by Tore Renberg
‘Great,’ says Jan Inge, ‘I did too. After the two of you pushed me back inside last night. Thank you for that, by the way.’
‘Don’t mention it,’ says Rudi. ‘But what’s with you and the wheelchair? Isn’t that the one I nabbed for Chessi when she broke her foot?’
Jan Inge nods. ‘That’s right. It’s just been sitting here since.’
‘Yeah, it was just parked inside the door of the Intensive Care Unit. They were practically fucking giving it away. What’s the story, then? With you and the wheels?’
Jan Inge gets a look in his eyes. ‘Weell,’ he says, sucking in one cheek a little, ‘to be honest, I just find it a real effort hauling this 120 kilos around…’
‘But you’re not fat!’
‘Rudi. Stop it. I’m fat.’
‘He’s fat,’ Cecilie confirms.
‘It’s all in the eye of the beholder.’ Rudi shrugs. ‘I think you look good with a bit of weight on you. But okay, I rest my case. Safe to say you’re a bit fat.’
‘Exactly. And now the wheelchair is being put to proper use. It simply solves quite a few problems for me. And you know how much I like solving problems.’
‘Oh yeah, we know that.’
‘That’s what you like more than anything.’
‘Then there’s nothing else to say about it,’ Jan Inge concludes. ‘A problem and a solution. That’s the reason we’ve all got as far as we have. It’s because we’re problem solvers, and we don’t mess things up for ourselves and that’s why we’re able to look at a nicely laid breakfast table and not a desk in a cell in Åna with some dry foods and instant coffee. That’s the reason we’ve managed to work so many years in this town, under the radar so to speak, and been able to make a living from it. Not on a grand scale maybe, but on a safe scale. We know our stuff when it comes to break-ins. When it comes to cars. To alarms, keycards and locks. We can handle cash machines. Carry out extortion. And we’re able to move goods. Well, Buonanotte’s able to move goods and we know Buonanotte. We have contacts that the junkies don’t even know exist. We know our stuff and do you know what that means? Knowledge. Expertise. A problem and a solution.’
‘Genius,’ says Rudi, ‘that’s what I’ve got to say to that.’
‘The cheese is getting moist, let’s eat,’ says Jan Inge, his voice even more high-pitched than usual. ‘I rustled up some meagre fare for the morning meeting.’
Meagre fare? Rudi frowns. It’s not just at work that you need to keep your eyes and ears open. But within the safety of your own four walls. Is there something going on here? Has someone got cancer? Is it somebody’s birthday?
He looks over at Cecilie.
Is there something going on with her too?
That thing she said about his dick? Was there something in her voice? She isn’t usually so considerate, she usually just moans about it being way too big and making her ovaries hurt like hell.
He turns his gaze back to Jan Inge.
All this food.
Whatthefuckisgoingonhere?
Cecilie closes her eyes and drinks her coffee. Her brother spreads some pâté over a slice of bread for her, then places some beetroot on top. Just as he’s done since she was little. Rudi’s well aware of that. He’s well aware of how much Jan Inge has done for her. He wants to look after her. And now he’s put a little extra effort into making a good breakfast. That’s probably all it is. And Chessi is a little emotional. Is it next week she’s getting her period? Or was it the screwing? Rudi leans back in his chair. Smiles to himself. It was the screwing, it was particularly good, that’s it, that’s what it is.
‘Right,’ Jan Inge says, after a few minutes of coffee, chocolate milk and silence round the breakfast table. ‘I think we’ll get started with the morning meeting while we’re all fresh in the noggin.’ Jan Inge produces the folded note from his pocket. ‘This week’s list. We’ll take it from the top.’
He leans on the windowsill and puts on his reading glasses, the ones Rudi pinched in an opticians on Kirkegata and gave him as a Christmas present, after he’d been complaining about his sight for so long.
‘Something enjoyable to begin with,’ Jan Inge says, producing a DVD that he’s actually sitting on, Rudi notices. ‘Our Saturday movie for the week. A classic starring Price and Joseph Cotton, The Abominable Dr Phibes. I’ll give a short introduction after pizza on Saturday, as usual—’
‘As usual—’ Cecilie sighs.
‘…exactly,’ Jan Inge says, ignoring his sister, ‘and then we can cosy up for a night of gore.’
‘Great, good man.’ Rudi clicks his fingers and points at his friend. ‘Always a new movie. Can count on you.’
‘Item number two,’ Jan Inge says, adjusting the spectacles on the bridge of his nose. ‘Item number two concerns all the clutter and mess. Our weak point. The garden. It can’t continue. We’re attracting attention. We’re wallowing in crap. We need to start taking care of this house. It’s our headquarters. As well as,’ he says gravely, looking at Cecilie, ‘our childhood home. This is where Dad wanted us to live. So. A clean-up. That’s the question.’
‘I think it’s a good question,’ says Rudi.
‘Sure is,’ says Cecilie.
‘Okay, then we’ll say this weekend. Sunday? Sunday it is. Who’s doing what?’
‘I can tidy a little,’ says Cecilie.
‘Good, positive attitude. Anyone else? We need a trailer. Who’ll sort that out?’
Rudi shrugs. ‘We are going to have a lot to do now, what with that Pål guy—’
‘That’s item four—’
‘Okay, right—’
‘But if you’ve both got your hands full with item four, then I’ll take care of the trailer. We’ve people within our network with a trailer. No problem.’
‘Tødden must have a trailer,’ Cecilie says.
‘We’re not talking to Tødden,’ Jan Inge replies sharply, ‘not after what happened in Sauda. Sick hippie. But. Anyway. Great! Clean-up. Sunday. I’ll arrange the trailer. I’ll have a chat with Hansi. Everybody happy.’
‘Hansi? Like all of a sudden it’s better to go to Hansi than to Tødden?’ Cecilie says, rolling her eyes.
‘Maybe not,’ Jan Inge concedes. ‘But Hansi owes us, so we’ll go to him.’
‘Will Tong be going along?’ Cecilie asks, casually.
‘That actually pertains to item five—’
‘Jesus! Jani! Fuck your items!’
‘Listen, if we didn’t itemise—’
‘Itemise my ass.’
‘Itemise my ass!’ laughs Rudi. ‘Sodomise my ass. I’ll sodomise your ass, baby—’
‘Moving on,’ interrupts Jani. ‘Item three. Are we going to see W.A.S.P.?’
Jubilation round the table, even Cecilie’s face breaks into a smile. ‘W.A.S.P.?! Are they playing?’
‘Yes indeed, in Oslo on the twenty-fourth of October,’ her brother says, in a satisfied tone.
Rudi shoots his hand in the air and bangs his fist on the wall behind: ‘We’re totally going to W.A.S.P.! I fuck like a beast!’
‘God, I love W.A.S.P.,’ sighs Cecilie. A yellow glow spreads across her forehead and she sings: ‘Hold on to my heart, to my heart.’
‘Yeah,’ Rudi says. ‘He’s one, big, lawless lyricist is Blackie. L.O.V.E., all I need is my love machine tonight … I can’t fuck, I can’t feel, I’m one bizarre motherfucker, what the fuck’s inside of me, those lines especially, so fucking intense. The thing about what the fuck’s inside of me.’
‘I’m guessing that’s settled then,’ Jan Inge says. ‘A trip to Oslo for the three of us. W.A.S.P. That’s going to be amazing. But we’re not staying at Tom B’s in Holmlia, just so we’re clear on that.’
‘That goes without saying,’ says Rudi. ‘I mean, we’re not Nazis.’
‘And that—’ Jan Inge says, nodding to Rudi, ‘that brings us to item four. The update on yesterday. What happened, where do we stand, what’s going on.’
Rudi takes a g
ulp of chocolate milk. He realises it’s his turn to talk. He clears his throat and straightens up in the chair. ‘Yes, well,’ he says. ‘There’re a couple of things—’
‘Nice guy,’ Cecilie suddenly cuts in. ‘Pål.’
‘Nice?’ Rudi turns to look at her.
‘Yeah, well he was, wasn’t he? So?’
‘Nice schmice,’ Rudi pouts. ‘Do you want to fuck him as well? Anyway, we’re not here to talk about how ni—’
‘He needs money,’ interrupts Cecilie.
Rudi clears his throat again, ‘Right, they—’
‘A million,’ Cecilie says.
Rudi gapes at her. ‘Jesus, you’re very talkative all of a sudden!’
‘Am I not allowed to speak now either!’
What has gotten into her? They’ve had a good night’s sleep. They’ve had a good screw. She’s got that skincare shit to look forward to. Yet here she is, all thorny and difficult. Besides which, she’s sitting there talking about riding that fucking Pål guy.
Rudi swallows and looks at Jan Inge.
‘Long story short, brother, what we’re looking at here is a man with a problem. He’s run up a large amount of gambling debts, we’re talking a million, like Cecilie just mentioned. The problem is further complicated by women, two daughters, and he’s come to us for a solution. Is there any way we can help him get hold of a million kroner. That’s the situation.’
Jan Inge begins to nod. His head rocking back and forth.
This is good. Always a good sign when Jani moves his head back and forth.
Jan Inge takes hold of the egg slicer, places his egg in it and brings the thin wires down through it. He leans forward and picks up the mayonnaise. Hellmann’s. Unscrews the lid. Puts his knife inside, then spreads the mayonnaise across a slice of bread. Lifts up the egg and distributes the slices on the bread. Takes a tomato. Cuts it up with the knife. Places the slices over the egg.
This is good. Always a good sign when Jan Inge goes quiet and concentrates.
He brings the bread to his mouth. Takes a bite. Chews. Continues nodding and rocking his head. Then he looks at them, takes another bite and says:
‘This is just right.’
Rudi raises his eyebrows, sends an expectant glance towards Cecilie, who makes an odd grimace.
‘This is just right,’ Jan Inge repeats, nods, chews and goes for his third mouthful of egg, mayonnaise and tomato. ‘You know what?’ he says, getting up from the wheelchair and moving towards the window, the slice of bread in his hand, ‘you know what, I had a feeling about something like this when I woke up today. The sun was shining down on me and I thought: there’s something good on the way.’
‘What’s going on in that brilliant mind of yours?’ Rudi asks, cautiously.
‘Firstly,’ Jan Inge says, taking a large bite of his bread, continuing to speak with his mouth full, ‘firstly we can make use of a time-honoured classic in our business.’
‘We can?’
Rudi turns once again towards Cecilie, whose face has taken on an odd yellowish tinge.
Jan looks at them, and with pride in his voice, says: ‘We’re talking classic insurance fraud. Does this guy have a house? Good. Does he have money? Good. No problem. We borrow Hansi’s Transporter at the same time as we get a loan of the trailer on Sunday, we drive up at night, reverse into the garage – does he have a garage? Good. We back into the garage, smash up his house, wreck his car, take everything we can find, break one of his arms, a leg, the usual. Rudi gives him a black eye and maybe a gash under the ear, we tie him to a chair – and voilà, this guy can cash in all his insurance, household contents, personal injury. That should go a good way towards the million, and then we can drive the stuff out to Buonanotte’s barn, take ourselves a coffee with a little something in it and have a chat.’
Jan Inge swallows the last piece of bread. Rudi shakes his head, impressed. It’s just nuts, he thinks, this man has always got a solution.
‘What about Tong?’ Cecilie asks, her hand over her mouth, looking out of sorts. ‘He … will he be going along?’
‘Yes,’ Jan Inge says, with a note of satisfaction, ‘and that ties in with item five on the agenda. Tong gets out on Friday. It’s perfect. Because what would Tong like better than walking out the gates at Åna and getting straight to work?’
Rudi downs the rest of the chocolate milk in one and gets to his feet. He walks over to where Jan Inge is standing. Puts his arm around him.
‘If you were from Oslo you’d be famous all over the country. And everyone would call you The Brain of Crime. Jo Nesbø would base a character in his books on you. A time-honoured classic! That is seriously sweet!’
Cecilie suddenly gets up and holding her hand over her mouth, she dashes in the direction of the bathroom while mumbling: ‘Sorry, sorry, I have to…’
Rudi and Jan Inge look at one another.
‘Hey, are you sick?’
They both shrug.
‘And now,’ Rudi says, straightening up, ‘now Rudi is going to remove the rest of the skirting boards in this house, in your honour, so you can go just where you want in the wheelchair.’
Then he trots from the kitchen, stooping like an eager horse, into the hall and down to the basement to fetch the crowbar, while he feels his chest bubbling with delight and then that song kicks in again: Du-du-du-du-du-du-du-du-du.
‘Thank you!’ he hears from behind him.
‘Kein problem!’ he shouts back. ‘Shit, it is a mess down here, we need that clean-up now! Hey, Chessi? Are you puking? Bit too much coffee and too long a pole, eh? Felt those ovaries getting poked right up to your throat! Heh heh! Nice guy … Pål, Pål … I’ll give you nice all right. You just stick close to Rudi, that’s what you do, and I’ll make sure it’s nice. Christ, we really need to tidy up this house. Nah, listen, I liked that Pål guy, two daughters and a woman problem, a time-honoured classic comes sailing in. L.O.V.E., all I need is my love machine! Skirting boards, come to daddy. Are you puking? Heh heh! Just ring Doctor D. Ick! Did I say I’m meeting him again tonight? Did I tell you that? Jani? Did I tell you? Jani? Wasn’t that crowbar down here someplace? Crow … no problem! Found it! The metal cock crows! It was under the balaclavas!
36. HIT HARD (Daniel William)
Daniel hears the front door open and close, Inger’s steps growing fainter as she descends the stairwell.
He’s been through two foster homes. He goes ballistic when people pester and nag, and he knows what he is. He knows he’s a bastard to have in the house when he first gets riled
He hooks his bag off his shoulders. Sets down his moped helmet. Takes off his shoes. Throws off his jacket. He hears the sound of the shower from the bathroom and not for the first time is about to call out – ‘Veronika! Don’t use up all the towels!’ – but he stops himself; she can’t hear him.
He just can’t stand people getting on his back. The last foster father was a right pain, breathing down his neck all day long, forever hassling him about homework and timekeeping, and always going on about him not being allowed to behave this way or that. Shut your fucking hole, or do you want a taste of the poker?
Hm?
Would you like to feel the bleeding iron, foster father?
I know how much money you make on me. I know what you’re at when no one sees you, when your wife’s asleep, when you think all the lights in this city built on oil are out, when I’m lethal and painful; I’m the poison that’s poured in your ear.
He was a real asshole. Was carrying on with a woman living three streets away. Daniel William heard him clear his throat, saw him put down his paper, and caught him saying he was heading out to take a look at a sofa he’d found on the net. He watched him go out the door, out into the stinking darkness, and walk three streets down to where the slapper spread her legs and he put it up her.
I saw you, you horndog. I saw you.
He had said it and all. During the last meeting. Child Welfare, him and the foster family sitting in that p
athetic living room where they were supposed to sort everything out or some shit. He had got to his feet, the god of true darkness, and said: ‘I know where you’ve been putting your dick, you randy bastard.’
Then Daniel William Moi left. Because if there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s leave. If they nag at him, get on his case, then he knows exactly what he’ll do: Give them a taste of the poker. Put the sword to the forehead. Leave.
And no chance in hell of him ever going back.
Daniel enters his room, closes the window that’s been open all night. He sits down behind the drum kit. Takes hold of the sticks.
He’s tackled living with Inger and Veronika so far. Not that they ought to feel too secure, he knows there’s no point being naïve: Inger’s nice, she’s kind and friendly, but she makes money on him. Same as the rest. No fucking matter how nice she is. Veronika knows that too. That her mother earns good money having him in the house. But it’s gone well so far. Not much nagging. Not much fussing. He’s actually gone as far as staying home with them some evenings. Even at the weekends. At least up until he met the Christian girl anyway. That’s the thing about Inger and Veronika, they need him. Daniel can notice it, how they need a man in the house, because they’re not that strong. That’s what Inger says, it’s good having a real man around. She laughs when she says it, those dimples showing, and she signs it at the same time, making Veronika break out in that laugh of hers, but neither of them are picking on him, neither of them bugging him: they mean it.
Daniel starts hitting the drums. As hard as he can. ‘Battery.’ That was really mad in the woods yesterday. Stupid about that with Sandra, but he straightened things out. And the guy with the dog. What the fuck was that. I’ll go back to my people. You go back to your people. I’ll see what I can come up with. And I’ll see you tomorrow. Dad of that girl in Sandra’s class. Your people, the tall guy said. Your people. Who was he talking about? My people, he said. And who are they exactly?
Daniel’s room is soundproofed. It was the only condition he set out when Inger turned up as a possible foster mother. He was so pissed off that he wasn’t bothered who was put in front of him; he’d gone through two foster families, he was ready to tear through a third, but she looked all right, that deaf daughter of hers looked all right, kind of pretty in an off-the-wall way. ‘But there is one thing,’ he had said, sitting there with arms folded in the social worker’s office, ‘I want a drum kit in my room.’