See You Tomorrow

by Tore Renberg

  ‘Yeah, I can definitely hear it,’ said Thea’s father. ‘You’ve got at least two fans that can’t wait to hear the two of you tomorrow in the gym hall. Isn’t that right, dear?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Thea’s mother. ‘By the way, it’s really wet in the garden. What happened?’

  Tiril saw a nervous twitch at the side of Thea’s mouth and hurried to say: ‘A few brats came along and threw eggs at the window. We brought the hose out and washed off the mess.’

  Thea’s father clicked his fingers. ‘Heh heh,’ he chortled, his eyebrows dancing up and down a little as he turned to his wife. ‘Eh? There you go. Girls nowadays,’ he confirmed with visible satisfaction, ‘they don’t take rubbish from anyone. Are you both hungry?’

  ‘Yeah – we wouldn’t say no,’ Tiril replied and noticed how everything just fits into place when you feel self-confident.

  They walked into the kitchen, where, a few hours earlier, the girls had witnessed the cat’s entrails hitting the windowpane. Thea’s father opened the fridge door. He does resemble Dad, Tiril thought, around the same age, same sort of build, but whereas Dad does everything with a kind of reluctance, Thea’s father does it all with such ease. In a matter of seconds he’d taken out broccoli, carrots, a fillet of chicken, and in no time he had heated up the wok, cut up the vegetables, kissed his wife on the neck and made a risqué joke as she tied the apron round his waist.

  Tiril didn’t find it gross, the way they flirted with each other. Although it wasn’t so long since Tiril couldn’t stand that kind of thing, not long at all since the sight of two happy grown-ups made her livid, particularly if they were the parents of someone she knew. But Thea’s parents, she can handle that – perhaps because Thea’s father always makes her laugh.

  That was awesome.

  Pulling the nail out of the tree, out of the cat’s head.

  Thea hadn’t noticed, but Tiril had: Bunny’s big brother, that sick fucker, had hammered the nail through the cat’s eye. Right through his left eye. The sound when she had extracted the nail, like putting your foot into a waterlogged welly.

  The feeling she had had, it was good.

  When she held the cat’s furry skull, when the limp body hung from the dead head, like a figure from a puppet show. She hadn’t felt sorry for the cat. She’d just looked into its dead eyes and all she was able to see was the sick, but nevertheless fantastic, act. His hands. Bunny’s big brother’s hands. One of them holding the head against the tree. The other gripping the hammer. The nail in his mouth. The wail of the cat as the blows rained down.

  Because he wanted to make it clear that nobody touched his brother.

  No matter, Tiril thinks, no matter what way you look at it, he’s one sick fucker, but a strong fucker, and in one way he did what was right. Just like she did what was right. So the only question is: who’s stronger? Who can sing more beautifully?

  It was getting on for six o’clock and the girls left the table; it was still a while before they were due at rehearsals. They went to Thea’s room where, for probably close to the thousandth time, they sat down to watch Evanescense videos on YouTube. They talked about what an insane day it had been, they felt content and happy with themselves, they laughed about how they’d handled Bunny’s big brother, how they’d handled Thea’s mum and dad, and now, now they’re looking deep into one another’s eyes, speaking in hushed tones, as they talk about how exceptionally well they performed the song in practice today.

  ‘If we can sound as good tommorrow…’ Thea whispers.

  ‘We’ll sound as good,’ whispers Tiril.

  ‘I’m just, like, really nervous. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Why should I be?’

  Tiril clicks on the mouse and leaves the live version of ‘Haunted’ from Rock Am Ring behind. She’s not so into that one, nor does she care much for Amy’s shorts, hair or eye make-up in it. She likes her better when she’s Gothic and exalted, like in the video for ‘Call Me When You’re Sober’ for instance.

  ‘We’ll sound better, Thea,’ she says. ‘We’ll sound even better.’

  Text message. She leans towards the desk, looks at the mobile. From Malene.

  R u @ T’s? Can we come over. Pls. Sandra and me.

  ‘Who is it?’

  Tiril shows the message to Thea.

  Thea taps her chin with her middle finger, like she always does when she’s unsure. ‘What’s happened?’

  Tiril gets to her feet, like she always does when her heart begins to tick. ‘Dunno.’ She texts back: Just come. We’re here.

  A few minutes later the doorbell rings and Thea, with Tiril right behind, hurries down the stairs to answer it, calling out to her parents that it’s for her. As they’d suspected, they open the door to the sight of two girls in crisis mode. Malene leads a clearly shattered Sandra over the threshold and they steer her up to the bedroom: ‘Just Sandra and Malene!’ Thea calls out in the direction of the living room.

  ‘Great!’

  That’s the thing with Thea’s father, thinks Tiril, as she hears his voice ring out. Everything’s great as far he’s concerned, and if it’s not great then he insists on it being great.

  Once they’re in Thea’s room, Sandra collapses on to the red beanbag on the floor. The other three stand in front of her.

  Tiril looks at Malene: ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘We’re not quite sure, but it’s Daniel, in any case.’

  Tiril can see Thea swallow, like most girls do when his name is mentioned. But Tiril doesn’t have any need to swallow. ‘What is it he’s done, then?’ she asks.

  ‘We were in town,’ Malene does the talking, Sandra slumps unhappily in the beanbag, her make-up running down her face, ‘because it was all a bit too much for Sandra today, so I met her there, at McDonald’s—’

  ‘McDonald’s,’ Tiril rolls her eyes and crosses her arms, ‘have you started going there as well now—’

  ‘Can you just drop the environmental shit today?’

  ‘Okay—’

  ‘Anyway, we’re sitting there and Sandra’s trying to get a grip on things and suchlike and that’s when we see them—’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Them…’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Daniel and—’

  ‘Daniel?’

  ‘Daniel and Veronika.’

  ‘Veronika?’ Thea takes a step forward. ‘The foster sister?’

  Malene nods. ‘But that’s not all, because when she turns round—’

  ‘Turns round?’

  ‘Yeah, we were sitting inside and they were outside—’

  ‘With their arms around one another,’ comes a sobbing voice from the beanbag.

  ‘They had their arms round one another?!’

  ‘Yeah, they did, but anyway—’

  ‘Like – I mean, they were wrapped around each other—’

  ‘Yeah, but anyway, when she turned around her face was all … all…’

  ‘She’d cut herself up,’ says the voice from the beanbag. ‘Out of love.’

  They all turn to Sandra.

  ‘How…’ Malene crouches down beside her. ‘How do you know that?’

  Sandra makes a fist, thumps it against her chest and with a sobbing voice says: ‘I understand everything now.’

  The girls sit down in a ring around the beanbag. They tend to Sandra. They run their hands over her hair, fix her fringe, straighten her necklace so the crucifix rests in the hollow of her throat, stroke her gently on her forearms. They speak to her softly. They let her relate. They listen. They let her tell them how fantastic these past weeks have been, about his bright, electric mouth, about how he’s given her his heart and she’s given hers in return, about how she felt that life has been filled with a colossal love – I haven’t needed sleep, I haven’t needed to eat, all I’ve needed was him! They nod and they listen as she fills them in on the last twenty-four hours, how everything has twisted, how everything has become harsh and ugly and how fear has been hammering a
t her door.

  Tiril gets to her feet. She paces the floor in thought. She feels she’s the one who needs to assume responsibility. They need to be at rehearsals very soon. Sandra needs to pull herself together. Tiril halts in front of the beanbag and makes eye contact with Sandra.

  ‘You need to go see him. You need to tell him what you think and what you’ve seen. You need to take the fight to him. And to her. Veronika.’

  Sandra sniffles, wipes her nose with the back of her hand.

  Malene nods.

  Thea nods too.

  ‘You’re going to send him a text,’ Tiril says.

  Sandra shuts her eyes, shakes her head quickly from side to side. ‘No, I won’t…’

  Tiril raises her voice a notch: ‘You’re going to send him a text, do you hear me?’

  ‘But, I…’

  ‘Gimme your phone.’ Tiril puts her hand out.

  ‘No, Tiril, I…’

  ‘I said, gimme your phone.’

  Sandra reluctantly hands her the mobile.

  Tiril begins to type:

  Daniel, you are a coward. It’s time you showed me who you are. Who it is you want. I’ll wait for you…

  ‘Where do the two of you usually meet?’

  ‘Mm, by the electricity substation—’

  …by the substation. This is your last chance. Sandra.

  Tiril presses send. She tosses the mobile back into Sandra’s lap and walks towards the window. She stands there with her back to them. She can feel their eyes on her.

  ‘By the way,’ she says, without turning around, ‘Bunny’s big brother was here. Y’know, Kenny. He nailed a cat to the tree. Put the nail right through the cat’s eye. He was trying to put us in our place. He failed. Look. It’s beginning to get dark.

  56. SNIFFED LIGHTER FUEL AND LISTENED TO LATE-NIGHT RADIO (Jan Inge)

  Dark clothes, of course. No need to attract attention. Casual attire, obviously. Just a couple of blokes taking the bus. Just two guys doing their bit for the environment.

  Rudi and Jan Inge have changed, they’ve followed the timetable Ulrike from Hannover gave them, taken the bus into town and hopped on a number 7 by Breiavannet at 21:15. But Rudi’s not in good humour. The cheerful mood he’d been in after beating up Hansi evaporated after dinnertime. They’d listened to Motörhead and then settled down to watch Driller Killer while they digested their food, but Rudi couldn’t get into it. He twisted and turned in his seat and talked about what a deprivation of liberty it was being packed on to a bloody bus. And Rudi in bad humour is a pain. But what is a leader going to do about it? When the employees are in a bad mood?

  Jan Inge sometimes feels this is his lot in life. Cecilie is in rotten humour so often that he’s firefighting day in, day out. And she hasn’t been the only one. He’s had many grumpy people in the organisation over the years. At times he’s felt like he’s been running a kennel for sick dogs. It’s a common flaw amongst so many of the criminal element, such a large number of them are angry and obstinate. They lack stability in their lives. Positive surroundings.

  And what can you do about that? What, for example, would my kindred spirit David Toska do about it? What sort of steps would a big shot like Toska take in order to reinvigorate and reenergise tired troops? Would a seminar be a good idea, the kind of thing where you rent a place and book some speakers, possibly out at Sola Strand Hotel or in the basement of Atlantic Hotel, have some food on the table, get in a motivational speaker, maybe a Pia Tjelta or a Kristian Valen, or a guy with a guitar? Tjødaen, he played in that band before, what were they called … Hundvåg Racers? And Dabben, that boy can talk, more than one person’s remarked on that, and if only he wasn’t so ill-suited for ordinary working life he could have been a stand-up comedian or a politician. Might be an idea. Rent out part of Sola Strand Hotel. Get Dabben in to tell a few jokes and pep up the team. Have Tjødaen play a few songs. A Cash number for Jani, something by Aerosmith for Cecilie and a Metallica ballad for Rudi.

  These are good thoughts. Positive thoughts.

  Shouldn’t the criminal element, in general, work a little harder at raising awareness at the need for a good atmosphere in the workplace?

  In any case, Rudi has always been useful with regard to that. Sure he can be a hassle, going on and on, but he’s rarely in bad humour.

  But now the atmosphere here is really going downhill. Of course he’s got a point about being robbed of his freedom, that public transport is out to suppress the individual, everybody knows that. All the same. There’s something else.

  All this couldn’t possibly just be about the bus.

  ‘I’ll grant them one thing, the people who work with this,’ Rudi says, as they’re tipped sideways in their seats at the roundabout by the theatre, ‘they know their fucking systems. Look, Jani,’ he continues, ‘now we’re coming out on to Madlaveien, and I’m nauseous, being on a bus always makes me nauseous – but let’s not talk about me, let’s talk about the guy driving. You can be sure that that fucker sitting up there holding the steering wheel between his knees, he is drilled in this. System, system, system. Do you think bus drivers get heavy balls, my friend? The amount of time they spend sitting? I do. In a lot of ways, you could say he’s a German, couldn’t you? A brother of Ulrike. Ordnung. Ordnung. Ordnung. Now this busfuck knows that we’re going to stop outside the bicycle shop at such and such a time. Andsoonandsoforth. And he’s one thousand per cent set on it. Jesus, I feel sick! Anyway, I’ll give them that, the people involved in this; they’ve made a plan and they’ve gone for it.’

  ‘Well—’ Jan Inge reckons he can agree with those sentiments, that it’s something positive, that in many ways it’s similar to what he himself is busy doing in their own firm, making plans and going for them. But Rudi has no time to listen.

  ‘But,’ Rudi says angrily, ‘what does it do to a person, being squeezed into these seats, breathing this stuffy air and having their insides bounced around like they were in a bloody tumble dryer, and constantly stopping then driving then stopping then driving again. Eh? Jesus, I’m nauseous. Brother of cunt! I ask you that, Jani, on top of it being a fundamental infringement of our rights when two working men like you me have been robbed of the symbol of our freedom. The Volvo. Eh? You can bet that creates tension. I’m pretty certain that if you take a look at the statistics for people with muscular aches and ailments and compare the ones who have their own car with those who take public transport, then you’ll see that amongst those who travel by bus there’ll be a lot more instances of people suffering from fibromyalgia, wear and tear, migraines and even long-term sick leave.’

  Jan was thinking of saying that Rudi may possibly be right, but that on the other hand it is conceivable that these bumpy trips, with all the stops along the way, may have a relaxing effect on some people, but he’s gets slightly confused, so he asks: ‘Yeah … but … are you talking about bus drivers now?’

  ‘Aren’t you listening to me, brother of fuck?’

  ‘Yeah, I—’

  ‘It’s the passengers I’m thinking off, in this tunnel of nausea we’re inside. And I’ve been thinking about it a hell of a lot today,’ Rudi says, as they near the stop on Holbergsgaten. ‘A hell of a lot, Jani. And what I’m getting at is that we need to sort out the vehicular situation.’

  ‘The vehicular sit—’

  ‘Don’t go interrupting me, Jani, not yet, brother of impatience! What we need is a new vehicle, which both you and I can have the use of. We can hand over the Volvo to Chessi and then we get our own van. No matter how good it felt laying into Hansi, giving him a working-over for old times’ sake, we can’t do that whenever we need a van.’

  ‘But we—’

  ‘I don’t want to hear it, Jani, I don’t want to hear any protests. Those are my final words on the matter. I feel really nauseous now. But I’m hanging in there. Can you see that? I’m hanging in.’

  Jesus, this is a bit much, Jan Inge thinks. He places his clammy hands in his lap and looks out the
window.

  ‘I can’t talk any more now, brother,’ Rudi says, ‘because I feel so sick at this stage that I actually just really need a little time to myself. I need to look straight ahead. In both senses of the word. Straight ahead at the road. Straight ahead at the future.’

  The bus passes Mosvannet lake, then the junction at Tjenvollkrysset, continues up Madlakrossen, driving past the ice rink in Siddishallen, past the gymnastics hall, out to Madlakrossen before turning into Molkeholen and heading towards Madla and Gosen.

  Nausea? This can’t just be about being on a bus and feeling sick. Jan Inge feels he’s displaying poor leadership qualities at the moment. What would David Toska have done?

  The bus pulls in at a stop not far from Madlamark School. Two teenagers hop off, a woman in her thirties gets on.

  ‘Rudi?’ Jan Inge turns to his friend. ‘How you feeling?’

  ‘I’m concentrating. I’m looking straight ahead.’

  ‘Okay, good.’ Jan Inge speaks in as calm a tone as he’s able. ‘I promise you. Next week, there will be a new car standing outside the house. And a van. We’ll have to find somewhere else to park the van though – it’ll draw too much attention if we make such striking changes simultaneously, and nobody’s going to go near the moving van. But I promise you that, Rudi. And listen, Rudi. No one, no one, is going to leave you.’

  Rudi’s long, narrow head sways gently as they drive up towards Gosen Woods and their final stop. He doesn’t open his mouth to speak.

  When the bus pulls in they step off, out into the chilly evening.

  Rudi breathes in the fresh air and says, ‘I conquered myself there, brother, conquered myself, my own body and my own fear. Look at me. Am I throwing up? Am I alive?’