Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

‘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.

The nausea seethes like boiling milk. Suddenly she’s afraid of vomiting up the child, it’s as though she can feel the little baby kick, punch and cry in there.

‘Fucking yellow peril!’ Rudi shouts, eyes blazing.

Tong stands sneering, some blood still dripping from the edge of the knife in his hand. ‘Come on then, birdshit skin, I’m right here.’

Cecilie hears Pål crying quietly, he’s stretched his feet out to locate Zitha’s form, which is still warm, the bandana around his head is damp with tears and he whispers: ‘Zitha, Zitha, oh Jesus, what has Daddy done.’ She understands that she only has a few seconds to halt a crisis no one will be able to handle. But what will she do; is there anything that can restrain a man who finds out his mate has slept with his girlfriend?

‘I’m going to reach down your throat and rip your tongue out!’

‘Yikes.’ Tong tosses the knife back and forth between his hands. ‘I’m shitting myself.’

Rudi is snorting like a horse and shaking like a drill, and in a matter of moments he’s going to explode. Fly at Tong’s face and tear it to pieces with his teeth, rip his heart out and rend it into small pieces, and nobody’s going to be able to prevent it, not her, not Jan Inge, not Jesus, not God, not Steven Tyler and not even Lemmy, but she needs to come up with something, so what will she do?

It’s like Jan Inge has dropped out of himself, or the opposite; he has sunk into himself. That happens sometimes, he loses everything he’s built up, and when Jan Inge diminishes there’s nobody smaller, as a result Bro isn’t going to be of any help; what will she do?

Rudi stands like a cat ready to pounce, facing Tong, still calmly tossing the knife back and forth between his hands. ‘I’ve never fucking liked you, China man.’

‘Same here,’ Tong smirks, ‘same here, I’ve detested you from day one.’

Hey Dad, what is it you always say?

When storm clouds gather, what is you say to do again?

Just tell the truth, honeybunch, then everything will be just fine.

Vein after vein is becoming visible through Rudi’s skin, his teeth are chattering.

The truth, Dad?

Cecilie clears her throat and shuts her eyes for a second. Then she reopens them, and looking at the man sitting sobbing on the chair says: ‘I’m pregnant.’

Her voice carries clearly and her words fill the room.

No one looks at her at first. Rudi just quivers, Tong just sneers. It’s as though the sentence is spoken in a language nobody understands, slowly catching and drawing them in. Jan Inge’s near-void blueberry eyes, Tong’s iron stare, Rudi’s coffee-brown ADHD eyes, even Pål turns his face towards her.

Rudi sways, looking ready to collapse like a house of cards. ‘You’re what?’

Tong snorts.

Cecilie dries a tear from under one eye. ‘I’m pregnant. With—’

‘But—’ Rudi raises the back of his hand to his mouth, wiping it hard across his lips as if he had shit on them.

‘Yeah,’ she repeats, watching Rudi as his brain labours, his face reflecting each step until it dawns on him.

‘But—’

‘Yes, Rudi. Yes. By one of you.’

Laughter. Lean, derisive laughter.

Cecilie sinks down on to one of the dining chairs near Pål, perhaps in the place where one of the sisters usually sits. Who knows, she thinks, picturing a home life she wishes were her own, before looking at what she has in front of her: three boys — one crazy and wild, one scornful and hard-hearted, one at a complete loss; a badly beaten man with a broken nose, dangling blood and mucus dropping on to his thighs, broken fingers and a cut-up face, and a dead dog.