Death By Water (4 page)

For some reason or other Jacket returns to the subject Jo least of all wants to talk about. He doesn’t answer, and maybe Jacket finally understands; at least he stops going on about it. Instead Jo begins to talk about the girl in the next-door apartment. She’s got long legs and tits and she’s a real looker. Just the right haughtiness, a bit of a princess like.

– What are you going to do? Jacket wants to know, and offers Jo the cigarette again.

– Do?

– To get talking to her. Don’t just sit here having fantasies about her.

Jo doesn’t have any plans and is open to advice from someone who probably knows a lot about this kind of stuff.

– What’s her name?

Jo shrugs his shoulders.

– You want to find that out, says Jacket. – It’s important to know the names of things. It gives you a head start. Which apartment are you in?

– 1206.

– And the girl’s, is that further down? Wait here.

Jacket gets up and disappears in the direction of the hotel. It’s good to be sitting there after he’s gone. On the far side of the wall, way down below the terrace, he hears the breakers. A light blinking out there in the darkness, a ship making its way through the night. And if he leans his head back, he can see constellations he doesn’t recognise, with a satellite gliding in and out between them.

Four or five minutes later Jacket comes back. He’s carrying two Cokes, gives one to Jo and flops down into the deckchair again.

– Her name is Ylva.

– Who?

Jacket grins. – The girl you were talking about. Her name is Ylva Richter. All I had to do was ask at reception.

Jo’s eyes narrow to two slits.

– Thought maybe I could get things started for you, Jacket adds, in a slightly different voice, maybe noticing how uneasy Jo looks. – Girls are a healthy interest. Better than the Boy Scouts and sport and schoolwork.

Jo relaxes again. Jacket’s a cool guy. Hard to figure out how he can be bothered to take an interest, to sit and talk like that with a twelve year old. Not pretend conversation, but the real thing. About stuff that matters. Jo doesn’t need to think about Mother and Arne making fools of themselves in there in the restaurant. He isn’t them. Doesn’t give a shit about them.

He’s walking in the sand. It’s burning, but he doesn’t feel it. The white light forces its way in everywhere. Ylva Richter is walking alongside him. She’s wearing the bikini with the red hearts on.
I know a place where no one can see us
,
she says.
A cave where we can be on our own
. They carry on towards the end of the beach. Around them are flowers growing straight up out of the sand.
How can anything grow in a place like this?
asks Ylva. Jo doesn’t know the answer to that, so maybe she doesn’t ask that after all, but snuggles up to him as he puts his arm around her naked shoulder.

Just then he hears the chinking of keys outside. He grabs a towel and pulls it over himself.

Mother is standing there. Leaning up against the door post.

– Hey, sweetie, she smiles as she peers into the room at him. She’s spilt something red on the strap of her dress. – Sitting in there in the dark, are you?

He makes a face in reply.

– I felt a bit tired, me, she explains as she steps out of her high-heeled sandals.

She gets a bottle of water from the fridge, fills a glass, drinks. It dribbles from the corners of her mouth and down into the red, sunburnt gap between her breasts.

Afterwards she comes into the living room, strokes his hair as she passes, bends over Nini, listens to her breathing, turns again, standing right up close to him.

– Wonderful to have such a smashing big brother.

Her voice is woozy at the edges, and overflowing. But she isn’t sloshed. She gives him a hug, kisses him on the cheek. Her breath smells of wine, and the perfume is like lilac. He turns away, but not completely.

She goes to the toilet. Pees for a long time. Flushes, washes her hands. Directly after, she opens the door slightly.

– Are you going to sit here like this in the dark all evening?

He shrugs his shoulders. – There aren’t any more rooms.

– Come in here with me for a bit. We need to have a chat now and then.

He follows her. She clears clothes away from the double bed, knickers and tops and a wet bikini, hangs it over the suitcase lid in the corner, lies down on the blanket. Jo leans up against the wall.

– Sit down here, she says, patting the edge of the mattress.

He does as she says. Can’t be bothered telling her what he thinks about her drinking and making a fool of herself so that everyone laughs at her.

– You’re a nice boy, Jo, she says, and he wants to ask her to shut up. Or explain what she means by that. – You know, things haven’t been all that easy recently, she says. He knows all about that. And nothing about it. Doesn’t want to know either. He’s afraid of what will happen if she starts discussing it. – It’s not always easy for me, she says, and he wants to get up again, can hear in her voice that any moment now she’s going to start whimpering again. – There’s a lot you don’t know, Jo. She strokes the back of his head. – I need a proper cuddle, she says. He can’t face the thought of bending over her. But he can hear her snivelling, in complete silence. He moves his legs, about to stand up; she probably thinks he’s doing it to turn towards her, and she pulls him down on to the bed. One leg remains on the floor, the other is on the covers. – You’ve always been my best boy, you know. I’ll always take care of you. She’s lying, he thinks, and the lilac smell is so strong he feels he’s going to puke at any moment. And behind it, the smell of her skin, sweat and onions, and something that reminds him of the kitchen cloth when it hasn’t been wrung out for several days and he finds it under the dishes in the sink. His leg is aching; he has to pull it up into the bed, lies there with his whole body next to her. She has one arm round him. The other is lying along his thigh. He feels something happening down there, something she mustn’t notice, but he can’t manage to turn away, and she holds him even tighter. – You’re a nice boy, Jo. So nice … so nice.

Mother is whimpering in the bedroom. Drowned out by Arne’s snoring. Jo has seen something about snoring on TV. They said people who snore don’t live as long. They get bad hearts before other people and can die without warning.

– I’m hungry, Nini whines.

– I’ll get something for you.

– Mum should do it.

– She’s sleeping.

– Mum should do it!

– Then you’d best do it yourself, Jo snarls. – There’s a yoghurt in the fridge.

She has tears in her eyes.

– Don’t like yoghurt.

He feels like lashing out at her, standing there moaning. Or throwing open the bedroom door and grabbing hold of Mother by the hair and dragging her out of bed.
Nini is hungry, do you hear, you fucked-up cow? She’s three years old and hungry.
And if Arne wakes up and starts throwing his weight around, getting a beer can from the shelf in the fridge and smashing it down on his sleepy, bad-tempered face.

– Let’s go and eat breakfast, Truls suggests as he pulls on his shorts. – Then afterwards take Nini down to the beach.

Jo spins round, lifts his arm to give him a clout. Truls starts and jumps back. Jo leaves him alone. Kid brother is always having bright ideas about what to do. Irritating, but he means well.

– Okay. Jo’s anger slips off him. At least some of it. – Help Nini on to the toilet. I’ll go over and save a table for us.

The time is 8.30. As usual, the dining room is packed. He stands in the doorway and looks round. Fortunately everybody’s bound up with their own business. Only a few old people near the door stare at him. A woman with a white headband round her grey hair whispers to an old bloke, and Jo is certain it’s something about him. About Mother, and Arne. He turns, about to leave. Someone calls his name. Daniel stands up at a table out on the terrace and waves to him. When Jo doesn’t respond, he comes over.

– Do you want to sit with us?

Daniel’s wearing a Metallica T-shirt and dark-red shorts, and cool sunglasses that look like they cost a lot. – We’ve got room.

Jo glances across. A woman in a thin dress sitting with her back to them. Her hair is darker than engine oil. Next to her a powerfully built man, and at the end of the table a boy about Nini’s age. Family. Having breakfast together. Got an extra place out on that blistering hot terrace. Someone could go over to that table and start smashing at it with a sledgehammer.

– The others’ll be here any moment, Jo manages to blurt out. – I need to find places for all of us.

– Wanna play beach footie afterwards?

Daniel doesn’t give up, stands there waiting for him to say something. It mustn’t happen now, he hears the thought race through him. Not right in front of Daniel and his family and a pack of staring faces. He spots a vacant table and makes his way over to it. It hasn’t been cleared after the last guests. Plates with bits of egg, bacon fat, and grape pips in a serviette. Coffee dregs in the cups. Truls arrives with Nini trailing behind. Jo orders him to clear the table. Goes and fetches a huge bowl of cornflakes for Nini.

– I want Honni-Korn, she protests.

– You’ll take what you’re given, he growls, and for once she realises there’s no point in complaining any more. – Look here, four spoonfuls of sugar. That’ll taste good.

Truls laughs loudly. He’s managed to fix himself up with fried potatoes, bacon and a whole lot of ketchup.

– This place is cool, he says happily.

Jo chews down a slice of bread and jam. He keeps an eye on the table where Daniel’s family are sitting. The mother gets up and heads towards the exit. She’s slim, and the black dress clings to her. Reminds Jo of a film star whose name he can’t recall. The father has finished too, but sits there listening to something Daniel is talking about. He has curls on the back of his neck and looks like he does a lot of training with weights.

The girl he’s been waiting for comes in, accompanied by the fat, fair-haired one. They hang their bathing towels up by a table just inside the open sliding doors, not far from Daniel’s. They pass by less than two metres away on their way to the buffet. Jo doesn’t look at her, but she looks at him, he’s certain of it. Jacket advised him not to show too much interest. And then suddenly strike. Jo is massively relieved he’s alone there with Truls and Nini. Maybe the girl hasn’t seen him with Mother and Arne. Maybe she doesn’t have to know about them at all.

Less than three minutes later, she’s heading back, carrying a tray. She’s just been swimming; her bikini makes a wet patch on her bottom. It’s the one with the hearts on, Jo can see that through the thin yellow skirt she’s wearing, the one that was hanging to dry on the balcony the day before. Her name is Ylva, Ylva Richter. If Jacket is to be believed. Why shouldn’t he believe Jacket? He’s funny and he’s famous. And for some reason or other, interested in what interests Jo. Jo looks round to see if Jacket is there. But it strikes him that Jacket isn’t the type to take an early breakfast. More the type to sit up all night smoking and reading over and over again poems about drowned Phoenicians.

Before Jo has finished his first slice of bread, Ylva stands up. Between the yellow skirt and an even shorter top, her stomach is visible. She has a ring in her navel. Jo has never seen that before. He can’t stop himself from staring at it. And beneath the top her breasts jig up and down when she walks. He forces himself to look away. Girls don’t like it if you slobber over them, Jacket might have said.

As she disappears around the corner, Jo gets up. – Stay here with Nini.

– Where are you going?

– Toilet. You don’t go anywhere, got that?

Truls chews away on a stub of sausage and doesn’t look to be in any hurry at all.

– Back in a few minutes, Jo calls over his shoulder.

He leans forward and peers at the neighbouring balcony. The door is closed and the curtain drawn. But she’s in there, he doesn’t doubt it for a moment. All quiet in the bedroom. Can’t even hear Arne snoring. Maybe his heart’s stopped; maybe he’s lying in bed blue in the face, with his fat tongue poking out of his gob. Maybe he’s turned over in his drunken stupor and smothered Mother as well. In that case Jo will have to take Truls and Nini and leave there. Sit next to Ylva on the plane.
You can live with me
, she says.
What about Truls and Nini?
he asks.
I have to take care of them. They’ve got no one else.
She leans up against him.
My parents can adopt them. They’ll be well looked after.

He does it without any more thought. Sneaks out, over to the neighbouring door. Knocks. No answer. Is he maybe not meant to speak to her? Knocks again. Suddenly shuffling footsteps inside.

– Who is it?

Ylva’s voice. He’s struck again by something he noticed at the pool the other day. She has a sort of Bergen accent. The thick way she rolls her rs. Bergen or somewhere round there. He feels a desire to say her name, but controls himself.

– It’s me … I live next door.

She opens up. She’s wearing a tank top and shorts. A towel round her head, like a turban.

– Hi, says Jo.

– Hi?

– I live next door, he says again.

– Yeah?

She says it as though she’s never seen him before.
I live next door
, he’s about to say for the third time.
Can I come in?

Sit on their sofa. Hold her hand. The look in her eyes doesn’t suggest anything like that.

– Can I borrow a tin opener? he says, rescuing himself, relieved at how natural it sounds. Tin openers are things anyone might need, any time. A common thing to borrow from a neighbour.

– Tin opener? She glances towards the kitchen. – Let’s see if we have one.

She pushes the door to. Doesn’t ask him in. No wonder, considering how surprised she was.

Next moment she’s back again, holding out a metal thing, a combination bottle opener and tin opener, with a corkscrew you fold out. Exactly like the one that was in their own kitchen drawer when they arrived and which is now on Mother’s bedside table.