See You Tomorrow (33 page)

Dear Lord, I don’t know who you are any more. I don’t know who I am any more. He’s hurting me, he’s tearing me apart, but I try to tell myself that if I am to be ruined, then I’ll be ruined by something beautiful. I’m not able to think about anything else. I hate the here and now, I want to go back to when I was small and you were standing in front of me. I no longer have the feeling you’re there. When I was little, I always knew you would come to me. All I had to do was wait, all I had to do was close my eyes. Now I don’t know where you are. But now is the time I need you. Why don’t you say something? Do you want me to suffer here on my own; is there some purpose behind it? You let me feel love but now you’re taking it away from me. I don’t understand the purpose of that. Please, I’m closing my eyes now, I’m lying here in bed. Breathe on me. Mum and Dad are upstairs in the living room. They’re pacing the floor, I can hear them. They’re talking together, you know that, talking about me. Mum is crying; can you hear that, she’s crying. She’s not used to this, she’s protected me her whole life – Sandra has never done anything to make Mum cry. But she doesn’t recognise me now. It’s not our Sandra, she says. You’ve skipped work, she says. Who is it you’re meeting, Sandra? Why don’t you talk to us? Why are you pulling away? We’re your parents, Sandra, all we want is to help you. The scary thing is Mum’s right – I’m no longer their Sandra. I’m Daniel’s Sandra. So breathe on me, Lord. Breathe first on me, then go up to the living room, get Mum to sit down and breathe on her eyelids and say: She is not your Sandra. She is Daniel’s Sandra. Is he leaving me? Is he not who he said he was? He’s not going to Veronika, he’s not going to her. Say it. He is not going to her. I’m the only one who knows who he is. Breathe on us. Breathe on Malene and Tiril’s father. Breathe on the sisters.
Breathe on Mum. Breathe on Dad. Breathe on me. Now I’m calm. I’ll try to sleep, I know you’ll come and lie down beside me a little later tonight, like you always used to do. I know you’ll come. I know that it will be a new tomorrow and I know that everything will be fine.

He sits on the floor with his legs crossed. He’s switched off the TV and the light in the ceiling. The dark of night lies beyond the bars of the cell. He has his shoulder blades lowered, his arms hang limply by his sides and the palms of his hands face upwards. His head is perfectly straight. There’s a calmness around his eyes, around his mouth, in his arms, his stomach and his feet. Heavy hands, heavy fingers, eyes shut.

The prison liaison officer had escorted him back from the visiting room just before half-past eight. Piddien is from Loddefjord, skinny as a rake, talkative bugger, a guy Tong has always thought could just as well be in a cell himself. Piddien had given Tong a cheeky grin, as he had done each time he’d walked him back the last few weeks. He knows well that Tong is getting some action every Wednesday.

‘Well, Tong,’ he had said, giving him a slap on the back, ‘last time you’ll need to get dressed in Åna-issue clothes to get your end away. You’re out tomorrow, that’ll be good, eh?’

Tong hadn’t reciprocated the smile, or the slap, or anything else.

‘That’ll be good, all right,’ Piddien went on. ‘You wouldn’t exactly talk the hind leg off a donkey, but you’ve had an all right stay. Prisoner number zero one six two. You won’t be needing that any more.’

Tong had stood motionless in the doorway with his back to him.

‘You’ll be looking for something in carpentry, then?’

Tong nodded. ‘I’ll give it a go.’

‘Yes,’ Piddien had said, ‘that would suit you down to the ground, that would. Strong lad like you, likes physical work. Worn out at the end of the day, tired muscles. Heh heh, yes indeed. So, will your little lady be coming to collect you then?’

He feels the weight in his palms, the weight on his coccyx.

‘She’s not my lady.’

‘Heh heh, no, no, of course, ha ha.’

They should have meditation classes in prison. Tong has said as much to the people in administration. Everyone who lands in here has their body in a tangle. Their shoulders are so tensed up they’re practically scraping the ceiling. Being locked up isn’t the worst thing – it’s the waiting. The months between waiting to be sentenced and the time you first come in. That’s what screws you up, that’s what wrecks your head. When you first arrive, you’re hardly a person – you’re a knot. It’s not medication you need – it’s meditation. It’s not Subutex you need – it’s contemplation.

Tong meditates every day. A short session at midday and for an hour after lock-up. Then press-ups and a workout. He used to have a mop handle in the cell, to which he tied towels, then attached big industrial soap dispenser refills to the towels, making for an effective barbell. But they took that from him. They don’t like people getting too big.

Cecilie, Tong thinks, relaxing his jaw and feeling a softness in his throat, in his face. It was as though she was going to devour him. He entered the visiting room; she was there, as usual, but it looked like she’d been crying. He didn’t say anything. Nor did she. Her bony hand just trembled a little. Looked at the wall as if it were something other than a blank, white surface. But she stood up abruptly. Jumped like a little animal, right over to him, took off his trousers, then took off her own and sat on top of him and screwed him like it was the last time, or the very first. It all happened just like that, the whole thing. And then, while he was inside her, she started going on about her dad in Houston, and she talked about Rudi, something about her being so fed up with him she wanted to puke, and then she went on about not knowing what to do or something.

It seemed like she meant what she said. Tong listened to her, but as time went on and she went up and down on him he had difficulty following, her pussy was eating him and he just said what he always does when he’s about to come – that he’ll do fucking anything for the woman he’s riding. Then she opened her eyes wide, stared at him and said: ‘Do you mean that, Tong?’

He shut his eyes, clenched his teeth so hard it made his jaws ache.

When he was finished, she kissed him and said: ‘That was lovely, Tong. Listen. We’ve something on tomorrow. An insurance job. Do a guy over, cause a bit of damage, make it look like a clean break-in. Are you in?’

She’s fucked up, but gorgeous all the same: ‘Yeah, yeah, sounds good.’

Tong takes a deep breath through his nose, then exhales through his mouth. Last night in Åna. He’s leaving in the morning. As of tomorrow he can do what he wants. Just have to get that pathetic job out of the way. Rudi and Jani. It is so the last time he’s going to work with them.

His body rises. He no longer feels the floor beneath. He glides above a jungle landscape, green treetops drift by below him, a soft, warm wind brushes across his skin. He ascends, descends, and ascends again. He floats in the air over a waterfall, sailing over the plunging water, and there, close by, an eagle is wheeling, Tong opens his mouth, goes for the bird, sinks his teeth into its neck, hears it screech, feels the taste of metal in his mouth, and there, in the wild sky, stands a burning sun.

She wakes up in the dark. Neither tired nor teary-eyed. Her body feels ready, as does her mind. She reaches towards the night stand and takes hold of her iPhone. The light from the display illuminates the room. 05:57. She sits up.

I’ll do it, she thinks, and plants her feet firmly on the floor. Taking care to avoid the floorboards that creak, she goes to the wardrobe by the window and takes out a clean pair of knickers. She grabs the clothes she wore yesterday off the chair, slips quickly into them, tights, jeans, bra, and top and creeps out on to the landing. She opens the door to the toilet, pees, throws some water on her face and, unconcerned about how she looks, goes downstairs, leaving all the lights off, letting Mum and Dad sleep.

She picks up a shiny red apple from the glass bowl on the kitchen bench.

She pours herself a yoghurt drink and downs it in the light from the fridge.

I’ll just do it, she whispers as she opens the front door. It’s cold, but night is about to give way to morning. It’ll soon be light but it’s still too dark to make out the fjord. Some small birds perch in the trees, only just having begun singing the day in. Otherwise the streets are quiet. No lights on in the neighbouring houses. No one to be seen.

She hastens down Kong Haralds Gate, passing Madlamarkveien and continuing to the bottom of the hill. She crosses Madlavollveien, hurrying between the low-rises, the time getting on for half past six. The tower blocks rise up in front of her, dead and desolate, as if nobody lived there any more, as if those poor, stupid people who once did because they couldn’t afford anything better were, fortunately, all now dead.

The night has done her good and now she intends to cause another girl harm. She slept for no more than four hours, but is as rested as though she slept twice that. You can be as deaf as you like, you handicapped ginger bitch, she thinks as she walks by Coop Prix supermarket. You think you’re sweet and innocent just because you can’t hear. You think you can cut yourself up and then everyone will feel sorry for you.

That’s not how it works.

You’ve taken my man from me.

You’re going to pay for that.

Sandra leaves the shop behind and walks calmly towards the tower blocks. Her body is of steel; she’s never felt so cold. You must never, her mother has said, make any room for envy and jealousy. Well, Mum, here I am, I’ve let it take root.

A man passes by, wearing a bicycle helmet and tight training gear. She makes her way up the last hill, towards the last block in Jernalderveien, the one facing the Iron Age Farm. She approaches the buzzers. She slides her fingers down over all the buttons, without pressing them, like she did as a little girl, together with Shelley in 4A. Shelley was from Norwich, had lived a few years in Stavanger while her father worked for Mobil, had a big mole on her top lip and had never managed to learn Norwegian. One time they had rung all the doorbells, ran their hands down over the buttons and felt the hairs on the back of their necks stand up at the thought of the buzzers going off in all the flats in the block, and while Shelley thought it was
wicked
, it had given Sandra a pain in her stomach. She had let her mother down and let Jesus down by doing such a mean thing, by playing ring and run. But now she knows that Mum is a nervous wreck and that Shelley was right and Jesus isn’t a coward, Jesus is the master of vengeance: He spins the cylinder of the revolver and turns the other cheek to hate.

Her finger stops.

There’s a dull thud from inside like someone unloading a pallet off a truck. The lift reaching the ground floor. A figure behind the glass. It’s coming towards her. Shit. She makes to move, but doesn’t have time to run and ends up crouching down to tie her shoelace. Who is it? Sandra is on one knee, the door opens and a
woman in a red jacket and tight jeans comes out, a woman in her late thirties.

It’s Veronika’s mother. Daniel’s stepmother. She mustn’t recognise her. Sandra keeps her eyes fixed on her shoes, her breathing rapid. The woman glances at her, but is in a world of her own and doesn’t take in what’s in front of her.

The door slams shut behind the woman, who walks quickly away along Jernalderveien.

Sandra straightens up. It’s getting bright. Day is dawning. She brings her finger back to the panel of doorbells. She moves it, purposefully, across to the occupants of the twelfth floor.

‘Inger and Veronika Ulland. Daniel William Moi.’

This is what hate is. It’s good to know it’s alive and kicking.

Just like little fish. Small, glittery fish darting through the water, stopping, beating their tails a little, then turning around, bodies twitching before swimming to another part of the ocean she carries within.

That's what they say. She's read it in magazines. Fish. Or bubbles. As though little bubbles are bursting inside her. After sixteen weeks, they say. Then you can feel life. When is that? Sixteen weeks? How far along is she? She doesn't know, maybe five weeks, maybe six. She has to go to the doctor soon, needs to get that cleared up.

Cecilie lies quite still with her eyes closed, like her own mother must once have lain, with a little girl inside her. She can sense the day approaching, a thin strip of light slipping into the room. It's going to be warm again today. What time is it? Seven? Waking up early these days. Must be the baby, I suppose.

In a few months there's going to be an infant lying beside her. In its own cradle perhaps, alongside the bed. Maybe it will look like her, might come into the world with crooked lips and ash-grey skin. Maybe it'll have a rattle in its hand and a mobile hanging over its little baby head. Maybe it'll lie there whimpering. The way she herself must have lain, beside her own mother.

Cecilie opens her eyes. She raises herself on to her elbows, feels the nausea spread. She looks over at Rudi. His long form, stretched out beside her, half covered by the duvet, his huge cock like an eel dozing on his pale stomach. Lots of scars and blemishes to be seen on that body. Marks, all over the skin, covered in moles, nicks, pocks and craters from old spots. Handsome, he most certainly is not.

The baby might not survive, may well die inside. Wouldn't
surprise me, she thinks, if it croaked in my sea of ash – not as if anything could grow there. And if it is Rudi's kid then there's no telling what kind of creature it will be. Might be just as well it dies before the world gets to see it. Maybe it'll be an alien pops out of her in seven or eight months' time. Maybe an alien head is going to be sticking out from between her legs. Euuuugh! Sister! What an ugly fucking kid! Jesus, what a pigugly smurf!

Nobody wants to look at kids like you.

Nobody wants to be with kids like you.

Cecilie sighs and rubs two sleepy, clammy hands from her hairline down to her chin.

‘Sorry,' she whispers. ‘Mummy's just talking rubbish. Mummy's always a little like this in the morning. Mummy doesn't mean anything by it. We're going to get up now, you and me, get some coffee. Your granddad, the one who lives in America, he needs his coffee first thing in the morning too. Says he goes nuts otherwise. Once he gets his coffee he's a funfair for the rest of the day. Did you know he runs his own company, your granddad? That's right, baby, he does. Southern Oil. He's the president, yessir, Thor, president of Southern Oil. Yeah, yeah, but don't spare him a thought, he's a spineless shit. Now, we're going to have our coffee, baby, take a quick shower and then get out of this house of horrors, because we have to go pick up the man who may be your father.

Rudi turns, half-asleep.

‘Mmmmm, Chessi…' he mumbles, ‘who are you talking to … lying there yakking away … Southern Oil … Granddad?'

Breathe in. And breathe out.

Cecilie leans over to Rudi. She places her hand on his forehead. Then brings it slowly down over his eyes, his already quivering eyelids, straining to open at the approaching day. She kisses him, even though he stinks.

‘Rudi,' she says, in a low voice.

‘Oh yeah,' he murmurs, ‘just talk away to it, then I'll impale you, just say the word and I'll be ready…'

‘That wasn't what I meant,' she says softly, ‘you just sleep. I'm getting up to go get Tong. Sleep some more, Rudi needs it. You're so tall, you know, you need a lot of sleep.'

‘It's my cock takes up all the blood…'

‘Yeah, I know,' Cecilie whispers, ‘go to sleep now. It's early, even Jani isn't up yet. Go back to sleep now.'

Rudi focuses his gaze on her, his eyes are gleaming. ‘Like being in a nursing home, this is,' he says, in a raspy, morning voice. ‘Care. A care home. That's what you should've been, Chessi, a nurse. You're one awesome lady, you know that?'

Rudi raises his head. Keeps his eyes fixed on her.

It's hard to hate a man who loves you much.

But not impossible, she thinks, sending him a kiss with pouted lips before picking up her jeans and bra and making towards the bathroom.

‘Just watch out,' she hears from behind. ‘After that job tonight there's going to be cock in your house. He's going to be hunting through your halls tonight! Jesus! There's a mad dog here! Holy shit, he's got the biggest cock in the world! Heh heh. You're one awesome lady. We should get a place of our own soon, eh, Chessi? Tonight, Lady Gaga! Tonight!'

‘Go to sleep now,' she says. ‘If you want some pussy after work then you need your sleep.'

‘Ooops! Surethingboss.'

Cecilie shuffles along the carpet in the hall. It's hard and dirty. It needs to be changed. She yawns, the nausea is heavy and constant. She doesn't need to throw up, but it feels as if everything would be better if she did. So, when she's moving around, is the baby staying still, is that how it is? Or has it already begun to move around itself? It soon will. If it's not already dead. Dead baby. Soon start moving. Tiny fish. Soon stretch out its tiny fingers and tiny toes, its little head will turn around, its little eyes will try to figure out what's going on. But the baby's asleep right now. It's following Mummy's movements. Just as though it's holding its breath. What is Mummy up to? Where are we off to?

Was it like that for Mum as well? Back when she was a little mite inside her own mother? Did she wonder if the baby was already dead?

Cecilie opens the bathroom door. She gives a start when she catches sight of Jan Inge. He's sitting fully clothed on the toilet
seat, his feet dangling a little above the floor. He has dark, blue rings beneath his eyes, one finger stuck into his mouth. He's chewing on a nail and doesn't look up at her. He blinks, his eyes going from side to side. He's been crying. He looks about twelve years old. He looks like he did when he was twelve. Back when he was in here biting his nails, crying and shouting to her outside in her nightdress: ‘Cecilie! Don't come in! I need to think! I need to think!'