Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

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.