See You Tomorrow (13 page)

He’s pleased with this wheelchair.

Jan Inge rocks slightly forward and back while watching a movie. It handles like a dream, much better than you’d think to look at it. Ingenious idea Rudi had that time. Chessi needs a wheelchair. Where do they have wheelchairs? Wherever sick people are. Where are there sick people? At the hospital. Okay. Rudi drives to the hospital. He just walks straight in the door. He sees a wheelchair: That’s mine.

Rudi at his best. Utterly fearless.

Easy to change course too. Jan Inge brakes hard in front of the living-room table and turns the chair smoothly around. Carrying 120 here, after all. About time Rudi called. But that’s Rudi’s style, if you take him on you have to be willing to take on the best and the worst, like beer and calories, to make a comparison. But loyal? People have come and gone in this company, good people who’ve accepted Jani’s leadership style and realised this isn’t some
half-ass
gang, bad people who haven’t understood a single rule, people who’ve run themselves into the ground on drugs, made for a lousy atmosphere and been disloyal.

A cushion wouldn’t go amiss, if you were planning on sitting here for a while. And some kind of headrest. Be surprised if Tong couldn’t knock something up. There’re few things he can’t fix up, it’ll be good to have him around again.

Jan Inge grins at the TV as though it were an old friend, and that’s what it is, after all. A classic,
Three on a Meathook
. Well made, if you consider the budget and the fact it came out in 1973. Yeah. That scene’s so good. The axe isn’t even big, just a little hatchet, and it chops the woman’s head right off.

There. Darkness. Zoom in on the house.

The father walking around calling out to Billy.

Why didn’t you listen?

It’s too late now.

That’s what’s so good about horror movies. They’re all about it being too late. If Jan Inge ever writes that book, he can call it something along those lines.

It’s Too Late.

A Study of Horror Movies.

By Jan Inge Haraldsen.

That bloody surname. It doesn’t command any respect. He’d have to change his name if he was going to be a writer.

Jan Inge Wilson.

Doesn’t sound that good.

What are writers called?

Hamsun.

He can’t remember that many writers from school. But then again there weren’t many days he went to school.

Jan Inge Hamsun

That has a certain ring to it.

JAN INGE HAMSUN

Vibrant. But a bit Nazi.

Knausgård? Jan Inge Knausgård?

Bit boring. Bit German.

Jan Inge Nesbø?

Bit used-up.

Spielberg? Jan Inge Spielberg?

Not enough like a writer.

Jan Inge Cash.

No. He’s not really a writer-writer, Johnny Cash.

Nooo … Jan Inge … what’s his name…

Yess.

JAN INGE KING.

It’s Too Late. A Study of Horror Movies.

By Jan Inge King.

Jan Inge pivots a little on the wheelchair, nodding to himself.

It’s all about grabbing hold of life while you can.

Some people have that little extra. The company was vulnerable
when Tong went inside. Cash flow was better when he was working. He can be a bit iffy upstairs but that’s the drugs. And as soon as that’s out of the picture, which Tong promises it is, then it’s hard to find fault. It’ll be good to have him home, then the gang will be all together, then they can avoid having to trust people they half know as well as complete strangers. Melvin. Tødden. God, he’s happy to be rid of that sick hippie, and Hansi, what a disgusting individual. He’d start jabbering away when he was drunk. When Rudi drinks he just wants to sing, dance, shout, mess about and screw Chessi, but when Hansi drank he wanted to hit the town, then he’d start blabbering, and then it’s not far to the copshop on Lagårdsveien 6, and before too long you’ve got Tommy Pogo standing at your door. Well, anyway, all that’s behind us now. Have to organise a party for Tong on Friday. Show him that we care. That he’s bloody well welcome back.

WELCOME HOME, YELLOW SUBMARINE, WE’VE MISSED YOU.

That’s what’s important, thinks Jan Inge, filling his mouth with crisps. Keeping the gang together. Being a good leader. He saw a programme about business executives on TV, and after listening to them, he can’t say he breaks with any of the fundamental principles of sound leadership. Trust. Presence. Ambition. Resolve. Seeing your co-workers. Seeing their good sides. Supporting them. Inspiring them. Being there for them in adversity. No, Jan Inge can’t see that he breaks with any of the fundamental principles. On the contrary, they’re precisely the same basic principles he adheres to when it comes to leadership:

No drugs (only when we’re on a job!).

No to porn (ruins your head!).

Never harm individuals (what have they done to us? Are we animals?).

No to excessive violence and weapons (= copshop on Lagårdsveien 6!).

Small jobs = good jobs (get too big, Lagårdsveien 6!).

Yes to break-ins, no to hold-ups (Lagårdsveien 6!).

Keep calm! (Chaos is our enemy!)

Only talk to your own people (who else can you trust?).

Focusfocusfocus (!!!).

The biggest danger is Rudi and Chessi moving out. That’s not a pleasant thought. What he needs to do is make sure things are so good for them in the old house that the issue doesn’t arise. A charter holiday? Is that what they want? Jan Inge can surprise them and splash out. He could spring a surprise trip on them. And what about the SodaStream? How about he actually digs it out to see if it can be fixed?

LEADERSHIP.

‘No,’ Jan Inge says aloud. He rocks a little back and forth. On the TV screen a dead girl lies in a bathtub filled with a mixture of water and blood. ‘No,’ he says again, even louder. His voice fills the room, as though he were addressing someone. ‘No,’ he repeats firmly, ‘need to get back down to a hundred. Too much of a good thing, this here.’

Why are you doing this! What do you want!

That’s Rudi’s ringtone. Jan Inge is torn away from his meandering thoughts and reaches out for the telephone. ‘Yep, Jan Inge King speaking.’

‘King?’

Jan Inge rolls his blueberry eyes.

‘Okay, Mr King, noisy at your end, what are you … hang on, hang on, I’m listening, hang on,
Three on a Meathook?
Ha ha. You study day and night, you do.’

Jan Inge grabs the remote control and mutes the sound.

‘Always on the hunt for knowledge. So, what gives?’

‘The Volvo won’t need repairs.’

‘No?’

‘Nope.’

‘But we need to go through it together.’

Jan Inge squeezes the mobile phone between his jaw and shoulder, turns the wheelchair and trundles toward the door to the veranda.

‘Oh?’

‘A few details we need to take a look at.’

‘But no repairs?’

‘No.’

‘Otherwise everything went okay with the Volvo?’

‘What do you mean?’

There’s something amiss with Rudi’s voice.

‘Well, just wondering if everything else was okay with the Volvo?’ Jan Inge rocks back and forth in the wheelchair.

‘Eh … yeah? I mean yeah! Yeah. Everything’s good with the Volvo.’

‘Okay, well, if you say so.’

‘
Kein problem
. Back to your studies!’

Jan Inge hangs up. Then he unlocks the door to the veranda, shoves it open and feels the white September night meet him. He feels the chill of a slight prickle on the top of his head. His bald spot’s getting bigger, but can’t do anything about that, runs in the family, bad hair. He seesaws the wheelchair gracefully over the doorsill, steering with steady hands, rocking a little back and forth before gliding out on to the veranda. Never fails, that whole Volvo thing, he thinks, surveying the run-down garden. Weeds and shit. All that junk and other crap lying about rotting. It attracts attention. They ought to have a clean-up soon. Straighten out company HQ. They can just talk about the Volvo and they understand one another. Don’t need any set code, can just talk about the Volvo.

And that, he thinks contentedly, despite the presence of a creeping unease over what may have occurred; that is the innermost secret.

To be so tight with your colleagues that you understand everything. That you need only listen to the sound of their voices to figure out what kind of humour they’re in. That you don’t need to look in their eyes for more than a moment to know what’s going on.

That to me is VOLVO.

The sisters walk across the fields by The Iron Age Farm.

They’ve been here before. All the kids in the area have been here. First in kindergarten, a herd of children out in the rain or wind, and then in primary school. Out to look at the ruins of the Iron Age houses situated on the slope between the high-rises and Limahaugen, with a view over Hafrsfjord, where the battle which united Norway into one kingdom took place: 872, Harald Fairhair.

They’re surrounded by darkness, ahead of them they can see the red signal lights of the telecom tower at Ullandhaug, they can see the lights from passing cars down on Madlamarkveien, and they don’t have the energy to talk.

The first girl is angular and ungainly, with small hips and a boyish stride, she’s bent forward and moves with a jerky gait. Her chin juts out, her eyes often narrow and often flash with anger. She’s good at football, has a foul mouth and wears heavy make-up. The other girl has grown-up features and beautiful, high cheekbones. The first one has said she wants to be an environmental activist with Amnesty and write songs of her own. The other has said she is going to concentrate on gymnastics, continue studying in any case, perhaps something within sport or health.

She might well be a little anxious about the future. Anxious it could present further changes.

It was a normal training session. A Thursday afternoon at the end of May. Spring was in bloom, the air full of birch pollen, the summer holidays were right around the corner and Malene had had a good season. After a difficult winter where she had felt stiff and heavy, she was back in form. She’d done well in the regional finals, third place on the beam, a good routine on the parallel bars had given her second place behind Ylva from Sandnes Gymnastics
Club, and she’d executed a lovely vault where she’d finished with her first double somersault in a championship and taken home her first gold medal. In the Norwegian Cup in Trøgstad she’d been on the winners’ podium again, third place in the vault and parallel bars.

Malene trained six days a week all season. She could feel her own strength, she could trust both her mind and her body, and people remarked how she had a new gracefulness about her. She’d grown, was elegant and had gone from being a good gymnast to being considered one of the best in the region. Not as ruthless as Mia, her best friend in the club and not as solid or tough as the Russian twins in Stavanger Gymnastics Club, but people viewed her differently than before. The jump was still the weakest part of her routine, she still lacked the necessary explosiveness, but she trained with determination and she knew everything was moving in the right direction. She had been doing gymnastics since she was seven years old and now she was reaping the rewards.

She was standing. The hall was full of girls, young beginners who practised their first round-off backflip, girls of ten in the advanced group doing arm support swings on the parallel bars. They giggled, ran and landed on the crash mat, Sigrid Ueland making comments the whole time: Bravo, Ingrid! Shuttle runs! Don’t play with the hoop, Nora! What kind of wrist is that, Tuva? The vaults are all right, Mia, but otherwise you’re too careful! You’ll get a half-point more for a proper finish! You’re going to get a Christmas present from me, Pia! You’re running like a bunch of old ladies! Legs together! Legs together!

Without Sigrid, Malene would never be where she is. A powerhouse of a woman with a steely personality, a legend in the city, gymnastics champion and PE teacher, over fifty years of age but still very strong in both mind and body, imperious as well as ambitious on behalf of the girls, with crimson lipstick beneath bright green eyes.

‘Malene! The double!’

Sigrid called out to her and Malene hurried from the beam over to the iPhone laying on the little table by the benches and wall bars. The other girls cleared off the mat and made room. Malene
turned up the volume, ‘Titanium’, David Guetta & Sia. She always has to have loud music on when she’s going to do her elements, it gives her energy and shuts out the world. Then she took up position in a corner of the hall. She allowed the music to play a little until it rose to a pumping tempo, she tensed her body and could feel Sigrid’s eyes boring into her. The younger girls began chanting her name until it resounded throughout the hall – just as she’d done for the bigger girls when she was smaller, cheered them on, given them the noisy support they needed to get their adrenalin going.

‘Come on, Malene! Come on, Malene!’

I won’t fall, I am titanium.
She began her run up. Not too many steps, she ran as hard as she could, did a chassé, perfect, not too short, went into a somersault, over into a backflip – was it a bit too high? A bit too far?

Malene felt a millisecond of nervousness as she sailed through the air performing the double backflip, but it all went so fast she didn’t have time to think, and then she landed. Pain screeched through her body. It felt as though her right ankle had been torn right off. She screamed, fell on to the mat and clutched her foot. In the very same second she knew what had happened. Talus fracture. She erupted in a flood of tears. Sigrid came running over as she shouted to one of the others: ‘Mia, ice!’

Malene was in more pain than she’d ever known, but all she could think of while Sigrid examined her foot with a seasoned eye, was: ‘Now I won’t be able to do gymnastics for months. Maybe never again. All the work I’ve put in to get here has been wiped out.’

‘Pia! Turn off the music! Ice and tape!’ Sigrid’s powerful voice rang out through the hall. The music stopped, Pia ran. The smaller girls stood around Malene with their hands to their mouths and eyes large as saucers.

One small mistake was all it took. Had she not been concentrating? Had she done something wrong in the chassé? No. It was the backflip. It was too high.

‘There’s only one thing to do now, Malene,’ Sigrid said calmly. ‘You put this behind you,’ she continued as she taped the ice pack
tight around Malene’s ankle before elevating it and stating that they’d have to go to A&E to get an X-ray. ‘You’ll be back in this hall next week, even if you come on crutches, you’re coming along with us to camp in the summer, do you hear me?’

Malene nodded and writhed in pain.

‘You’re not going to let this fester, you’re not going to let it get to you. Do you understand?’

She nodded again.

‘You’ll be back on the mat in a few months and this won’t affect you.’

Malene began strapping her ankle and icing it regularly, she went to the gymnastics hall to begin training herself back up carefully, but as the weeks went by she felt less and less at ease. Her friends, who’d been so considerate to start with, were occupied with their own things, her injury wasn’t exotic anymore. Malene felt stupid, her fear wouldn’t release her and she limped her way through the whole of the summer holidays. She avoided meeting Sigrid’s eyes because she knew what they were saying: Don’t quit, Malene. She began doing exercises, began going to the physiotherapists, but the ankle wouldn’t heal. Every day she checked it when she got out of bed in the morning: was it stronger today? Every second of the day went to thinking about the pain and just as Sigrid had feared, the pain won out, over Malene’s mind as well. Then summer came round again, with the Olympics in London, a few of the other girls travelled to England with Sigrid, they saw sixteen-year-old Gabby Douglas beat Victoria Komova, but Malene didn’t go along. She sat home reading text messages from the UK: ‘Mally, you should have been here.’

Everyone says change is a good thing. Malene isn’t so sure about that. Tiril loves change. She hated it when Mum left but apart from that she loves everything new. She throws herself into one new thing after the other, never looks back, just keeps on going.

They’ve always said we’re like night and day, Tiril and I. Am I the day, then? Is she the night?

The sisters continue on up the hill towards the top of Limahaugen. It’s not windy, there isn’t even a hint of a breeze, but still it feels colder as they get higher up, and Malene considers what Dad
always says about it being the nicest place in the world and thinks how true that is.

‘Look at that,’ he likes to say, ‘eh? Take a look. The fjord down there. Those three islands out there. Eh?’

You don’t get it, Tiril. You’re so knotted up in your emo brain that you don’t understand. One day you’ll suddenly have been cocky one time too many. Suddenly the pain you flirt with will turn serious. Suddenly you’ll have lost everything you can’t live without. What do you think life is? A game about suffering?

They stop at the top of the hill. Look at one another.

Dad isn’t there. Zitha isn’t there.

Tiril gives a self-assured shrug. She purses her lips, assumes that cheeky look, the one that makes her look like a fox. ‘There you go,’ she says and blows a bubble with her chewing gum. It bursts in the wind with a dry snap. ‘Now what do you say? Isn’t it just like I said?’

Malene grabs hold of her sister. And then she slaps her across the face.