See You Tomorrow (18 page)

‘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 gulp 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!

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 pathetic 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.’

‘There’s not much of a chance of that,’ they said, ‘we live in a block of flats, it wouldn’t be allowed.’

‘Well then, that’s that,’ he said, ‘I can’t’. So Child Services coughed up the money to get the room soundproofed. Fucking idiots. They’re understaffed, there’s stories in the paper every second day about how stretched they are, yet they still have the money to soundproof a room.

Cannot kill the family, battery is found in me, battery.

On the one hand it’s like he knows Sandra and she knows him. On the other hand it’s as though she has no idea who he is. None. But she was good at screwing. Felt just like it ought to, like diving into eternity. Manage to hold out in time. Was just some sort of shock to the system was all. No problem. Just wait, soon be banging away at you for hours on end.

He’ll have been marked absent by now. Daniel can’t face going to school today. The upshot will be them ringing Inger, then ringing Child Services and after that there’ll be a parent-teacher meeting. They’ll sit down in the guidance counsellor’s office. The student-teacher liaison, the maths teacher, and no doubt that Sivertsen guy, going on about how if Daniel doesn’t buck up then he won’t pass his maths exam, and then he’ll fail his finals, and then … he’s been listening to it since he was in first class. Your attendance rate, Daniel, that’s what they’ll start on about.

Yeah, he’ll say. What about it?

He’ll soon be eighteen. They won’t be able to touch him then.

The handle on the bedroom door turns slowly and the door opens. Daniel hits the drums as hard as he can, the Metallica lyrics whirling round his head, and then he looks up.

Veronika comes into the room. She has two towels around her. A big baby-blue one, fastened above her big tits and reaching down to below her hips and a smaller, pink one, done up on her head like a turban.

She’s often in his room, there’s nothing peculiar about it. At the start it was a bit weird. For the first few weeks he didn’t know how to behave round the girl with the hollow-sounding voice and the strange hand gestures, but then he realised she was just like everyone else, only deaf, and the reason she was a little shaky was that idiots had treated her like an idiot. All she actually needed was someone who saw her for who she was. Is that so hard to grasp? After a while he began to enjoy the silent attention she gave him, so he allowed her to come in. He let her sit on the floor in her Buddha posture and listen –
yeah, listen
– to him as he played the drums, as well as allow her to sit in his room and do homework.

‘Big bruv,’ she called him a few weeks back.

Daniel had nodded. He could be her big brother.

‘You know what?’ he said, speaking slowly so she could read his lips.

‘No?’

‘I’m going to buy you a car. And a house. You won’t need to worry about anything. I’m going to be rich, Veronika, I’m going to be filthy fucking rich. Your big bruv will look after you.’

Her whole torso, her tits – which are pretty huge – had wobbled under her sweater, her eyes narrowed to lines and her weird laughter had filled the room.

She’s good-looking, Veronika. Tidy. Big eyes. Awesome body. Long legs. But she’s got something intense about her, as though she were water on the boil.

He puts down the drumsticks, looks over at her.

‘Are you going to go to school?’ he asks slowly. Daniel knows he should really use his hands, use sign language, but he couldn’t be bothered.

‘Are you?’ Veronika smiles. Two small dimples play in her cheeks. She shrugs.

He smiles back. Shrugs.

He likes that about her. Her sense of humour. She’s quick.

‘So, what’s up then?’ Daniel says, and clears his throat. He has to look away. He’s seen her half-naked plenty of times. But right now it feels a little weird. Her just standing there. Like that. Now. In the morning. Water beading on her shoulders. Her breasts look
enormous beneath the towel and he’s having trouble averting his eyes.

‘So, what’s up then?’ he hears her say.

Shit.

Now she’s sitting on the floor. In her Buddha position.

Fuck.

He can see everything.

‘No, nothing much,’ he says, attempting to smile.

‘No, nothing.’ She smiles.

Daniel swallows.

He tries to take his eyes away but he can’t manage. They’re drawn towards her sitting there cross-legged, towards the towel pulled tight across her open thighs, towards her crotch. What is she doing? She must know he can see it?

‘Play,’ she says, making the sign for drums.

He shrugs. Is she just going to sit there like that? Is she doing it on purpose?

‘Okay,’ he says, making to begin. ‘Wait, hang on.’ He motions to her. ‘Come here. You try. Come on.’

She laughs. ‘No, no.’

‘Yeah, come on, come on.’

Veronika laughs again. She shows no indication of knowing what he can see. She merely laughs, waves her hand in refusal and again says: ‘No, no.’

He stands up, takes a step to the side and points at the stool. ‘Come on, sit down. I’ll show you.’

She rolls her eyes but gets to her feet and makes her way over to him. She sits down.

He sees the nape of her neck below the coiled towel. The red hairs beneath. Her shoulders. Her skin. Her cleavage. Her hips, her ass, heavy on the stool. Veronika turns her head, reads his lips. Mouthing slightly what he says with her own.

Daniel speaks slowly: ‘Pick up the drumsticks. That’s right. Grip them like this, as though you were holding a fishing rod. That’s right. Good. Okay, I’m going to show you four-four time, straight beat. Completely straight beat.’

‘Bit?’

‘Take your right hand, yeah, like that, bring it over to the left, yeah, there, and now you hit the high-hat four times…’

He stands right against her back. Holds her arms, her hands. Helps her with each beat.

‘Like that, yeah.’

She laughs. Tries to keep on hitting.

Daniel feels his pulse begin to rise.

‘And steady. One two three four, one two three four … then you take your left hand, here I’ll help you, the drumstick in your left hand, and on the third beat you bring it down on the snare, like this…’

He takes her other arm. Stands pressed against her. Holds both her arms, both her hands.

‘Okay, good, like that, nice and steady, one two
three
four, one two
three
four…’

Daniel’s breathing is heavy. It’s the caveman panting inside, can’t stop this, it’s the stone man panting within.

Veronika lets go of the sticks. She removes the towel from her head. Her long copper-red hair falls down, looking darker now it’s wet, lying like thick knives down along her back. She turns, her eyes gleaming for a second before she closes them, gets to her feet, stands on her tiptoes and gives him her mouth.

No, he thinks, kissing her. Sandra, he thinks, feeling Veronika’s tongue, fresh and strong. He gives her his tongue, feels the electricity in his mouth. She brings her hands to her chest, fuck, she’s undoing the towel, it falls to the ground, her breasts brush against his sweater. Veronika’s hands go behind his back. She takes hold of his T-shirt, lifts it up and presses her breasts against his skin. Fuck, Sandra, fuck, Veronika – Daniel pushes her away.

He clenches his fists and visualises himself beating her bloody.

Daniel runs into the hall. He grabs his moped helmet, slips hurriedly into his shoes, leaves his bag lying where it is. He snatches his jacket, hears Veronika’s muffled crying behind him, opens the door and leaves.

Quit that snivelling, he thinks as he rushes down the stairs, his footfalls slamming against the walls of the stairwell. Stop that blubbering, stop it, do you want a taste of the bleeding iron, bitch?