Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

He sits on the floor with his legs crossed. He’s switched off the TV and the light in the ceiling. The dark of night lies beyond the bars of the cell. He has his shoulder blades lowered, his arms hang limply by his sides and the palms of his hands face upwards. His head is perfectly straight. There’s a calmness around his eyes, around his mouth, in his arms, his stomach and his feet. Heavy hands, heavy fingers, eyes shut.

The prison liaison officer had escorted him back from the visiting room just before half-past eight. Piddien is from Loddefjord, skinny as a rake, talkative bugger, a guy Tong has always thought could just as well be in a cell himself. Piddien had given Tong a cheeky grin, as he had done each time he’d walked him back the last few weeks. He knows well that Tong is getting some action every Wednesday.

‘Well, Tong,’ he had said, giving him a slap on the back, ‘last time you’ll need to get dressed in Åna-issue clothes to get your end away. You’re out tomorrow, that’ll be good, eh?’

Tong hadn’t reciprocated the smile, or the slap, or anything else.

‘That’ll be good, all right,’ Piddien went on. ‘You wouldn’t exactly talk the hind leg off a donkey, but you’ve had an all right stay. Prisoner number zero one six two. You won’t be needing that any more.’

Tong had stood motionless in the doorway with his back to him.

‘You’ll be looking for something in carpentry, then?’

Tong nodded. ‘I’ll give it a go.’

‘Yes,’ Piddien had said, ‘that would suit you down to the ground, that would. Strong lad like you, likes physical work. Worn out at the end of the day, tired muscles. Heh heh, yes indeed. So, will your little lady be coming to collect you then?’

He feels the weight in his palms, the weight on his coccyx.

‘She’s not my lady.’

‘Heh heh, no, no, of course, ha ha.’

They should have meditation classes in prison. Tong has said as much to the people in administration. Everyone who lands in here has their body in a tangle. Their shoulders are so tensed up they’re practically scraping the ceiling. Being locked up isn’t the worst thing — it’s the waiting. The months between waiting to be sentenced and the time you first come in. That’s what screws you up, that’s what wrecks your head. When you first arrive, you’re hardly a person — you’re a knot. It’s not medication you need — it’s meditation. It’s not Subutex you need — it’s contemplation.

Tong meditates every day. A short session at midday and for an hour after lock-up. Then press-ups and a workout. He used to have a mop handle in the cell, to which he tied towels, then attached big industrial soap dispenser refills to the towels, making for an effective barbell. But they took that from him. They don’t like people getting too big.

Cecilie, Tong thinks, relaxing his jaw and feeling a softness in his throat, in his face. It was as though she was going to devour him. He entered the visiting room; she was there, as usual, but it looked like she’d been crying. He didn’t say anything. Nor did she. Her bony hand just trembled a little. Looked at the wall as if it were something other than a blank, white surface. But she stood up abruptly. Jumped like a little animal, right over to him, took off his trousers, then took off her own and sat on top of him and screwed him like it was the last time, or the very first. It all happened just like that, the whole thing. And then, while he was inside her, she started going on about her dad in Houston, and she talked about Rudi, something about her being so fed up with him she wanted to puke, and then she went on about not knowing what to do or something.

It seemed like she meant what she said. Tong listened to her, but as time went on and she went up and down on him he had difficulty following, her pussy was eating him and he just said what he always does when he’s about to come — that he’ll do fucking anything for the woman he’s riding. Then she opened her eyes wide, stared at him and said: ‘Do you mean that, Tong?’

He shut his eyes, clenched his teeth so hard it made his jaws ache.

When he was finished, she kissed him and said: ‘That was lovely, Tong. Listen. We’ve something on tomorrow. An insurance job. Do a guy over, cause a bit of damage, make it look like a clean break-in. Are you in?’

She’s fucked up, but gorgeous all the same: ‘Yeah, yeah, sounds good.’

Tong takes a deep breath through his nose, then exhales through his mouth. Last night in Åna. He’s leaving in the morning. As of tomorrow he can do what he wants. Just have to get that pathetic job out of the way. Rudi and Jani. It is so the last time he’s going to work with them.

His body rises. He no longer feels the floor beneath. He glides above a jungle landscape, green treetops drift by below him, a soft, warm wind brushes across his skin. He ascends, descends, and ascends again. He floats in the air over a waterfall, sailing over the plunging water, and there, close by, an eagle is wheeling, Tong opens his mouth, goes for the bird, sinks his teeth into its neck, hears it screech, feels the taste of metal in his mouth, and there, in the wild sky, stands a burning sun.

She wakes up in the dark. Neither tired nor teary-eyed. Her body feels ready, as does her mind. She reaches towards the night stand and takes hold of her iPhone. The light from the display illuminates the room. 05:57. She sits up.

I’ll do it, she thinks, and plants her feet firmly on the floor. Taking care to avoid the floorboards that creak, she goes to the wardrobe by the window and takes out a clean pair of knickers. She grabs the clothes she wore yesterday off the chair, slips quickly into them, tights, jeans, bra, and top and creeps out on to the landing. She opens the door to the toilet, pees, throws some water on her face and, unconcerned about how she looks, goes downstairs, leaving all the lights off, letting Mum and Dad sleep.

She picks up a shiny red apple from the glass bowl on the kitchen bench.

She pours herself a yoghurt drink and downs it in the light from the fridge.

I’ll just do it, she whispers as she opens the front door. It’s cold, but night is about to give way to morning. It’ll soon be light but it’s still too dark to make out the fjord. Some small birds perch in the trees, only just having begun singing the day in. Otherwise the streets are quiet. No lights on in the neighbouring houses. No one to be seen.

She hastens down Kong Haralds Gate, passing Madlamarkveien and continuing to the bottom of the hill. She crosses Madlavollveien, hurrying between the low-rises, the time getting on for half past six. The tower blocks rise up in front of her, dead and desolate, as if nobody lived there any more, as if those poor, stupid people who once did because they couldn’t afford anything better were, fortunately, all now dead.

The night has done her good and now she intends to cause another girl harm. She slept for no more than four hours, but is as rested as though she slept twice that. You can be as deaf as you like, you handicapped ginger bitch, she thinks as she walks by Coop Prix supermarket. You think you’re sweet and innocent just because you can’t hear. You think you can cut yourself up and then everyone will feel sorry for you.

That’s not how it works.

You’ve taken my man from me.

You’re going to pay for that.

Sandra leaves the shop behind and walks calmly towards the tower blocks. Her body is of steel; she’s never felt so cold. You must never, her mother has said, make any room for envy and jealousy. Well, Mum, here I am, I’ve let it take root.