See You Tomorrow (9 page)

If you kill someone, you cross the line.

If you never kill anyone, you never cross the line.

If you love someone, you cross the line.

If you never love someone, you never cross the line.

If you cross the line, the earth opens its jaws and swallows you.

Love?

Daniel throws the moped helmet back and forth between his hands.

He tilts his head to both sides, stretches his neck and tramps his feet restlessly.

If the fact that he needs to have her is called love, then that's fine. That's what we'll say: I love you. Shit, he's nervous now.

Typical. Just before something's going to happen, it comes, that feeling. The cold and nausea in his stomach, the flashing behind his eyes and that freezing sensation in his temples. He tried to talk to the Child Welfare Officer about it once, told him about how he sometimes got cold and nauseous and felt he was losing control. He said he felt a crackling in his head and a flashing behind his eyes. He said he grew angry, lost the plot. The guy from Child Services was understanding, put his head to one side and asked him how he felt and what he thought and how he wanted to deal with it himself. Just like that psychologist with the stupid glasses, he talked like that too:
And what do you think about it?
Is that all they can do, ask questions and look sympathetic, is that what they learn at university, is that what they get paid for? Do they not bloody well have a solution? Haven't they been studying for forty years in order to give him a
solution?

Daniel continues throwing the helmet back and forth. If she doesn't come soon then he's going to have to go. It can get too
much. He knows where the danger lies. No matter how caveman horny he gets, it's like it just tips over, and everything is all
fucked-up
and cold. Then he needs to jump on his bike and ride and ride and ride until his head is like an empty room with all the windows open.

Do you hear me, Sandra?

Get a bloody move on, I can't take this here.

He swallows and begins knocking his helmet against the brick wall of the substation. Looks around. What a shithole. Really disgusting, tall weeds and thicket, are they going to lie down and screw here? It's not on, screwing in all this kak, probably wino piss and whatnot. It's just not on.

Daniel lets the helmet in his hand come to rest and takes out a fresh cigarette. He shouldn't smoke so much before she gets here, his breath will smell bad, but bollocks to that, he needs something to settle the nerves.

There's lots of oil money round here. Loads of big houses, specially down by the fjord, not least on the road where Sandra lives, on Kong Haralds Gate, all filthy rich down there. Daniel always feels ill at ease when he walks into houses like that, may as well face it, he doesn't belong in them. But then they hardly belong there themselves, the money is just an oil fluke. It's not money they've worked for, it's a windfall, money that rained down upon them like hell can rain down on other people.

Sandra Vikadal.

Imagine if the two of them end up together. Maybe he'll inherit heaps of money. He's a lawyer, her dad, rolling in money those lawyers. Her mother works at the church, plenty of money there too, in that church system.

Daniel inhales the smoke. He hears a dog bark in the distance. A car passing on the road behind the woods.

He'll own a car in any case, a car to drive round with his
lawyer-daughter
wife, who's always in good humour and who he sleeps with once a day. That's what his last foster father said. You're not a man if you don't have your own garden to piss in and a car you can drive whenever you like. Daniel wants an American car. A Buick RAM. If he gets rich, he'll buy Veronika a car too. Wonder
what kind of music Veronika would like if she could hear. There's nothing to stop deaf people from driving, is there? She's totally kickass when she sits in front of him smiling in her Buddha position while he's hammering away on the drums. Veronika will get to be around, that's for sure. He'll take bloody good care of her, she can sit in the Buddha position for the rest of her life, listen to him play the drums, break out in that deaf laughter of hers and be as weird as she wants. She can live with him and Sandra, no problem. He just needs to make a shitload of money so they can all live well. Veronika can have a whole Buddha floor to herself. It's just a matter of raking in the money. Good thing he writes songs, that means royalties. Daniel knows he needs to write some new lyrics soon. Dejan is on at him the whole time, come on, songsmith, come on with the poetry shit. Yeah, yeah, he says, I'm working on it. But he isn't. Everything has been blocked lately.

He lifts his head as he hears a sound.

There she comes. Running across the football pitch.

Is it a sun bullet?

Wow, she's slightly knock-kneed. He hadn't noticed. She runs like that and all, knees banging together, one hand under her tits, her head sort of dancing from side to side, her other hand swinging out as though it had a mind of its own, alive, free from the rest of her. Christ she looks gorgeous, looks super sexy running along, God, so fucking foxy, those wobbly legs make her whole body kind of dangle like a doll or something.

Daniel straightens up, he feels a wild electron fire up in his head, he flicks the cigarette out on to the road in front of the kindergarten and runs his hand through his hair, exhales as much as he can and inhales as much fresh air as he's able, feels his face break into a silly smile, feels a rush through his body. He gulps.

Look at that.

Look at her.

Look at her run.

Oh Christ she is so fucking gorgeous.

And just then as he watches her surge towards him, the sentences discharge in his head, like the report of rifle shots, and he knows that soon he'll write some lyrics, true lyrics, real lyrics
about the strongest light any person's ever seen: girl light, Sandra light. The eternal light from a muzzle, lyrics nobody needs to bury 1,000 kilometres under the ground.

Yess.

Candyfloss.

A light cleaves its way between the black tree trunks, flashing through the woods. PÃ¥l gives a start, he turns his head in the direction of the road and catches a glimpse of a car disappearing down towards the shop.

He tries to regulate his breathing, follow Zitha as nimbly as possible, allow her to traverse the forest floor, not upset her. Zitha isn't a meek dog, but she's never liked cars.
Yeaaah, Zitha, yeaaah, good girl.
Can't have her barking like she did a while ago, mustn't draw any attention to ourselves, that's not on.

PÃ¥l draws his coat closer around him. The cold is becoming deep-seated, inching its way into his bones. Must try not to think, just get this done.

PÃ¥l hadn't given Rudi a thought in years. But then one day, just as he was opening the post box, retrieving yet another letter bound for the bus shelter bin, an old memory abruptly emerged from the deep. Rudi. Videoboy. An obscure, dim recollection of a day in 1986. Then it slipped away just as suddenly. He began to sift through the memories in his head. He'd heard rumours from time to time. They'd turned out to be as criminal as people thought they would. Could he call them? Surely they wouldn't remember what happened in 1986. That poor girl lying in the room. The sick set-up they had in the house. All the horror movies. Neither he nor Hasse understood it at the time, but now it was easy to see: Jan Inge used the girl as payment for the favours he got people to do. He had people carry out minor thefts for him and he paid them by letting them see uncensored horror films, and giving them all the cola and sweets they wanted. And letting them sleep with the girl. The sister. He rented her out like a whore. She was only thirteen, fourteen maybe. And PÃ¥l remembered her well.

He had slipped the envelope into his inside pocket. Then brought out his mobile and sent a text to directory enquiries. His hands were trembling slightly as he punched in the number he'd been given.

‘Ye yo, Rudi here, yeah?'

‘Hi, eh, it's Pål…'

‘
Who?
'

‘Pål. Yeah. Fagerland.'

‘Okay, Fagerland away.'

‘Wha? Eh, listen, you probably don't remember me––'

‘Nope, can't say that I do. Who did you say you say you say you say?'

‘Pål. Fagerland.'

‘No, doesn't ring any bells…'

‘Right, I see, well—'

‘Out with it, man, out with it, Pål Skål, what brings you round to this haunted house?'

‘Well. I … I was just wondering if you … if you and your…'

PÃ¥l heard a sigh then the person on the other end disappeared.

He walked into the kitchen. Drank some water straight from the tap and tried to understand what had happened. Were they cut off? Did he hang up? He decided to ring again. Put in the number. It rang for a little while.

‘Yeah, Rudi.'

‘Hi, I think we must've been cut off there. It's Pål again.'

‘Yeah.'

‘Right, well, I was wondering if you … or your…'

He disappeared again. The same way. PÃ¥l tried to get his head around what had happened. Rudi took the phone. He wasn't disinterested in talking to him. But he hung up. They weren't cut off. PÃ¥l nodded to himself. It was obvious he was going about things the wrong way. He punched in the number yet again.

‘Hell-o, you've reached Rudi-o, yeah!'

‘Hi, Pål again, we seem to be getting cut off, I—'

Silence on the other end of the line.

‘Or … eh … are we getting cut off?'

Still silence.

‘So, anyway, I heard a couple of years back that the two of you, eh, you and that guy Jani, that—'

It happened again. He hung up.

PÃ¥l sat down at the kitchen table. Malene and Tiril would be home soon, he couldn't keep at this very much longer. But Rudi was answering the phone. And then PÃ¥l said something wrong, and then he hung up. Okay. He put the number in again.

‘Yeeeeeep, Rudi here, yeah.'

‘Rudi, hi, man! It's Pål here, you know, Pål from the old days, the eighties, eye of the tiger, the final countdown, holy diver…'

‘You've been out too long in the midnight sea! Hey, all right, still not ringing any bells, whatsupdude?'

There was a different tone to his voice now.

‘Been such a long time. Want to hang? What about meeting up, taking a stroll, say Tuesday night, Gosen Woods, by the big rock, nine o'clock, when I'm out walking the dog?'

‘Great plan, Påli, you holy diver. Heh heh! Did you hear Dio died? Shit, that's the way it goes. Talk to you!'

Rudi hung up.

Down, that´s what it is, thought Pål and nodded. Down too long in the midnight sea. That clicked. I've just made an appointment. That's how it's done. These people don't accept just anything.

‘Yeaaah Zitha, yeaah, good girl,' he whispers, feeling the ground beneath him starting to slope upwards. Zitha keeps moving across the forest floor, sniffing. He stops and looks up at the rock. It doesn't look as big as he remembers. The football pitch is up there, but everything is a lot more open than he remembers.

PÃ¥l walks up to the crest and lets his gaze sweep around. It's a long time since he's been here. He chose this spot because he recalled it being overgrown, because in his mind the rock was so big you could stand behind it and hide from the world. But that's completely wrong. That's how memory works. Things are exaggerated, things are diminished and things are moved around.

It's way too exposed. They can't stand here and talk.

Is this a good idea? Seeking out these people?

PÃ¥l wipes his right eye with a shaky hand. It has to go away soon. He feels worn out. So worn out by all of it. His eyes, the long
nights. Why couldn't he just leave everything the way it was? Why did he have to get into all this? He had everything he needed. The house. The kids. A job. Was it all down to his fingers, his breath, the cold light of night, his empty life, the desire to be sucked into the cold glow of the screen and disappear?

I don't know, he thinks.

I just don't know.

It just happened.

PÃ¥l goes over to the rock and leans against it. He inhales and exhales. Wonder how things are with Videoboy's sister now? Maybe she's married with kids, maybe she got herself an education, maybe she lives in another country.

What is it I've been doing, he thinks.

Day after day, evening after evening, night after night.

Footsteps?

Zitha's ears stand on end.

Cecilie is curled up in the back seat. She isn’t very tall. Just one metre fifty-nine. As for curling up, she’s good at that. She peers up at the beige upholstery in the roof of the Volvo. There are slashes in it from the time they drove home from a job over in Ålgard. Rudi had taken too much speed and wanted to write ‘fuck’ with his knife.

She blows out the smoke. It fills the car.

If it was a kitten I’ll kill him, she thinks. Maybe I’ll just do it anyway. Get rid of his Motörhead T-shirt, get rid of all his shit, get the whole of Rudi out of my head, rewind to the life I had before life began. Kill him. So I can go to his grave, lay down a wreath and whisper: Hi, Rudi, sweetheart, you’re dead.

She slides up and rolls the car window down a little to let out some smoke.

Take Cecilie along, she could use a little air.
Those lads, what do they think she is? Stupid, that’s what. They get up every morning thinking they can make the world how they want it, and they think she’s an idiot. And she lets them talk to her as though she is an idiot.

Cecilie slips two pasty fingers out the gap in the window and drops the cigarette, before opening the pack and taking out another. Get some air. How’s this getting some air?

She lights the cigarette, inhales deeply and lies back down on the seat.

Bloody Volvo. She’s so fucking tired of waiting while the boys are on a job somewhere or other, and she’s so fed up of this car. It’s uncomfortable to sit in, it stinks, the gearbox is loose, the axle is dodgy and the steering wheel will soon be hanging off. Why can’t they get a new car? One like normal people have. But no, no,
they’re not going to do anything like normal people. A4 people, Jani calls them, and it’s obvious he doesn’t look up to them.

Cecilie hears a faint noise and raises her head. She ducks down when she sees two young clear-skinned girls come walking up the hill towards Hafrsfjord.

‘Friends wouldn’t be a good idea,’ Rudi says.

‘Wouldn’t be good for you, Chessi.’

‘And not for the company either,’ Jani says.

‘It’s all part and parcel of our profession, we have to keep to our own kind.’

Cecilie brings herself up on to her elbows, looks out and sees the girls are gone.

But imagine she wants some friends? Imagine she does. But she hasn’t any. She was banged by every moron who came through the door with a stolen carton of Marlboro, a Walkman or a ghetto blaster; she spread her legs, heard the boys groan, closed her eyes and thought of Dad in Houston. She eats cinnamon buns, takes walks to the sea and has a boyfriend who has problems sleeping and sings Aerosmith songs when he gets nervous. She’s allowed go to the skincare clinic once a month.

Cecilie gets up abruptly and opens the door. She puts her feet on the soft earth and looks towards the woods. It’s so dark. She doesn’t like the darkness, never has, only in movies. She turns and begins walking up the road in the direction they came from. She speeds up. If it was a kitten. She squints ahead of her. It was around here somewhere. What kind of place is this anyway?

Shush shush little baby.

Shush shush little one.

Just be quiet.

Mummy’s got five hundred kroner and Mummy’s going to the beauty clinic.

You can come along.

Or maybe we’ll go to Houston. Say hello to Granddad. You’ll like him. He never should have left us. He was such a laugh. It always felt like Christmas Day when he was in the room. His smile was so big it swallowed everything. Doesn’t seem like either of his kids have inherited that good humour.

Cecilie halts as she catches sight of something on the road.

She bends over.

It’s a hedgehog.

A little bloody hedgehog.

Cecilie lifts it up into her arms. The creature has curled itself up. It feels like a stinging ball in her hands. It must have scurried out on to the road on its tiny feet, quickly understood it wasn’t a good place to be, then curled itself up to meet death.

‘Mummy is going to look after you,’ she whispers to the hedgehog, feeling her anger mount. She turns and stomps back angrily, a severe sway in her hips. There’s a lot you don’t know, Rudi, she thinks, her heels digging into the ground. You think you can just run over anyone at all and act as if nothing has happened, but there’s a lot you don’t have a clue about. Tong would do anything for me, did you know that? He’s getting out on Friday, I’m picking him up at half eight, and he’s one sick Korean and he would do anything for me, did you know that?

Her speed increases for every step she takes.

Rudi.

We’ll kill you, you ugly prick.