself some. 'Honestly… ' he took a big gulp, 'I don't know why I tried to contact you.'

'I see,' Mahler said. 'That happens sometimes. Cheers.'

There was a click on the other end and David raised his glass, said, 'Cheers,' and took another gulp.

There was silence for several seconds.

'How's it going?' Mahler asked.

And David told him. Whether it was the wine, the bottled-up anguish or something in Mahler's voice-the barriers came down. Not caring whether the stranger on the other end was interested, he told him about the accident, the awakening, Magnus, the visit to the State Pathologist, the feeling of having fallen off the edge of life, about his love for Eva. He talked for at least ten minutes, only pausing because his mouth was dry and he needed more wine. While he poured, Mahler said, 'Death has the capacity to isolate us from each other.'

'Yes,' David said. 'You'll have to excuse me but I don't know why 1…I haven't talked to anyone about…' David stopped with the glass half-way to his mouth. A chill shot through his stomach and he put the glass down so violently that wine splashed out. 'You aren't going to write about this, are you?'

'You can…'

'You can't! You can't write about this, there are a lot of people who… '

They lined up in front of his eyes: his mother, Eva's father, his colleagues, Magnus' classmates, their parents… all the people who would find out more than he wanted them to know.

'David,' Mahler said. 'I can promise you that I won't write a single word without your approval.'

'Do you mean it?'

'Yes, I mean it. We're just talking right now. Or more precisely: you're talking and I'm listening.'

David laughed, a short laugh that came out in the form of a snort and pushed mucus into his nose, stale tears. He drew a finger through the spilled wine, forming a question mark. 'What about you?' he asked. 'What's your interest in this? Is it purely… professional?'

The other end grew quiet. David had time to think that the connection had been broken before Mahler answered.

'No. It's more… personal.'

David waited, drank more wine. He was starting to get drunk. He noted with relief that his state of being was starting to lose definition, his thoughts were slowing down. In contrast to earlier in the day this was a state in which he could rest. There was a person on the other end of the telephone line. He was drifting, but he was not alone. He was afraid the conversation would end.

'Personal?' he asked.

'Yes. You trusted me. I'll have to trust you. Or… if you want to put it another way we'll both have something on each other. My grandchild is with me, and he's… ' David heard Mahler take a gulp of whatever he was drinking, 'he is… he was dead until last night. Buried.'

'You're hiding him?'

'Yes. Only you and two other people know about it. He's in bad shape. The fact that I called you was mostly because I thought perhaps you knew something.'

'About about what?'

Mahler sighed.

'Oh, I don't know. It's just that you were there when she woke up and…I don't know. Maybe something happened that could be useful.'

David replayed what had happened at the hospital in his head. He wanted to help Mahler. 'She spoke,' he said.

'She did? What did she say?'

'Well, she didn't say anything that… it was as if the words were new for her, as if she was testing them. It was… ' David heard it again: Eva's metallic, raspy voice, 'it was pretty awful.'

'I see,' Mahler said. 'But it didn't seem as if she… remembered anything?'

Without thinking about it, David had forced that moment at the hospital from his consciousness. Had not wanted to go near it. Now he knew why.

'No,' David said and the tears pricked his eyes. 'It was like she was completely… empty.' He cleared his throat. 'I think I have to… '

'I understand,' Mahler said. 'Let me give you my number in case… well, in case you think of anything.'

They hung up, and David sat at the kitchen table, polishing off the last of the wine and devoting twenty minutes to not thinking of Eva's voice; of her eye, as it had looked at the hospital. When Magnus went to sleep he lay as if crucified in the middle of the bed, his arms thrown wide. David shifted Magnus over to one side, undressed and lay down next to him.

He was so exhausted he fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes.

Koholma 22.35

'What did he say?'

Anna walked into Mahler's room only a couple of seconds after he hung up. Mahler rubbed his eyes, said, 'Nothing in particular. He told me his story. Horrible, obviously. But nothing that helps us.' 'His wife, was she…

.'

'No. It was basically the same as with Elias.'

When Anna had gone back to the living room and the television came on, Mahler looked in on Elias. He stood there a long time staring at the little body. Elias had downed yet another bottle of brine, yet another bottle of sugar water over the course of the evenmg.

It was like she was completely… empty.

But Eva Zetterberg had only been dead for half an hour. Was he wrong?

Was it true, as Anna said, that nothing of Elias remained in the tiny creature lying in the bed?

When he stepped out onto the patio the air was new. During the long drought he had forgotten that the air could feel so rich, so much like nourishment. The darkness was dense and filled with scents from a

landscape that the downpour had restored to life.

Does some… intention exist?

Elias had been dead and withered. Something that was not rain had brought him back to life. What? And what was keeping him alive if he was empty inside?

A seed can lie dormant for hundreds and thousands of years. Dried or frozen in a glacier. Place it in moist earth and it sprouts. There is a power. The green force of the flower. What is the power of the human being?

Mahler studied the stars. Out here in the country they were more numerous than in the city. An illusion. Of course the stars were always there, and in numbers infinitely greater than the sharpest eye could discern.

Something touched him. An insight, inexpressible. He shivered.

In a rapid succession of images he saw a blade of grass break through the seed casing and struggle toward the surface, saw a sunflower strive toward the sky, turning to the light, saw a small child pull itself to its feet, hold its arms out, jubilant, and everything lives and is drawn to the light, and he saw…

It is not inevitable.

The green force of the flower. Not inevitable. Everything is effort, work. A gift. It can be taken from us. It can be given back.

Attachment 2

15 August

Initial Examination: Attempt No.3 (cure) [Soc. Dept. Confidential]

The supply of nourishment to patient 260718-0373 Bengt Andersson was interrupted 2002-08-15 at 08.15.

Catheters for saline and glucose solutions were removed in order to observe the patient's reaction. The patient showed no signs of decline by 09.15. ECG blank, EEG as before.

09.25 the patient experienced a series of spastic cramps. The contractions lasted for approximately three minutes, whereupon the patient returned to the earlier state.

No further cramps or other reactions observed by 14.00.

Our conclusion is that the saline and glucose supplements are not a necessity. The low values that the patients show neither improve nor decline.

[From Studio One 16.00]

Reporter:.,.results that indicate that the reliving do not need nourishment. Professor Lennart Hallberg, how can this have been established?

Lennart Hallberg: Well, of course the actual tests have not been made public at this point, but I assume that they simply suspended the supply of nutrients in order to observe what would happen…

Reporter: And you can do that? Is it allowed?

Lennart Hallberg: Firstly, the reliving exist in a kind of legal

grey area. It will probably be a while until we develop some medical-ethical guidelines for handling them. Secondly, the flag of pestilence has not been lowered yet, so to speak, and this gives us physicians a certain…leeway.

Reporter: How is it possible to exist without nourishment?

Lennart Hallberg: [laughing] That's a good question. A week ago I would have answered it by saying it is physiologically impossible, but now…let us say that there may be a form of nourishment that we have not discovered yet.

Reporter: What would that be?

Lennart Hallberg: I haven't the faintest idea.

[DN Debate]

[Extract from the article 'Can the Dead Help Us?' by Rebecca Liljewall, Professor of Philosophy at Lund University]

… earlier unimagined possibilities to approach the fundamental conditions of life. Should the same ethical criteria be applied to the reliving as to 'normal' patients?

Present laws give a simple answer to this question: No. A person who has been declared deceased falls outside of judicial boundaries, excepting the peace of the grave. It is however doubtful if grave-peace can be invoked in this case.

In all likelihood the laws will shortly be altered to include the reliving. It may sound cynical but in the intervening time the opportunity exists to perform experiments and tests that may later be illegal. My opinion is that the medical experts should be encouraged to take advantage of the situation.

The possible suffering of the reliving must be measured against the benefit it may hold for mankind. In the past two days sixty-five

people in Stockholm have died without awakening. In the whole world, around 300 000 people have died during the same time.

It is not too bold to state that a more thorough examination of this small number of reliving would better equip us to prevent a large number of unnecessary deaths in future.

Is it not a price worth paying?

[Dagens Nyheter, letter to the Editor]

I am one of thousands of family members who have now waited for two days for a clear answer to the question of what will happen to our dead. Why this secrecy? What is being covered up?

As an old Social Democrat I am very disappointed in the government's actions. I think I speak for many when I say that this will have an impact when I go to vote next month. I have spoken with many people and everyone is saying the same thing: if this government cannot arrange for us to see our loved ones, it has to go.

[Expressen, the Daily Bouquet]

I want to offer the Daily Bouquet to all of the doctors and nurses and police officers whose quick action removed the dead from our streets.

I don't think I am alone in feeling that it would have been very disturbing to have them wander freely.

Many thanks!

[From Reports from the Inside, SVT 1, 22.10]

Reporter: Vera Martinez, you are a nurse who has been working at

Danderyd these past few days. From what I understand there has been a high staff turnover?

Vera Martinez: Yes. Basically everyone working there now comes from staffing agencies. No one can keep it up. As soon as there is a room full of the dead then it's like… you don't have the energy. It's the thoughts, the feelings-you have to sort of make yourself think nice thoughts the whole time, but in the end you can't keep it up.

Reporter: You brought in metronomes, and the effect appeared to be calming?

VM: There are none left. They picked them all apart. It worked for one day, but then… well, they took them apart. Now we have other things, more durable things… that move.

Reporter: What do you think should be done?

VM: They have to be spread out in some way. They can't be kept together, like they were in the hospital. No one will be able to take it.

Reporter: Karin Pihl, you are an expert at the Ministry of Social Affairs. I believe there are plans to relocate the reliving?

Karin Pihl: As Vera here says, the present situation is untenable. We've been working on a temporary solution since yesterday, but I cannot give out any further details as of yet.

[Daily Echo 21,00]

The conservative parties have now united in a declaration of a lack of confidence in the government. It is being called an exceptional move so close to the election, but the leader of the Moderates puts it this way:

Leader, Moderate Party: 'This is exceptional, yes. But the government's handling of this situation has been exceptionally clumsy. Naturally it must be made possible for relatives to see their reliving.'

Parties in coalition with the government have not yet announced any guarantees of their continued support.

Quick investigation: Attempt 5 [Decomposition]

[Min. Soc. Aff. Classified]

Temperature requirements for patient 3201l4~6381 Greta Ramberg was concluded at 2002-08-15,09.00 hours.

The patient was isolated in her own room. The climate control was gradually adjusted until it reached 19 degrees Celsius, or normal room temperature.

The patient was kept under constant observation in order to note any signs of an advance in the decomposition of tissue. When none had been noted by 12.00, the temperature was raised to 22 degrees Celsius.

At 15.00 no signs of deterioration were detected. A bacterial analysis of the bowel contents was carried out, and the results showed that all bacterial growth in the body had ceased.

The phenomenon is currently unexplained, but our conclusion is that the reliving do not appear to require the cooling that is otherwise standard practice with cadavers.

[Daily Echo 22.00]

… have now confirmed that the man killed in the subway accident at Danderyd Hospital station was Sten Bergwall, chief physician

at Danderyd. According to police, there are no suspicious circumstances…

[Mail to the Br-Toys head office]

… hereby place an order of 5000 (five thousand) copies of item number 3429-2l.

We request this order be filled as expeditiously as possible. The transportation costs do not matter. If possible, we ask that the goods be transported by air freight…

[Daily Echo 23.00]

All staff have now left Danderyd Hospital. A large number of military vehicles have gathered outside the entrances. For the moment there is no information about what is happening, but the Prime Minister has announced a press conference for seven o'clock tomorrow morning.