See You Tomorrow (5 page)

It’s quiet in the car now.

Just the hum of the engine and the sound of the wheels on the tarmac.

Rudi has never liked silence. The feeling of people just waiting to drop a bombshell. Sitting there mulling over some pickle or another they can’t face talking about. Speech is silver, Granny said, but silence is golden. Well, Gran, my respect for you is as infinite as the love of the Lord, but that’s where we differ.

Rudi has been told loud and clear. On more than one occasion, to put it mildly. That there can be a bit too much gabbing.

Okay!

All right!

But there can be a bit too much bloody silence as well.

Rudi sees the reflection of his face in the rear-view mirror. Behind that, he sees Chessi resting her head against the back seat and closing her eyes. No, love. Who would’ve believed it that time he called into Jani’s house and set eyes on his freckly little sister, lying in her bedroom, getting her brains fucked out beneath posters of horses and dogs? No, those days are long gone, that was Jani’s psycho plan. Renting out your sister like she was a movie. You’d have to be right twisted to be at that.

Here you go. Help yourself. This is my sister. Cunt retail.

‘Eh? Chessi? You there?’

Good thing she met me, thinks Rudi, replacing the silence with his own thoughts. No telling where she would have wound up if her best customer hadn’t caught sight of the person behind the pussy. And, Jesus, the amount of times he’s wanted to beat the shit out of those mongrels who got the chance to fuck her before he came on the scene. If he ran into them today he’d skin them
alive, bit by bit. It’s twenty-seven years since he saw those bulging eyes for the first time. Twenty-seven years since he deserted the Tjensvoll Gang; thanks for the apprenticeship, handy to know you should gaffa-tape a table leg to get a good grip. Handy to know which slim jim to boost a Beamer with. Handy to know how it feels to kick a man in the back of the head! Old memories; salut Tommy Pogo, salut Frax and Stix and Hex, salut Rikke Clit and Baps and J-J-Janne D-D-Dobro, salut Fresi and Christer Imfuckinoff, salut Janka Bat. Rudi needs to be getting on in life. My folks are moving to Hillevåg. Heh heh. Right into the arms of Jani. There’s always someone who wants to live outside the law and there’s no better leader than Jan Inge Haraldsen, is there now?

Twenty-seven years of love.

‘Hmm? Chessi? Baby? Are you there? Ready to do a bit of work?’

No reply.

Give her some time. Ha. Renting out his sister like she was a video. Hard to stomach for a family man like Rudi. But how long are you going to store up old shit? Now everything has calmed down nicely, it’s not something they talk about all the time, no more than Rudi can stand anyone bringing up his parents, not to mention that rabid brother of his out in Sandnes, and that psychotic witch he’s married to.

They’ve put it behind them. In the name of love. Chessi and him have stood strong, and what with the unbelievable number of divorces going on all around, society is just about ready to go under: is it any wonder they vote for the Christian Democrats? Listen here, Mr Socialist Homo: walk around in your slippers. Play your protest songs. Listen to The Smiths and The Tits and The Pits. Somebody has to show people what’s right and what’s wrong in this world, and one thing’s for sure, love, that can’t be explained, but it’s always right, which is pretty much the gist of what it says in The Good Book which Rudi always keeps in the bedside drawer.

She was only thirteen the first time he saw her, and some people may well think that’s sick, but Rudi doesn’t give a flying fuck what they think. Because the truth is: from the day he saw that chestnut
hair, that freckly body and those cracked lips, Rudi knew Cecilie Haraldsen would be his. And that – oh yes – that’s just like it was with Granny and Granddad. They stuck together. Weathered all the storms. That’s just how it was,
and
that’s just how it is with Chessi and me,
he thinks and feels a swelling in his chest, the way he always does when something moves him. And the feeling can be just as intense whether you’re listening to some good metal or have brought in a nice bit of cash on a warehouse job because you’ve got a leader who did the groundwork, got hold of a key card and checked times and routines, or like when, for the
fifty thousandth time
, you get an eyeful of what a bloody good woman you
actually
have.

Itsthetwoofusbaby.

Tong’s getting out on Friday. Be good that. About time.

Hey Tong, you sick Korean!

Rudi orders himself to give Cecilie more time and meets his own face in the rear-view mirror. No, he thinks, if there’s something I bloody well am not, it’s good-looking. It’s that long line of dishcloths. Dad’s side. Dishcloth genes. Looked like pin cushions, the lot of them. A minefield, all over his skin, wrinkled and scarred. And what about a little colour? A little pigment? Oh no, we’ll make you pale and anæmic. But we’ll make your lips big! Not just a bit big, but biiiiig. And your teeth? Rudi bares his teeth in the mirror. Jesus. They look like nails. They’re crooked, all of them, as though they aren’t doing anything in his mouth other than fighting. His hair, on the other hand, that’s okay. He hasn’t started going grey, and as for hair loss, none of that. Colour is a tad dull maybe, this mousy blond tone, hairdo’s a bit crap, sort of half long with no style, but it’s hair all the same. But good looks, they do not run in the family. Even Granny, that angel, was pig ugly.

A smile spreads across Rudi’s face and he can’t manage to keep his mouth shut any longer:

‘Chessi? You know… fuck, you know… right? That Rudi damn well loves you like crazy? That if you left me I’d kill everyone and everything around me? You know that, right? That you’re mine? That I’m yours?’

But no.

‘Hmm? Baby? A kind word for a kind man?’

Not a fucking peep.

‘Hmm? I yours? You mine?’

Fifteen. Yeah, so what?

20:54

Daniel pulls out a pack of cigarettes. Takes one out.

In the old days girls had kids when they were fifteen. They were a damn sight more grown up back then. Boys were able to do everything when they were fifteen. No fuss made about how old the girls could be. Now it's all a big to-do. Everything's supposed to be so meaningful the whole time, everything has to be so open and curious and ecological, and he doesn't know what his foster mother and the ones from Child Services are on about. He's been at enough meetings; open get-togethers, my ass – more like they've just made up a load of stuff because they're after getting some ideas in their heads.

For Daniel it's simple.

He pulls his leather jacket tighter around him and lights up the cigarette.

All he wants is to be with girls and get it on with them and for them to get it on with him. Sandra is fifteen and she's fit as fuck. She has a glow around her. He's been with other girls but he's never gone all the way. He's got his hands on tits, licked tits and snogged so much he was almost bored of it – up until he started snogging with Sandra. It was as though his whole mouth became electric, as if something happened, physically, to his tongue, making him just want more.

He's mucked about a lot with tits, he's stuck his fingers into plenty of girls, stuck them in and rubbed. He likes it and all, but sometimes he feels he's lying there rubbing away like you'd scrape at some candle wax stuck to a table. He's kissed a girl between the legs, in a bedroom at a party, but that was a disaster. She was
shitfaced, and even though he wasn't that drunk it was no good, she smelt rank, tasted rank too. It'll get better with time. He's going to be a world-beater. Requires practice. A steady relationship. Figure out where to find the right spots, do it the right way.

Daniel balances the cigarette between his lips while he tosses the moped helmet from one hand to the other. Stupid bloody Child Welfare.
What's missing from your life, Daniel?
Wha? Missing? Eh, a moped?
A moped? We can talk about that, Daniel, if you show yourself deserving of the trust placed in you
. Three months later: Ha fucking ha. 20,000 kroner on eBay. Suzuki AC50 from 1978. A sweet second-hand moped at Child Services' expense. Newly overhauled engine, new tyres, wiring, wheel bearings, battery, rebored barrel and a new piston. The red paintwork was just a little worn, but he fixed that himself.

The ladies like a dude with a bike.

Compared to his mates he's lagging behind when it comes to women. He's the only one in the band who hasn't gone all the way. Dejan has so many women on the go it's nuts, probably because he's a Serb, looks dangerous and has scars across his back and his face. Should see Dejan rolling dice, he looks seriously Mafioso.

Still though, it's strange, because Daniel is popular. He's
good-looking,
he knows that. But it's just never quite worked out; does he scare the women away?

Daniel takes a drag of the cigarette and leans his head back against the corner of the substation wall while he fiddles with the strap on the helmet. He's getting closer to it with Sandra. Maybe because he's able to behave in a different way with her than with other girls. Maybe he's learnt a little from living with Veronika? It's different when you live with them, you pick up on things, see what girls like and what they don't like. She's okay, Veronika. Bit weird, maybe. All right, so she's deaf, so what? He knows exactly what he'd do to anyone who said a bad word about her, they can just go ahead and try it, if they want their eyes cut out of their heads.

A lot of things have been different with Sandra. He feels he can be more of a man. He can tell her stuff like how sexy she looks in those jeans, and she lights up and beams like a funfair. Same with that facial expression she gets. When her dimples show and the
wings of her nose expand and her mouth kind of begins to twitch. Jesus, she's cute when she does that.

Girls.

That's what life's all about.

Bollocks to all that other shit and bollocks to the past, that's for sure.

Play the drums. Work out. Drink beer. But above all, girls.

20:56. She'll be here soon.

It was mental yesterday.

It was as though a glowing light came rolling over the gravel. She came running across the football pitch, her forehead sweaty, small, sexy, shy and sure of herself all at the same time, scared someone might see her. So they went into the woods and got up to a bit of the usual stuff. Hugging and kissing, he put his hand on her ass, both inside and outside her jeans, felt her thighs, placed his hand on her crotch, but only through the jeans, and he pressed himself against her, he always does that, because he gets such a hard-on he doesn't know what to do with it. And then he said the things that make her light up, how sexy she is in those jeans, how cute she looks when she makes that face and that he likes how her lips glitter. And he felt her tits, obviously. You can't be with girls without getting the tit, that'd just be weird. He pulled down her top a little, so he could kiss her nipples. And then.

It was fucking mental.

She stopped and looked at him. When they were tonguing, or maybe when he was trying to work his hand further down her ass. No, it was when he was feeling her tits. They're amazing, he doesn't like big tits, they're too much, big jugs screw up the whole mood, and he doesn't know what to do with really small ones, even though they're sexy in a dirty sort of way. But Sandra's tits, they're amazing. They just sit there looking dead good. So there he was, busying himself with her tits, and then, out of nowhere, she stops and almost pushes him away. She practically had tears in her eyes, they were moist and glistening anyway, and he didn't understand a thing,
shit, is she crying?
But then, all of a sudden, she puts her hands behind her back, while Daniel just stands there thinking
okay, okay, what's going on, keep cool,
and then: Holy fuck.

She starts taking off her bra. In the middle of the woods.

She has her hands round her back and she unhooks the bra, and then, quick as a flash, performs some sleight of hand where she jiggles the strap and pulls the bra out her sleeve, so that her tits are actually just dangling there behind that grey cotton top, and Daniel just breathes, gulps and says
Oh Jesus, Oh Jesus
, and he has no idea what the fuck he's going to do, but he doesn't need to do anything, because this is happening by itself, this well fit girl is standing in front of him taking off her top. Is he in heaven? Are there angels in the air? He's got such a hard-on he thinks he's going to croak, but he just remains standing there, because he needs to take this in, needs to take a photograph and glue it to his brain, if there's one scene from life that he wants to remember every pissy little worthless day, then it's this: Sandra taking off her top in the woods.

Then she stands there.

Just her and her tits.

Some girls. They can look like buttercups. But then. Then they get warmed up. Then something else emerges. Then the floodgates open. They can be some randy little hornbags, so they can.

Oh sweetfuckingjesus, so nice. Almost make you believe in God. It's precisely those kinds of things, like what he experienced there, that happiness is made off. Of course it is.

But a steady relationship?

Daniel's fingers are cold. He feels the urge to scratch them against the rough surface of the substation wall.

Watch yourself, Daniel.

That kind of thing brings about ashes and devil's treasure. Eventually the ground opens up beneath your happiness, and fangs start snapping at you from below.

He puts the chaos out of his mind and flicks the cigarette into the gathering darkness.

20:58.

‘Hey, baby? You not going to say anything? Eh? Come on, screw napping, darling, youandme? Youandmeandyourbody? Europe, eh?’

The Volvo is approaching Gosen Forest, and the darkness around them is deepening. Rudi’s voice fills the car and it’s so intense it reeks like a compact stench. Cecilie catches her breath. She rests her neck against the back of the seat, puts her hand in her pocket, takes out a pack of cigarettes and lights up a new one. Europe? She loves Europe, but this isn’t about Europe.

His eyes. She sees them in the rear-view mirror. His pupils are zipping round like rubber balls.

Cecilie closes her eyes, inhales the smoke and feels her body relax. I could have had a life, she thinks, I could have had something that was mine, but I don’t.

‘Eh? Ride on the joycock? Metal up your ass?’

Sometimes she’s so tired of that rasping voice, of him going on, that she feels like throwing up just being in the same room. But she loves him as well. In a screwed-up way. It’s been like that for as long as she can remember. She loves his blabbermouth, loves his stupid lips that look constantly swollen, and she loves his flapping hands, but she doesn’t understand why any more.

Cecilie doesn’t have the energy to reply. She misses Dad. That Houston doofus, why did he have to leave? He ruined everything and she’s furious with him, but still misses him. You hear me, Dad? You just left, and here I am with Jani and Rudi. What if I want a life as well? Did anybody think of that?

Kids? A house? Some normal stuff?

‘Hey? You know, as far as I’m concerned it isn’t Rihanna or Michelle Williams that’s the hottest chick of 2012! It’s you!’

That’s what life served her up: sitting at Jani’s watching horror movies. Living in the same house for the fortieth year in a row. With a basement smelling of rot, paint peeling off the walls and mouldy old carpets. That’s what she’s been dished up: being the girlfriend of a guy, two metres tall, with ADHD and bomb-crater skin, who drives around in a stupid Volvo, does break-ins on speed, talks the face off people and has an insane relationship with his family. That’s her life: not to have a life of her own.

Cecilie swallows phlegm and exhales.

‘Hey, baby, remember the first time? Eh? Twenty-seven years ago, and it’s still as good! Eh, why so quiet, Missy Cissy! Heh heh! Do you get it? Cissy?’

Poor Jan Inge. 120 kilos now. That’s way too much. Poor, fat boy. He is keeping the house and the business together, but he has little, frightened pinhead eyes, and he is my brother, she thinks. He’s never been quite right in the head. People don’t know him. They think he’s an asthmatic loon with a twisted childhood, and they hear rumours about all the things Videoboy has done, and then they think he’s a psycho who just sits there watching horror movies.

But that’s not the whole truth.

They don’t know what a big heart he has.

It’s big enough to beat for the whole world.

‘By all means, Chessi. It’s up to you! As long as you can suck cock, I won’t complain about the lack of words coming out of your mouth. Heh heh, you can say what you want, but we can hold our own, youandmeagainsttheshit! Just take a look around, and I mean right outside the window here, you’ve got the internet and divorces all day and all night.’

Cecilie looks at Rudi’s bobbing head, his hands tapping on the wheel. She knows every inch of that scarred body. Now and then she thinks Rudi is a country and she’s a settler there. Sometimes it’s a pleasant thought, sometimes it’s terrifying.

To think it’s possible to loathe a man like I loathe him, and love a man as much as I love him. It doesn’t make sense.

Months and years have gone by without anything happening. Days have come, days have gone, and she’ll be forty in December.
She can’t remember the last time she felt something was happening. But now something is. Something is going on inside of her, and something is going on out there: Tong is getting out on Friday. Cecilie is the one picking him up outside the gates of Åna. Half past eight. Tong. Not the way it was supposed to turn out now, was it?

‘Ooh arr, like the farmer said, looks barren ’ere. You’ll have to make your own fun.’

She pushes the image of Tong aside and runs her hand under her eye. It feels wet, she sits up, looks at her face in the rear-view mirror to the right of Rudi’s head. That vole face of mine. What am I crying for? Look at my make-up. She takes another drag of the cigarette.

Her skin is going to look like ash soon. She is going to be ash soon. She smokes too much. One day she’s just going to lie there.
What’s that?
A pile of ash.
What was it though, before it turned to ash?
Dunno, no one remembers.

‘Baby? Have I ever told you that if the sun went down, and I mean burned out and died, then I wouldn’t give a damn, as long as I’ve got you to light up the house? Eh?’

Cecilie sniffles. He is my snatchpuss, she thinks, no matter how things are. It’s Rudi and me. It really is. He is snatchpuss 4 ever.

Coldplay. She saw him. He was sitting there getting into Coldplay.

I hate Coldplay, she thinks.

I want a life, I want a real house, I want a proper man, one who doesn’t talk a blue streak and keep spinning like a wheel, I want to hear heavy ballads round the clock, I want my days to feel golden.

Cecilie sighs. ‘Rudi boy,’ she says, ‘we’re almost there. You need to get to work.’

I don’t know anyone but me who cries from just one eye.