I Will Miss You Tomorrow

by Heine Bakkeid

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘There’s no point.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘Arne says their son is dead.’

  ‘He’s probably right.’

  ‘My God,’ I groan in despair. ‘So what the hell is it you all expect of me?’

  ‘We’re doing this for Anniken,’ Ulf replies calmly. ‘One day they’re going to find their boy, bloated and rotting from his time in the sea, where fish and crabs have been nibbling at him. But it’s still her child, you understand? And I’m telling you: she’s in no state to cope with what’s ahead. You know the police lingo and routines in such situations and how things work. Maybe most of all, this is a way for her to demonstrate to herself that she’s not giving up. No one can give up until they know for certain, Thorkild. Until all avenues have been explored. Don’t you agree with me?’

  I don’t say anything, just sit there with mobile in hand as I stare at the blanket covering the window.

  ‘Come down, Thorkild,’ Ulf adds when I don’t respond.

  ‘No.’ My voice is breaking, and tears are pressing at my eyes, without finding release through my messed-up tear ducts.

  ‘Let me in, then, and I’ll come up.’

  ‘I don’t want to.’

  ‘I’m not leaving until you come down, or else let me in.’

  ‘You can’t,’ I grunt, sulking, when I can’t think of anything better to say. ‘You have to go to work.’

  ‘I’m billing the morning to you today,’ Ulf answers, still without losing his composure, and without lighting a cigarette. He wouldn’t let go.

  ‘Fuck!’ I leap up from the sofa. ‘How is it possible to be so stubborn? I can’t understand it. Am I just supposed to travel up there and row around this bloody island searching for a guy everyone says is dead, drowned and gone for ever?’

  ‘There’s another reason I want you to go up there.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘Elisabeth.’

  ‘My sister? What has she got to do with this?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘When did you see her last?’

  I shrug in defiance.

  ‘I want you to talk to her when you’re up there.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About yourself, and what you’ve been through.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Look on it as a necessary part of your new life, Thorkild. You’re no longer in charge of interrogations; the information gatherer is dead, stripped of his reputation as well as his job title. Now you’re just like all the rest of us, an … information sharer. No matter how hard it may be to accept that.’

  Ulf’s lack of subtlety in laying down the law can be strong meat for people with delicate egos and screwed-up self-confidence. Luckily for me, my ego is dead, and my self-confidence has moved out and found itself better rates elsewhere.

  ‘You need responsible people around you,’ Ulf ploughs on. ‘Support and sound frames of reference from outside of your therapeutic circle, not just within it. And the first thing I’d like us to include in this paradigm is your sister Liz, who I know you’re fond of, more perhaps than you’re willing to admit to yourself. What’s more, I’ve mulled over what we were talking about yesterday, and I’ll write a prescription for OxyNorm for your trip,’ he continues. ‘Then you’ll have something that will work quickly if you ever need it. What do you think?’

  My mouth starts to water and I can feel something start to tingle in my belly and rise along my spine to the back of my head. ‘How much?’

  ‘The same as last time.’

  ‘What if I have to stay there for more than a week?’

  ‘Then I’ll email you a new prescription wherever you are.’

  I put the phone down on the TV table and press my knuckles against my mouth. The pain in my cheek has gone, melting away the one damned time I needed it. ‘Shit, shit, shit!’ I hiss into my knuckles, gnawing at them until at last I take a deep breath and pick up my phone. I lift the corner of the blanket at the window once more. ‘OK,’ I whisper into the receiver. ‘I’ll go. Come on up.’

  Ulf is still on the phone when I open the front door. He nods and pushes his way in, before tearing the fleece blanket off the window and flopping down on the sofa, which creaks under his weight. ‘OK, then, and when does that leave for Tromsø? Half-past three? OK.’ He clicks his fingers and nods in the direction of the kitchenette.

  I shrug. ‘What?’

  ‘Ashtray, for Christ’s sake!’ Wrenching off his bag, Ulf fishes out his wallet and a packet of Marlboro Gold, pulls out his credit card and produces a cigarette that he lights with an angry gesture before inhaling greedily: ‘One way, yes.’

  The acrid cigarette smoke forces its way in through my nostrils and settles under my cheek, just below the skin. I turn away and step into the bathroom, where I take out my washbag and put my razor, medication pack and bag of medicines down beside a toothbrush and the rest of my toiletries. Afterwards I head out to the kitchen to pack the coffee machine and portable radio, as Ulf rounds off his phone conversation.

  ‘Hi there,’ Ulf yells out of the cloud of smoke on the sofa when he catches sight of the coffee machine, which I’m about to wrap in a towel. ‘You don’t need that. They’ve got coffee in the north too, you know.’

  ‘I prefer my own,’ I protest.

  ‘But for God’s … no, never mind,’ he waves at me and pulls a grimace. ‘Yes, go ahead, just take it, pack the kitchen sink for all I care.’ He then goes back to his phone conversation with a start. ‘Yes, hello? It comes to how much, did you say?’

  Once he has concluded his conversation and lit another cigarette, he turns to face me, nodding as he holds the smoke down in his lungs: ‘Do you know what?’ he says when he blows the smoke out at last. ‘I think, in fact, this trip is going to do you good. Real good …’

  CHAPTER 7

  It’s already dark outside when the plane lands at Tromsø airport. A fine layer of fresh snow blankets the ground. I collect my bag and head out into the cold air to find a taxi. Fifteen minutes later, my sister is staring at me in disbelief.

  ‘Thorkild?!’ She folds me in her arms.

  ‘Hi, Liz.’ It feels good to hold her and I don’t want to let go when she makes to pull away.

  ‘Is everything OK?’ She runs a plump finger over my cheek, while her round eyes study me intently.

  ‘Top notch,’ I answer.

  ‘When did you get out?’

  ‘A couple of days ago.’

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘An inquiry,’ I answer.

  ‘Inquiry? Are you back in the police?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘B … but,’ she blurts in confusion.

  ‘Can’t I come in?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ Liz ushers me into the hallway, where we stand in silence looking at each other. She looks worn out. She’ll be fifty this summer, but looks older. Her eyes are swollen, as if she’s been crying recently. Her hands are rough and pudgy, and she’s still very overweight. The years since we last met have left their marks on both of us.

  ‘You look sad, Thorkild.’

  ‘Don’t give it a thought. How are you doing?’

  She withdraws ever so slightly. ‘I’m absolutely fine.’

  ‘Is he still hitting you?’

  ‘Thorkild, promise me you won’t …’ I see the desperation mount in her eyes at the same time as I feel myself seethe inside.

  ‘I’m only asking if your husband is still knocking you about. Judging by the bruises on your neck and arm, it looks as if he’s taken his hobby to new heights.’

  ‘I can’t face this now. Arvid and I … things are going well at the moment, and you can’t come here and spoil it all. I don’t want … I won’t allow it.’

  I shake my head and step inside the living room, still wearing my shoes.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Thorkild!’ she pleads in that trembling, hysterical voic
e she has acquired after all the years of living with a violent long-distance lorry driver who can’t manage to keep his hands off her, in the worst way.

  I can hear a creak from above and take three or four strides to climb the stairs before throwing open the bedroom door.

  Arvid is sitting up in bed, shifty eyes skulking behind tufts of dark, greasy hair.

  ‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he asks just before I cross the room and punch him. Arvid falls backwards, rolls out of bed and lies there with his head hidden beneath the bedside table.

  The next moment, Liz comes wheezing into the room and starts to tug and yank at my jacket, crying and yelling all the while.

  ‘What have you done? What have you done!’

  Arvid finally struggles to his feet, using his hand to cover his ear. He glares at Liz. ‘Do you see? See what you’ve done. That bastard there is dangerous; I’ve always said that, haven’t I? He’s a monster, do you understand that?’

  Spitting blood, he wipes his hands on his singlet.

  Liz tears herself away from me and runs over to her husband. Her fingers caress his face as she whispers soothing words.

  Arvid pushes her hand away and lunges towards me. ‘I think you should be damn careful, or else I’ll report you, and then they’ll take you right back inside, you know that, you fucking murderer!’ he barks at me as he passes. ‘And if you’re here when I get back, you’ll have to take the blame for what happens.’

  He digs his elbow into me on his way out and slams the door behind him.

  ‘Is this honestly what you want from life, Liz?’ She has put out coffee, cakes and biscuits, and we’re sitting together on the sofa in the living room, unchanged since the last time I was here. The only new addition is a black leather chair in front of the TV set. Arvid’s, of course.

  ‘It’s not how you think.’ She looks at me and decides to turn the conversation in a different direction. ‘Have you spoken to Mum since you got out? She asks after you whenever I phone.’

  ‘I haven’t had time yet.’

  ‘They say she’s deteriorated lately.’ Liz looks down at the cake dish. ‘If only it wasn’t so expensive to fly to Oslo. And now that Arvid’s on disability—’

  ‘And Dad?’

  ‘He’s still active. I saw him on the news a while back in connection with the building of a new aluminium plant in Iceland. They said he was the leader of a new environmental protection group. Some sort of guerrilla group. Kæfa Ísland, they call themselves, apparently.’

  ‘Choke Iceland?’ I laugh as I picture the smouldering eyes and long, shining, silver hair of the man who screams in visceral euphoria every time the police attempt to drag him and his compadres away from yet another industrial development, yet another protest march against the ruling powers of capitalism on our volcanic island. ‘Nothing changes.’

  ‘You remind me of him.’ Liz’s gaze sweeps across the scar formations on my cheek before she looks me straight in the eye again. ‘It’s almost like seeing him, the way I remember him from when we were little.’ She lets out a sigh that causes the whole of her massive body to wobble on the sofa.

  ‘Apart from the hair, of course. Why do you always cut it so short?’

  ‘In what way?’ I ask expressionlessly, watching her outburst of joy wither and die. ‘In what way are we alike? It must be that totally unique chemical link of ours you’re talking about. This corrosive fluid we secrete that smothers and destroys everything and everyone we come into contact with. Is that what you see?’

  ‘Thorkild, that wasn’t what I meant, you know that. I know you never wanted … that what happened to … that you never …’

  ‘So what is it, then?’

  ‘I just …’ she says, grabbing another biscuit. Her eyes find their way back to my cheek and its lacerations. ‘You who were always so good-looking,’ she wails, burying her face in her hands.

  ‘Come on, Liz,’ I say, putting a hand on her arm as I make an effort at a painless smile. ‘We can’t all be as attractive as you when approaching fifty.’

  ‘My God, give it a rest, Thorkild,’ she gasps, looking at me through her fingers. ‘Stop teasing, please.’

  ‘What?’ I spread out my arms. ‘I mean it.’

  At last she takes her hands from her face.

  ‘But Thorkild,’ she ventures once she has finished eating and wiped her hands on her trouser leg. ‘I don’t think you can stay here.’

  ‘Take it easy, Liz, I’m not planning to stay,’ I say. ‘I no longer have a driving licence and I need help to get myself a hire car.’

  ‘It’s not so easy for Arvid either.’ Her gaze lingers on the empty cake dish, as if she’s seeking strength among the crumbs, to press on with these lies she tells herself each day so as not to go under. No matter how many times I kick that lazy, vicious brute that she stays married to, he will continue to lash out, and she will always take to the cake dish in a quest to find strength to go on. Liz still believes it is all just a phase they have to go through, and that if she stops doing all the things that make him hit her, then it will all work out.

  CHAPTER 8

  I leave the rental car Liz has arranged for me in the hotel’s car park and make my way to reception, where I check in and ask for a parking permit. It is a three-hour drive, including two ferry trips, between Tromsø and Blekøyvær, where Arne Villmyr has organised a meeting for me with the local police chief next morning.

  I have been allocated a hotel room with some sort of view: square buildings, streetlights and stretches of tarmac. The Paris of the North is hiding somewhere in the darkness. I draw the curtains, open my bag and unpack my coffee machine, even though there is an electric kettle in the hotel room.

  I’m late. It is after half-past seven, and my body is aching. The craving to pacify the restless spasms makes my fingers tremble as I take out my medicine pack and open the compartment containing my evening dose.

  The tablets look like tiny insect eggs as they roll around in my hand. I pick out the two orange Risperdal antipsychotic tablets, return them to the pack, then gulp down the rest in a single mouthful. Afterwards I take out a filter and a bag of coffee, fetch water from the basin in the bathroom and start up the coffee machine.

  As soon as the first drops trickle down into the glass jug, I switch on the travel radio and turn off the lights, one by one.

  I undress and creep beneath the quilt. My body has already begun to tense. A murky gloom settles and takes root deep inside me, opening doors I can’t manage to open by myself. ‘At last,’ I sob as I press my torso harder against my knees. ‘At last, I’m ready.’

  I lie there waiting, but nothing happens. The air-conditioning hums, the cold polar light forces its way through the curtains, and I remain still.

  In the end I sit up again and take out the pack of fast-acting OxyNorm. I press out two of the eggs, toss them down my throat and lie down again.

  After another lengthy spell of more waiting, more pills and paroxysms of despair, I finally get dressed and go out.

  On the other side of the bridge I spot the Arctic Cathedral outlined against the polar sky, dark and cold. My stroll skirts the edge of the harbour until I end up at a shopping centre beside the Coastal Steamer quay.

  Inside the centre I cross to a shop that sells perfume. With care, I take down bottles from the display shelf and sniff at each and every one. After checking an assortment, I select a transparent glass bottle with black, oily contents and a silver lid, and take it to the checkout.

  ‘Shall I wrap it for you?’ asks the shop assistant, a woman in her fifties with immaculate makeup and black-tinted hair, thin lips painted red and dark eyes.

  I nod distractedly.

  ‘She’s going to love this,’ she says, smiling, as she hands me the carrier bag with the wrapped perfume bottle.

  ‘Yes.’ I peer down into the bag at the scarlet wrapping paper. ‘Maybe you shouldn’t have wrapped it,’ I begin to say as the woman clears her throat and an elderl
y woman in a quilted jacket comes up beside me, carrying a perfume bottle with a bee on the lid and the word honey written in fine black letters on the side.

  ‘Oh well, then.’ The shop assistant blinks. ‘You can always take off the wrapping paper before you give it to her.’ She blinks twice and turns to the woman with the honeypot. ‘You’ll love this,’ she says with a smile. ‘Shall I wrap it for you?’

  I close the bag and leave.

  As soon as I’m back in my room, I take out the carrier bag and place the wrapped perfume bottle on the bed beside the pillow. I shed my clothes and stretch out on my back beside the headboard, peel off the tape and tear away the gift-wrap.

  The fragrance is escaping from the box even before I’ve opened it. My eyelids feel heavy, and the tingling in my legs is slowly subsiding. I have to hurry, and take the bottle from the box with trembling fingers as I struggle to contain my excitement.

  The silver top slips off easily, and I tug at the catch that holds the pressure mechanism closed. A spray of scent particles shoots out of the nozzle and hits me in the face the moment I press the top. I sneeze and spray some more, before sliding down into the bed and closing my eyes.

  I sprawl face-down on the pillow fabric while I wait. After a while, I open my eyes and sit up. The air conditioning is sucking the fragrance from the room and filling it with more hotel air, sterile and cold.

  I haul myself out of bed and check that the windows are properly closed before I crawl back under the quilt again and spray my face once more. This time I also spray the perfume on my hands and hair, before creeping back under the quilt.

  ‘Fuck it!’ I stand up and grab the perfume bottle, twist off the spray mechanism and put the opening to my mouth. The particles of scent wash over my tongue and down my throat. Dropping the bottle, I fall sobbing on the bed, dragging the quilt over me.

  ‘Why won’t you come?’ I whimper, burying my face in the sheet as my body contracts with convulsions. ‘Can’t you understand that I need you?