See You Tomorrow (29 page)

When he was young, he liked the darkness. Autumn, the evenings, the nights. Now he's not so fond of it any more, but he needs it. PÃ¥l feels scrawny. He feels lean in both mind and body. He's lost a lot of weight in the last few months. You look good, people have told him, it suits you, have you been hitting the gym? No, I've hit the wall. He's bought in food for the kids. Where are they? Out. Was Malene heading into town for something? Was Tiril calling round to a friend? Was it something to do with that performance tomorrow? He isn't sure. The words they say to him. They come out of their mouths, he nods, he smiles, but then they're gone.

PÃ¥l puts the lead on Zitha.

‘Yeaah, come on, you're going out with Daddy.'

Yet another few steps further into the darkness.

He walks out on to Folkeviseveien. No unopened envelopes to toss in the rubbish bin at the bus shelter today. A victory. A day without debt collection. What is Zitha so jumpy about? Why is she whimpering like that?

‘Zitha!' he says, louder, and in an angrier tone than normal. ‘Simmer down, bad dog.'

PÃ¥l halts as he turns on to the path behind the tower blocks. Zitha is still agitated and he feels a terrible pang of conscience as the reason for it dawns on him. The dog hasn't been fucking fed.

‘Yeaah,' he whispers. ‘Daddy's a dolt.' Pål crouches down, pulls Zitha close. ‘Poor you with a daddy like me, eh? Cries crocodile tears in front of his daughter and looks to his dog for forgiveness. Yeaaah, yeaah. Come on.'

He picks up the pace, puts on a spurt with Zitha for about a hundred metres or so. He gets her worked up, as if something's going to happen, something of relevance to her as well. But
it won't. What will happen will only be of concern to him. It's getting on for five to ten. PÃ¥l hasn't heard from Rudi today. That means he's going to go ahead with this. Further into the forest. Listen to how they're planning to help him. Christ only knows what they intend to suggest. What can people like that offer? PÃ¥l has no idea. He has no clue about the workings of the criminal world, no more than what he can imagine from films and TV series. Do they have a set menu with a list of options?
Okay, PÃ¥l, here's a suggestion: you smuggle a quantity of heroin to Germany. No? Then we've got something else: you join us on a bank job. No? Then you'll have to sink your fingers further in the shit. There are people who are willing to pay others to use violence. We can arrange something along those lines.

‘Zitha! Can you quit your bloody whimpering?' Pål grabs her firmly by the scruff of the neck and presses her snout hard against the ground, and he sees the fear come into her eyes – she's not used to this. ‘You'll get food. Later.'

Pål releases her and shakes his head. He's made it as far as Madlavoll School. He's noticed himself becoming more and more sentimental as the years pass. Maybe that's just the way of things? At least in a life like mine, he thinks, where the future isn't exactly burning bright. He walks over to one of the classroom windows. ‘Yeaah, Zitha,' he says, ‘that's where Dad sat, all those years ago.'

He takes a furtive look around. He has to cross the football pitch. He needs to get to the turnaround by the substation. It lies in front of him, illuminated by streetlamps.

PÃ¥l hurries across the gravel pitch, passing one set of goal posts and striding briskly into the light. He can't see Rudi anywhere.

‘Here, Zitha, come on, girl,' he whispers, leaving the light, rounding the substation and entering the shoulder-level thicket. ‘Yeaah, come on now.'

No Rudi. PÃ¥l stands there for a few moments. Zitha is still uneasy, but she's quiet now, his trepidation having rubbed off on her. It's still possible for him to call the whole thing off. Turn around and leave. But he doesn't. On the contrary, PÃ¥l has the same sensation in his head, the same tingling in his fingers as when he opens the laptop at night, the feeling of wanting this.

Voices. Footsteps.

He remains quite still. Zitha begins moving ever so slightly, but PÃ¥l is assertive and she obeys.

‘…you're still thinking about that, yeah?'

‘…well, now and again, but yeah, mostly as a sort of … retirement idea, almost…'

‘Retirement idea! Nice. Hey, I see you've retired, so what are you filling your wrinkly days with? Well, I'm busy writing my horror book, is what I'm doing, analyses of Argento and Fulci for the most part … Blood! Blood! Listen, when I totter into the ranks of the coffin dodgers, I'm going to have enough saved up for me and Chessi to spend six months of the year in Spain—'

‘Okay, let's keep it down now, Rudi…'

‘Surethingboss, we'll keep it down…'

‘…and not so much blabbering, okay?'

‘Who, me?'

They've stopped in front of the substation. The unfamiliar voice is very high-pitched – it sounds like that of a child in a grown man's chest. Pål brings his hand up and fixes his shirt collar, as though he were going to a meeting where he has to look smart. The sounds of whispering carry to him now. He can't make out what they're saying. Movement.

There they are. PÃ¥l has to make an effort not to stare at the corpulent form lurching through the brush, manoeuvring with an effort between leaves and branches.

‘Påli! He-hey! Just like I was saying, only a few moments ago, yessir, Påli will be here, I said, you can count on it—'

It's him. It's Videoboy. Big and fat. With the same empty eyes as over twenty years ago. Small and black. He gives Rudi a quick look of admonishment, who in turn nods and draws his lips tight.

Videoboy offers him a brief smile as he puts out his hand. He's incredibly like his bygone self. Time hasn't affected him.

‘Jan Inge Haraldsen,' he says, in a quiet tone, making his voice almost more high-pitched, ‘nice to meet you.'

Videoboy himself. PÃ¥l tries not to show how thrown he is, attempts to conceal any form of recognition. He puts his hand out.

‘Pål,' he says, and clears his throat, ‘Fagerland.'

‘There you go, ‘says Rudi, ‘now you've met the man himself, the—'

Jan Inge gives Rudi yet another look of reproach. PÃ¥l needs to gather his wits. It's Videoboy standing in front of him. Even though he's met him before, that damn week in 1986, it's just like encountering a celebrity from childhood. One of those you always heard about but never met, almost like it was, well, Kevin Keegan or Phil Collins. PÃ¥l has always been nervous around celebs, they make his hands sweat.
Videoboy
. He's really fat. His skin is wan, like ash. His hair is thin. And that freaky high-pitched voice.

I can't let them recognise me, thinks PÃ¥l. They mustn't remember what I did.

‘I'm not entirely comfortable about you bringing your dog along,' Jan Inge says, glancing down at Zitha, who's sitting by Pål's feet.

‘No, I'm sorry about that,' Pål says, fidgeting nervously with the lead, ‘but it's the only way I can get out of the house without arousing too much suspicion. I've got two daughters, you see, so…'

‘I understand. I'm not heartless. I have a family myself. I trust the dog will stay easy?'

‘You know what, I was just thinking exaaaactly the same thing—'

Rudi speaks loudly and gesticulates. Videoboy glances at him for a third time. ‘Anyway—'

Videoboy slips his hand into his trouser pocket, producing an inhaler which he proceeds to shake. He presses down on it, breathes in.

I'd forgotten that, thinks PÃ¥l. The inhaler.

‘Anyway,' repeats Jan Inge, ‘I understand you're having financial difficulties.'

Rudi folds his arms, nods in a manly fashion.

‘Yes.' Pål swallows, but notices this situation isn't as horrible as he thought it was going to be. Jan Inge seems genuine. ‘Yes,' he says again, ‘I've tried everything but I just can't find a solution.'

‘Right,' Jan Inge says, nodding. Causing his jowls to wobble. ‘That's where we come in.' He places a hand on Pål's shoulder.
‘That's how you need to view us, as a solution. You need to get your life back on track. You require a service. We – in all probability – can provide that.'

‘Eh?' Rudi nods contentedly, his arms still folded. ‘Schnåli? You hear that? What did I tell you?'

‘I'll get right down to business—'

‘Right down to business—' Rudi uncrosses his arms and snaps his fingers.

‘Rudi, would you let me speak here?'

‘
Kein Problem
.'

Jan Inge inhales. He lets his gaze wander. Peers into the woods, as though he heard something. Then he fixes his eyes on Pål again: ‘We had a meeting today. About you and your situation and what we envisage could help. And we came up with something which I believe will solve your problems. But first, a question: are you well insured, Pål?'

‘Insured, mmm … yeah, I suppose I am? My ex-wife, she…' Pål shoots Jan Inge a hesitant glance. ‘Insurance … right … well, if you're thinking—'

‘Yes, that is what I'm thinking,' says Jan Inge.

‘Heh heh. Blood! Blood! Not only blood!'

‘Oh, shut up.'

Jan Inge fixes Rudi with a harsh stare. He checks himself and nods affirmatively.

‘Right,' Jan Inge continues, ‘you're well insured. Both household and contents as well as personal injury?'

‘Yeah…'

‘Excellent. That makes everything much simpler. This is the scenario we envisage: when night falls tomorrow and
the suitable hours of calm
arrive, roughly between half past seven and eleven, then we'll drive over to your place. Where do you live?'

‘Well, in Ernst Askildsens Gate, up by the low-rises, not too far from here…'

‘Do you have a garage?'

‘Yeah, sure, I've got one…'

‘A spacious garage, would you say?'

‘Weeell, yeah, I suppose it is…'

‘Perfect.' Jan Inge slaps his bloated palms together and Pål notices how they hardly make a sound. ‘It's a good time to work,' he continues, enthused. ‘It's dark. People are busy with their own thing. No one pays any attention to the presence of an extra car or not. Some people are watching the news. Others are at club or association meetings. Shadows and shapes and incidents. There're many who believe that the poetic hours occur later, in the middle of the night. I say it's these hours that are lyrical.'

‘Heh heh. You listening?'

‘Daily life is taking place,' Jan Inge goes on, without allowing Rudi to perturb him, ‘it's dark but not too quiet. That's when we'll come driving down the street. A plain, grey Transporter. A Trojan horse. And the only thing you need to do is to make sure your kids are out of the house.'

PÃ¥l nods with interest. There's something about the way Jan Inge presents it that makes it feel right. His confidence is reassuring, he's genuine and proper, reflective and experienced. It's the same impression he gave in 1986, but he seems more reliable now.

‘We park the Transporter at your place, we'll number between three and four people, depending how many the firm have at work that evening. We will of course have some equipment along with us, you'll usher us in and then we'll get to work on your house. Our goal will be to make the damage look as realistic as possible. Basically, you understand: to make such a good job of it that the entire insurance amount is paid out to you. We'll take your possessions.'

‘Possessions…?'

‘Possessions.'

‘Possessions!'

Jan Inge puts his head to the side and narrows his eyes. This is a joint effort, PÃ¥l. We can't risk this much without getting something in return. You understand that.'

‘Eh … sure …' Pål clears his throat. ‘That's probably – well – how it has to be. So. You'll take everything, I presume, TVs, computers…'

‘If it's your laptop you're thinking of, I'd imagine you should be happy to be rid of it. The internet isn't for you, Swalli.'

Jan Inge takes a step closer to Pål: ‘There's also the added detail of us being obliged to leave you in a somewhat altered state.'

‘What do you mean?' Pål says, knitting his brow. ‘Altered?'

‘Heh heh. Altered.'

Jan Inge's laughter is as shrill as that of a little girl.

‘Professional jargon, Pål. Altered.' Pål looks from one of them to the other. Rudi must have a condition of some kind, but still he's a cordial type, the kind of guy everyone wants to have in their gang of friends. Jan Inge is impossible to place, obviously talented and very intelligent, but all the same … stupid?

‘Hey, Uli?'

Rudi places a fingertip firmly on PÃ¥l's chest. Jabs him four times in the solar plexus.

‘I can feel that this is going to go fucking great,' he says. ‘We definitely have a connection here. Am I going too far when I say that this could be the beginning of a long friendship between you and our company? What do the stars have to say about it? What do you think Gran – rest in peace, old patchwork quilt – would say, sitting up there in Heaven, knitting socks for the lot of us? Respect to you and respect to your kids and respect to your dog, and death to your woman problems. What's his name again? Zitha? He's been sitting there now, obediently, for fucking minute after minute after minute after minute, and I've noticed it. While the two of you were talking I was on the dog's side. And what does a dog get out of a human's conversations? Wellmyfriend, there's more between people and dogs than we suspect. That dog has participated. You have a true friend there, Huli.'

Videoboy nods to Rudi and places a fat arm around PÃ¥l's shoulder. He leads him a few metres alongside the substation wall. Walks with him a little. Gives him a few pats on the back. Nods. Both of them with eyes downcast.