Authors: Tore Renberg
Autumn 1996. Brother and sister were sitting at home in the living room, well wrapped up in old blankets and well stocked with crisps and cola. The light of the TV tinted the room, screams filled the air, and Jan Inge and Cecilie watched horror film after horror film while they listened to the stormy weather pummel the house in Hillevåg. Rudi was working a few hours east in Kvinesdal, he had been subcontracted out to the Botnevass Gang. Exactly what he was doing wasn’t clear, but the money was good and Rudi’s skill set was required. After he had been up there a couple of weeks the telephone back in Hillevåg rang late one night. Cecilie was having a bath while Jan Inge was sitting in the living room listening to his father’s old country records. He picked up the receiver. It was Rudi. His voice screeched like a circular saw. ‘No way I’m staying here a minute fucking longer, Jani.’ He said. ‘That whole Botnevass family are completely out of their tree. They’re hanging out in a bus parked in a field, they have the interior all decked out like a movie set and they’re filming one sick porn film after another, and their mother, she won’t have anything to do with them any more, while the rumour is that Grandpa Botnevass, that Solomon guy, the priest, is going to come down from the mountains and tear strips off the lot of them.’
‘Take it easy, calm down,’ Jan Inge said, and after a while he managed to talk Rudi around and to persuade him to stick it out for a couple more weeks. They needed the money.
He rang again a fortnight later, and this time not from Kvinesdal, but from a public telephone in Ben’s Kafé, after narrowly avoiding a head-on collision with another car in Gyadalen Valley and now there was no going back. Torleif Botnevass had shot his brother, Gordon Botnevass, over – according to their sister, Mary
Botnevass – a quarrel about how to rob the Chinese in Flekkefjord. Or – if their cousin Anton Botnevass was to be believed – due to an argument over which Maiden album was the best, or as Hilde from the shop said: because of a spat over my snatch. ‘Christ,’ said Rudi, over the telephone from Ben’s, ‘this has gone way too far, Jani. I was standing just four metres from the little brother Torleif when he pumped bullets into the side of his big brother Gordon’s head. I don’t fucking like murder, Jani.’
‘Not good, that sounds awful, come on home.’
One hour later he walked in the door of the house in Hillevåg. ‘Christ,’ Rudi sighed, when he saw them, ‘it’s good to be around normal people again,’ and then he lifted Cecilie up in the air, held her close and told her there wasn’t a sexier woman on the planet.
A half-hour later, as they were sitting in the kitchen eating a supper of cured salmon and scrambled egg, Rudi pointed out the window at a van standing parked beneath the street light. ‘What’s that?’ he asked. ‘Someone visiting?’
‘That,’ said Jan Inge, smiling to Rudi and Cecilie, ‘is our new company transport.’
‘Company transport? Ours? That sweet ride?’
‘That’s right,’ replied Jan Inge and pointed down the hall. ‘You see that door there?’
Rudi let his weary eyes wander in the direction Jan Inge indicated. There was a sign on the door of the spare room. He squinted. ‘Office,’ it read.
‘That is our office, Rudi.’
‘Eh? Have the two of you lost your minds while I was dicing with death?’
Cecilie smiled and put her arm around her brother. ‘You know,’ she said in a soft voice, the way she could sometimes speak, as though filled with deep affection, ‘you can’t expect to be gone for three weeks and come home without this man here devising something of genius.’
Jan Inge got to his feet – he was fifteen kilos lighter back then – and said: ‘Rudi, that was the last time you’re going to be hired out to some unknown nutcases. We’re putting things in order here at home. There’s a telephone in there. A separate line with
it’s own number. You’ll find it in the phone book under
Mariero Moving.
Inside that office you’ll also find paperclips, folders, a pencil sharpener attached to the end of the desk, a ruler and a fax machine, everything an office worker could dream of. And our company car is parked out there on the street. A car which never – you hear me, never – will be used for anything other than this.’
‘And what is
this?
’
‘It’s our moving company, brother. The moving company I run, with Cecilie responsible for cleaning and you as primary driver.’
Cecilie laughed, she really was in fine fettle around that time, and said: ‘Now you see what happens when you’re away for a couple of weeks, Rudi! Congratufuckinglations, you’ve got a new job.’
Rudi was a little piqued at first. He sure as hell wasn’t up for some ordinary job. He was fucked if he was going to go round breaking his back lifting big boxes full of books just because old women were on the move to sheltered housing in Lassa, no bloody way was he about to start paying tax, and he was sure as fuck not going to drive around wearing a stupid hat with Mariero Moving on it for the whole city to see – and so on. But he was quick to reconsider, he began to change his mind pretty much at the same time as he was speaking: He didn’t want to have this job in removals as a way to conceal his actual identity as a crook – even though it was undeniably a clever idea. Yes, only Jan Inge could come up with something so smart, give him his dues; open an office, set up another phone line, sort out a company car, company clobber, a logo, convert the garage, fuck, now that was what Rudi called genius. He had only been away a couple of weeks in Krazy Kvinesdal, where at this very moment Grandpa Solomon was probably pointing a shotgun at his progeny, who were no doubt lying around in the bus drinking hooch after yet another day of porn, picking them off one after the other while spewing Bible quotes from his mouth like spit, while old lady Rose Marie Botnevass was in all likelihood standing outside counting the gunshots and gobbing on the ground for every fallen son and daughter and niece and nephew – only a couple of weeks, and then to come home to…
Rudi threw his arms around Jan Inge: ‘Fuck, brother. I thank
the Lord and Gran that you exist. When’s the first moving job? By the hour or fixed price?’
Jan Inge is proud of how he handled things in those tough few weeks back in 1996. If he hadn’t hit upon the idea of establishing a company and presenting them as law-abiding citizens they’d all be wearing Åna-issue clothing and answering to a number by now. The scheme had occurred to him while he and Cecilie were sitting in the living room gorging on horror film after horror film and the rain hammered on the roof and transformed the garden into a pool.
Watch out, Jan Inge. Do something before it’s too late.
So don’t come here saying horror harms the mind; horror is a wellspring of creativity,
horror yields unity,
horror makes you see what’s important here in this world and helps you choose the right path. And he’s going to write about that in his book; how pain brings about good.
Ever since those rainy days in autumn 1996 there’s been a steady stream of calls on The Other Telephone. Marketing? All you need is a number in the phone book, a listing under Removal Services and it takes care of itself.
‘Yes, Mariero Moving?’
‘Yes, hello, me and my wife need help moving from Hundvåg. Do you provide a cleaning service as well?’
‘Specialist cleaning?
Kein Problem
! We have a highly trained cleaning consultant, she can take care of everything while you sun yourselves on the veranda.’
Last Thursday: The Other Telephone rang again. Jan Inge walked to the office with a wobbling gait, sat down in the old leather chair and picked up the receiver: ‘Mariero Moving, Haraldsen speaking, how can I help?’
A grand piano. On Furras Gate. In Våland. Stavanger. Not exactly their favourite kind of job. Good thing Tong is going to be here; Jan Inge’s abilty to lift and hump things around has become somewhat limited since the weight piled on.
Jan Inge and Rudi trudge to the garage and open the large door. They still haven’t seen any sign of Tommy Pogo, and Jan Inge can feel it beginning to prey on his mind. Knowing he’s going to come is worse than him turning up unannounced.
Rudi sighs as his eyes fall on the white van. ‘Shit,’ he says, ‘my heart aches every time I see the Hiace. We have
ein tolles auto
right here and we only ever use it for moving.’
‘Rudi,’ says Jan Inge, ‘no one is touching the moving van. This is half the reason we can live like we do. You remember autumn 1996?’
‘Course I remember autumn 1996,’ says Rudi, a dark look coming over his eyes: ‘Did you hear what happened to the Botnevass Gang, by the way?’
‘No,’ says Jan Inge and switches on the ceiling light in the garage, producing a nice sheen on the roof of the vehicle. ‘Presumed they were still doing their thing.’
‘In hospital, all nine of them. Brothers, sisters, cousins and I don’t what else. Torleif, Mary, Anton, Jo-Lene, Salve, Odd Harald, Ånen, Steven, and ehm … what’s her name … the one in those films … ehm … yeah, Nancy Rose. Crushed both legs, she did. So that’s the movie career finished.’
‘Hah.’ Jan Inge opens the van door and peeks inside. ‘Nancy Rose. She could be doing with my wheelchair.’
The van is spick and span, ready to go to work in.
‘Went how you thought it would, then?’
‘Not quite,’ says Rudi, peering over Jani’s shoulder. ‘They hit a rock face beside the road on the way home from Sweden Rock. They skidded after Ånen, swerved trying to avoid hitting a fox waltzing along the road. So they say, anyway. The bus broke through the crash barrier not far from Liknes, slammed straight into a rock face. Hilde from the shop says that stuff about the fox is bollocks, she says Grandpa Botnevass fiddled with the brakes because he thought they were bringing shame on the family name. But apparently old Father Solomon told her that if she opens her mouth one more time, he’s going to come down from the mountain and make sure she never sees the light of day again. They say Grandma Rose Marie couldn’t care less, never liked her kids anyway, apart from the one she lost when he was a baby, Kjell Ivar. They say she regrets ever marrying that mad priest, was so beautiful she could have had her pick of anything in trousers up there, whether they were called Botnevass, Øyvass, Kissvass, Vedvass,
Sandvass, Skjerlevass, Storevass, Vestvass, Krokevass, Svodvass, Grunnevass or Movass. And she had to choose the biggest headcase of them all. Solomon Botnevass.
‘Not good,’ Jan Inge says, turning around, ‘not much luck in that family.’
‘Well, you know, brother, better to be good than lucky.’
‘Words of truth.’
‘It’s how it is; some families are haunted by demons and evil spirits. Wouldn’t surprise me if they were back on their feet in a year’s time. Wait and see, back on track with bus porn for the handicapped. They still haven’t hit the Chinese in Flekkefjord. Torleif is sure the owner is sitting on a few hundred thousand in cash. Probably only a question of time.’
‘Everything, Rudi, can be transformed into a question of time,’ says Jan Inge. ‘It’s the essence of every good horror movie.’
‘Philosophy again,’ says Rudi, nodding. ‘It’s so you, while the rest of us are discussing nuts and bolts and baseballs and batons, you’re hovering above in the clouds.’
‘You don’t find it odd that Tommy hasn’t shown up yet?’
They look at one another.
Rudi nods.
‘Yeah,’ he whispers. ‘Now that you mention it.’
Jan Inge nods. ‘Kind of stressing me out, I have to say.’ He points towards the back garden. ‘Speaking of stress,’ he says. ‘There’s still that there.’
An overgrown garden that hasn’t served as a garden for decades, old mattresses, two rusty wheelbarrows, hubcaps and tyres, rotten planks, a broken lawnmower, Cecilie’s old Raleigh bicycle, Mum’s washing machine, the couch from the basement, which was once red, now the colour of sun-bleached vomit, snapped spades and rakes, a broken TV, a video recorder, the three panel radiators Dad bought right before he left, a total of eight pallets, an enormous amount of smaller pieces of scrap, half a pair of shears, screws and washers, a door handle and in the south corner a rusted rotary clothes line, the one Jan Inge always thought looked like an umbrella when he was small, the one he always thought he was going to lift up in his little hand, hold up in the rain.
‘Looks like a bloody tip. How long has that fridge been there?’
‘1987.’
‘Big clear-out so.’
‘Sunday.’
Rudi spits on the ground and accepts the inevitable.
Jan Inge hears the familiar sound of the Volvo behind him, the splutter of its engine coming down the street. He straightens up and looks at Rudi. A smile spreads across both their faces and they consign Tommy Pogo to the back of their minds for the time being. They walk out into the white sunshine.
The Volvo comes to a halt by the bins and the car doors open. Cecilie gets out from the driver’s side. Jan Inge is struck by an uneasy feeling as he watches her walk with an unsteady step and a wavering look in her eyes. Tong gets out from the other side. He looks like a walking chunk of iron, and Jan Inge realises that he’s in no way happy that Tong is home, that he is in no way happy that Tong may well be the father of the child Cecilie is carrying.
‘Hey! Fuck yeah! Holy shit!’
Rudi vaults the porch wall, opens his arms and pulls the Korean close while slapping him repeatedly on the back: ‘There you are, you sick bastard! Shit, we have missed you! So bloody good to see you! Hell,
wilkommen zu Hause
! Toooooooooooooooooooogong-ong-ong-ong-ong-ong-ong-ong-ong-ong!’
Her eyelids keep slipping down. Her chest rises and falls, and Sandra wants so badly to sleep. Put her arms on the desk, form them into the shape of a heart, lay her head on them and slip into the heavy sea. Sea? Yes, Lord, you are mine. Her cheeks are warm, like she’s been watching TV for a long time, and her fingers are heavy, like her arms have been hanging by her sides for a long time, and her head is woozy; is it Thursday? She forces her eyes open, smiles listlessly at Malene who’s just turned around in her seat further up the classroom. Are you there? Her jaw muscles, it’s as if they’re missing. Is it Thursday today? Or is it Wednesday? Is it maths, is it English? Yeah, English with Frida Riska. Hi, Frida.
To
talk
too
much. Everyone understand? The difference? Or is that proving too much of a challenge for you all? Sandra feels queasy now, there’s discomfort in her stomach and chest and she’s so unbelievably tired. Must be Wednesday. Fingers are so heavy, eyes are so slanted, cheeks are so warm: once.
Today’s paper.
Has something happened? She can’t remember any more. Wait. Wasn’t she in an accident? Yeah. With Daniel? No. Once. No, he loves me and I love him: youandme. Was she? My bright boy, I will serve you the rest of my days, because that’s how love is: yes. Once they came. A peal of thunder across the sky, you could feel the rumble beneath your feet. They came from the forest. They were sons of Lucifer, because they were naked, and in their arms they bore the severed limbs and small hearts they had gathered from the sons and daughters of man. A little distance behind them, the daughters of Lucifer came, also naked, also promising fire and torment. Yes. Blood ran down their thighs, from between their legs. These fingers are so heavy. Thursday? Meandyou, Daniel. My bright boy, your bright mouth. Sandra thinks she needs to throw up, throw up
and fall asleep at the same time, as if that was something that went together, she ponders sluggishly, throw up and fall asleep. Once they came from the forest. Daniel. My Daniel. For what could be right here in this world if love was not right? What would speak the language of truth if love did not? Warm up our church, light this candle. I have to sleep now. I really have to sleep.
‘Sandra?’
‘Hello, Sandra?’
‘Sandra!’
‘Oh my God!’
‘Frida! She’s not breathing!’
‘Get help!’
‘Sandra?’
‘Malene! You need to tell me the truth now! Malene! What happened earlier? Malene!’