The Blood Spilt

36

TUESDAY SEPTEMBER 12

It’s all in the morning papers. And they’re talking about it on the news on the radio. The missing priest has been found in a lake with chains around his body. Shot twice. Once in the chest. Once in the head. An execution, according to a police source, describing the fact that the body was found as more luck than skill.
Lisa is sitting at the kitchen table. She’s folded up the newspaper and turned off the radio. She’s trying to sit completely still. As soon as she moves, it’s as if there’s a wave inside her, a wave that surges through her body, getting her up on her feet, making her walk round and round in her empty house. Into the living room with the gaping bookshelves and the empty windowsills. Into the kitchen. The dishes have been washed. The cupboards wiped out. All the drawers full of rubbish have been emptied. No papers or unpaid bills lying around. Into the bedroom. Last night she slept without any bed linen, just pulled her quilted coat over her, fell asleep, much to her surprise. The cover is folded up at the foot of the bed, the pillows placed on top of it. Her clothes are gone.
By sitting completely still she can curb her longing. Her longing to scream and cry. Or her longing for pain. To place her hand on the burning hotplate. It will soon be time to go. She’s had a shower and put on clean underwear. Her bra is chafing under her arms; it doesn’t usually do that.
It’s not so easy to fool the dogs. They come up to her, wagging their tails. The sound of their claws on the floor, clickety-clickety-click. They don’t take any notice of her stiff body, rejecting them. They push their noses against her stomach and between her legs, wriggle their heads under her hands and demand to be patted. She pats them. It takes an enormous effort. To shut everything off to the extent that she can manage to stroke them, feel their soft fur, the warmth of the living blood flowing beneath it.
“In your baskets,” she says in a voice which is not her own.
And they go to their baskets. Then they come straight back and start walking around her again.
When it’s half past seven, she gets up. Rinses out her coffee mug and places it on the draining board. It looks strangely abandoned.
Out in the yard the dogs start playing up. Normally they just jump straight into the car, knowing it means a long day in the forest. But now they’re messing about. Karelin scampers off and pees on the currant bushes. The German sits down and stares at her as she stands there ordering them into the car through the open tailgate. Majken is the first to give in. Scuttles across the yard, crouching, tail pressed down between her legs. Karelin and the German jump in after her.
Sicky-Morris is never very keen on travelling by car. But now he’s worse than ever. Lisa has to chase after him, shouting and swearing until he stops. She has to drag him to the car.
“Get in, for Christ’s sake!” she shouts, slapping him on the backside.
And then he jumps in. He understands. They all do. Looking at her through the window. She sits down on the bumper, worn out already. The last thing she’s doing is fighting with them, that wasn’t the way she wanted it to be.
* * *

She drives to the churchyard. Leaves the dogs in the car. Walks down to Mildred’s grave. As usual there are lots of flowers, small cards, even photographs that have warped and thickened with the dampness.
They’re keeping it nice for her, all the women.
She should have had something with her to place on the grave, of course. But what could she have brought?
She tries to think of something to say. A thought to think. She stares at Mildred’s name on the wet, gray stone. Mildred, Mildred, Mildred. Drives the name into her body like a knife.
My Mildred, she thinks. I held you in my arms.
* * *

Erik Nilsson is watching Lisa from a distance. She stands there passive and rigid, as if she’s looking right through the stone. The other women always get down on their knees and poke about in the earth, busying themselves and tidying, talking to other visitors.
He’s on his way to the grave, but he stops for a moment. He usually comes here on weekday mornings. To have his time there in peace. He’s got nothing against the Magdalena crowd, but they’ve taken over Mildred’s grave. There’s no room for him among the grieving. They clutter the place with flowers and candles. Place little pebbles on top of the headstone. His contributions are lost among all the bits and pieces. No doubt it’s okay for the others, this sense of collective grieving. It’s a consolation to them that so many miss her. But for him. It’s a childish thought, he knows. He wants people to point at him and say: “He was her husband, you have to feel sorry for him most of all.”
Mildred passes behind him.
Shall I go down there? he asks.
But she doesn’t reply. She’s staring at Lisa.
He walks over to Lisa. Clears his throat in plenty of time so as not to startle her, she seems so absorbed in her thoughts.
“Hi,” he says tentatively.
They haven’t met since the funeral.
She nods and tries to force a smile.
He’s just about to say “so you’ve got a breakfast meeting here as well,” or something equally meaningless to oil the wheels between them. But he changes his mind. Instead he says seriously:
“We only had her on loan. If we could only bloody realize that while they’re still with us. I was often angry with her because of what she didn’t give me. Now I wish I’d… I don’t know… accepted what she did give with pleasure, instead of being tormented by what I didn’t get from her.”
He looks at her. She looks back without any expression on her face.
“I’m just talking,” he says defensively.
She shakes her head.
“No, no,” she manages to get out. “It’s just… I can’t…”
“She was always so busy, working all the time. Now that she’s dead it feels as if we’ve finally got time for one another. It’s as if she’s retired.”
He looks at Mildred. She’s crouching down, reading the cards on the grave. Sometimes she gives a big smile. She picks up the pebbles on the top of the headstone and holds them in her hand. One after the other.
He stops speaking. Waits for Lisa to ask him how he’s getting on, perhaps. How he’s coping.
“I’ve got to go,” she says. “The dogs are in the car.”
Erik Nilsson watches her as she leaves. When he bends down to change the flowers in the vase buried in the ground, Mildred has gone.