Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

Sandra gives a start, takes a step forward, craning her neck.

‘Th—’

‘Shhh!’

She mouths something.

There’s that light again. That expression in her face. Sweet Jesus. There’s not one girl, not in the whole world, who’s as beautiful. What’s she trying to say?

I know him.

Feeling how bloody gorgeous she is, feeling it all through him, Daniel mouths a reply.

Do you know him?

She opens that beautiful mouth, still without uttering a sound:

Yes .

He moves his lips soundlessly once more:

Who is he?

‘…I’ll go back to my people, Tråli. You go back to yours. I’ll see what I can come up with. And l’ll see you tomorrow. All right?’

Sandra stands on tiptoes, crying, she takes hold of Daniel’s face, kisses him and then whispers: ‘He’s the father of Tiril, the one I work with, and Malene, a girl in my class, he’s their dad.’

‘She’s in your class?’

Sandra nods. ‘Mhm.’

‘Okay,’ says the shorter guy. The one who’s the father of these girls. ‘Where will we meet? When?’

‘It’ll have to be here. No surveillance cameras in the woods, y’know. Same time. Then we’ll see if we have a solution to your problem. And remember: the internet is the root of all evil. So don’t you go turning on that computer now, dude! Set aside a little time with a few good records instead. Number of the Beast! Overkill! Sabbath Bloody Sabbath! Or what do I know, maybe you listen to Coldplay when nobody’s around? Ha ha, fucking bedwetters. Okay, brother. See you tomorrow!’

Then he spits, spins around and leaves.

He staggers out on to the forest path not too far from Daniel and Sandra, tall as a tree, looking neither right nor left, just walking like some sort of Frankenstein in fast motion.

Over by the substation the shorter guy emerges from the bushes. He looks around as though he doesn’t want to be seen. Then he crouches down in front of his dog. He puts his nose against its snout and stays like that for quite a while. Eventually he straightens up, heaves a sigh with his whole body and begins walking. With heavy steps at first, which become gradually lighter. Then he bends down and unhooks the lead from the dog’s collar. He picks a stick up off the ground. The dog freezes, its ears standing straight up. The man holds the stick in the air in front of the keyed-up dog, holds it until the animal is about ready to burst. Then he hurls it in the direction of the football pitch by the school and calls out:

‘Go Zitha! Go on! Good girl!’

The man disappears from view. Daniel turns to Sandra. They look at one another, pupils flitting from side to side in an attempt to capture each other’s gaze.

‘What was that?’ he whispers.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Have you ever spoken to him?’

‘No … I think his name’s Pål or something, but no, I’ve never really met him,’ she says.

They hold hands, fingers entwining.

‘But you know the daughters?’

‘Well, yeah, a little.’

‘It seems like they’re in trouble.’

‘Yeah’.

They squeeze one another’s hands, tight.

‘What are we going to do about it?’

‘I don’t know.’ Sandra sobs. ‘I’m not able to think about it right now. What about us? Are we in trouble? Daniel?’

Daniel looks at her for a long time. Then he says:

‘We’re not in trouble, baby, no fucking way.’

She sobs involuntarily and feels her knees give way.

‘But you need to be getting home,’ he says.

‘Yeah, Mum and Dad are going to kill me, I’m way too late.’

‘Listen, sexy. We’ll talk about this tomorrow. All right? I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’

Sandra nods.

‘I’ll come by the shop,’ he continues, ‘you text me when Tiril has gone and then I’ll come. Then we’ll think about what we can do. Okay? Don’t tell anyone about what you’ve seen, no one, okay?’

She nods again.

‘Every day,’ she says, ‘every day for the rest of our lives, just you and me.’ She strokes him across the cheek. ‘And it felt amazing,’ she adds.

‘That was only the beginning,’ Daniel says proudly, ‘shame we were disturbed.’

‘We have the rest of our lives,’ she whispers, giving him yet another kiss, a long one, and Daniel thinks about how he wants a kiss like that every day, then his life would be in order, then everything would be okay.

She tears herself away from him, reluctantly, and runs off.

Look at that girl.

Look at that ass.

That’s the meaning of life running off right there.

When she’s out of view he begins searching for the moped helmet. His arms are tired, as though he’s been chopping wood all day. Life can be so fucking good. Play the drums. Work out. Party with Dejan and the others. But if your woman wants you to stay home with her then you better know what to say. Sure thing, baby. Because when you’ve found a girl who puts up with a lot and gives back so much, you need to hold on to her, hold on tight.

But what is the father of those two girls up to?

There’s my helmet. On the gravel in front of the substation.

Girls. They’re taking over the whole world.

To the right of the sea-green cell door hangs the torn-out page of a notepad. There’s nothing written on it. It’s just hangs there, sellotaped to the wall, at head height next to the light switch.

There’s a cork notice board on the wall between the door and the bed. No pictures pinned to it, no family photos, just two postcards and three pornographic clippings. Mina from Flekkefjord, a cheerful brunette with a navel piercing, small tits and an African ass. And two other girls, without names, kissing one another.

There are tinned foods, bottles, ketchup, a couple of sandwich spreads as well as some toiletries lying on the end of the desk. Along with two packs of chocolate chip cookies. CSI: Miami is playing out on a 24-inch flatscreen on the centre of the desk. A few binders stand along the bookshelf, in addition to a couple of crime novels. Harlan Coben. Wilbur Smith. A book about meditation: Meditation, Path to the Deepest Self.

He stands in the centre of the room. Feels the weight distribution on the soles of his feet. Three points. Under his big toe, under his little toe and on the edge of his heel. Takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and exhales slowly while he feels the balance strengthen his body. Neck straight. Muscles tensed from his armpits to his fingertips. Knees active, thighs strong. Silent.

There’s enough jabberers, in here as well as out there, and if they’re not talking your head off then they’re telling you what you want to hear and one is just as bloody annoying to listen to as the other.

Tong opens his narrow eyes. Tightens his fists. He propels himself towards the torn-out page taking only a couple of purposeful strides. He opens his palms, kicks out with his right foot and makes contact with it before landing with precision on the floor again. Bullseye.

He straightens up, bows as though a master stood in front of him and walks the few steps to the little bathroom, where he — unlike many other inmates — has his own shower. Tong is in newly renovated A3 and he’s a guard’s helper, two advantages in so old a prison, with so many dingy cells, run-down blocks, poor ventilation and often times four men to a room.

He bends down and takes hold of the blue-and-white towel with the words ‘Correctional Services’ written across it. Squeezes it before lifting it to his forehead and wiping the small band of sweat below his hairline from the half-hour of training he’s been doing since he was locked in for the night.