See You Tomorrow (35 page)

Veronika is standing in front of him as he comes into the hall. She's leaning against the wall as if waiting for someone to take a photo of her. Jesus, she looks good. Her hair tousled, sticking up in all directions, her mouth haughty and red. He makes to go past her towards the kitchen, force her to cede this edge she has over him, but she takes a step forward, blocking his path.

She grins.

‘Manage to sleep?'

He shakes his head with a fatuous smile. He doesn't like to appear so exposed, feels like a bit of a wuss, but there's nothing he can do about it.

‘Me neither,' Veronika says, leaving her lips slightly parted when she's finishes the sentence.

He returns her smile, but again his is puerile and foolish, while the smile blossoming in the lattice of fresh cuts on her face speaks of self-assurance, and rather than divesting her of authority – it bestows it.

Ah.

This business of being in love with two girls at the same time is a right pain. One of them is going to lose and one of them is going to win. It's the flesh that decides. The fuckplan, what happened to that? If the whole point of living was to fuck and get rich, find a woman willing to put out once a day, then how's the plan looking now?

Which of them will win?

Daniel tries to swallow his smile like it was a morsel in his mouth. He needs to ward off his weakness with something so he lets his gaze wander over her body, the body he possessed a few
hours previously. The feet he held in his hands, the long legs he ran his fingers over, the thighs he parted, the loins he kissed, the tits he tongued and cupped in his hands, the ears he panted into, the red hair he clutched and the mouth he couldn't take his eyes from as they had sex.

Veronika closes her mouth as he looks her over. She puts her head to the side, her eyes are pert and alive, anything flushed or childish about her disappears.

Daniel takes hold of her hand, she backs against the wall.

‘Listen,' he says.

‘Yeah?'

Fuck, she's gorgeous.

‘I've been doing a bit of thinking,' Daniel says, aware of how right it feels when he utters the words, even though it's a lie.
Thinking?
He hasn't thought at all, he's been fucking. To put it bluntly. Veronika was a whole lot different from Sandra. Sandra made him small and uncomplicated. Veronika made him big and uncomplicated.

‘Me too,' she says.

‘Okay,' Daniel says, surprised, ‘you first, so.'

‘No, you,' Veronika says.

‘All right … well, you know. Sandra.'

Veronika nods.

Good. She could have gone for him.

‘Yeah,' Daniel continues, ‘she's going to lose it when she hears about this. So, we're going to have to, well, deal with that. Some way or another.'

Veronika nods.

‘And then there's your mother. How do you think she's going to react? And then there's that business with the father of those two girls, Tiril and Malene…'

Veronika stops him. ‘Don't speak so fast,' she says. ‘What did you say?'

‘I don't know. I'm just stressed out. Tiril. And Malene.'

‘What about them?'

Daniel walks towards the kitchen and she follows after. He turns on the tap, places his mouth under it and drinks. His mind
is reeling. There's too much going on. Why should he care about that Pål guy? The people in the woods, the loser in the Metallica T-shirt, the sisters – how come he's not able to sweep it aside?

‘What is it, Daniel? I don't understand?'

That hollow, deaf voice of hers; is he going to have to put up with that for the rest of his life? Christ, his throat is dry. He puts his mouth back under the water still running from the tap and drinks; it's like he's dehydrated, and now his vision is beginning to flash, no, not this, not now, he sees blood, sees hands being raised in front of a face, hears screams and his body is so dry, his body is so dry it feels as if it'll crack like parched earth and tiny brown animals will emerge: ‘Shut up!'

He turns to Veronika. He moves swiftly towards her, one hand clenched into a fist while he uses the other to take hold of her hair, pulling her head closer to his, roughly: ‘Can you just shut the fuck up?'

Veronika smiles.

‘Are you going to hit me, Daniel?'

He pulls her head back forcefully, making her yield to his will. Or does he? Is it he who's won now or is it her?

‘Daniel? Are you going to hit me now?'

He can't make out what's what, but Veronika continues smiling at him and he hears her say: ‘Daniel, I'm going to look after you. Listen to me. Breathe in, breathe out. Let go of me. That's right, yeah. Sit down, listen to me. Daniel, Daniel. Tell me what happened to you.'

Fuck.

Is he going to start crying in front of a girl?

He puts his head against her chest, feels her breasts against his cheek.

It's part of the fuckplan, Daniel thinks. It's bigger than you think, that plan. More dangerous than you believe. It's carrying a whole world of shit along with it and in the end you'll stand there watching the blood flow.

Daniel sniffles. ‘Jesus,' he whispers, ‘they're so perfect, those tits of yours. I'm not really into big tits, but fuck, I like yours.'

Veronika nods.

‘I'm in love with two girls,' he sighs.

‘I know,' Veronika says. ‘But it won't last long.'

He looks up at her, gulping back mucus, his teeth clacking together. His mouth foaming. He says: ‘Come on, we'll hop on the Suzuki and just leave, okay? We'll go as far from here as we can and never look back.'

Maybe you were right, maybe DW is a coward. Outside his block of flats now, have no clue what’s going to happen. If I die, I die for love.

Xx S.

Yet another brisk September day. The sun has come up, white and reigning supreme in a sky where not a cloud is to be seen. People have begun going about their morning business, a few early risers have already exited the tower block, mostly adults on their way to work. It’s still too early for any schoolkids to put in an appearance. Fortunately. Sandra doesn’t want anyone to recognise her standing here.

She puts the phone back into her pocket.

If he comes out with that skank of his it makes no difference. If he has that slashed-up slut with him, then the blood will gush from those faulty ears of hers and if he comes out alone, then he better have an answer for her. She doesn’t want to hear any more bullshit, what she wants is a simple yes or no, and the question she’s going to ask is:
Am I the one, the only one you want, for all time?

She’s going to be tough. Both she and Jesus are going to be tough.

Sandra brings her finger to the panel with the doorbells. She buzzes. A few seconds pass before a click sounds on the intercom and his voice, metallic and uncertain, can be heard: ‘Yes?’

Sandra doesn’t reply. She takes two steps backwards. Stands there looking at the name below the buzzer.

‘Yes, hello?’

She’s not going to answer. You’re going to have to come down, Daniel, and show who you are.

The line goes dead. She approaches the panel again. Lifts her
hand. Rings once more. Longer this time, keeping her finger pressed hard against the button.

The response comes quickly: ‘Yes, hello?’

Not nice, that voice. It has been so warm and deep at times, spoken right to her and she’s trusted it. But this voice, she’s not about to reply to that.

‘Hello? Anyone there?’

Once again, Sandra takes two demonstrative steps back from the panel of buzzers.

‘Listen, enough of the dinging already, yeah?’

The intercom goes silent again. A woman passes behind Sandra, walking a drever on a lead; it makes for her legs but the woman gives the leash a yank and they continue on. Sandra steps up to the buttons for a third time, breath rising in her throat, sweat beading on her hairline. She presses the buzzer.

A couple of seconds. Intercom crackle. A girl’s voice. The skank: ‘Give it a fucking rest, all right?’

The fact that she even dares open her mouth. It sounds so retarded. She talks like a mongoloid. Sandra puts her lips to the intercom, bunches her tongue against her uvula and imitates Veronika: ‘Give it a fucking rest, all right?’

It goes quiet on the other end. That gave them something to think about. Sandra smiles, puts her mouth to the speaker again, makes her tongue thicker, her voice quaver, trying harder to mimic the deaf tone: ‘Huuunnh? Are you able to speak? But you’re not able to hear what I’m saying. Huuunnh? Maybe you’ve got someone there to translate for you, have you?’

The line goes dead again. That should do the trick, thinks Sandra. Now they’ll come down. She hurries round the corner of the tower block, puts her back against the cold brick and her feet on the grass, banking on them not catching sight of her. Now she’ll be able to see how they behave. Before she snares them, she wants to see what happens.

A minute crawls by; she counts the seconds like she’s counted the seconds while waiting for Daniel in the last few weeks, waiting in smitten bliss. That naïve girl seems far away now, as though they had never been the same person. Then she hears the
door open. The sound of footsteps emerging. One person. Two people. The footsteps stop.

‘No one here.’ His voice

‘Little shits.’ His voice

‘Fucking cheek of them.’ His voice

‘If I get hold of them I’ll beat their faces to a pulp.’ His voice.

Sandra feels a swelling in her throat and she tries to swallow. Daniel is sticking up for the deaf girl. His voice is clear, deep and warm. The words sound just as real as they were when he spoke to her, in the woods and at the shop. Sandra gulps once more, the tears come; she gasps and presses her tongue against her crooked front tooth. She hears footfall. The sound of a jacket being unzipped. Is he opening her jacket, putting his hands inside, comforting her? Sandra goes as close as possible to the corner of the block: is it her opening his jacket? Putting her arms around him? Are they kissing?

‘Is there anyone who’s got it in for you?’ His voice.

‘Veronika. Answer me. Has this happened before?’ His voice.

‘No.’ Her voice.

‘We won’t give a shit. Okay?’ His voice.

‘Yeah.’ Her voice.

‘Let’s just leave, all right?’ His voice.

‘All right.’ Her voice.

Leave?

‘You and me.’ His voice.

‘Yes, Daniel.’ Her voice.

Leave?

‘Daniel is going to look after you, you know that, right?’ His voice.

‘Yeah.’ Her voice.

Sandra’s knees are giving way; she just about manages to remain standing and has to support herself against the wall. Leave. You and me. She hears the trust implicit in Veronika’s reply; she hears how steady his voice sounds. Sandra feels pulverised; there is no tough Jesus here, just this caustic pain.

‘Right, come on.’

Footsteps. They’re moving. Quickly.

Sandra takes a few small steps towards the corner, puts her head around and sees them. Daniel William and Veronika, jogging along in front of the tower blocks, hand-in-hand, him slightly in front of her.

Why am I not strong? Why don’t I shout out to them? Why don’t I lift my hands to the sky and scream? Why am I just standing here?

Sandra sniffs, then draws as much air as possible into her lungs and begins to run. She keeps close to the wall of the buildings so as not to be seen, running as fast as she can, her knees touching and hips swinging. What’s important now is not to think, just act, just be a seething jealous heart. When she gets to the end of the third block she sees them. Daniel has his helmet on and he’s mounting the moped, Veronika standing beside him. After he’s straddled it she climbs on behind. They haven’t spotted her. They’re too preoccupied with one another. Veronika puts her arms around his waist. She leans into him. Her chest presses against his back.

He starts the engine, reverses with his feet a couple of metres, then rides out of the car park, her red hair lifting up on the air like a pennant.

Just where Daniel and Veronika come out on to Folkeviseveien, there’s a bend in the road by a bus shelter before it continues on towards the big roundabout on Ullandhaugveien. Sandra has no choice. She can’t let the one she loves ride off with the one she hates. So she runs. She runs right across the green area backing on to the bus shelter and emerges on Folkeviseveien at the same time as the moped rounds the bend. Sandra runs on to the road, halts suddenly, and the rider of the moped can’t manage to stop. He is unable to manoeuvre round the girl who has dashed right out into the road and he runs her over.

It doesn’t hurt, Sandra thinks at the moment of impact, not me anyway. She takes a heavy blow to the head as her body is thrown to the ground. She tries to keep her eyes open because she wants to see what’s going on, but it’s difficult when it feels like something is cracking inside your head. What she thinks she sees is this: A boy, he’s called Daniel William Moi and she loves him, a boy running towards her with a moped helmet in his hand, a terrified-looking
boy, a boy who shouts: ‘Fuck! Sandra! What the fuck?’ Behind him a girl standing beside a moped, a red-haired girl with a cut-up face, waving her hand about, shouting: ‘Leave her there! She did it on purpose! Leave her there!’ The boy she loves brings his hand down over his face, shakes his head and runs to the moped. Starts it up. Rides away. With his girl on the back.

You were tough now, Jesus, she thinks, and loses consciousness.

We may well be criminals, Jan Inge always says. We may well live outside the law. But that doesn’t mean we live without laws. We are prinicipled criminals, says Jan Inge, we have some ground rules. Which we live by. We won’t have any divergence between theory and practice, got it? They’ll be as one, you hear me?

Jefe Haraldsen.

One prize idiot after the other has come and gone. If the gap between theory and practice has been too wide then Jan Inge has asked them to sling their hook. Hansi, Tødden, Donald, Kjabbe, Sorry and Poster. Every one of them was kicked out over something that violated the fundamental priniciples. With the exception of Tong. He’s the only one who’s been let be even though there’s been a pretty big gap betwe—

Rudi shakes the urine off his cock. No, he thinks, there hasn’t been a big gap between theory and practice with Tong. He puts his cock back into his briefs, reflects on how cute and snug it looks all limp and curled up, and he washes his hands. The fact of the matter is that Jani has accepted Tong. Sort of like how it is with Lemmy. He can knock back as much Jack Daniels and do as much speed as he likes, but that doesn’t mean that other people can do it. Even Lemmy himself has been clear about that.

Rudi leans towards the mirror, opens his mouth wide, bares his teeth and picks out some food wedged between them.

Whilst the others have abided by Jani’s management priniciples, Tong has been allowed to step outside. Porn, dope and what have you. It’s a bit annoying and Rudi does feel slightly jealous. But what can you do. Solo-playing virtuosos have to be allowed to live outside the law.

And one of the management principles, Rudi thinks as he dries
his hands and opens the door to the hall, is going into play today. We’re not junkies, but when we’re on a job we rack up a few lines. It’s a great fucking principle. Not so much as a gram in normal, everyday life. Just at work. An ever so little line of speed. Rudi loves amphetamine. Who doesn’t? Show me the man who can stand up and say, in all honesty, that speed isn’t a gift to mankind.

‘If everyone was as principled as us,’ Jan Inge says, ‘there’d be precious few problems in the world.’

Rudi enters the kitchen and is surprised not to be met by the sight of a table laid for breakfast. The wheelchair sits there, forsaken. Breadcrumbs on the worktop. An opened tin of pâté. A carton of apple juice with the cap off. The menstrual odour of a coffee machine that’s been on for hours. The time? Soon be half eight. Looks like people have been up a while. Chessi is probably just about arriving at Åna. Rudi rubs the back of his neck, opens the fridge and takes out the milk. He feels his faith being restored. Christ, she was great this morning, Chessi. No way she wants to screw that Pål guy.

Rudi makes himself a big glass of chocolate milk.

Where has Jan Inge got to?

He downs it in three gulps while looking out the window.

Another cracking day. Global warming, you’re more than welcome. Tong. Speed. A time-honoured classic. Ride Chessi.

‘Hey,
caballero?
’ He plods into the living room. ‘
Jefe? Mein Führer, wo bist du? Dein Schweinhund ruft dick an
!’

He looks in the direction of the hi-fi. There’s a bag on top of it, half-hidden under the shelf above. Rudi takes a few quick steps, gets hold of the bag, takes out the CD, opens the cover, presses eject, waits for the drawer to slide out then places the CD in. He does it all quickly so he won’t have an opportunity to stop himself. About time. He scans the back of the CD cover. Number seven. He skips forward. Turns the volume up. Waits two seconds.

Jesus. That is so good. Du-du-du du-du-du du-du-du, du-du-du…

‘Hey!’

Du-du-du du-du-du du-du-du, du-du-du du-du-du du…

‘Hey!’

The sound of Jani’s high-pitched voice cuts through the music. Rudi blushes and grins. ‘What the hell? What are you doing jumping round singing along to … what is that? The Bee Gees?’

The state of Jani. Dark, heavy rings under his eyes. Eyes flitting this way and that.

‘No, I – okay, brother. Mea culpa. You’re going to hate me for this, but – sorry. I must be getting old! I’ve hit the mid-life MOR crisis. I’ll soon be sitting here with a monocle and a bowl of lentil soup listening to Radio 4. It’s Coldplay. And yes, Rudi loves it. Kill me. Do away with me. That’s just how it is.’

Jan Inge shrugs. ‘Whatever,’ he says.

Huh? Rudi screws up his eyes.

‘We need—’ Jan Inge clears his throat and looks out the window, ‘we need to make a start on the day. Look at that garden. We’ll have to clear it out soon. But anyway. We’ve got a busy Thursday ahead. We have to drop round to Stegas—’

‘Hell yeah! Stegas!’

‘Yeah,’ continues Jan Inge, still somewhat awkwardly, ‘and we have to welcome Tong back—’

‘Fuck yeah! Tong.’

‘Can you calm down a little? Welcome Tong back – and then we have a moving job.’

‘Have we?’

‘A grand piano. Over in Våland. Furras Gate.’

Ah, for Christ’s sake.

‘A grand piano. I fucking hate humping pianos around. Seriously, Jani, how much longer do we have to—’

‘Rudi! I’m not getting into this right now. We need to make clean cash, you need to get that through your head! How many times do we have to talk about this? We run a moving company, that’s what it says on your tax returns, on my tax returns – it’s the reason no one can nab us, don’t you get that? You know, sometimes I wonder if you’re retarded. We’re respectable people, we have jobs, and as you’re well aware, there’s nothing better than having a moving job on the same day as we have … well … other jobs!’

Rudi takes a step back. What’s up with the guy? Jan Inge has
sweat rings under his arms, all worked up and giving out like a headmaster or something.

‘Hey, brother,’ Rudi says cautiously. ‘Take it easy, yeah? What’s gotten into you? You need to use the wheelchair. Every day. You just tire yourself out spending so much time on your feet.’

Jan Inge takes a deep breath. He nods. ‘Yeah. You’re probably right,’ he mumbles. ‘Sorry. It’s nothing. Didn’t get enough sleep is all. You know yourself. Too little sleep will stress anyone out. You remember Tone-Tone? The one who hanged herself, remember her?’

‘Mhm.’

‘Yeah, hanged herself in the kitchen, and people said it was because Donald was having it off with Kjabben’s girlfriend and she walked in just as he was rimming her, but that wasn’t it. It was because she slept too little. She lost it. Put the noose round her neck one morning when she couldn’t take it any more.’

Rudi nods. ‘Tone-Tone, yeah. You remember her sister? What was she called again? Li … no, Lu … no—’

‘Lene-Lene.’

‘The very one. Whatever happened to her?’

‘Something in IT, I think.’

‘Like most of them. End up working with computers. You liked her, eh? Lene-Lene. Fuck, Jani. Maybe that’s what the matter. You should find yourself a woman. You know what Gran said, a man without a woman is half a person.’

Jan Inge nods. ‘Yeah, maybe. But I’ve got enough on my plate. Will we get a move on here?’

Rudi straightens up. ‘
Aber klar, mein Führer
!’ He performs a Nazi salute and laughs.

‘Tong will be here,’ Jan Inge continues, ‘that’ll be good. We’ll score some speed. We’ll move a piano. We’ll work a nightshift.
Kein Problem, mein Sohn
. But enough of the Bee Gees. This is a house of horror. A house of metal and country music. That Coldplay stuff isn’t even funny. It just makes for a bad atmosphere.’

‘No, no,’ Rudi says sullenly, turning off the CD. ‘Did you see Chessi this morning?’

Jan Inge turns around and starts walking towards the kitchen.

‘Mhm. Why?’

Rudi squints. ‘Dunno,’ he says. ‘She was in such a great mood.’

‘Yeah, she’s in good humour all right.’

Jan Inge disappears into the kitchen.

Rudi ejects the CD, puts it back in its case. No, he thinks. Becoming more and more obvious that this house is beginning to get a bit cramped for all three of us. More and more obvious that Chessi and me need to find a place of our own.

‘Did she not have a massive pair of jugs?’ Rudi calls out in the direction of the kitchen.

‘Who?’

‘Lene-Lene!’

‘No, that was Tone-Tone.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yeah. I notice that kind of thing.’

‘Yeah, you like that.’

‘Huh?’

‘Big jugs!’

‘Wouldn’t say I dislike them.’

‘Frank and forthright.’

‘Wha?’

‘Frank and forthright, I said!’

‘That?’

‘Wha?’

‘Wank what?’

‘Frank and forthright, I said! That you like big jugs! I think they can be a bit much. Speaking of which, do you think Cecilie’s tits have grown bigger lately?’

‘What?’

‘Your sister! Her tits! Gotten bigger!’

‘No, no!’

‘Fuck. Probably just in my own sick head.’

Jan Inge walks back in. ‘Enough about tits now,’ he says, looking serious. ‘We’ve also got this thing with Tommy to take care of.’

‘Shit,’ Rudi exclaims, slapping his palm to his forehead. ‘Shitshitshit.’

‘You’d forgotten about that, I take it.’

‘Shitshitshit.’

‘We’re just going to have to deal with it. Simply go about our day as though he could show up here at any given moment. And the sooner he does the better.’

‘Okay, what about Cecilie – have you told her he’s coming?’

‘No, I have not, the fewer people that know about it the better,’ Jan Inge says, heading back towards the kitchen.

Rudi takes a breath and lets it out; he feels the urge to spit and spin right round. Difficult to deal with when the atmosphere in a room changes. When the boat rocks. That’s the reason he’s never believed in all that stuff about revolution – it makes people so insecure.

‘You should at least listen to the lyrics,’ Rudi says in a lower tone, to himself really. ‘Seeing as how you plan to become a writer and all that,’ he adds, as he stows the Coldplay CD on the shelf behind some old magazines. ‘It’s about a king who’s no longer a king.’