Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

Daniel glances up at the football pitch by the school. He takes his mobile from his leather jacket. 20:52. She’s usually on time.

It’s shite digging up things best left buried thousands of miles underground.

But the fact that they named him William.

What the fuck were they thinking? Were they at the hospital watching him pop out of his mother and did they think, ah, we’ll have to call him William. Daniel William. What kind of gay name was that?

Daniel spits.

You get the life you’re given, it’s your job to live it.

It’s shite with things that are best left buried thousands of miles underground.

Sometimes he thinks about it. About killing. Just going out and killing somebody. Making a person disappear just because he can. What a release it must be. Clench your fists until they’re as hard as wrecking balls, pummel a face until you can’t tell it’s a face.

Maybe tonight’s the night.

Screw.

Screw.

Screw.

‘Tiril, please , can you help me here?’

She sees the honey jars roll across the lino, hears them rattling like the peel of sick bells, sees the sweaty, Christian girl crawling on all fours, and she turns up the volume on the iPhone, wipes the ice cream freezer with the cloth and looks the other way.

Thea is going to sit at the piano and Tiril will stand in front. I’m so tired of being here, suppressed by all my childish fears. Thea will be dressed in white: white top, white dress, white tights and white shoes. Whereas she’ll be in black: black top, black dress, black tights and black shoes. And if you have to leave I wish that you would just leave, ’cause your presence still lingers here, and it won’t leave me alone. They’re going to blow the roof off the gym hall. These wounds won’t seem to heal, this pain is just too real, there’s just too much that time cannot erase. Tiril feels it on her arms, the hairs standing on end, same as when she heard the song for the first time on YouTube: When you cried I’d wipe away all of your tears .

On Thursday. The International Culture Workshop. Kinda daft, but, whatever.

‘Tiril! Can you please come and help me here?’

She ignores Christian Girl’s desperate pleas and crouches down. Evanescence fills her head as she gives the large surfaces of the freezer a thorough wipe.

Thea’s amazing on the piano, she’s been playing for years and her parents reckon she could go far. Beethoven and Brahms and all kinds of stuff just flies from her fingers, and she only needs to hear a song and she can play it. It’s mad. Her fingers just run across the keys. It’s not that easy either, ‘My Immortal’. Maybe it’s not that hard, like technically, but getting the feeling right, only Thea can do that. And Amy Lee.

And Tiril Fagerland.

They’ve tried getting hold of a black piano, or a grand, but the school doesn’t have anything like that, only an electronic one. But nobody will have a bad word to say about the stage show. They’re going to cover the windows in the gym hall with black sheets, drape a black felt cloth over the piano, and Tiril found a five-branched candelabra in Oxfam. The candlesticks in it will shine bright.

You used to captivate me by your resonating light, now I’m bound by the life you left behind.

After the second verse, Tiril’s going to let a black, see-through shawl fall down over her face. She’ll stand upright, motionless, her gaze fixed on the floor, her body rigid, like a statue, her fingers splayed like a leaf. Then she’ll raise her head, slowly, slowly, as she sings the most powerful lines in the song:

I’ve tried so hard to tell myself that you’re gone.

But though you’re still with me I’ve been alone all along.

The plan is for it to be dark when she sings those lines, and then on the final chorus the lights will come up, preferably ones with green and red filters. That’s when she needs to give it her all. She needs to sing like Amy Lee, needs to think that she is Amy Lee, that she’s the one who grew up in Little Rock, Arkansas.

Tiril is going to go there someday. She’s going to see the place Evanescence are from. She’s going to walk the streets, breathe the air. What would be really amazing would be to see them live in their hometown, like Dad did with Maiden. Dad says he had metal on the brain when he was young, Maiden mainly, and even though he doesn’t listen to metal any more he’ll never forget that time he saw them in London. He’s talked about it loads, about what a fantastic feeling it is, seeing your favourite band in the city they come from. And she’ll be the one to do it, not Malene. Tiril will be the one who’ll fly to the US, she’s the one who’ll visit Little Rock, Arkansas.

If there had been eight letters in Evanescence, she would have written it in felt pen on her fingers. But it doesn’t fit. Neither does My Immortal, or Little Rock. Tiril has come up with something else. Something more her style. Eight letters, two hands, two words. The atmosphere in the gym hall is going to be electric, she’s going to raise her hands and hold them like a shield in front of her face: LOVE HATE. These wounds won’t seem to heal, this pain is just too real, there’s just too much that time cannot erase.

Burn in hell, Mum.

Tiril gets to her feet. Slinging the washcloth over her shoulder, she presses pause on the iPhone and looks over at Sandra. She’s crouched down gathering honey jars, her stupid fingers working away in panic. Tiril takes a few steps towards her.

‘Did you say something, by the way?’

Sandra glowers at her while she stacks the last of the jars. She shakes her head.

‘I don’t get you, Tiril,’ she says. ‘What exactly have I done to you?’

Tiril stops and leans against the spices.

‘It’s late,’ she says.

‘Eh?’ Sandra says, blushing.

‘You can just go. YOLO.’

‘I don’t know what you’re on about,’ says Sandra. She places the last jar on top of the display stand. ‘See you later.’

Sandra takes the vacuum cleaner and walks in the direction of the back door. Tiril nods.

Do you think I haven’t copped on?

I know where you’re off to, shiza.

I know what you’re up to, biatch.

I don’t like you anyway, not you, your necklace, your BO, your lawyer daddy, your Jesus freak mother or your lies. You think you’re so perfect, but you’re a Canada Goose minge, a Jimmy Choo ho, a Chanel poontang, a preppy tart, and sorry, but I’ve news for you: Someday you’re going to walk out on the guy you marry, you’re going to leave the people around you, you’re going to betray your own family, and you’re never going to go to Little Rock, Arkansas, because you’ve no style of your own, slut.

Sandra is clammy, her neck feels damp, her back is sweaty and her forehead is moist. She needs to get herself that headscarf, Hennes & Mauritz? She knows that H&M sell stuff that falls apart after the first wash. There are a lot of things her mother’s wrong about but she’s right about that: If you want quality, you have to pay for it. Hennes and Mauritz is not the kind of shop that’s renowned for its quality, Sandra.

If she wants to?

He has peered at her with those deep-set eyes of his, they’re so far back in his head that sometimes she feels she’s going to fall into them. He’s put his arms around her and pressed up against her, she’s felt how strong and hard he is. When he asks — Do you want me, Sandra — he glows. He glows with savage hunger, and right at that moment she thinks that even though she doesn’t know if she wants what he’s talking about, she wants it just the same. Because he wants to, because he’s so hungry.