See You Tomorrow (43 page)

Shaun tilts his head back and looks up at the sky.

Those sisters are close. But they’re so frigging different.

He walks a little behind them. Shaun is good at that. Knowing when to hang back.

Kenny just laid into him. Unleashed blow after blow after blow as though Shaun were a punching bag. Mum was asleep on a cocktail of pills and Dad had already gone out, because it’s so long since he cared. Kenny just came into his room, his hair sticking up as if he’d been struck by lightning. He came barging in, and it was obvious he’d only just woken up, because that’s when he’s at his worst, always been that way with him, a big fucking bunch of energy building up in his body when he sleeps and then he’s like a sharpened pencil or something in the morning, and that’s how he was when he burst into the bedroom. Shaun lay sleeping and woke up with a shock, just managed to make out it was six-thirty on his mobile, before he felt Kenny’s hands pulling him out of bed and dumping him on the floor like he was a sack of potatoes, grabbing him by the neck, forcing his head down, and rubbing his face against the rug before turning him over and pounding and pounding and really beating the shit out of him, all the time repeating: ‘You need to learn to shut up, Shauny! You don’t fuckin’ get it, Shauny! You need to learn to shut up, Shauny! You don’t fuckin’ get it, Shauny! You need to learn to shut up, Shauny! You don’t fuckin’ get it, Shauny!’

Bunny should have been here now.

That was what he thought while he lay there listening to a continuous whistle in his head.

Everybody says Bunny is a nutcase.

But he’s not really.

That’s just hearsay.

Bunny is just Bunny. Kenny is the nutcase.

Look at them.

Sisters.

So nice to look at.

The way Malene runs her hand up and down her sister’s back, speaking so calmly to her after their falling out, after everything has been turned upside down.

‘Yeah, Tiril. Yeah. But listen to me. We’ll take it easy now. One step at a time.’

Shaun has no rock of a sister, not like Tiril has. He only has preoccupied Bunny and psycho Kenny.

‘Listen to me,’ says Malene, when they’ve walked about halfway to the school, ‘listen to me, Tiril,’ and Tiril’s features go all small like a cat and she listens, really listens, when her sister says: ‘There’s nothing we can do for Sandra. We made a choice and what’s happened has happened. And we’ll sort it out, I’m sure. But now it’s time for the performance. And Dad is going to come. And you’re going to sing. You got it?
My Immortal
.’

Tiril sniffles. ‘I don’t want to any more.’

Malene stares fixedly at her. She says: ‘My immortal sister. You will. Will. For me. For Dad.’

‘And for Shaun!’ he shouts from behind them, because he thinks it fits in well. Heh heh. ‘For Shauny!’

Tiril turns. Not in her pottiest dreams would she have believed that she would be together with him. She turned, looking super cute – fuck, Bunny, you should have seen that – when she said: ‘For Shauny.’

Bunny is gay.

No one else knows.

Just Shaun.

And he doesn’t give a shit.

If he wants to stick his cock up guys’ asses it’s no business of Shaun’s. Bunny’s not the one in the family there’s something wrong with; Kenny’s the psycho. Kenny and Mom, she doesn’t even have eyes for fuck’s sake. Shaun has never seen any, just eyelids falling down over pupils that swim; it’s all the pills she stuffs down her
throat –
fo sho, honey
, is all she says,
fo sho,
precious.
Soon that’s all she’ll be able to say. That’s what she’ll say when she’s dying, thinks Shaun, when he’s standing over her, and she’s breathing with a rattling sound, on her way out and he asks if she’s all right, then she’ll say
fo sho, precious
and then she’ll throw up or something and die, and it won’t be too different from how it is now,
fo sho, honey.
But there’s nothing in those words. She just longs for her dope and for the United States of Shit, as Dad calls it. Bet you he regrets picking up Cindy Wilder from North Dakota and trying to make a Norwegian out of her, yessir. Like he says, beware of the titties, they’re pointing right at you, but they’re loaded.

Heh heh.

For Shauny.

Gonna be fine, this here, Shaun feels, as they near the school. That one Sandra is going to come around and everything will be okay. Heh heh. It’s the first time he’s actually been happy about heading to school. It’s the first time Shaun has felt as though this tarmac is a friend and not an enemy. The first time he notices houses and fields and doesn’t just see a shithole all around him. He was all right, Tiril’s father. Nice guy, no hassle, no fuss, pizza man.

He looks at the girls. Seems like Tiril has got it together now. Straightened up a bit. Her sister has got her back on track. Yeah. This is going to be fine too – there’s that Thea one running out of the gym hall, heh heh, people are a little wired now, whoa, Thea is totally stressed out, calm down, girl, no biggie.

‘Tiril, seriously, I was starting to get worried.’

Tiril smiles. Yeah. She’s all set.

‘Chill out,’ Tiril says, ‘relax, just got a little delayed. Heard anything about Sandra?’

Thea shakes her head. ‘No,’ she says, ‘but Frida and the headmaster are saying we’re all still going on, that we’re doing it for her.’

Tiril nods.

Heh heh. Tiril’s taking care of business.

‘Svein Arne is shitting it,’ Thea says, motioning for Thea to follow her to the gym hall, ‘he’s been asking for you, plus we sent you heaps of texts and—’

Heh heh. Look at Tiril. Heh heh. Hands on her hips. Feet apart.

‘Thea. Please. Enough. Jesus.’

Heh heh. Now she’s found her voice.

‘What do you think? That I can’t handle a rough day? Got any gum?’

Heh heh. Way to go.

‘Shaun, Malene,’ she says, gathering them around. That’s sort of how it is with these sisters, Shaun notices; while Malene is the one who steps up and holds the fort when a typhoon is blowing, Tiril gets the plaudits. Her eyes are all steel and flowers now, thinks Shaun. She is so ready to go and it’s no wonder she rocks my world.

‘Shaun, Malene,’ she repeats. ‘Go in and find a seat, Thea and me have about eight minutes to get changed backstage before we go on. For Sandra. Okay?’

Heh heh. Tiril. Niiiiiice, girl.

Kinda looks like a way out, like Dad said once when it was completely quiet in the living room, which it isn’t so very often. Bunny was out, probably round at that guy Stegas’ place, and Kenny wasn’t home either – he was beating up some Chechens in Sandnes. Mum was strung out on something in her room, him and Dad were watching that movie, can’t remember what it was called, but it was about a guy who takes his kid and goes to another country after he kills his wife with sleeping pills and buries her in the garden. Kinda looks like a way out, said Dad, giving Shaun a thump on the arm.

‘Okay,’ Shaun says, giving Tiril a hug, ‘sing like a fucking star. We’re on your side.’

Malene smiles. A really confident smile. And says: ‘Go on, get going. We’ll keep a seat for Dad.’

Shaun tilts his head back and looks up at the sky.

It’s just something he needs to do now and again.

At some point, although he can't remember when exactly, Pål realised that life wasn't one ever brighter journey, the way he often pictured it when he was young, but was composed instead of phases. Different phases that arrived with age, circumstances and settings. He realised at the same time, at some point after Christine left, that neither is life some marvellous path onward towards ever increasing maturity, as he had also imagined when he was young and observed those around him with curiosity; his parents, uncles, aunts, grown-ups on TV, teachers and football coaches. He can't remember when it sank in, that everything happens in phases, and maturity is not a reality but a cultural ideal, yet as he sees Christine again, as she alights from the taxi in front of the house he once shared with her, when he witnesses that outrageous alertness of hers that seems to fill the whole driveway, he is emphatically reminded of it. Once she meant everything to him. Once he was so in love with her that he trembled when he woke up in the morning. That was that phase. Then they lived together for a few years, not beneath the roof of the first flush of love, but under the roof of routine; school lunch boxes, washing machine, MOT. That was that phase. Then she left him and Pål experienced hate for the first time. That was that phase. And now? What is it he feels as she approaches him? A black, waist-length jacket, a tight, dark skirt, a white blouse, those high cheekbones and healthy-looking hair. It's not forgiveness, and certainly not a rekindling of love, although his feelings of hate are long extinguished; so what is it then? Some sort of … sufferance? He's unable to put his feelings into words as she sallies towards him, like she's always done towards the whole world, but there's a surprising measure of kindness in his feelings, even on such an unprecedented and downright dangerous day as today.

‘Pål!'

She's so stunning, Christine. She really is quite beautiful, maybe even more beautiful than before. She's one of those women who look better with age, even when it arrives with an extra few inches around the waist, even when it arrives with wrinkles – everything looks gorgeous on her.

‘Pål, Pål, Pål,' she says, throwing her arms around him, firm, warm and friendly, and he's surprised at experiencing the same sensation, the one he underwent on a daily basis so many years ago, of feeling that no matter how unreasonable this woman is, she still possesses an incredible ability to make him feel safe, in the sense that being in proximity to her makes it seem as though nothing troubling can occur. It is of course erroneous, but the feeling is real.

She pulls back and looks him up and down. Presses her lips together and nods twice with one eyebrow raised in an expression that combines both sincerity and jest: ‘You're skin and bone, man! Are you eating at all? I'll have to have a chat with those girls of ours – what are their names again?'

Her sense of humour, always bordering on indelicate. The words couldn't come from someone else's mouth without sounding cheeky; from hers they sound fine.

He laughs, just like he used to; for her.

‘It's all good,' he says, lying, ‘conscious dieting. You know. Middle-age spread. Have to stay trim. Cut back on frozen pizza. Watch the carbs. Working out a good bit lately, actually.'

‘Hm,' she says, in disbelief. ‘You haven't become a spinning instructor too, have you? So, how much time do we have? Enough for a coffee in my old house before we have to go?'

He smiles again, aware once more of how she manages to make imminent events disappear from his mind, but shakes his head. ‘No,' he says, lying again, ‘we're a little pushed for time.'

‘Oh,' says Christine, and pouts before extending her tongue, ‘you know how tetchy I get without coffee. You've been warned, ex-hubby.'

‘Yeah, I'm bricking it,' he says, laughing as he revels in how nice it is to be with someone he can be effortlessly flippant with; it's
how he and Christine were at their best, it was precisely this tone that drove the days onward. He smiles warmly and for a moment forgets all his anxiety. He says: ‘But you'll have to go without, unless you want to skip seeing your daughter perform, and just have a cup of coffee in Stavanger before you fly back out again.'

He's aware of how, in the space of a few seconds, he's begun to speak differently; speak like her. At her speed, with her tongue. As though he were imitating her.

Was that how it was?

‘Hm,' Christine says, ‘I think I'll choose coffee.'

‘Come on,' he says, locking the front door. He's been standing outside the house with the key ready for almost a quarter of an hour, because he doesn't want her going inside. She'd only walk around passing remarks on this and that in the brusque, effortless manner she has.

His plan is a bad one. But it's the only one he's got.

They walk down Ernst Askildsens Gate and Pål feels a composure in his stride. Perhaps one of the neighbours can see them from a kitchen window, and thinks it strange to see them together again. Maybe it was already strange back when she lived here. An odd couple – him so timid and ordinary, her so outré and out-there. The fact that the two of them got together was surprising to themselves; it must have been surprising for others.

‘What is it she's going to si—' says Christine, halting in
mid-sentence:
‘Oh Jesus. Evanescence. It's so turgid.'

He shrugs. ‘What did you like when you were thirteen?'

She ponders the question for a moment as they peel off to the right, cross the street, and continue along by the low-rises. ‘Thirteen? We'd be talking Wham!, for the most part.'

Christine stops for a moment. She takes in the surroundings. Her eyes are calm, as is her body, that fabulous concentration of hers has stirred, that ability she has to dedicate herself to one purpose, which has got her where she is.

‘Yeah,' she says, mainly to herself. ‘Yeah.'

‘What?'

‘I can hardly fathom it, Pål, that I used to live here.'

He looks away, towards the trees.

‘What the hell was I thinking?' she sighs.

PÃ¥l feigns interest in the trunks of the trees, letting his eyes linger on them.

‘I don't particularly remember that much of it. Of my time living here, I mean. It all feels very distant to me.'

That's one thing you were always adept at, he thinks as he allows his gaze to sweep down a tree trunk and fall upon the ground, you were always adept, Christine, at trampling on things other people liked. He refrains from responding, takes a few steps to indicate they're pushed for time, and she snaps out of her musing just as quickly as she'd fallen into it, and soon she's the one in front of him as they make their way down towards the school.

Then he suddenly stops in his tracks, just as he's planned. He tries not to overdo it, does his best to be just as good a liar as he has been for months, and the slight put-down, the earlier remark she made, has provided him with that little extra he needs. Then he lifts his hands up and takes a sharp intake of breath: ‘Aw shit.'

He says it as though talking to himself.

It looks real.

‘What?'

He looks at her, shakes his head a little.

It looks genuine as well.

‘Sorry, I'm such a numbskull—'

‘What?'

‘The candles. I—'

She rolls her eyes.

It's working.

‘Pål, Pål, Pål.'

‘Yeah, I know.'

‘Candles in September?'

‘Mhm,' he nods and points. ‘I won't be long. You go on ahead, that'll be even cooler, you coming on your own. Five minutes, tops, that's all it'll take me.'

Then he runs.

‘Candles in September,' Pål mumbles while he looks at the tarmac blur under his feet and has a horrible feeling of having deserved all of this, the hate Tiril is going to dish out when she
realises what he's done, the disappointment Malene is going to dish out when she realises what he's done, the disgust Christine is going to dish out when she realises what he's done, and the violence Rudi is going to dish out to him very soon.

Pål makes it to his own street. As he nears the house, he hears Zitha barking and he remembers how that was the first thing that entered his head the day Christine told him she'd had enough: I'm going to get a dog. You've refused me that all these years and that's what I'm going to get and it'll be such joy. Four weeks later a little puppy was running around on the carpet, gnawing at chair legs, chewing on slippers, paring its teeth down until they were sharp as scissors, snipping holes in the carpets, peeing on the parquet flooring, wagging its tail every day the girls came home from school, jumping up in their laps, licking their faces and looking up at Pål with almost unbearable trust as it lay in its basket whimpering for fifteen seconds before falling asleep. And it turned out to be true, what that idiot Bjørn Ingvar Totland said during the Christmas party at work a couple of years ago, when he knocked back a beer, looked over at Pål and said that a dog is man's best friend and a woman man's worst enemy.

‘Yeaah yeaah, Zitha, Daddy's coming, yeeah.' Pål looks at his mobile.

18:45.