See You Tomorrow (42 page)

PÃ¥l reads the text once more as the sound of the doorbell fills the room:
On my way. Heh heh! I'll get a taxi.
Zitha's ears stiffen and her tail begins to beat against the floor. PÃ¥l checks that his answer is sent,
OK, great
, and looks out the window, which could really use a wash; when was the last time they did that? They had it on a list once, Malene was to wash the windows, Tiril was to do the shopping, and he was to, yeah, what was he supposed to do? They disappeared, those lists. They couldn't manage to run such a tight ship.

So she is coming after all. Here. Today.
Great.

How's that going to go?

He squints: a moped?

PÃ¥l's mouth runs dry, he hears Rudi's agitated voice in his head, Jan Inge's reedy voice, Cecilie's warm voice, and he begins breaking out in a sweat. Is that them? They're not supposed to be here before tonight. Now? On a moped?

It starts to sink in. He's agreed to this scheme with people who cut their teeth in the Tjensvoll Gang, people who've been hardened criminals for over twenty years, and he's put his
trust in them.
Christine should have been here now – she will be soon of course,
great
– she would have shaken her head as hard as humanely possible, she would have lowered those sexy eyelids of hers, sighed heavily and said: Pål. What is wrong with you. How naïve can you possibly be? Will you never learn?

He walks slowly into the hall, holding Zitha tightly by the neck, firmly enough for her to understand how quiet she needs to be.

In for it now. He takes a furtive peek through the glass beside the door.

He pulls his head back quickly. A young girl with her face all
cut up. Flaming red hair. Pål slumps against the wall and closes his eyes. He grabs hold of Zitha's snout as she begins to whine. ‘Shhh!' What is it Rudi has sent my way now? His psycho niece? A heroin addict he's planned to include in this insane scheme?

The doorbell rings again. Zitha beats the floor with her tail, uneasy in her body.

PÃ¥l orders Zitha to sit. He places two fingertips on the bridge of his nose, then sweeps them under each eye while opening his mouth and feeling the skin tightening over his gums. Okay. He rehearses a few opening lines in his head, grabs hold of the dog and opens the door.

Before PÃ¥l can speak he recognises the guy from under the floodlights at the football pitch the night before. The beautiful, young man with the disquieting eyes, the one that laughed at his Metallica T-shirt. What's he doing here with a girl who looks like a patient from a psych ward?

‘Hi,' Pål says, holding Zitha back as she makes to go closer to the visitors, and keeping the door only half open to indicate that this needs to be quick: ‘Tiril and Malene aren't home yet.'

‘Good,' says Daniel.

‘Eh…?'

‘I didn't come to see them,' says the boy.

A unpleasant feeling begins to takes hold of PÃ¥l. Young people, strange how they can knock adults off their stride. Are they working for Videoboy?

‘Okay?'

The girl looks terrible. Someone has slashed her face. She's freaking PÃ¥l out the way she's just standing staring at his lips, studying his face intently.

Daniel takes a step closer.

‘I don't know what you're up to,' he says.

PÃ¥l feels like he has a lead apple in his throat.

‘What I'm up to?' Pål straightens up. ‘Listen, I don't think I need to stand here and—'

‘I don't know what you've got yourself mixed up in,' Daniel continues, as though he didn't hear what Pål said. The girl keeps on staring at his lips. ‘But I—'

‘Listen,' Pål cuts in, ‘I really think you need to g—'

‘I saw you in the woods.'

‘Eh?'

The girl bends down to Zitha, pats her.

Daniel shrugs. ‘You might be getting yourself into something stupid.'

‘What is this? I think you better—'

The girl continues rubbing Zitha's snout.

‘I get that you can't stand here and admit that something fucked up is going on, but I did see you, and I thought about it afterwards, without really knowing if I should say it to anybody – I haven't, by the way – but I decided to ride up here. And tell you straight out. That I don't know what it is you're involved in. But it might be stupid for you to see it through. And I know what I'm talking about.'

She opens her mouth to speak now, the girl with the cut-up face. Her voice is strange and her eyes shine like burnt copper. She says: ‘It's true. He knows what he's talking about.'

Zitha barks and Pål feels saliva accumulate in his mouth again. He shakes his head. ‘It might well be you know what you're talking about,' Pål gives Daniel a gentle, lofty pat on the shoulder, ‘but I don't know what you're talking about. And I have to make some food for Tiril and Malene now, because they'll soon be home and it's a busy day. Tiril is going to be singing at the school in—' he checks his watch, ‘yeah, in just over a couple of hours. All right?'

Daniel smiles. ‘That's fine,' he says. ‘You have to lie. You need to protect yourself. I know. That's the way it works.' He extends his hand to Pål, who shakes it, remaining nonplussed, as Daniel puts his helmet back on, climbs on to the moped together with his girlfriend and disappears down the street.

PÃ¥l sinks down on to the doorstep.

Zitha places her snout in his lap and emits a faint whimper. He runs his hand over her warm coat. ‘Dad was seen, Zitha,' he whispers.

God, I should never have got mixed up in this.

Pål takes out his mobile and composes a text: ‘I'll let you know
when the girls have left. Just have to make them something to eat and then you can come. It'll be a real blast!'

Five, ten minutes pass, PÃ¥l sits with September light all around and he's barely aware if he's alive or dead, then he hears them. He has a sinking sensation in his chest and wishes it were a simpler day, say around six years ago, when the girls were small and he was the safe, secure dad. A plain, maybe slightly boring dad they could count on, one who could look his own girls in the eyes.

He jumps up, affects an air of energy as he sees them approach. Tiril has a pained expression on her face, Malene is calm and collected and alongside them walks a guy who looks like a warped ball, with moist eyes and a hoodie. Zitha runs towards the girls.

‘Hi! I haven't had a chance to sort out food today, things just got on top of me, but we'll throw a frozen pizza on, will we? So, getting excited? Eh?'

‘Dad, this is Shaun,' says Tiril, patting the dog.

PÃ¥l looks at the little guy, who gives him a crooked smile, revealing a row of rust-coloured teeth. He isn't exactly what PÃ¥l was expecting; is Tiril actually going out with that there?

‘Okay? Hi, I'm Pål,' he says, putting his hand out and feeling a feeble grip, like shaking hands with a mollusc.

He accompanies them inside, he can tell by their body language that something is up, he sees them exchange uncertain glances, but he neglects to ask what's happened. He understands that they have something behind them that's hard to put aside and just as hard to talk about, as though he realises it's not for grown-ups' ears. That's how he's raised them, always allowed the girls plenty of space, never went into their rooms and asked what they were up to, but has made himself available to them whenever they feel the need to talk. Sometimes it's gone too far, and PÃ¥l has been left standing at a distance when their world has begun to catch fire.

That may be how it is now, but he can't face going into the flames today. All he wants is for them to eat some food and be on their way, because they need to get out of here; what's going to happen is just too degrading.

It doesn't seem as if Daniel or the girl with the face have spoken to them.

Zitha has taken her place on the mat, safe and secure; for a dog the house is as it usually is. Dad is here, the girls are here. PÃ¥l lets the kids go to Tiril's room. He puts a pizza on and stands facing the oven for a quarter of an hour watching the cheese slowly begin to bubble, and he finally takes it out and carries it into Tiril's room where the three teenagers sit in a sort of youthful darkness that somehow seems to glow.

The voices fall silent as he enters, all expression on their faces wiped clean and their eyes dim.

‘Pizza, girls.'

‘Great, we'll just eat and head off.'

‘It's going to be exciting, this here,' he says.

‘Very,' says Malene.

He can see she's lying. Or rather, keeping something to herself.

‘Dad?' Tiril turns to him, looking lost.

‘Yes, honey?'

‘Do you know what happens to people who suffer concussion?'

It's a strange question.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Well, just if they're concussed and everything seems fine, but then they get problems. Do you know what can happen?' Tiril's eyes are moist. ‘Like, could she, you know, die?'

PÃ¥l looks at Shaun. Is Tiril really with this guy? He doesn't seem able to speak, his teeth are rotting in his head and he has a black eye, what sort of boy is he?

‘No,' he says, ‘I don't know about that kind of thing. Who's
she?
Has someone got concussion?'

Malene nods. ‘A girl at school. She collapsed.'

‘I see,' he says. ‘Well, I hope she's all right anyway. Get some food in you, okay?' He leaves the room.

He can't face being with them right now.

A quarter of an hour later, all three of them thank him for the food and get ready to leave. There're no feelings in the air other than those of pretence, thinks PÃ¥l. Everybody in this room is holding something back.

‘See you soon, then,' he says, smiling. ‘Really looking forward to it, Tiril.'

‘See you later,' she says.

‘Gonna be a real blast! Love you both!'

Malene turns as though he has said something strange. Pål lifts his hand up and waves vigorously with his entire arm, as if trying to catch their attention in a school parade: ‘Love you!' he shouts again.

The door opens, warm air floods towards him and they disappear.

A little while later, the mobile in his pocket vibrates. Pål takes it out, reads: ‘Can I come?'

He sends a reply: ‘Yes. All clear now.'

PÃ¥l crouches down in front of Zitha and scratches her under the chin. He's not quite sure how he's going to get through the next hour. He has no idea how this whole thing is going to end. But he can't picture anything other than it turning out badly.

Zitha rolls on to her back, asking to be rubbed on her stomach.

‘So, Jan Inge Haraldsen, this must be a big day for you?’

‘Heh heh, well I suppose you’d have to say it is.’

‘Indeed, what went through your mind when you heard you’d won the prize in the category of non-fiction?’

‘Well, I felt like a little God, to draw a comparison.’

‘
It’s Too Late, a study in Horror Films
has sold thousands of copies and been translated into a host of different languages. What would you say was your main motivation in writing it?’

‘Motivation? Well … an exceptional number of research hours have been put into this…’

‘Yes, the material is overwhelming. Is there, in fact, any horror film you haven’t seen?’

‘I doubt it. But what you’re asking me about motivation … you have to picture an ordinary boy. Slightly overweight perhaps, mildly asthmatic, without a mother and practically fatherless. He’s captivated at a young age by the horrible world of horror.’

‘I see. And this boy, it’s you?’

‘That’s right. But then, after a few years sitting in front of the screen, I began to gain some valuable insights, and I hit upon what today forms my main thesis…’

‘You refer to it as a thesis?’

‘Indeed, a thesis. Let me paint you a picture, since you’ve come all the way from
Frankfurter Allgemeine
to interview me. Many years ago. An ordinary day in my ordinary life. A dark living room. An armchair. Me. And a glowing TV screen. I was re-watching one of my favourite films. It was Dario Argento’s masterpiece,
Suspiria
. Horror, which I love so much, filled the room, and it filled me. And then all of a sudden I began to weep.’

‘To weep? You’re telling me you began to cry?’

‘I’m telling you I began to cry.’

‘Why?’

‘Safe to say I wondered about that myself. Tears were streaming down my face and I was incapable of stopping them.’

‘My word.’

‘Yes. I was on my own that day. My sister, whom I live with, was out at work with my best friend, Rune Digervold, whom I also live with. The tears just flooded down my face. Eventually I had to stand up and pace around the room. And that was when I began to ask myself what it was that these tears contained. Do you understand?’

‘Yes … or rather, no. Did you find an answer?’

‘Yes. It was the feeling that it can all suddenly be too late. That was what the tears were telling me. That was what I had understood after so many years in the world of horror, that it’s not a horrible world, but a world of goodness, a world that struggles to lead us into kindness before it’s too late, and that this is what every real horror film is about.’

‘A remarkable thesis, Jan Inge Haraldsen, which you explore at length in your book, through in-depth analyses of a number of films,
Evil Dead, Suspiria
which you’ve already mentioned,
A
Nightmare on Elm Street…
’

‘They’re all there. As well as less well-known movies like
Rosemary’s Killer,
also titled
The Prowler.
Joseph Zito, 1981. The Golden Age of The Nasty. An important time for the slasher film in particular and the horror genre in general. What about the scene in the shower, when the girl is stabbed in the stomach with the pitchfork, just below her breasts – have you read my thoughts on that? I don’t go on about how well made it is and the type of things horror fans often do. I focus on what it’s about, in a philosophical sense. I take a large part of the horror fan base to task, the ones who sit grinning at body counts, the ones who view horror as a form of ironic humour and the people who believe it’s all about the amount of gore, which in my view, it isn’t.

‘Exciting.’

‘Exciting. That’s the word.’

‘But moving on, this is after all not just an interview with you about your book but also a profile: Who is Jan Inge Haraldsen?’

‘Oh, he’s just an ordinary, slightly overweight boy. A butterball. The Coca-Cola Kid from Hillevåg. Heh heh.’

‘What else have you done, where are you from, indeed, who are you, Mr Haraldsen?’

‘Oh, a bit of everything, this and that, heh heh.’

‘Come now, give us some impression of who you are.’

‘Let me see, an impression…’

‘Yes, an impression…’

‘Well, I can tell you this: I’ve run my own company since I was quite young. I’ve had a good number of employees along the way. My sister, as well as my best friend Rudi have always worked with me.’

‘And what does it do, this company?’

‘What does it do?’

‘Yes, what sector is it involved in?’

‘Eh, sector … we’re in removals.’

‘So the rumours which have reached us at
Frankfurter
Allgemeine
, that you are all actually petty criminals and that Mariero Moving is just a front for your activities, these aren’t true? That for years now, ever since you were a small boy and lost your mother, and then your father abandoned you and your sister in a most inhumane manner, leaving for America to pursue his own selfish interests and start up a business, Southern Oil – that ever since you were young you’ve been involved in criminal activity, been behind many break-ins, many scams, quite brutal instances of debt collection, yes, that for a time early in your career you even pimped your sister, whom you rented out within the confines of your own home; is that also incorrect? Jan Inge? Mr Haraldsen?’

Jan Inge looks up from his plate, where potatoes, broccoli, carrots and meatballs swim in gravy, and a dollop of lingonberry jam wreathes the rim. The sun is low, casting a wavering light into the room, shining skittishly upon the old Coca-Cola poster hanging beside the fridge, in which a sailor with white teeth holds up a bottle, and shimmering tentatively on the salt and pepper
pots standing on the table, one in the shape of a reindeer, the other a seal; both from Dad’s childhood home.

Motörhead blasts from the living room, ‘Stone Dead Forever.’

Nobody has opened their mouth for a long time.

SOMETIMES THINGS ARE SO DELICATE.

You would think the future would be looking brighter now.

Rudi giving his big performance when they were on their way around Stokkavannet.

Cecilie responding so quickly and with such passion, such affection, of a type she rarely reveals.

But then.

They get into the Volvo, everyone refreshed, except for Tong. Everything seems flushed, the sky, the tarmac, the car and its occupants, but as they drive past the allotments near Byhaugen, it’s almost as if it becomes too much to take. Suddenly there’s a clearing of throats and coughing in the back seat, the shifting of feet, people looking in all directions but at each other and mumbled half-sentences abound. The oxygen disappears from inside the car. Cecilie stares out the window. Rudi’s eyes remain fixed on his lap. There has to be some terminology within psychology for it. Suddenly Cecilie and Rudi are so unbelievably awkward. They had been snogging in full public view, then they were like two lovesick teenagers in the back of the van and now they are utterly out of sync. Both of them look like frightened birds, maybe that’s what its known as in psychology? Frightened bird syndrome?

And Tong?

Tong is sitting silent as a stone by the window, longing for a chocolate chip cookie.

EVERYTHING HAS BEEN TURNED ON ITS HEAD, thinks Jan Inge, massaging his front teeth with his fingertips. One moment everything is
allt i lagi
, as Buonanotte says, the next it’s all fallen apart. Not to mention Tommy Pogo, who’s also obviously got them in his sights. Taking a walk around Stokkavannet, coincidence?

Jan Inge can’t handle this. Now is the time he should show them who’s wearing the pants, but he sinks back down into his
own thoughts, while the world he’s created heads for … what’s it called again…?

Jan Inge pictures himself getting up from his chair, offering his hand to the interviewer who has come all the way from Frankfurt and thanking him for the visit. He imagines the photographer taking two photos of him, one in front of the van, with him dressed in Mariero Moving working attire, and one in the video room, with him standing in front of his vast collection of films.

‘Atlantis,’ he whispers.

Cecilie looks up. ‘Wha?’

Jan Inge clears his throat. ‘Oh, I was just thinking about something. How’s the food?’ He checks the time. ‘After five,’ he says, ‘nearly ten past. We’d better start packing the stuff together. I don’t think we need to concern ourselves with Pogo. He’s been on us. He was smart. Caught us on the hop. But he’s not going to strike twice in one day. We’ll be at Pål’s place in a couple of hours. We’ll leave the moving van in Sandal before making our way there. And I just want to say one thing: there’s a weird vibe in the air today. I can’t say I like it. But I would ask that all of you, to the extent you’re able, not lose your composure, and please try and remain focused.’

Cecilie has put down her knife and fork. Rudi chomps his food pensively. Even Tong has his eyes on Jan Inge.

‘What do you say each of us try to bring to mind some happy memories to cheer us up?’

Yes.

They’re listening now.

‘Personally, I’m going to call this memory to mind,’ continues Jan Inge: one day in the eighties, Cecilie and I received word that our uncle, our father’s brother, had passed away. John Fredrick Haraldsen. He was a mangy mongerel, who had brought pain to the entire family by interfering with his daughter, Helene, our cousin. She’s never recovered and lives in a flat paid for by Social Services somewhere up in Trøndelag – and, as you’re all aware, we send her a Christmas card every year, something she no doubt appreciates. You’ll remember we sent her a lovely gold ring the year before last, Rudi, which we took with us from the job out in Sola.
Well. On this particular day in the eighties we were informed that he was dead, her father that is. John Fredrik had been killed in a bicycle accident. That’s a good memory for me. Cecilie and I looked at one another with relief, and she made waffles while I – I was a few kilos lighter back then – I ran out into the garden to cut the grass. Which reminds me, we need to have a big clear-out on Sunday.’

Cecilie has tears in her eyes.

Brilliant.

You tell a good story.

And the audience weep.

They’re moved.

That’s the whole point of a good story right there.

The journalist has one final question as Jan Inge is showing him out: ‘Tell me, Haraldsen, is it all horror with you?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Is it all horror films, do you not like anything else?’

‘What, do you think I’m just a fat guy with a one-track mind who sits in a wheelchair watching horror all day?’

‘I don’t know, you tell me.’

‘
E.T.
I love
E.T.
And everything it stands for. And I’ll tell you something else: I love everyone who wants to phone home.