Authors: Tore Renberg
‘So,’ Pål says meekly. ‘This … I don’t know what you’d call it … this…’
‘The actual violence, is that what you’re thinking of?’ Jan Inge folds his arms, noticing at the same time that he actually has a pair of tits now.
Pål nods.
‘I don’t know what to tell you,’ Jan Inge says. ‘Would you like to know what we’re going to do beforehand?’
Pål rubs his palms against one another and shifts his weight. ‘Weeell, em … can I get a cup of coffee?’
Jan Inge nods and Pål pours himself a coffee, immediately warming up his nervous hands around it.
‘You don’t want to know,’ Cecilie says, again producing that motherly warmth that impels Jan Inge to believe, truly believe, in the future.
‘Pål,’ she says, with the air of an old-time continuity announcer, ‘it’s not worth it. You’ll only work yourself up and that’ll make the pain worse.’
‘Right,’ Pål says, ‘I see…’
Cecilie strokes him across the cheek and Jan Inge sees Rudi’s eyelids quiver.
‘That is,’ Tong says, ‘if you don’t find it reassuring to know what’s in store. People are different. Some people work in the symphony orchestra, some study lit crit and some specialise in break-ins.’
‘True,’ Jan Inge says, taken aback by Tong’s comparison. He turns to Pål again: ‘It’s something you’ll need to decide for yourself. We’ll blindfold you after we’ve tied you up anyway.’
‘Shit,’ Pål says, putting his hand to his hair, ‘not easy to decide.’
‘That I can well understand,’ Rudi says, seeming more together now.
‘You need to make a decision,’ Jan Inge says, glancing at the clock, ‘we have to get started.’
He leans down to one of the bags by his feet.
‘What have you got inside that?’ Pål asks nervously.
‘That’s sort of what you either want to know or don’t want to know,’ Jan Inge says impatiently. ‘What’s it going to be?’ He looks at Cecilie. ‘Will you start taking a gander round?’
She straightens up and nods. Stroking Pål across the cheek one last time she says, ‘Trust me. Think of your daughters, what were their names again?’
‘Malene and Tiril.’
Cecilie’s forehead relaxes and her face takes on a faraway expression, that of an expectant mother. ‘Malene and Tiril,’ she says, a growing colour in her cheeks, ‘such gorgeous names. I’m sure they’re lovely daughters.’
‘Yeah,’ Pål says, and Jan Inge can see that he’s having a hard time swallowing.
‘Think about them,’ Cecilie says, ‘and just go with it. Think of it as giving birth.’
Jan Inge clears his throat unintentionally.
‘A birth?’
Cecilie nods.
‘Okay,’ Pål says. ‘I’ll go with … that. I don’t want to know anything.’
Tong takes a step forward. He demands attention from everyone in the room, just by the look in his eyes, and he gets it. ‘One last thing,’ he says, ‘there’s been a bit of a misunderstanding about the insurance money.’
‘Yes, that,’ Jan Inge says, producing his inhaler from his pocket and sucking in air.
Pål frowns. ‘What do you mean?’
‘We’ve discussed it within the company—’
‘We’re taking a cut,’ Tong breaks in. He places both hands on the table in front of Pål. ‘Half.’
Pål’s eyes widen. He looks from one of them to the other. ‘But – but – the deal was – the whole point of it is … I need … but, I need a million! It’s not enough with – we made a deal—’
Jan Inge shrugs. Tong keeps his eyes fixed on Pål.
‘We made a de—’
Again, Jan Inge shrugs.
‘But we have—’
Pål stops talking. His chest rises and he exhales slowly, his pallid hands poised for a moment in front of his stomach before falling on to his lap like leaves.
Jan Inge nods. ‘Good, Pål,’ he says, ‘no point making a song and dance about it.’
Rudi bends down to the bag containing baseball bats, hand weights, pliers, knuckle dusters and table legs. Jan Inge takes a bandana from his pocket and hands it to Rudi. Tong holds Pål tight and Rudi ties it around his head. Cecilie turns and walks towards the basement.
‘Hey, we agreed that … I can’t … this isn’t on—’
‘Pål,’ Jan Inge says assertively, ‘that’s enough! Sit down so we can make a start here.’
Rudi tightens the bandana over his eyes. ‘Can you see anything?’
‘You can’t see anything, Pål, can you?’
‘All dark, Pål Wall?’
‘Looks good, Jan Inge! Loads of good stuff to take with us!’
‘Tong, can you hand me that eh … yeah, that…’
‘Has the tape come loose? Look, just hold it here and…’
‘Rudi, see this, can you not…’
‘No, but I was actually thinking of using…’
‘Oh right, you wanted…’
‘Yeah, maestro, I mean, whythehellnot?’
‘Won’t that be a little … all right, yeah, why not?’
‘There’s a nice big TV down here, Jan Inge! And a computer!’
‘Darkness imprisoning me! You there, Pål Nål?’
‘Think of your daughters!’
‘Aww, here’s where that cute dog is. Yeaah, good doggie.’
‘Shall we make a start?’
Tiril glides towards the microphone. She moves as though her feet aren’t touching the ground, a glimmer in her eyes.
There’s something unreal about such a quick-tempered person suddenly becoming so balanced and self-possessed, as if she wasn’t of this world, but of another; and which would that be?
Malene has palpitations and the sound of Daniel’s whispering voice still in her head,
there’s something seriously fucked up going on with your dad.
Her thoughts race this way and that like scatterbrained pups, not realising what’s going on, other than that something terrible is happening,
right now
. Ordinarily this gym hall is packed with kids running, climbing ropes or lifting weights, now it seems drowned in pain as it glows in that deep red light; what, Dad, what?
Daniel and Veronika have slipped out, the moped has ridden off, Frida has got to her feet and is tapping something into her phone; is she calling the police, has she realised we were lying?
Malene remains standing by the wall bars. Mum is sitting on a black, plastic chair looking at the stage and Malene’s devil sister is standing in front of the microphone.
Is her head going to start smouldering? Will her skin crackle like a porcelain glaze and smoke begin to seep from the fissures in her head? What is Tiril planning? The people in the gym hall are silent, not seeming like they dare to breathe, not seeming like they dare to swallow, chins forward, cheeks sunken, their hands resting on their laps and between their fingers they have a frail hold on their own hearts.
The first bars of ‘My Immortal’ resound through the room, Thea’s fingers playing them over and over again. The girl at the microphone just stares at the audience. She doesn’t blink.
Dad? What is it?
Tiril raises her hand to her mouth.
What is she going to do?
Tear out her own teeth?
Tiril puts the top of her thumb and finger in her mouth. Takes out some chewing gum and without taking her eyes from the audience, she sticks it to the microphone stand.
‘Sometimes it hurts so much you can hardly breathe.’
Tiril’s voice is deep and flat.
What did she say? Unease spreads through the hall.
‘I’ll say it again: Sometimes it hurts so much you can hardly breathe.’
Tiril keeps her voice clear and cold, as though it were ice.
The audience grow increasingly restless, people begin to shift in their seats, look at those seated next to them. The curtain behind Tiril moves, Svein Arne’s wimpy head comes into view.
Tiril just continues staring at the audience.
Is she not going to sing?
Hold on. It’s not the audience she’s looking at. It’s Mum. Tiril is staring at her mother and the empty chair beside her.
‘Do you hear me?’
Oh, Jesus.
Tiril.
‘Do you hear me?’
Malene peers along the row of chairs. Mum looks small and afraid, almost unrecognisable. Her cheeks are shiny, as though someone’s polished them. She’s crying, and it strikes Malene that she’s never seen her do that before.
‘There’s a girl lying in hospital,’ the icy voice says. ‘We know her. Everyone knows her.’
Now people breathe again. Their hearts are back in their chests, they’ve swallowed, the oxygen has returned to their heads and they breathe again. They move their feet cautiously and nod.
‘Sandra, I’ve been an idiot. You don’t deserve this song, Mum, and you don’t deserve it, Dad.’
Malene gives a start. She feels panic well up in her throat, takes out her mobile, finds Dad’s number and calls.
It’s ringing.
Come on, pick it up.
‘You were run over, Sandra. By the one who said he loved you.’
Frida Riska’s head and neck give a jerk and she sits up in her chair.
‘Daniel William Moi,’ Tirils says. ‘You know who he is. Veronika Ulland sat behind. You know who she is.’
Frida looks at the headmaster, he nods and she gets to her feet, almost stumbling as she makes her way along the row of chairs, mobile phone in hand.
‘They ran off,’ Tiril says. ‘That was gutless.’
Frida punches in a number, runs her hand through her hair and brings the phone to her ear.
‘We lied,’ Tiril says. ‘Sorry, Sandra. We’ll breathe on you now.’
Still ringing. Pick it up, Dad.
Voicemail:
Hi, you’ve reached Pål, I can’t take your call right now but leave a message after the beep.
I have to run, Malene thinks, as her body becomes aware of something her mind can’t comprehend, as she hears Tiril’s thin, birdlike, but beautiful voice begin to sing the song Malene hasn’t understood before now: ‘I’m so tired of being here.’
Malene throws open the doors, Mum sits in the hall watching one daughter sing and the other one run, and Malene gets out in front of the gym hall, places her feet on the tarmac, feels how strong her tendons are, feels how her body obeys her, not the slightest stinging, nothing. She carries her own weight across the tarmacked schoolyard, through the small streets, along the lane separating the terraced houses in Anton Brøggers Gate, across the playground and the green area beyond, ringing again, running with the phone to her ear, but her father doesn’t pick up and she slips on the grass as she nears the road by the low-rises, skids and falls, but gets back on her feet, and has the feeling of doing the right thing, but of getting there way too late.
‘Ow! Fuck! Owwwwwh!’
‘Pål?’
‘Owwwaaaah, owwahhhh, ouchouchouch!’
‘Hey, Pål?’
‘Arrrrghiiii, arrrrghiiii, ouchouchouchouch!’
‘Pål, we’ve talked about this, you can’t make this much noise.’
‘Woof, woof!’
‘Pål, didn’t you say that mutt wasn’t going cause any problems?’
‘Brrrr! Brrrr!’
‘Hey, Rudi! Can you turn off that mobile?’
Jan Inge extends both arms straight out, striking as much of a superior officer-type pose as he possibly can, to signal that he has now reached his limit. Pål writhes in pain, his mouth closed, blood running from his ear and over his neck, from the cut left by Tong’s knife across his cheek.
Jan Inge listens. The dog has quit barking. The mobile has stopped ringing. He lowers his arms and nods to Tong, who has folded the knife and put it back in his pocket. Tong takes a step closer to Pål. He raises his hand and plants the knuckle duster in his face. It is a clean blow, but once again Pål screams like it is the end of the world.
‘Pål! Keep it down! Will you please try and remember what we talked about? Go ahead and scream, but do it on the inside!’
The whimpering from the dog can once again be heard from the basement. Pål swallows his own sounds, his head hangs by tensed muscles in his neck, and all that escapes him are grunts.
‘Good, Tong,’ Jan Inge says, pleased, and he turns his head nearly 180 degrees and shouts in the direction of the stairs: ‘You find anything down there? You got the dog under control?’
‘No problem, it was just the screaming he didn’t like! Some nice stuff here, Buonanotte will be happy!’
Jan Inge nods and tightens his grip around the baseball bat he has in his hands.
‘Brrr! Brrrr!’
He is about to bring it down on Pål’s fingers when once again the telephone vibrates loudly on the table. ‘Rudi? Can you help out a little here? Could you at least turn off that damned mobile phone so I can get on with my job?’
‘Holy Mary, Mother of God, Jani, help out? I’m not even—’
Jan Inge stands with the bat raised above his head while he turns to look at Rudi who’s on his way to the kitchen, sulking over Jan Inge lavishing all his attention on Tong. ‘Hold on a sec,’ he says. ‘Who’s calling?’
Rudi lifts his hands in despair. ‘Was I supposed to turn it off or not to turn it off? I’ve switched it off now! You told me to switch it off!’
Jan Inge raises his eyebrows. ‘Fuck it,’ he says, and sets his jaw. He slams the bat down on Pål’s fingers; Pål twists his face in pain and howls even louder. The dog barks in the basement.
‘Pål. I’m going to get angry soon.’
Pål splutters noisily and the dog begins whimpering again.
‘Cecilie! Shut that dog up!’
Jan Inge places the end of the bat on the floor and leans on it, like a golfer. He listens. It is quiet again. The dog is calm. ‘All right,’ he says. ‘You need to learn to answer people when they’re talking to you, Pål. Things just get messy if you don’t. All right. Focus. Next step.’
‘Focus!’ Rudi says in encouragement, but Jan Inge is just not able to deal with his friend now, so he turns instead to Tong and offers him an inquiring look. Tong folds his arms and cocks his head.
‘Hmm,’ says Tong. ‘The fingers?’
He bends down and takes a pair of pliers from the bag.
‘I don’t know if we need to,’ Jan Inge says, ‘surely they’re already broken?’
Tong shrugs and puts the pliers down. ‘The nose?’
‘Hello? Lionel Ritchie? Am I not here?’
Once again Jan Inge ignores Rudi. He checks to see if Pål’s fingers are broken – four of them are – and then stands next to Tong. They both study Pål. He is not screaming, but he snorts as though in labour.
‘Well, yeah,’ Jan Inge says. ‘The nose. We probably ought to do that.’
Rudi peeps over their heads while he waves a broken-off chair leg casually around. ‘Why wouldn’t we?’
‘Why wouldn’t we,’
mimics Jan Inge. ‘What kind of answer is that? Is that your assessment, Rudi? Round and round we go and where we stop nobody knows?’
Cecilie comes walking up the basement stairs. She sighs when she sees Pål’s battered face, the wound from the corner of his mouth and the blood dripping on to his jeans.
‘Oh dear, Pål,’ she says in a gentle voice, ‘you should be glad you can’t see it. Can you keep it down a bit? Hm? For the sake of the dog?’
‘I think so,’ Pål replies breathlessly. ‘It’s just that it’s pretty tough going, this here.’
‘I understand that.’ Cecilie looks at Rudi, who has sat down on one of the kitchen chairs – after having first turned it demonstratively to face the window. He’s crossed his legs and folded his arms, one bagged foot bobbing up and down from the knee.
She leaves him be and turns to Jan Inge. ‘The nose?’
‘That’s what we’re standing here discussing.’
She lines up next to Tong and Jan Inge and studies Pål.
‘We need to do the nose,’ she says, in a firm voice. ‘The people that were here tonight – they would’ve done that, I think.’
‘They would,’ says Jan Inge, allowing himself time to reflect briefly on femininity and motherhood, how much he has missed them down through the years and how nice it will be to have them in the house.
‘We need to,’ says Tong.
‘Of course we need to,’ Rudi says, getting up from the chair.
‘But we hav—’ something between a sign and groan escapes Jan Inge.
‘True, but we can—’
‘We don’t really need to tal—’
‘Pål stamps on the floor. Jan Inge turns to him. ‘Yes, Pål? Did you want to say something?’
‘What are … what … are … you talking … about?’
Jan Inge shrugs. ‘Well,’ he explains, ‘it’s just that we have had a mishap with a nose before.’
‘Mishap? Whatkindamishap?’
‘It’s not really something we ought to be discussing with you, Pål. That just wouldn’t be right. Now we’re going to break it, it will hurt, but Tong knows what he’s doing. Put it this way, the mishap wasn’t his fault—’
‘Yeah, rub it in!’ Rudi shouts.
‘Rudi, don’t be so touchy. Remember what we talked about. Little good comes from taking affront. You only have to look at your brother.’
‘Rubitinbaby! You had to bring up that toe rag in Sandnes as well? One mistake and it haunts you for the rest of your life! I’m here too y’know, I do exist! What is it you’re always saying? That we’re a team? You’ll never walk alone? Well then, Mr Bullshit Writer, Mr Horror, what do you think it’s like not to be noticed? Just because that little Korean is back again? Have you forgotten your chocolate chip cookies, Manchurian Candidate? I WON’T STAND FOR THIS! ONE MISTAKE AND YOU’RE HAUN—’
Jan Inge fixes his gaze on a point picked in the air at random. He inhales and exhales, feeling like an adult in a nursery.
‘Rudi.’
‘Yes.’
‘We’ve talked about this.’
‘I don’t remember that.’
‘We have.’
‘Don’t remember.’
‘Rudi. We have. Talked about it. About you being touchy.’
‘Yeah, and? So are you.’
‘Yes, I can be now and then. But they’re two different conversations. We’re talking about you now.’
‘Okay, okay, but all the same. You can be touchy too. If we don’t like a film that you like for instance.’
‘Fine. I’m willing to accept the criticism. But. The thing is Tong is home. It’s his first day back at work. So it’s hardly unreasonable for him to get a bigger slice of the pie.’
‘The pie?’
‘A metaphor.’
Rudi nods. ‘Right, okay.’ He fills his mouth with air and it looks as though he’s playing the trumpet when he blows out.
‘As I was saying,’ Jan Inge says, regarding the situation as retrieved. He turns to Pål: ‘As I was saying, Tong knows what he’s doing. As opposed to certain other people,’ he adds, realising at the last moment it’s a bit much, but sometimes you have to tell the truth. ‘You’ll experience severe pain now,’ he concludes, ‘but then it’ll all be over. Can you live with that?’
Rudi is staring at the window again. But to no effect. Cecilie has noticed him sulking, and runs her hand up and down his back.
Pål nods.
Jan Inge raises a forefinger to his nose and taps it lightly. Tong lines up, a few feet from Pål. His concentration is a joy to watch, his Asian body perfectly balanced, before he takes a single preparatory step and plants his foot full in Pål’s face.
‘That was act one, in a way,’ says Jan Inge and watches the blood cascade from Pål’s nose. ‘Act two,’ he continues, ‘is somewhat shorter. Put your head back, Pål, it’ll help stem the flow of blood a bit. Act two. All that’s left to do, is break a couple of your ribs, and then we’ll go and get your stuff – how many things have you got on the list, Cecilie?’
‘Twenty-two in total’
‘Twenty-two. Great. And then we’ll be out of here in no time. Okay, Pål?’
Tong straightens up, assumes the stance in the centre of the room again.
‘Okay, Tong,’ Jan Inge says, laughing, ‘that’s enough now.’
Tong remains poised. His muscles flexed.
‘Tong?’
He takes one quick step and again lands his foot in Pål’s face.
This time making his whole head fly backwards, as if he has been shot, and Pål screams.
‘Tong! What the fu—’
He straightens up a third time, the others not managing to react before he again kicks out and strikes Pål full in the face. It is a slab of blood and mucus. The sound of Zitha barking comes from the basement.
‘Owwwwwwwwahhhhhhhhh!’
‘Je-sus,’ says Jan Inge and throws his hands up, ‘what are you doing?’
There’s a racket from the basement. Something falls over, something breaks, and the next moment the sound of paws coming up the steps. The door is pushed open and Zitha comes storming into the kitchen. The dog stops for a second, her head going from side to side, a feral look in her eyes, but when she catches sight of her master sitting beaten up and bound to a kitchen chair, she darts across the parquet. But before she gets there, Tong shoots out an arm, takes a vice-like grip on her by the scruff of the neck and holds her tight. The dog writhes beneath his hand, paws flailing and mouth snarling, and then, before anyone can blink, a blade flashes and a split second after, the knife is planted, the handle vibrating, in Zitha’s throat. She lets out a howl before she lies ruptured on the kitchen floor with her tongue hanging out and her front paws stretched out towards Pål.
‘Tong!’ Cecilie shouts. ‘What have you – Jesus Christ!’
Tong grins and turns to her. The knife is sticking out of Zitha’s neck.
‘Jan Inge! He’s killed the dog!’
Pål’s head rolls from left to right, his mouth twisted. ‘Zitha?! Zitha?! What’s happened? Zitha!’
Jan Inge gapes at Tong.
Tong points at Rudi and smirks.
‘Zitha! Hello? What’s happened?’
Tong pulls the knife from the dead dog and dries the blade on the arm of his jacket. He leans over to Pål. ‘Pål,’ he says, ‘let me tell you something. I’ve screwed Rudi’s woman. In prison. Once a week.’
The room is silent.
Jan Inge cannot form a single thought. Rudi’s eyes slowly enlarge. Cecilie’s head sinks towards the floor and she takes her hands to her cheeks. Pearls of sweat form on Jan Inge’s forehead, and then run from his armpits, his mouth is dry. He fumbles in his pocket for his inhaler, puts it to his mouth, sucks and feels the sweat trickle, and he does not resemble a company executive in the slightest.
I’ve seen this in movies, Jan Inge thinks. People letting you down when it counts.
‘Zitha,’ Pål sobs. ‘You’ve killed Zitha.’
Rudi begins to quiver. The towering man starts to shake, his eyes look like they are ready to burst out of his head.
‘You know what, Pål?’ Tong says calmly, ‘it was like coming in old lettuce.’ The room is even more silent now.
Tears run down Cecilie’s cheek.
Rudi is just quivering.
Pål swallows, several times in a row, while whispering: ‘Zitha. Zitha.’
‘And you know what else, Pål?’ Tong whispers. ‘I’m never going to work with this crowd again. Something new has come into my life, a symphony orchestra, and I’m going far away from here.’
This, thinks Jan Inge, sweating from every pore, while he has that gruesome feeling of being unable to open his mouth, of being unable to do anything at all, as though it were Mum lying in front of him like a damned compost heap and he was just standing there, looking at her, sweating, frightened, eight years old and unable to do anything at all; this is going straight to video.