Authors: Tore Renberg
She leans into him. Her arms around his waist. Presses her cheek against his back. She doesn’t want to be anywhere else but here, leaving everything behind, just the two of them. She couldn’t help it, but the sight of Sandra doing a somersault in front of the moped, the sight of the girl hitting the tarmac, filled her with a burning happiness. That’s justice:
It all came too easy to you – you don’t deserve him. You would never have understood him, you’ve met your match, bitch, and it’s me.
The moped heads towards Madlakrossen, taking off to the left at the roundabout, out towards the golf course, following the road as it begins to climb towards Revheims Church. The land around them begins to open into fields, two horses run alongside a stone wall, a tractor disappearing in the distance.
Sandra could be seriously injured; if the worst comes to the worst she might lose her life. But Veronika feels only that pull, helping her see things clearly, giving her that feeling of elation; she’s not afraid. She clings even closer to his back, wrapping her arms more tightly around his body. His heart is pounding under her hands. She loves his fear, loves his despair. She knows he needs her, because she has longer eyelashes than him, she’s softer and slyer than him.
The landscape stretches out further as they ride uphill towards Sunde, the vast Stavanger sky parading above their heads. Daniel slows down, turns his face half towards her and she sees how wildly agitated his eyes look behind the visor, but it doesn’t frighten her, because she knows it’s her he needs to turn to now.
Daniel veers off to the left, down a steep incline into a small estate of seventies-looking houses facing the sea. He steers the moped towards a colossal grey, grafittied concrete building. An
old bomb shelter. He brakes, brings the moped to a halt and they dismount. His breathing is fast; he looks about nervously as he searches through his pockets. After a little while he finds the key ring. He sets it between his teeth as he quickly pushes the moped over to the large entrance door. He mumbles something or other, but she can’t see what it is.
‘What did you say?’
He doesn’t reply. Removes the key from his mouth, opens the door and, pulling it wide, wheels the moped into a windowless concrete corridor.
Of course. The rehearsal room. Is he mumbling again? She hurries after him, he leans the moped against the wall and she closes the door behind her while he chooses another key from the bunch and walks in total darkness towards the next door. He fumbles with the lock, tries to locate the keyhole.
Veronika walks over the hard floor, feeling her way to Daniel, places her hands over his and notices he’s trembling. She clasps them until they steady. She says: ‘It wasn’t your fault. She ran into the middle of the road. She wanted it to happen.’
It’s dark. She has no idea if he’s talking to her, but it feels as though he’s saying something. She reaches out towards his face, touches his full lips, feels his warm breath against the palm of her hand. The door into the practice room opens and a faint light flows in their direction. Her eyes adjust quickly to the surroundings. She sees quite a large room, threadbare carpets on the floor, egg cartons and posters for gigs on the walls – obscure or forgotten local bands that have played at
Grevlingen
, at Metropolis, on Music Day or at
Folken:
The Substitutes,
Lillemor
, Rag Doll, Arlie Mucks,
Røde knær, Luftskipet Noreg,
Hekkan, 60-Sone Satan.
Guitar amps, a drum kit, bass amps, a microphone stand and mics, a mixing desk, a Wurlitzer, an old analogue Yamaha synthesiser, loudspeakers. Along one wall there’s a sofa covered in a coarse-looking brown-and-green material, a tarnished, scratched teak coffee table littered with ashtrays, cola bottles, chocolate wrappers, guitar strings, plectrums, magazines,
FHM, Us Men
and comics.
Veronika takes up position in his field of vision. She meets his eyes, holds his gaze and repeats: ‘It wasn’t your fault.’
His chest rises, not sinking again before he plonks down on the end of the sofa. He takes hold of a couple of drumsticks lying on the armrest, twiddles with them before looking at her and saying: ‘What would you know?’
Veronika sits down in a worn-out leather armchair. She takes his hands, stopping the sticks that want to strike at the empty air. His hands are cold from the ride, she rubs them between her own the way her mother has always done with hers. He twists free of her grip, gets to his feet, walks resolutely over to the drum kit and sits on the stool behind it.
Daniel looks at her. ‘So, what are we going to do? Hm? What do you suggest?’
‘Daniel, I—’
He interrupts angrily: ‘You’ve got my head completely fucked up, you know that? Run a girl over – run Sandra fucking over – and just leave her there? How do you think that’s going to sound to her parents? Or the police? What the fuck is with you?’
‘Daniel, listen—’
‘No! No, I’m not going to listen to you any more!’
He gets up, turns to the wall and slams the base of his fists against it.
Veronika, remaining as composed as she can, walks over to him. She puts her arms around him, presses her breasts against him. With all the assertiveness she can muster, she turns him around, forcing him to meet her gaze.
‘What if she dies,’ he says.
‘She won’t.’
‘You can’t know that. They’ll figure it out. People will talk. They’ll find us.’
‘I was there, Daniel,’ she says. ‘I saw the whole thing. She flung herself into the road. I’ll speak up for you.’
Daniel looks at her. His eyes are as shiny as wet glass. His mouth narrows and his top lip begins to quiver. He sucks his cheeks in, his mouth is dry.
‘I like your red hair,’ he says.
Veronika kisses him.
‘I don’t stand a chance,’ Daniel says.
They walk towards the tower blocks. A small guy wearing baggy trousers and his hood up. A girl with a determined gait and a look in her eyes to match, another with a troubled step, looking just as troubled around the eyes. Tiril can feel the strength within, can picture the evening ahead: She’s going to stand there, the song is going to come from her heart, Thea will play and the roof is going to lift free of the beams and be blown sky-high.
‘So, she was just going to stand by the tower blocks, was she?’
‘Yeah,’ Tiril answers, irritated by the tone of scepticism in Malene’s voice. ‘That’s right, she was just going to stand by the tower blocks.’
Shaun jogs along between the girls, small as a pixie, thinks Tiril, daft and from a psycho family but he’s so cool, and he’s mine.
They pass the bus stop on Norvald Frafjords Gate. It’s morning all around, people are off to work, or heading to school and buses and cars move along the road. We’ll just behave normally, Tiril thinks, then nobody will see anything other than three kids on their way to school.
Then they catch sight of her. A girl. She’s huddled by some large rocks not far from the road. She has her head in her hands and her clothes are in disarray.
Malene squints. ‘Is that Sandra?’
Tiril runs, the others close on her heels.
‘Sandra, what is it?’ Tiril halts in front of her. Her cheek and forehead are bruised, her trousers have a large tear and her jacket is ripped.
‘Oh my God,’ Malene brings her hands to her face.
‘Wow,’ says Shaun.
Tiril bends down to Sandra and takes her by the arm, makes to help her to her feet but Sandra cries out in pain.
‘What the fuck happened?’
‘It was Daniel,’ she says chokingly. ‘And Veronika. They ran me over.’
‘They ran you over?!’
Sandra nods and brings her hand across her chest to hold her other arm, which looks completely stiff. ‘I went to the tower blocks, then they came out and I followed them and then … I jumped out on to the road, and they knocked me down.’
‘You jumped out on to the road?’
Sandra nods once more.
‘Have you been run over?’ Shaun raises his eyebrows.
‘Fuckssake, Shaun, didn’t you hear what she said?’
‘Yeah, but Jesus—’
Tiril gathers her thoughts, she needs to react quickly. ‘Can you move?’
‘I don’t know—’
‘Stand up.’
‘I don’t know if I—’
‘Sandra. Get up.’
Sandra raises herself slowly using her hands. She looks in real pain. Tiril brushes grass and earth off her clothes, takes her face in her hands, turning it left then right, examining it. Then she looks at Malene, who’s speechless, and Shaun, who can’t seem to decide where to look.
‘Does this look like she fell off her bike on the way to school?’
‘Wha?’ Malene shakes her head. ‘She just told us, she got run—’
‘I’m asking if it could look like a bicycle accident.’
‘Yeah, but—’
‘Then it is a bicycle accident.’
‘Eh?’ Sandra hobbles a bit and Malene helps to hold her up.
Tiril is aglow. She senses that anything can be what you want it to be if you know how to bring the world to its knees.
‘Tiril,’ says Malene, ‘you need to get a grip. This is insane. Sandra has been run over by Daniel and Veronika, and they just – I don’t know – rode off?’
Sandra nods.
‘They just rode off,’ continues Malene, ‘and you want us to – what? What is it you want? – for us to go to school and make out that she had an accident on her bike? She might have broken something, she may have concussion, we need to call—’
Tiril stares at her sister. Fixes her with her eyes until she stops talking. A girl from 9C, Rebekka, goes by, stopping for a few moments and looking at them strangely. Tiril raises her hand, gives her a friendly smile and the girl continues on her way to school.
‘Shut up,’ she says calmly. ‘Shauny. Have you been sniffing glue?’
‘Weell, y’know, I just…’
‘Have you been sniffing glue?’
‘Yeaah, like, I did…’
‘Shauny.’ Tiril places a hand on each of his shoulders. ‘Have you been sniffing glue?’
‘Eh … no?’
‘No, you have not. Shauny. Did Kenny beat you up?’
‘Yeah, he did…’
‘Shauny. Did Kenny beat the shit out you?’
‘Eh … no?’
‘No.’ Tiril nods. ‘He did not. And you, Sandra. Have you been waiting for your boyfriend outside his block of flats? Have you hurled yourself into the road for him? Have you been knocked down?’
The girls look at one another. Shaun grins, making his brown teeth gleam like dirty diamonds.
‘No,’ Sandra whispers. ‘I haven’t.’
‘Heh heh.’ Shaun gazes at Tiril, admiration in his moist eyes. ‘It’s called leverage in America. Dad always says it when he smacks us around. Leverage, he says.’
‘Your dad is a dick and he should be in Åna,’ Tiril says, ‘but now we’ll gain the upper hand. Over all of them. Over Kenny. Over Bunny. Veronika. And Daniel, the liar. And we’ll psych them the hell out. They’re going to be sitting there thinking they’ve won. And then they’ll start sweating. And then they’ll get nervous and
start looking over their shoulders. And that’s when we take our revenge. Understand?’
They nod. Even Malene nods.
‘We don’t need any doctors, we don’t need any teachers, we don’t need the police or parents interfering here. A bicycle accident. The two of you collided on the way to school.’
‘The two of us?’
‘Yeah. You and Shaun.’
‘Awesome.’
‘We found you. Malene and I. We’ll get a plaster for that cut.’
‘But what if I have concussion?’ Sandra says in a meek voice. She performs a few tentative movements with her jaw then massages her temples carefully with her fingers. ‘What if I’ve broken something?’
Tiril shakes her head. ‘You haven’t. Come on, let’s go put in an appearance at school.’
The four teenagers move off and head down along the low-rises. Two young women with buggies stand smoking outside Coop Prix supermarket. They pass by them, then by Jan Petersens Gate, and on by Anton Brøggers Gate. The sun is warm on their faces, Tiril can see that Sandra is limping, that Shaun is beginning to come down.
She slips her arm around his waist.
‘Hey, you got any chewing gum?’
He delves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and nods.
‘I learnt that from Mum,’ Tiril says.
Malene looks at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Domination,’ says Tiril. ‘That bitch didn’t give a shit when people were in pain. And that just made it more painful.’
‘You’re not like that,’ says Malene.
‘Oh yes, I am,’ replies Tiril.
The sun is high above the fjord, above the roof of the school, over the church spire and they turn off, in the direction of the schoolyard.
That hurt. A king who’s no longer a king.
Loneliness. A lot of horror movies centre around loneliness.
Is that to be my life?
Jan Inge glances across at Rudi, sitting beside him in the Hiace.
Tommy Pogo hasn’t shown up yet. Jan Inge had expected to see him relatively early. The police love to turn up in the morning. Disrupt the atmosphere. But he still hasn’t come. Maybe that’s his whole plan, to delay his visit in order to keep them sweating as long as possible?
Loneliness. Rudi and Chessi moving out. Getting themselves a garden. Making a life for themselves.
Jan Inge in a little flat. In a block of flats. Sitting in the wheelchair. Day in. Day out. Listening to the postman come. The echo out in the hall. An old woman in the neighbouring flat.
It’s slipping through my fingers, thinks Jan Inge, and I’m not able to do anything about it. Nothing other than be myself.
He lifts his head slightly and takes in his surroundings, as if to assure himself that he’s on his guard. Strømsbrua Bridge. A normal Thursday in September. Cars moving to and fro between the different parts of the city. A view of the neighbourhoods of Paradis to the east and Våland to the west. The sun strong in the sky. A black man pushes a punctured bicycle along the pavement. His dark skin in sharp contrast to the pale blue sky. That’s probably what poets call poetry. In the distance: a siren. In the distance: the mountains. In the distance: Asia, Africa, Australia. In the distance: a god, watching over us all. In the distance: our dead, monstrous mother. In the distance: our living, cackling mysterious father. In the distance: one’s own demise?
TO BE MYSELF.
That’s the solution.
BUT WHO AM I?
‘Rudi,’ says Jan Inge, as amiably as he’s able, ‘listen, I was a bit sour this morn—’
‘Fuck! Sour as an old snatch!’
‘Yeah. Well, you know. This thing with Tommy. And. Well. I shou—’
Rudi gives him a soft thump on the shoulder with his fist. ‘Jesus, Jani.’ He shakes his head. ‘You think Rudi harbours ill will all day?’ He raises his eyebrows and gesticulates: ‘Christ, you’re talking to the man who’s going out with Chessi here! I know everything about bad humour. It drags you down into the shit, but it blows over. All you need to do is look the other way. You need a bed to piss in? Be my guest! Pogo? Let him come. But yeah, you were in a lousy mood, I’ll give you that. Speed! Just the thought of pepper makes me feel like we’ve already done a line. Do you know if Stegas is home by the way?’
Jan Inge laughs. ‘Stegas is always home.’
‘Heh heh. Mr Kush! Isn’t his name actually Steffen? Fredriksen?’
Jan Inge shrugs. ‘No one knows what his name is.’
‘If there’s one person you can count on in this oil village,’ says Rudi, taking a deep breath, as though drawing ganja into his lungs, ‘it’s Stegas. This is where it’s at, Jani. Scoring speed. You and me.’
Jan Inge feels his pulse rate begin to even out. The lines on his forehead fade away. That’s all you need to do. Face unpleasantness with heartiness. Make those around you realise what they’ve got. Appreciate that it’s precious and irreplaceable.
THE IRREPLACEABLE
A Study of Horror Films
By Jan Inge Haraldsen
He should keep the surname. Now that he thinks about it. There’s something conceited about changing your name. You are who you are.
‘And just think, brother,’ he hears from the seat beside him, ‘just think that Stegas still lives in the same place. Eh?
Der Meister
of Weeds. Been selling his spices there for twenty years now. Right next door to the school. You’ve got to respect that.’
‘Don’t want you becoming a junkie now,’ Jan Inge says, feeling obliged to offer a gentle reprimand. ‘Remember, our fundamental principles. We’re against drugs. It’s the main reason we make out as well as we do. Tommy Pogo is also aware of that. And he knows that’s why they’re never going to nail us, because we don’t let drugs get the better of us.’
‘
Aber klar
!’ says Rudi. ‘If I see another dude selling
Asfalt
I’ll break his kneecaps and grind them into sand. I only meant to point out how cunning Stegas is. What a shrewd businessman he is.’
They park a few blocks away from the dealer’s house. Jan Inge slips the car keys into the roomy pocket of his jogging bottoms and feels them tickle his thigh. They slow their pace as they reach Nedstrandsgata. Keep a lookout for parked cars that don’t look like they belong there. Surveillance vehicles. Hold a careful watch for people who don’t look like they should be walking there. Plain-clothes policemen. They cross the street, smile as they see the children in the schoolyard next to the house, as though they were old pals, walk up to the front door and ring the bell. After a few moments the door opens a crack and Stegas’ flaky scalp and head, or half of it rather, appears.
‘Jesus,’ he says. ‘The Dalton Brothers.’
Stegas looks just like he always has. Bumming around in a white string vest, an old pair of 501s and some worn-out felt slippers, which he got from his mother when he left home and is never going to get rid of. His prominent Adam’s apple is just as pointy as it was in puberty and his characteristic concave temples are just as evident. Nobody is quite sure how old Stegas is, seeing as he looks the same as he always has, is involved in the same thing as he’s always been, speaks the same way he’s always spoken and lives in the same place he’s always lived; people have lost count. Stegas is a natural phenomenon of sorts.
He invites Rudi and Jan Inge in with a waggish smile. They are old acquaintances and even though Stegas could not be classified as a friend, it pleases Jan Inge to see him receive them as though they were family. It’s those kinds of things Jan Inge needs to be alive to. They need to take care of the few people they do collaborate with. And their relationship with Stegas is a shining example.
He supplies them with what little they require of speed, tells them things they need to know and they protect Stegas whenever there’s call for it. They’ve roughed up a few people for him, individuals who were slow to settle their debts and so on. No money has ever changed hands between them. Merely information and services.
Jan Inge and Rudi are guided into Stegas’ living room, which like the man himself, looks the same as always. The big, deep leather sofas. The TV in the corner. The IKEA shelves holding cookbooks and a sizeable collection of DVDs. A lot of musicals, in fact. A complete collection of
The Eurovision Song Contest
. Cosy. It always has been. Something Rudi isn’t slow to comment upon.
‘I’m always inspired, Stegas, when we visit you – you keep your place so clean, bright and homely.
Stegas nods. ‘Just can’t stand being surrounded by crap. Probably something I inherited from my mother.’
‘Oh yeah, Jesus!’ Rudi almost jumps up off the sofa. ‘Sorry for your loss, fuck, we heard about that. Cancer?’
Stegas brings his hand across his face, nodding slowly. ‘Embedded itself in her liver,’ he sighs. ‘Began eating her up. Three years it took.’
‘Sorry, man,’ Jan Inge says, while at the same time being aware of how unimaginable it is to be in Stegas’ shoes, to actually miss his mother. Difficult, even for a person with as much empathy as Jan Inge.
‘We’re all headed that way,’ Stegas says, his eyes moist. ‘But she lives in my heart.’
‘Intense,’ says Rudi.
‘Anyway,’ Jan Inge says, hearing the gush of a cistern somewhere in the house. ‘How’s the foot?’
‘Ah,’ Stegas says, giving it a slap of his hand. ‘Same old. Not really able to use it. Getting disability benefits for it. Never griped. Could’ve had whiplash, you know.’
‘Intense,’ says Rudi.
‘Benefits,’ repeats Stegas, ‘they keep me afloat. Fuckin’ good thing we live in Norway and not Romania. Things wouldn’t be looking too bright for Stegas.’
‘Words of truth.’
A chubby guy in jogging bottoms and a hoodie comes padding into the living room. He’s wearing a headset, the thin microphone arm bobbing up and down in front of his mouth, making him look like some kind of pilot. He nods to Jan Inge and Rudi, walks past, sits down in front of the TV and resumes
Battlefield 3
.
‘Bunny,’ says Stegas. ‘He’s crashing here at the moment. Doing a few odd jobs for me. That right, Bunny?’
‘Sure,’ says the chubby guy.
‘That right, you’re doing a few odd jobs for me?’
‘Sure, that’s right,’ says the pilot guy. ‘Freeze, fucker! Freeze!’
‘Good bloke, Bunny,’ Stegas says. ‘Aren’t you, Bunny?’
‘Sure,’ comes the voice from the TV corner. ‘Boom! Hell awaits, my friends.’
‘So,’ says Stegas, reaching for a teacup he has on the coffee table, ‘you want a few lines? Got a job on?’
Rudi slaps his knees and gets a warm look in his eyes. ‘A
time-honoured
classic,’ he says. ‘We’re going to give a guy who’s in need of cash a beating. Insurance.’
‘Mmm,’ Stegas drinks from the cup, nodding appreciatively, ‘very fucking nice to do something by the book now and then. Too little of that in the times we live in.’
‘Fuck, if that’s not the truth then I don’t know what is,’ exclaims Rudi. ‘Way too much computer crime for my taste nowadays, often feel like I can’t put myself to use. So safe to say we need a few lines. Jani, Tong, Chessi and me.’
‘Two hours,’ says Stegas. ‘Drop: Stokkavann, the large lake. By the boulder.’
‘You’ve changed it around? Thought you always used the old cannon emplacement up on Hinnaberget.’
Stegas nods. ‘Alternating arrangement.’
‘Jesus,’ Rudi says, ‘you’ve such a good system.’
‘A system is the key to success,’ Jan Inge says.
‘Good spot all right, eh, Bunny?’ says Stegas.
‘Die, Mofo!’ says the podgy guy with the headset. ‘Here comes Bunny! Die! What?’
Rudi and Jan Inge get to their feet. Stegas follows them into
the hall. Jan Inge gives their old friend a hug. ‘And you make sure to get in touch,’ he says. ‘You know we’ll be there for you, pronto.’
‘Appreciate it,’ Stegas says. ‘Say hello to Tong, that Paki bastard. Tell him welcome home.’
‘Pronto,’ Rudi repeats. ‘Anyone needs doing over, we’re there. Any supplies you need, TV, washing machine, whatever, give us a call – let your fingers do the walking. Stokkavannet. The boulder. Only a good thing for us to be seen out and about today taking a walk round Stokkavannet – that is supersupersupersmooth, Stegas, that is … You know what? Coming here today, it makes me feel two things, and both of those emotions are pretty tightly linked. One is of entering a church. Of walking into a church, finding your place amongst the row of benches and sensing the light of Jesus warming up your bones. And the other, brotherofdope, the other, it’s – and this is very personal – it’s the feeling of coming home to Gran. Walking through her door. Noticing that good old smell. Coffee and Swiss roll. Going up the steps. Seeing her sitting in her chair listening to, fuck, Franz Liszt or something.’
Stegas nods slowly during Rudi’s emotional outburst. Jan Inge watches the dealer. He can see something’s going on behind those eyes.
‘Strong words, fucking intense,’ says Stegas. ‘You know, Rudi, my mother used to listen to Franz Liszt too. Sweet Jesus. The old masters. He was the Elton John of his day, that guy. The two of you need to get the hell out of here before old Stegas starts blubbering. I’ll stick in an extra four grams and I won’t hear any more about it. Franz Listz. I’ll never forget that. I’m going to bring Bunny along this afternoon and pay Mum’s grave a visit. That’s what I’m going to do.’
Jan Inge and Rudi walk out into the harsh light.
This is what we have, Jan Inge thinks as they amble along towards the car. This is what we have built up. Good relations. And everything is just going to be torn down?
RIPPED INTO PIECES, TRAMPLED AND STOMPED ON.
Rudi looks at him. ‘Shit, man, are you crying?’
‘It’s just the light,’ Jan Inge says, and clears his throat before turning to Rudi: ‘Think about it. Tea. Musicals.
The Eurovision Song Contest.
Frank List.’
‘Eh?’
They stop in front of the car and Jan Inge takes the keys out. ‘You don’t see it?’
‘No, wha?’
‘I always knew there was something about him,’ says Jan Inge and sighs. ‘Slightly prissy. And it’s been there, right under our noses, all these years. A homo. A little fairy. A proctologist. A
rear-gunner.
Elton John. Bunny. Frank List. Hm, Rudi? How many surprises is this life going to have in store?’
RIPPED INTO TINY PIECES.
Rudi shakes his head slowly. ‘Jesus,’ he says, ‘that’s tough to take, Ironside. You remember Gaupa’s mother? She was never the same after she found out her son was gay. Trine, Gaupa’s sister, said their mother sat chewing tree bark throughout her entire menopause. That’s how I feel now. Betrayed by one of my best friends. Society is on the road to hell; we’ll soon be surrounded by ass bandits and Muslims playing computer games, and you and me, brother, we’ll be out in the cold, searching for a place to breathe freely.
Jan Inge opens the car door. He gets in.
TRAMPLED AND STOMPED ON.