See You Tomorrow

by Tore Renberg

  Daniel draws a breath. ‘I need to know if she’s alive or not,’ he says.

  ‘Please,’ says Veronika. ‘We can’t be here. Don’t you understand anything? If they see you it’s all over.’

  Daniel walks towards the heavy doors, opens one and hears the applause grow inside the gym hall. Veronika goes after him. It’s packed, not one seat free. Daniel keeps his eyes down and sidles along the wall bars together with Veronika, hoping not to be noticed.

  Within a few seconds they’ve gained the attention of the entire hall. Face after face turns to look in their direction, as though he and Veronika were magnets. One set of eyes after the other stare at them. Whispering, muttering.

  A wildly enthusiastic guy with socialist curls and round glasses comes on stage. He says that that was just amazing, fantastic girls, and then he spreads his arms wide: ‘And now we’re going to enter the world of emotion! Into the darkness! Please give a big welcome to Tiril and Thea, who are going to perform Evanescence’s “My Immortal”.’

  The attention of the audience has been divided. A lot of eyes are focused on the stage and a lot of eyes are looking directly at Daniel and Veronika. The teachers are talking together in hushed tones.

  ‘W-e-n-e-e-d-t-o-g-o,’ Veronika mouths. ‘N-o-w.’

  He doesn’t reply.

  A girl has taken up position beside Daniel. He turns his head slowly, bringing it around as though on a rail, while keeping his eyes on the stage, where Tiril and Thea emerge from between a gap in the curtain. One black and one white angel. The lights in the hall dim, turning everything red, then green.

  Daniel’s eyes settle on the girl beside him. It’s Malene.

  ‘Yeah?’ he whispers, as if he doesn’t know what she wants.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ she whispers harshly. ‘How have you got the nerve to come here? Have you turned yourself in to the police?’

  ‘Malene,’ he whispers, his forehead lowered, ‘please.’

  ‘Haven’t you two caused enough problems?’

  ‘Malene,’ he whispers, rarely having seen such an angry face. ‘Have you heard anything about Sandra? Tell me what you know, and I’ll do what I need to.’

  ‘She’s in a coma,’ Malene says. ‘That’s all we know.’

  He nods. Then he says: ‘Please. Go home.’

  Malene is taken aback, a line bisects her eyebrows.

  ‘Go home,’ he whispers, beginning to move towards the exit. ‘Okay? Go home. There’s something seriously fucked-up going on with your dad.’

  The room is bathed in a dim, dark red light. Thea sits by the piano. She’s white as aching snow that makes your eyes smart. She places her fingers on the keys and plays the first notes. Tiril stands in front of her holding a lit match. The flame trembles in front of her, casting a reflection on her skin, making troubled waves on her face. The girl stands with her gaze fixed and face impassive, looking like some black, twisted progeny of Satan, thinks Daniel, and the hate she radiates is not foreign to him; on the contrary, it feels soothing, stimulating and welcome. If the girl on the stage was to open her mouth and say Daniel, come with me, and we’ll make the pain worse, he would obey.

  Tiril lifts her chin, lets her gaze sweep over the room as the flame burns closer and closer to her fingers, before bringing the match to a pillar candle and the wick begins to glow, and Daniel hopes she manages to burn the whole world down.

  ‘Sorry,’ he whispers.

  The music increases in volume. Daniel opens the door, with Veronika right behind him. They run towards the Suzuki.

  97. SHALL WE MAKE A START? (Jan Inge)

  ‘So Pål, you in form?’

  ‘Heh heh, formformform?’

  ‘How’s the form, Pål?’

  ‘Heh heh, form schmorm?’

  Pål stands with his arms hanging loosely at his sides in the dimly lit garage. His eyes are as they should be, puppylike. He stands at the back wall radiating docility. Offering a reassuring impression immediately.

  Jan Inge walks across the concrete floor. ‘What do you say? In form?’

  Pål is dressed casually. He doesn’t appear to have worked himself into a tizzy deciding what to wear. Jeans. A simple, stripy shirt. He’s newly shaved. That’s good. His complexion looks clean and fresh. Which means he slept last night. That’s a good sign. No one needs Pål roving around like a nervous wreck. No one needs Pål with bags under his eyes and his head all a frazzle when they’re going to work him over.

  Jan Inge nods and smiles. ‘Hm, Pål? Good form?’

  ‘Heh heh, form the norm?’ Rudi draws up alongside Jan Inge and slaps Pål on the arm. ‘Good to see you, Mr Poker Joker! Sprouted more grey hairs lately? What does the word of the Lord have to say about that, Pål Kål? Grey hair is a crown of glory; it is gained in a righteous life. And what else does God say: A truly wise person uses few words; a person with understanding is even-tempered. Well, that’s sure not me the Good Book is talking about!’

  ‘Rudi. Easy now.’

  Rudi mimes a gun with his finger and thumb and shoots himself: ‘Relaxed Rupert. Heh heh.’

  ‘Well,’ Pål says, ‘I’m … yeah, suppose I’m in form. Just want to get this over with. Y’know.’

  Cecilie approaches Pål. She smiles warmly and places a gloved hand on one of his arms hanging limply by his side.

  Jan Inge feels his chest swell with pride as he watches her do it in such a gentle, maternal fashion. Generate stability. Offer him assurance. He’s also aware of how little Rudi likes her doing it, so he takes a quick hold of his friend as he makes to move towards his girlfriend.

  ‘Rudi. This is work,’ he whispers.

  Rudi exhales through his nose and nods.

  ‘Are you scared?’ Cecilie asks, presenting her most feminine side.

  Pål shrugs. ‘Scared … I, well…’

  ‘I can understand that,’ she says. ‘Where’s the dog? That cute dog, what was it call—’

  ‘I,’ Pål gives a lopsided smile, ‘I left her in the basement, figured maybe—’

  ‘That’s good.’ Cecilie pats him on the arm. ‘This is going to work out just fine. Okay? You’re among friends. Rudi, Jan Inge, my brother, and Tong.’ She points to the silent Korean who’s closely inspecting the garage and its contents. ‘It’s the four of us who are working today. And in order for this to go well, you need to view us as your friends. Okay?’

  Pål clears his throat.

  ‘Okay, Pål?’

  He nods.

  ‘Good. Then there’re just a few things we need to go through with you, okay, Pål?’

  Pål raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Okay, Pål?’

  This truly is Cecilie at her absolute best. It’s just a shame that this social, feminine and tremendously perceptive side only comes to the fore when we’re at work. Imagine if it was more evident on the home front, if she was like this when the house needed cleaning or when she got up for breakfast. But, it’s important to look ahead. Jan Inge harbours hope that she’ll be filled from top to toe like this after she gives birth. He has faith that this child, who may be Rudi’s, or Tong’s, but for God’s sake must remain unspoken of for the next while, that this child will fill her with maternal joy.

  Pål sniffles and clears his throat again. ‘Yeah,’ he says.

  ‘Great,’ Cecilie says, reminiscent in no small measure of a nurse who has done something unpleasant to a patient, but who still has the ability to coax a smile, ‘great.’ She turns to Jan Inge, giving him a barely perceptible nod. ‘Jan Inge? Will you present Pål with a quick run-through of what’s going to take place?’

  Jan Inge takes a step forward. Out of the corner of his eye he notices Rudi has wandered over to a workbench at the end of the garage where he is standing messing about with something. A bird table?

  ‘Rudi!’

  ‘Heh heh. Oops! Ich komme, mein General!’ Rudi puts the bird table aside. ‘Yess, the Rudi reporting for duty. What’s going on?’

  Jan Inge ig
nores him, he knows this is how Rudi reacts to speed, straight into his bloodstream at the start, but stabilises pretty quickly.

  ‘Yes,’ Jan Inge says, hiking up his black work pants, taking hold of the belt and trying to almost hook the trousers over his ample hips, ‘shall we go inside?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Pål says, showing the way, ‘it’s through here.’

  ‘A door from the garage right into the house,’ Jan Inge remarks, clicking his fingers. ‘I like that. Pål. I like it a lot.’

  They enter a hall. A series of family photos in IKEA frames hang along the walls. Two girls aged about ten with a large cod in their laps, a girl with a ponytail wearing a purple leotard with silver stars on it, holding a trophy in her hands, a girl sitting in a little car in what must be Legoland. The four of them are dressed in black and focused, they carry their black bags, all having taped the gaps between footwear and trousers, between sleeves and gloves, all wearing blue shoe bags, all with hairnets and hats. Pål leads them into a spacious kitchen. An ordinary kitchen table. Five chairs. A plastic tablecloth. A coffee maker, toaster and radio. Curtains drawn, very good. Pål pulls out the chairs and the four of them sit down at the table.

  ‘Great, Pål,’ Jan Inge says, with a satisfied smile and a real warmth in his cheeks, ‘we’re off to a good start.’ He glances at the clock on the wall. ‘Okay. We need to be relatively efficient here. As I’m sure you understand.’

  Pål presses his lips together and rests his elbows on the table. A padding, shuffling sound comes from the stairs to the basement and a moment later a dog’s head appears in the doorway.

  ‘Pål!’ Jan Inge lifts his hands up in exasperation. ‘Did we not talk about—’

  Pål hurries over to Zitha and grabs her by the scruff. ‘I must not have – sorry, I’ll make sure to—’

  ‘You’d better,’ Jan Inge says sternly, watching Pål pull Zitha down the stairs while admonishing her. He returns a moment later.

  ‘There. Now she’s well secured to—’

  ‘We won’t talk about it any more, Pål,’ Jan Inge says calmly. ‘Now. Before we start, would you put some coffee on, just so it looks like we’ve barged in while you were going about your daily routine? You could also put out a loaf of bread on the worktop, you might want to take it from the wrapper and cut a slice, and place some salami beside it and leave the fridge door ajar, then it won’t look too far off.’

  Pål jumps up as though having received strict orders, nodding with reassuring appreciation, does exactly as he’s asked and does it quickly: takes out the filters, measures out the amount of coffee, fills the water, turns on the coffee machine, takes the bread from the bread bin beneath the window and opens the door of the fridge.

  ‘Very good, Pål,’ Cecilie says.

  ‘Cheese, is that all right?’

  ‘Can’t go wrong with cheese, Pål. I like your willingness to cooperate,’ Jan Inge says. ‘If everyone was like you, things would be a lot more tidy in our line of business. In any case,’ he continues, feeling an almost Mediterranean warmth spread through his stomach, ‘our purpose is to leave you in a sufficiently altered—’

  ‘Altered!’ Rudi bangs his fist on the table. ‘I love that fucking word so much I want to screw it!’

  ‘Rudi! That’s enough!’ Jan Inge clicks his fingers loudly at Rudi. ‘I beg your pardon, Pål. The purpose, as I was saying, is to leave you altered to the extent that there’s no doubt as to what has taken place. It’s in your interest and our interest. You need the money. We don’t need the attention. And the dog stays in the basement.’ Jan Inge sees Pål nod energetically. ‘That’s great. You maintain the first impression you make. Have you always done that?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Have you always maintained the first impression you make?’

  ‘No, I don’t quite – what do you mea—’

  ‘Something I often think about. That a person presents themselves in some way or another. Appears to be a certain way. And then a winter passes and spring rolls by, and suddenly the birch trees are in bloom and you see that this person isn’t what they sold themselves as. While in other cases – yours? – you get what you pay for.’

  ‘Well, I, yeah—’

  Jan Inge holds up the palm of his right hand to signal that they don’t have time to get any further into this, in itself, compelling topic.

  ‘The alteration. We have to cause you sufficient damage so that nobody can suspect it’s self-inflicted.’

  Pål clears his throat once again, deeper this time. ‘Right. Sure. Okay.’ His gaze wanders over the surface of the table. ‘Are you going to have some coffee too? Or will I just leave it on?’

  Jan Inge casts a quick glance in Cecilie’s direction, to let her know that she may perhaps need to step in again and behave in a soothing, maternal fashion as the subject is displaying nervous tendencies, but now she doesn’t appear to be paying attention.

  ‘You can let it sit there,’ he says. ‘We’re not exactly eager to leave any DNA traces. Crime scene investigators these days, they’re a skilled bunch. We do have to cause you some damage. But we’re no more fond of violence than you are. On the contrary, we’re anti-violence, almost pacifists in fact; you don’t need to be worried about permanent injuries. Come and sit down now, Pål. Don’t stand there getting all worked up. No good will come of it. Are you worried?’

  Pål lets slip a despairing smile and shuffles back with his head hanging limply, which makes him resemble his dog, before he sits down at the kitchen table with the others.

  ‘It’s quite understandable,’ Jan Inge says, becoming aware of a mild irritation creeping into his gut over Cecilie no longer being at the ready with that nurselike warmth. ‘But listen.’ He places a soft hand on Pål’s wrist and gives a gentle squeeze. ‘You. Dogman. Father to two beautiful girls. The man who will soon be free.’

  ‘Hear, hear! Cry freedom!’

  ‘We know how to punch and kick a body,’ Jan Inge continues, ‘we know what can be broken and what can’t without it having serious consequences.’

  ‘Youbetya, Pål Wall!’

  ‘Rudi, could you exercise a modicum of calm?’ Jan Inge speaks slowly to Rudi, letting his eyebrows dance up and down to make him understand that he’s marring the current tactics. ‘You will,’ he goes on, ‘you will feel pain, but it shall pass. My advice to you is to think about how good things are going to be for you and your daughters.’

  Jan Inge raises his corpulent form from the seat. He’s definitely going to start working out after this job is over with. He begins to swagger across the floor, doing his best to resemble a barrister or something along those lines. Pål follows him with anxious eyes.

  Jan Inge stops. ‘What’s going to happen,’ he says, ‘is the following. Cecilie is going to explore the house. She’ll take a close look at your possessions, point out what we’re going to take with us and what we’re going to wreck. Isn’t that right, Cecilie?’

  Cecilie turns to Pål, her face tracing a pretty arc, making her resemble Beverly Hinna, and serves him a smile of class. Good, she’s singing from the same hymn sheet again.

  ‘The last part,’ Jan Inge continues, ‘is mostly for the sake of realism. It’s important for it to look like the crooks who broke into your house and beat you up were looking for stuff to steal. People like that usually leave a trail of senseless destruction in their wake.’

  A hmph sound escapes Rudi, ‘Hopeless sorts.’

  ‘They’re on drugs and they take pleasure in wrecking things,’ Jan Inge says. ‘They have a need for destruction, Pål. Have you heard of that?’

  ‘No, can’t say—’

  ‘It’s the same as when a gang of youths kick the wing mirrors off parked cars. They’re generally acting out after a painful upbringing. They’ve experienced maltreatment and abuse. We’re talking about failure of care a lot of the time. These people have something inside that has to come out. A need for destruction. The crooks that were at your place tonight suffer from somet
hing like that. Do you understand, Pål?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘It sounds … well, realistic.’

  ‘Good, Pål. You catch on quick.’

  ‘I think so too,’ Cecilie says.

  ‘While Cecilie carries out an evaluation of your household contents,’ Jan Inge says, smiling, ‘the three of us will get started on you. We’ll leave a few signs of forced entry, we need to fake a modus operandi so it looks like we’ve broken in. We’ll smash the window beside the front door to make it look like that was how we gained access, we’ll mess up the hall a little – what do you think, Tong, smash the mirror? Evidence of a struggle?’

  Tong nods. ‘Enough with a crack in it. Turn a chair over.’

  ‘If Tong says it’s enough with a crack and an overturned chair, then it’s enough with a crack and an overturned chair.’ Jan Inge nods. ‘So. We’ll rearrange the hallway a little, make it look like a scuffle has taken place, same goes for the kitchen here, where I think we’ll let the main action play out. Or actually.’ He stops to think for a moment. ‘Let me have a look at your living room.’

  Pål shows Jan Inge and Pål into the living room and they take a look around. A corner sofa, an armchair, a table, large windows facing the garden.

  Tong shakes his head. Jan Inge does the same. He points to a framed photograph standing on a sideboard. The same two girls from the pictures in the hall. They’re about ten or twelve years old in the photo. ‘Your daughters?’

  Pål nods gravely.

  ‘Lovely girls. Think of them. The living room is a no go,’ Jan Inge says as they walk back to the kitchen. ‘This is where we’ll let it all go down. We’ll tie you to one of the chairs. You’ll be in some pain overnight, and sore for a few days after, but without serious injury. And we’ll break a few things around us—’

  ‘The Tjeeeeensvoll Gang! The Tjeeeensvoll Gang!’ Rudi exclaims, grabbing Cecilie on the behind. ‘Sorry, capo,’ he says, as he receives a stern look from Jan Inge, and removes his hand from her behind, ‘I’m just so happy today. Job satisfaction! Arbeit macht frei!’