Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

She needs to change that blasted ringtone.

…I’m just gonna bash your brains, I’m gonna bash ’em right the fuck in…

It’s not funny any more, no matter how much she loves both Jack Nicholson and The Shining . Cecilie leans over to the passenger side, turning on to the approach road while fumbling for the phone with her right hand.

Wendy, darling, light of my life … I’m not going to hurt you, you didn’t let me finish my sentence, I said…

She gets hold of the phone, looks at the display.

Dad calling.

Cecilie puts her foot on the brake, stops the car halfway up the driveway to Åna.

…I’m not gonna hurt you…

She kills the engine. It grows darker in the car. Only the glow from the mobile remains, casting a blue light on her hands and making them appear dead.

Dad calling.

Cecilie turns off the phone. She opens the door and gets out of the car. Stands there looking at the prison rising up out of the darkness. She takes out her lighter and a cigarette. She tenses the muscles at the back of her mouth, like she did when she was small, right behind her tongue, in order to empty her head of air. Then she lights the cigarette, sucks in the smoke and feels her body relax. She rubs her hands over her stomach to warm up the child.

‘That was Granddad,’ she whispers. ‘He’d probably be happy to find out that you exist.’

Another drag of the cigarette.

‘But we don’t have time to talk to Granddad right now. We’re going in to say hello to the guy who might be your father. And then we’ll have to see what we do. Would you like to live out here, hm? In a little place like this? With Tong and me? Maybe Mummy could get a job at a newsagents. Mummy is good with people. Or would you like to live in the city, with Rudi and me and Uncle Jani? Or would it be for the best if we died, baby?’

The telephone beeps. Answerphone.

A weak and solitary breeze hits her, the first hint of wind in days.

Cecilie rings up her voice messages. She hears her father’s crisp voice:

‘Hey, girl! It’s Pop! Houston calling, and nope, we ain’t got no problem! Great you called, honey, great to hear everything’s going well. Okay, gotta run, busy, you know, say hello to Jan Inge, always thinking of you guys, great to hear everything’s good. Sure we took walks down by the silos, of course we did, allthetime. I’ll stick a bit of money in the account one day soon. Hugs and kisses! Tits and asses! Nah, justajoke, honey.’

She begins to cry.

When he was young, he liked the darkness. Autumn, the evenings, the nights. Now he’s not so fond of it any more, but he needs it. Pål feels scrawny. He feels lean in both mind and body. He’s lost a lot of weight in the last few months. You look good, people have told him, it suits you, have you been hitting the gym? No, I’ve hit the wall. He’s bought in food for the kids. Where are they? Out. Was Malene heading into town for something? Was Tiril calling round to a friend? Was it something to do with that performance tomorrow? He isn’t sure. The words they say to him. They come out of their mouths, he nods, he smiles, but then they’re gone.

Pål puts the lead on Zitha.

‘Yeaah, come on, you’re going out with Daddy.’

Yet another few steps further into the darkness.

He walks out on to Folkeviseveien. No unopened envelopes to toss in the rubbish bin at the bus shelter today. A victory. A day without debt collection. What is Zitha so jumpy about? Why is she whimpering like that?

‘Zitha!’ he says, louder, and in an angrier tone than normal. ‘Simmer down, bad dog.’

Pål halts as he turns on to the path behind the tower blocks. Zitha is still agitated and he feels a terrible pang of conscience as the reason for it dawns on him. The dog hasn’t been fucking fed.

‘Yeaah,’ he whispers. ‘Daddy’s a dolt.’ Pål crouches down, pulls Zitha close. ‘Poor you with a daddy like me, eh? Cries crocodile tears in front of his daughter and looks to his dog for forgiveness. Yeaaah, yeaah. Come on.’

He picks up the pace, puts on a spurt with Zitha for about a hundred metres or so. He gets her worked up, as if something’s going to happen, something of relevance to her as well. But it won’t. What will happen will only be of concern to him. It’s getting on for five to ten. Pål hasn’t heard from Rudi today. That means he’s going to go ahead with this. Further into the forest. Listen to how they’re planning to help him. Christ only knows what they intend to suggest. What can people like that offer? Pål has no idea. He has no clue about the workings of the criminal world, no more than what he can imagine from films and TV series. Do they have a set menu with a list of options? Okay, Pål, here’s a suggestion: you smuggle a quantity of heroin to Germany. No? Then we’ve got something else: you join us on a bank job. No? Then you’ll have to sink your fingers further in the shit. There are people who are willing to pay others to use violence. We can arrange something along those lines.

‘Zitha! Can you quit your bloody whimpering?’ Pål grabs her firmly by the scruff of the neck and presses her snout hard against the ground, and he sees the fear come into her eyes — she’s not used to this. ‘You’ll get food. Later.’

Pål releases her and shakes his head. He’s made it as far as Madlavoll School. He’s noticed himself becoming more and more sentimental as the years pass. Maybe that’s just the way of things? At least in a life like mine, he thinks, where the future isn’t exactly burning bright. He walks over to one of the classroom windows. ‘Yeaah, Zitha,’ he says, ‘that’s where Dad sat, all those years ago.’

He takes a furtive look around. He has to cross the football pitch. He needs to get to the turnaround by the substation. It lies in front of him, illuminated by streetlamps.

Pål hurries across the gravel pitch, passing one set of goal posts and striding briskly into the light. He can’t see Rudi anywhere.

‘Here, Zitha, come on, girl,’ he whispers, leaving the light, rounding the substation and entering the shoulder-level thicket. ‘Yeaah, come on now.’

No Rudi. Pål stands there for a few moments. Zitha is still uneasy, but she’s quiet now, his trepidation having rubbed off on her. It’s still possible for him to call the whole thing off. Turn around and leave. But he doesn’t. On the contrary, Pål has the same sensation in his head, the same tingling in his fingers as when he opens the laptop at night, the feeling of wanting this.

Voices. Footsteps.

He remains quite still. Zitha begins moving ever so slightly, but Pål is assertive and she obeys.

‘…you’re still thinking about that, yeah?’

‘…well, now and again, but yeah, mostly as a sort of … retirement idea, almost…’

‘Retirement idea! Nice. Hey, I see you’ve retired, so what are you filling your wrinkly days with? Well, I’m busy writing my horror book, is what I’m doing, analyses of Argento and Fulci for the most part … Blood! Blood! Listen, when I totter into the ranks of the coffin dodgers, I’m going to have enough saved up for me and Chessi to spend six months of the year in Spain—’

‘Okay, let’s keep it down now, Rudi…’

‘Surethingboss, we’ll keep it down…’

‘…and not so much blabbering, okay?’

‘Who, me?’

They’ve stopped in front of the substation. The unfamiliar voice is very high-pitched — it sounds like that of a child in a grown man’s chest. Pål brings his hand up and fixes his shirt collar, as though he were going to a meeting where he has to look smart. The sounds of whispering carry to him now. He can’t make out what they’re saying. Movement.