See You Tomorrow (26 page)

Tiril is standing in Thea's kitchen, her chin thrust forward and resting on her hands, elbows leaning on the worktop. The light outside assails the window, almost in desperation, as though it'll fragment into something unknown at any moment. Tiril tries staring at it, but has to give in. She squints, blinking such that her eyelashes quiver in front of her vision, like a jittery fog.

‘Thea, you coming or what?'

They're always able to hang out at Thea's after school, never anyone else home until late. Her parents work so much; her dad is part of the management of Schlumberger and her mum works in marketing or advertising – they've no problem with Thea having people over. They're cool, Thea's folks. The family might be moving to Brussels, actually, something to do with her dad's job. Thea takes private piano lessons. Her parents like Tiril, even though her dad is always slagging her off, saying there are other colours in the world besides black. No, she says, black isn't a colour – black is the absence of light. Heh heh. That makes him laugh, he likes those kinds of answers.

‘Thea! Jesus, are you planning to get a move on?'

They have a lot to do. They're going to go through the plan for tomorrow, discuss all the things they need, what's left to do, and they're going to fine tune the choreography before tonight's dry run.

The radio plays on the windowsill, Thea's in the bathroom. Tiril traces her nail along the slit in her skirt and glances down at her hands. Can just about make out the faint lettering. She scrubbed off the tattoo – it just felt wrong somehow – after she gave Bunny's little brother a wallop. Almost as if the act itself had made the letters fall off her fingers.

She'd never hit anyone before. It hurt like hell when her hand made contact with his face, but at the same time it felt great. Right after she landed the punch a taste spread through her mouth, a pleasant taste, like vanilla. Tiril hopes Sandra and Malene realise that she did it for them. Because Malene struck her. Because Sandra needed help. She did it for Dad too, in a way. Shaun? Shaun's a maggot; it wasn't about him, that whole family are maggots. If they kick up a stink at school she can say it was about Shaun, that she acted in self-defence, that he's been pestering and picking at her for about a year, that she had to defend herself.

But it's not true. She did it for Malene. For Sandra. And for Dad.

Not that Tiril is superstitious. But.

It's a feeling she has.

Of things being connected.

For instance, if something is up with Dad – and Malene could be right – then her standing up for him might help. Even though the action she carries out may not be directly related to him, that's what she feels: that when she walloped Bunny's little brother, it made Dad's heart stronger.

Malene can sit in his lap. That's how it's always been. Tiril can't. It doesn't feel right. The few times she's tried to copy Malene and crawl on to his lap it felt like she was sitting on sharp stones. She can't do it. But she can do this.

Besides, nobody's said anything. She hasn't been told to go to the principal's office. People stared at her. They whispered and pointed. They were afraid, they didn't know what to say, they didn't know what to do. But everyone understood that she had a right to do it.

Tiril runs her nail quickly along the slit in her skirt, as though she were striking a match. She feels like having a smoke now, but there's no chance. Thea's parents are complete Nazis when it comes to smoking. If they knew Thea smoked now and again they'd hit the roof, and if they found a cigarette butt outside the house, even some flicked ash, they'd be furious. Once, she was out smoking on Thea's veranda and Thea was almost in tears; she said they'd smell
it when they got home. Smell it? They won't be home for another three hours. It'll seep into the house, said Thea.

‘Hello! Thea! Are you coming or what?'

She turns off the radio as Rihanna's new single comes on, can't bear that slut or her music.

‘Thea! Come on! Let me have a look at you!'

What was that?

Tiril straightens up and looks out.

She catches sight of some movement in the garden.

She cranes her neck and squints against the strong light above the lawn. The sun shining in beams through the branches of the apple tree. No, nothing. A cat, probably. She gets to her feet, walks over and opens the fridge. It's filled with food. Always is in Thea's house. Apple juice and orange juice. Always both. Milk and yoghurt. Cold cuts, several types of cheese and lots of vegetables. A bowl of fruit on the table. As well as one in the living room. Fresh grapes. They've plenty of money, Thea's family. They've two cars. One for each parent. They've a cabin, up in Ålsheia. Big place. Bigger than their house. Always smells nice in their home – they have a cleaning lady who comes once a week, a Polish girl. They've paintings on the walls, the whole hall is filled with framed family photos. Sort of prim, in a way, but nice as well. Thea has an iPad with retina display and she's ordered an iPhone 5. It's difficult not to be jealous of her.

Tiril takes out the apple juice, reaches for a glass in the cupboard above and pours herself some.

There it is again.

She stands stock-still. Squints.

A disturbance in her field of vision once more, as though something or other passed by out in the garden.

Tiril takes a sip of juice while her eyes narrow. She scans the lawn, between the trees and lets her gaze sweep along the hedge.

No, there's nothing.

‘Thea!' She turns towards the hall. ‘What is taking you so long, you coming or what?'

Tiril gives a start when she hears a thud, a loud one, as if something fell against the house. As though someone hurled a hammer
at the wall. She feels a chill take hold and spread across the back of her neck, right below the hairline, like a cold hand was just placed there. Her chest tightens.

‘Thea!'

She takes a few steps backwards across the floor of the kitchen, reaching the table and remaining there, one hand on the back of a chair, her eyes flitting from window frame to window frame. A door opens behind her, she turns quickly. Thea comes gliding across the floor all in white.

‘What was that?' she asks, knitting her brows. ‘Did you hear it?'

Tiril swallows, doesn't manage to comment on the outfit, just nods.

‘What was it?'

Tiril shrugs, Thea draws up beside her.

‘Tiril, what is it? Say something – do I not look good?'

‘Yeah, yeah, you look good,' she mumbles.

Thea follows her gaze as Tiril turns to look in the direction of the window. They remain standing beside one another. Thea is dressed up in the clothes she's going to have on when they perform. It looks just like Tiril had imagined, because white isn't a colour either: white top, white dress, white tights, new white shoes, bright red lipstick, her hair up and black nail polish on her fingernails.

‘What was that banging? What is it you're trying to see?'

Tiril takes a step closer to the window. ‘Nah,' she says, ‘nothing. Just some sounds was all. Probably some building work or blasting going on someplace. I took a glass of juice, by the way.' She looks her friend over. ‘Really good, Thea. The shoes are lovely. Your mum's?'

Thea nods.

‘It's exactly how I pictured it,' Tiril says, nodding. ‘It's going to be brilliant. A black piano. You in all white. Your lips all red. Heh heh, you'll be able to put that pout of yours to good use.'

‘Lay off.'

Thea waves a hand in protest.

‘The black fingernails.' Tiril nods in satisfaction. ‘The hair. It looks amaz—'

It comes out of nowhere. Slamming into the kitchen window like a bullet. In a microsecond everything turns red, the white pane of glass covered in a viscous, red pulp. The girls jump, spin around. Thea lets out a shriek and they both stagger backwards into the kitchen. Then the banging begins again, the thick, red muck runs slowly down the windowpane, the thumping builds, it intensifies, it's as though there are a load of people pounding on the house, striking it with hammers on all sides.

Tiril takes hold of the sleeve of Thea's dress and pulls her into the living room. The banging continues, they breathe in short gasps. Tiril places her hand over her mouth, she tugs Thea in against the wall, out of sight of the windows.

They both breathe heavily, and in time.

‘You know who it is, right?' Tiril whispers.

Thea is shit-scared, her lipstick is smudged above her top lip, she's shit-scared. ‘No,' she says, shaking her head. ‘Who?'

‘Don't you know?'

‘No!'

Tiril nods, as if confirming it to herself: ‘Bunny's big brother.'

Thea's eyes open wide. If she looked scared shitless a second ago she looks absolutely terrified now. ‘Bunny's big br—Fuck! Are you … are you … s-s-sure?'

The banging stops abruptly.

Tiril nods her head slowly.

‘Yeah, certain.'

‘How can you be certain?'

‘Because I am.'

‘What do they want,' Thea whispers. ‘Bunny's big brother and them?'

Tiril crouches down, takes hold of her sleeve again and leads her back into the kitchen. The loud pounding noises haven't resumed. Most of the red muck has run off the windowpane, with only a few leftovers still sliding downwards in slimy streaks.

‘What do they want?'

‘Come on,' says Tiril. She turns quickly and makes her way into the hall with Thea scurrying after.

‘What if they're still—'

‘Come on!'

Tiril slips on her shoes and opens the door. Thea stands behind her hesitantly, but when her friend walks out to the front of the house she follows reluctantly. Tiril can feel the tick of her pulse in her throat, the blood pumping in her fingers and she sucks on her tongue. She rounds the corner of the house to the garden. Takes a few steps on to the lawn.

Thea follows after, stepping gingerly, her white outfit shimmering as she walks across the grass. She looks like an elf.

Tiril's gaze sweeps the garden; it seems deserted. The lawn bears the imprint of feet. She looks at the window, soiled and smudged from the red pulp.

Thea's scream fills the garden.

Tiril turns to look. Her friend is pointing towards the big apple tree. Tiril follows her finger. Somebody has driven a huge nail through a cat's head and into the tree trunk behind. Dark blood still drips from the skinned, feline body.

‘Bunny's big brother,' Tiril whispers, looking at the dead animal. She feels a shudder at the back of her neck. She takes her cigarettes and lighter from her shirt pocket almost by reflex.

‘You can't smoke here,' Thea sniffles. ‘Mum and Dad will go spare.'

Tiril lights the cigarette.

‘What will we do now?' says Thea and swallows, her make-up running over her cheeks. ‘What if they come back?'

‘If they come back,' Tiril says, taking a deep drag of the cigarette and exhaling, ‘if they come back, they come back. We'll handle that. That family are seriously fucked up, Thea. Because I gave his little brother a wallop, he's sent his big brother after us; now all we're missing is Bunny.'

Thea closes her eyes.

‘Relax,' Tiril says. She looks around. ‘Have you got a garden hose? And a hammer? That's what we need, a hose and a hammer – and a black bin bag.'

‘Yeah, I think so,' Thea says, reaching out her hand. ‘Here, gimme a drag.'

Cecilie sat behind the silos, looking out over the fjord, for an hour and a half. No wind, scarcely a boat and hardly any people. Only a jogger who ran by in skintight gear. Only an old woman in a green coat out walking her dog. Only the calm water glittering in the white sunshine. Cecilie felt empty, she couldn't manage to collect her thoughts; she couldn't even manage to make out what she was thinking when she was thinking it. She tried to recall some old memories; maybe Mum had taken her here ages ago, while she was still in good health. Maybe she and Dad had come here once, while she was still a tot? Cecilie couldn't remember anything and she felt a chill on the back of her neck when she thought of never having been here before, even though she's sat here so often that she considers herself almost part of the landscape. She ate the cinnamon bun slowly, smoked, ate more of the bun and smoked some more. Then she gave a start, got quickly to her feet, suddenly frightened that some harm may come to the child from her bottom being so cold.

And now she's here. Now she's home, indoors, her bum is warm, the living room is warm, the house is quiet and her head is filled with thoughts. Her hands rest on her stomach. What kind of kid is inside her? Who's growing, who's going to be born into the world? Is it a healthy kid? Is it a mongo kid? Is it a horrible kid, as horrible as her? Is it a little shit of a kid? Is it a professor kid? Is it a Korea kid? Is it a Rudi kid?

Soon be dinnertime.

This house is poisoned.

She's lain on this same sofa, year in year out, thinking exactly the same thoughts. Watched horror films. Watched Rudi or Jani
walking in and out, carrying boxes of cigarettes, carrying TVs, carrying all kinds of shit. Lain here thinking the same thoughts: get away. And now she's lying here again, and not just by herself; she's two people and the problems are piling up around her. So much has happened in such a short space of time and Cecilie doesn't quite know who she is or what she's going to do. That's the thing about love, she thinks. It's so bloody difficult. She loves Rudi, just the idea of not being with him makes her so sad, but still the thought of him makes her want to throw up. And Tong? Is
that
love? She pictures him clearly, standing there, sees his rigid stare, hears the chugging of his breath, sees the sinews straining on his forearms:
I'd do anything for you.

Would you, Tong?

Anything for Cecilie?

Would you kill Rudi for me, Tong?

She puts her hands in front of her and pushes at the air, as if to shove her problems away. She feels like having ice cream. She felt the same way yesterday, and the day before that as well, and she has to smile because now she realises what it is.

‘Baby,' she whispers, gets to her feet, scoots into the kitchen, opens the freezer and says, ‘of course you can have ice cream.'

She takes out a three-litre of Neapolitan. Then quickly grabs a spoon from the cutlery drawer. She opens the tub, using all her strength to sink the spoon into the firm ice cream, sees it bend back, the ice cream yielding. She sits down and starts to eat. Can't manage to stop, can't manage to stop.

Cecilie closes her eyes.

Ah sweet Jesus, that's so good.

‘Fuck's sake, what are you at now?! Ice cream? Right before dinner?!'

Weird – she didn't hear them coming in. She didn't hear the car, the stomping, the slamming of doors. Rudi stands in front of her shaking his head. She doesn't dignify him with a glance, just brings another spoonful to her mouth.

‘Oh yeah,' Rudi says, smiling, ‘you're my woman, Chessi, from here to eternity and the whole way back, and I'm damned if I'm going to come between you and your ice cream. Let me look at you.'

He reaches both his hands towards her face but she recoils, can't stomach the thought of him touching her, just can't stomach it.

‘Heh heh,' says Rudi. ‘Jani! Come on in and take a look at this girl who's all sexied up from the skincare shithole. She's radiant! Hey, Jani, there's a sunbeam sitting in our kitch—'

Jan Inge walks in and Rudi lowers his voice.

‘Yeah, a sunbeam, in our kitchen.'

They look at her.

‘We'll have to have you do this once a month,' says Rudi, then bends over and gives her a peck on the cheek, and once again she recoils.

‘She doesn't want her make-up ruined, all fancy now,' Rudi laughs. ‘Just how it ought to be. That's why we have women in the world, so they can look good. Yesss – and we've had a killer day, I can tell you that. Rudi has been able to knock some sense into Hansi's head, we've got a van and a trailer, so you don't need to worry about the car, baby. You can drive out to Åne and have a real good time.'

Cecilie is momentarily thrown. ‘A good time?'

‘Aerosmith, the open road, good humour … you know. The lot!'

She puts the tub of ice cream down. No one, absolutely no one, can be so simple and good and as full of energy as Rudi. When he stands in front of her, his face lit up like a little boy's and he showers her with loving droplets from his heart, then it's completely impossible to imagine a single day without that bloody idiot.

She smiles at him.

She hadn't planned to.

But she does.

‘Moron,' she says.

‘Yup! That's me,' Rudi says, laughing. Then he walks into the hall. ‘The moron is heading down into the basement to get a few things ready for tomorrow – how many baseball bats? Three, I guess. Tong is coming along after all, nothing he likes more than smashing things with a bat. Fuck me, this moron can't wait to see that little Korean again!'

Sometimes she thinks that he's jabbered away so much in this
house that sooner or later the walls and the floors will learn how to speak, and the day they do, they're going to sound like Rudi. Cecilie gets up. He can't wait to see Tong again, that's what he says. What a fucking mess. What'll I do? Maybe I'll just tell him, right now?
Hey Rudi, I'm screwing Tong! He might be the father of the baby you don't know about!

She stretches out.

Then we'd see a murder.

It's not criminals who are behind all the killings in society.

It's love.

Jan Inge has already started making the food. He's put on the apron they bought in Houston the last time they visited Dad, seven years ago, the purple-and-white one with ‘Fuck Y'all I'm from Texas' written across it.

‘I'm going to have a kip for a half-hour,' she says, and leaves the room. ‘Call me when dinner's ready.'

‘Don't I always?'

She sighs and walks down the hall.

‘Yes, you do,' she says in a low voice. ‘What is it, by the way?'

‘Fishcakes!' comes the reply from the kitchen.

Cecilie opens the door, falls on to the bed. Fishcakes, she thinks, I couldn't face a morsel of fishcake.

She knows things will be different in the future, but how exactly, she doesn't have a clue. She wants ice cream and she wants to sleep. Her body is so heavy. She never had many muscles, but now it feels like she has none at all.

She sinks into the mattress.

She takes out her mobile, pulls up her list of contacts, and presses on a number. It takes a little while before a click sounds and a voice says:

‘Hi, you've reached Thor Haraldsen and Southern Oil. I'm not here at the moment. Please leave a message and I'll be sure to call you back.'

She takes a breath. ‘Hi Dad,' she says. ‘Just Cecilie here … well, not calling about anything in particular. I just remembered … I was out stretching my legs today and … didn't you and I used to take walks down behind the silos? I was just wondering if you,
like, remembered that? All right. Hope everything's good. Talk to you again. Bye bye. Feel free to give me a ring. Talk soon. Bye bye.'

She sinks down into the mattress, sinks and sinks.

A half-hour later Cecilie is sitting at the dining table in the living room with Rudi and Jan Inge, the table that's been there since she was a child. This is the nice time of the day, but not for her. She might have thought so before but not now. Motörhead fills the room,
Iron Fist
at full blast, and nobody speaks; they just relax, as well as they can, all of them. That's how it is every day. Rudi and Jan Inge love this part of the day, peace and calm and heavy metal. Not everyone understands just how peaceful Motörhead can feel, Rudi maintains. Jan Inge says that even though he's a country man in his heart of hearts, that it's actually this time of the day that all his thoughts take shape.

This used to be really nice, I used to enjoy it too, thinks Cecilie. But I'm not able to feel that way any more.

Maybe I shouldn't go on living, she thinks, feeling just as tired as before she slept. Maybe not, little baby. Maybe that would be for the best. That neither you, nor I, lived. That we were the ones to die. We, who don't know who your father is. You, who have an ugly slut of a mother. Me, with a slut's baby in my tummy. Maybe that would be best? My little baby? So people wouldn't have to be bothered with us? So they wouldn't have to beat each other to death? Wouldn't have to hate each other?

Hm?

Baby?

Just a little?

Just die a little?

You and me?

Baby?