Then everything is still. Night comes and it’s impossible to sleep. Day comes and it’s impossible to think, to listen. My fingertips have grown soft and sensitive because I haven’t played for so long. Someone tries to talk to me, I make an effort, try to focus. This is no home, the voice says, this is just housing, Cody. My hands shake. We took long walks in the country to act out our homelessness. We ground our faces into the dirt, crying, held vigils, expressed our sorrow. We lay awake through the night and cried out in abandonment. One Friday afternoon, it’s October, autumn, everything’s grown colder, I’m standing there waiting for Becca, Dima and the others, they turn up and we head on to this enormous squat that fills a whole apartment building, all five floors. It’s fucking full of children, I say to Dawid, who seems to be enjoying it. Fucked-up kids. Really. Full of kids, of teenagers, I mean early teens, bro, actual children, grinning, gum-chewing idiots, but yeah, still decent, four, five floors, a system on every floor, vomit in every room. Yeah yeah, watch the corners. Cold, bare, children passed out against the concrete pillars. What should we do? Ring their mums? Mum’s probably collapsed upstairs somewhere, man. And dad’s probably out pushing pills in the stairwell. To be fair, the music’s good, but I’m not sure I can handle all this shit, I say, but no one hears me. Heavy and dark or fast and euphoric or just straight-up banging music on distorted speakers, ripped-off electricity, no heating, you could see your breath, wall of sound, noise, drums, bass, drums and walls of harmonies and disharmonies. Two steps this way, two steps that. Pirate radio, pirate mates. And everyone doing deals. With wires hanging from the ceiling and wires strewn on the ground, toilets no more than holes in the ground, you piss and shit down into them, wiping yourself with whatever you can find. Or not at all. You spoilt bourgeois cunt. Who said that? I’m ashamed. See myself as though from the outside: see Becca kissing Cody and pushing half an E into his mouth. See the kids in big puffa jackets selling whatever and see, on the narrow, claustrophobic stairs, a woman with a newborn in a sling. A guy’s written fok u on his forehead and he lights a little glass pipe, it bubbles and gurgles and someone laughs in a reedy voice behind them. Dima flicks away a cigarette butt aggressively. Oh fucking hell, a baby, here. We walk on, pushy dealers in my face with their eyes and their baggies, their puffa jackets and bling. I look around me. Is she really standing there with her goddamn kid? I stop, but this isn’t the right moment, they’re pulling at me. Don’t talk to them, for fuck’s sake, we’ve got what we came here for. The bloodshot whites and smoke smoke, plastic plastic, a fag, a spliff, a bag of pills, a bag of powder, wraps and straws, yellow stripes and red stripes, white lines, blue stamps, pink stamps, Playboy bunnies, Mercedes logos, scraps of paper, Rizlas, folded notes, wads of notes, note clips, glittering and glinting, fuckin chancers, we start to dance, grey floor, light it up, man, Light It Up motherfucker – light it up, grey floor black air, black light. Go ahead pass it – go ahead pass it. Grey floor black floor, heavy air. Light that shit – pass that shit. We start dancing, but grey floor heavy air mind racing. Oh, oh, oh, Becca grins all mashed. Nothing’s happening, someone moans. Can’t get high enough, Dima mouths. Ah shit, please, let me out, I don’t think I can handle that smoke-wreathed newborn right now. And that filthy junkie whore of a mother. Proper ho. Filth. I say to Dawid I swear bro, I’m gonna freak if I don’t get out of here. What’s up, Dawid says, don’t you like this place? It’s sick. Yeah. No, I can’t hack it, I say. What is it, whitey? Cosy Cody, my sweet little blue-eyed pearl of a virgin prince, feeling a little threatened or what? Dawid says. I just can’t hack it, I say. We’re not kids any more. I’m getting aggressive. It’s gonna end with me bashing someone’s head in. Fuck you. You get so fuckin moralistic and bourgeois and coplike as soon as children are involved, how the fuck do you know that some Suzuki-and-Montessori brat has a better deal than that little tyke. What the fuck do you know bout that chick, Dawid says. Fuck you man, I say. Everyone in the group was disappointed that the tallest hill in the area was wreathed in cloud, but when the sun suddenly came out and the hill emerged from behind the clouds, tears came to his eyes and he started dashing around like a little kid, shrieking with joy: ‘God did that for me! God wanted me to see his creation!’ I go down, and out, and I leave them, leave the whole building, quickly, breathing out, hearing the music, a cacophony, a mixture of the sounds from each floor, I can still hear it, must be a whole kilometre away, empty industrial units, viaducts, fences, grates, invisible dogs barking, bizarre rhythms when the wind snatches the sounds, the sounds of three or four dance floors, barking, somewhere a freight train clattering, I pause and exhale now, no longer racing, walk home the whole, long way through the night, it’s raining, I’ve been warned, I’m walking, it’s a dark night, an empty residential area now, lights in a few windows on the fifth, seventh, ninth floors, but no traffic, yellow light, a burnt-yellow glow, dark-blue sky, black bushes, buildings, my steps scraping rhythmically, keys jangling, I’m almost dancing out the bass on the first and third beats, the bass drum, drum roll, rimshot, and my steps, yeah, the coins or the keys in my pocket, yeah, boom shaka tick click boom shaka tick, boom shaka tick click boom shaka tick, my shoes, the soles of my shoes, my pulse races when I see a shadow cross my path, tell myself nothing usually happens. How many times have you wandered home like this, I think, and nothing’s ever happened, or at least nothing you couldn’t talk yourself out of, or run away from, or if the worst comes to the worst, fight yourself out of. Little things have happened, but nothing serious and actually nothing that hasn’t happened in daylight. I don’t carry a knife, I don’t carry a knife any more, it’s a bit like being a child again, afraid of the dark, that feeling in your stomach, that strong impulse, turn round, run, hide, you won’t make it, you can’t take it, but I carry on, defy my body, ignore the impulses, walk into the subway, remember how Tanya used to call these subways rape tunnels, and I walk where the light is strong, colder, more green and blue, and I see beginners’ tags, like my brother’s when we tried to teach him, my brother, when he got paint on his face and was pissed cos he couldn’t bend the lines like he wanted to, my brother’s narrow wrists and the spray can’s fsssssst, and its fsst fsst fsst, and run as fast as you can, bratku. My brother, where is he now, why didn’t I help him, why did I betray him, forgive me, brother, I’m sorry, and the light is still strong in the subway, yeah, more green and blue, and on the ground there’s some trash, and I lean against the wall, against the lines, the stains, and I light a fag I’d saved and then I’m out again, into the thick darkness, hearing the distant roar of the motorway and thinking just carry on carry on carry on, yeah, carry on walking, I like it, is that weird, I like being scared, is that weird, or maybe I just like it afterwards, when you’re out the other side, nothing happened, it’s a bit of adrenaline, that’s all, you’re on your own, it’s dark, all the shit that happens, you know it happens, it happens all over the place, the whole time, but not here, that’s how you have to think, not now, not behind this dark building, in this subway, no muggers, no nazis, but it’s on you if anything happens, they’ve warned you, don’t walk home alone at night, you’ll be mugged murdered beaten to death raped, don’t do it, don’t do it, but I’ve always done it, walked on my own, walked home alone at night, when everyone else had gone back to theirs, when everything was done, I pretended I was going home too, but instead I’d swing by some shop and buy beer or wine or vodka and sit on the steps in the corner of the park, it was so quiet and the darkness in the park was so compact, I smoked the last of the hash and leaned my back against the rough brick wall and I felt something, it was something big, I felt I was going to live a little longer, a few years longer, that I wasn’t dead, not yet, and I felt happy. Perhaps I didn’t deserve it, but I was happy. And of course I saw that everything was out of sync. False and wrong. And unsustainable. And that I would and should be punished for it in some way or other, in the end, that was clear, of course, but the feeling didn’t stick, it sl
ipped away, I stamped it down, walked on and laughed at everything, and then I immediately felt I should be punished for that too, but that didn’t stick either, because I felt the grace, felt it come coursing towards and through me, from above, from below, I don’t know, but I felt something coursing. Sure, my punishment was coming, but wouldn’t be handed down yet, now was a time of grace, now I was sitting here on these stone steps in the darkness and my body was filled with extraordinary force, with life, and I sat quietly and took the cigarette and held it against my forearm and held it against the thin skin on the inside of my forearm and held it there as long as I could until I couldn’t any more and I drank the last dregs and stubbed the cigarette out and went home and at home there was a little vodka left in a glass on the kitchen table and I downed it and put the radio on, turned the dial to the night show, the calm one, heard a choir and lay down on the kitchen floor, and I caught sight of the knives on their magnetic strip and I got up and took the two largest ones, one in each hand, and lay on the floor again and lay on my back for a while, felt the energy and the calm and the silence and that I would go on living a little longer, a little while longer, perhaps a few years longer, everything was good, it was fine, my body could really hold all this, my body stretched out from the deep flow of dark silt under me, which was also my body, chill caves with moisture-covered stalagmites and stalactites, paths and tracks forking off, and more paths, narrower and narrower, further and further into the Earth’s crust, which was also my body, it stretched out from this underground territory up to the surface and the chest and head that met the world and the legs and arms and knives, on the points of which everything was gathered, in a concentrated form, on the tiny surface that could puncture, could be stuck into a body, and I lay like that, and felt a fantastically heavy rocking motion, and I felt my body was alive and that it would live a while longer, and then I fell into a slumber, happily, in some way astonished that everything could be so simple, so pure and uncomplicated, just then, at night, when everything else was shut off, when everyone else was fast asleep, when everything was resting, just a few stealthy creatures of the night moving in the darkness, and here and there the watchful eye of the law, but on the whole calm and quiet, and I climbed up on the viaduct where Soot had once practised his wildstyle, over the fence on the south side to avoid having to go round to the big steps, taking care not to tear my jacket, and I got into the rail yard on the other side, jumped down by the postal-service loading bays, saw that one of the doors was open and that two figures were sitting there, smoking, I raised an arm and nodded a greeting but they didn’t reply, just looked at me suspiciously, then I spat on the ground, felt the hunger coming and walked on to the bus station, looking at the times and at the clock and thinking about everything that was happening in that precise moment, right now, precisely right now, and then I counted the coins in my pocket, went and bought a cup of tea, dropped in seven sugar cubes without the old dear behind the counter noticing, sat on the pavement and closed my eyes and drank and thought about Dima and the others and that now I’m thinking about them and now it’s already happened, and that now I’m living, but it will be over soon, and that now we’re living and now someone’s dying, and I think again that someone’s dying now, right now, that it’s happening again, and again, and again, in loads of different places, in loads of different ways, in completely different ways, with different implications, and I think about how we say rest in peace, and I think about how the person who dies actually is left in peace, really released, about how that’s how it is, it really must be that way, that when you’ve died no one can disturb you any longer, so why all that grief when someone leaves us, why aren’t we happy for them? Why are we incapable of feeling glad about things that happen outside our field of vision, things that happen when we look away, things that are happening in one place when we’re living in another place? And just as I’m thinking about all that, when I’ve stood up and begun to walk, when I’m thinking about death and funerals and peace and all that, about joy, fields of vision, perspective, about the impact of place on everything, on our whole way of thinking, about our whole way of seeing, our whole way of hearing, tasting, feeling, all of it, when I’m thinking I have to head home, to lie down, that I’m so tired now, I just want to sleep, I just want to lie down and fall asleep, rest my body, rest my mind, just then I hear a voice, someone saying: ey, bro. And I turn round, and he’s walking like three, four metres behind me, walking quickly towards me. White top and big shiny watch. Ey, wanna score? Gak, speed, skunk, E, horse? I laugh to myself a little, no, that’s enough, I think, that’s enough for today. I’m so tired. No, I’m all right thanks, I smile, it’s cool, and now he’s walking up to me, close, and saying: buy my stuff, you’re gonna buy my stuff, and his face is really close to mine and I know something’s off. Buy my stuff, he repeats. Spoko, bratku, I say, still smiling. Chill. And I tell him I don’t have any money, at the same time as I know it’s wrong to say that. What does it have to do with him? Then comes the first blow, to my face, and I’m surprised, not sure what’s happening. Then comes the kick to my ribs and a few more punches, not particularly hard, but the ones that hit my face seem to smoulder on, burning, with a pulsating heat, in an almost pleasant, enjoyable way, in spite of the concern and fear growing in my stomach and chest, and somewhere in my brain something falls into place and I catch sight of him, he looks blind, with empty holes where his eyes should be, and the whole time he’s repeating buy it, you’re gonna buy it, and the spinning subsides, everything slows down, I come to my senses somewhat, the fear becomes a wave of rage, I regain my balance, focus my gaze, steady myself and go at him, punching, I don’t know how many blows, three, maybe four, and I get hold of his hair, kneeing him in the face, we fall down and I continue to hit him, suddenly realise he’s completely limp and has stopped resisting, I get up, he lies unmoving, head kind of angled weirdly against the traffic island, and I look around, someone’s walking towards me, I turn my back on them and walk away, or half run, over to the train station, the waiting room, sneak into the toilet and rinse off the blood, drinking water from the tap, my hands are shaking and I’m feeling kind of sick, I try to calm myself down, walk over to the big departures board, check the time and platform number, sit down and wait, looking up at the strip lights I can kind of see them flickering like extremely fast strobes and I think I’m probably the only one who can see this right now. Everyone else can just see a single stream of light, a constant glow, but I can see it sputtering, see it flickering, I can see the pauses and it stings and aches, my cheekbone, my chest, my knuckles, my temples. Are the cops going to come now? What actually happened? I look up at the TV showing black-and-white images of marionettes. Well yeah, it’s true, says an elderly woman, in the community centres we played badminton, chess, bowling and so on. There was this one gang where all the members had a criminal past, they started getting into marionette theatre. Called themselves The Riis Puppeteers. They performed at all these charity galas and on the radio too. When the shaking has calmed down a little I light a cigarette, and when the train comes I step aboard. I’m feeling really terrible now, I think. Houses, windows, streets, trees, everything rushes past. I get off and wander around. I’m feeling terrible and I walk around for a long time. I don’t really know where I should go or what I should do. The cigarette runs out and I start looking for butts by the entrance to a shopping centre. It feels like people are staring at me and I put my hood up. I smoke butts and try to figure out what I should do next, but I can’t, because every time I think a thought, a thousand other thoughts flood in and I can’t distinguish between them. I know I have to sleep but I don’t know where and it hurts way too much, I won’t be able to fall asleep without taking something and I don’t have anything and I don’t have any money. I’m just kind of walking round and round or back and forth by the canal, near the hostel, think that maybe I’ll run into someone who can sell me something on tab, so I can sleep and then sort everything out later, but it
doesn’t seem I’ll be able to pull that off, and I’m on the verge of tears, I sit down on a bench and cry for a few seconds before quickly pulling myself together, realising that my chest hurts way too much for me to ignore and that I have to get to a hospital or at least a doctor. I get up from the bench and walk on. After a while I pass a guy smoking near the canal bridge, not far from the police station, and I turn towards him as I pass and ask if he can spare any change for the homeless. He looks at me coolly as he digs around in his pocket and hands me twenty krona. He hands it to me with a quiet here you are and I take it off him and stick it in the pocket of my jacket. I want to ask him for a cigarette too but the words kind of stick in my chest, and I feel it aching, and the strain in my face. He’s smoking, looking at me, as though he’s waiting for me to do something, either walk away or say something, ask for something more, and I don’t know why, but I just stand there, looking at his hands, at the lit cigarette and the smoke, and our gazes meet, and I get the sense he’s stable in some way, that I can trust him, and then I hear myself say: I don’t know where I’m going to sleep and I got beaten up yesterday. He squints a little and looks at the cut on my face. Who beat you up? he says. I try to reply, try to explain, but all that comes out is indecipherable mumbling. I want to explain but I can’t. I just shake my head and spit on the ground. I have to… I begin, but the rest disappears and I grimace a bit from the pain, which shoots through me. I’m thirsty and he says: brah, you should probably find a doctor’s or something. I laugh, he doesn’t look like the type who says brah much, and the pain shoots through me again. Shit, I say, I was just walking along thinking the same thing, get me. Yeah, sounds good, he says. It doesn’t look too good. Have a good one, man, I say. He waves. Take care of yourself, bro. I turn my back on him and leave. Fuck you, bro, I think. The pain just keeps getting more and more intense, I think I have to get to a hospital, have to make up some story about where I’ve been and what’s happened so the police don’t get involved. Now at least I have money for the bus, I think, and turn the corner to walk over to the central station where the bus stops are. I walk past a girl who I bum a cigarette off and then sit on some steps and smoke it. I nod off and stand up to stop myself falling asleep there on the ground. A little way off a bike is leaning unlocked against a utility box. I can’t see anyone nearby, so I take it quickly, jump up on the saddle and I’m a little way out into the junction before I catch sight of the bus that’s coming towards me much too fast. Bro, I think.
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