Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

A man passes by, wearing a bicycle helmet and tight training gear. She makes her way up the last hill, towards the last block in Jernalderveien, the one facing the Iron Age Farm. She approaches the buzzers. She slides her fingers down over all the buttons, without pressing them, like she did as a little girl, together with Shelley in 4A. Shelley was from Norwich, had lived a few years in Stavanger while her father worked for Mobil, had a big mole on her top lip and had never managed to learn Norwegian. One time they had rung all the doorbells, ran their hands down over the buttons and felt the hairs on the back of their necks stand up at the thought of the buzzers going off in all the flats in the block, and while Shelley thought it was wicked , it had given Sandra a pain in her stomach. She had let her mother down and let Jesus down by doing such a mean thing, by playing ring and run. But now she knows that Mum is a nervous wreck and that Shelley was right and Jesus isn’t a coward, Jesus is the master of vengeance: He spins the cylinder of the revolver and turns the other cheek to hate.

Her finger stops.

There’s a dull thud from inside like someone unloading a pallet off a truck. The lift reaching the ground floor. A figure behind the glass. It’s coming towards her. Shit. She makes to move, but doesn’t have time to run and ends up crouching down to tie her shoelace. Who is it? Sandra is on one knee, the door opens and a woman in a red jacket and tight jeans comes out, a woman in her late thirties.

It’s Veronika’s mother. Daniel’s stepmother. She mustn’t recognise her. Sandra keeps her eyes fixed on her shoes, her breathing rapid. The woman glances at her, but is in a world of her own and doesn’t take in what’s in front of her.

The door slams shut behind the woman, who walks quickly away along Jernalderveien.

Sandra straightens up. It’s getting bright. Day is dawning. She brings her finger back to the panel of doorbells. She moves it, purposefully, across to the occupants of the twelfth floor.

‘Inger and Veronika Ulland. Daniel William Moi.’

This is what hate is. It’s good to know it’s alive and kicking.

Just like little fish. Small, glittery fish darting through the water, stopping, beating their tails a little, then turning around, bodies twitching before swimming to another part of the ocean she carries within.

That’s what they say. She’s read it in magazines. Fish. Or bubbles. As though little bubbles are bursting inside her. After sixteen weeks, they say. Then you can feel life. When is that? Sixteen weeks? How far along is she? She doesn’t know, maybe five weeks, maybe six. She has to go to the doctor soon, needs to get that cleared up.

Cecilie lies quite still with her eyes closed, like her own mother must once have lain, with a little girl inside her. She can sense the day approaching, a thin strip of light slipping into the room. It’s going to be warm again today. What time is it? Seven? Waking up early these days. Must be the baby, I suppose.

In a few months there’s going to be an infant lying beside her. In its own cradle perhaps, alongside the bed. Maybe it will look like her, might come into the world with crooked lips and ash-grey skin. Maybe it’ll have a rattle in its hand and a mobile hanging over its little baby head. Maybe it’ll lie there whimpering. The way she herself must have lain, beside her own mother.

Cecilie opens her eyes. She raises herself on to her elbows, feels the nausea spread. She looks over at Rudi. His long form, stretched out beside her, half covered by the duvet, his huge cock like an eel dozing on his pale stomach. Lots of scars and blemishes to be seen on that body. Marks, all over the skin, covered in moles, nicks, pocks and craters from old spots. Handsome, he most certainly is not.

The baby might not survive, may well die inside. Wouldn’t surprise me, she thinks, if it croaked in my sea of ash — not as if anything could grow there. And if it is Rudi’s kid then there’s no telling what kind of creature it will be. Might be just as well it dies before the world gets to see it. Maybe it’ll be an alien pops out of her in seven or eight months’ time. Maybe an alien head is going to be sticking out from between her legs. Euuuugh! Sister! What an ugly fucking kid! Jesus, what a pigugly smurf!

Nobody wants to look at kids like you.

Nobody wants to be with kids like you.

Cecilie sighs and rubs two sleepy, clammy hands from her hairline down to her chin.

‘Sorry,’ she whispers. ‘Mummy’s just talking rubbish. Mummy’s always a little like this in the morning. Mummy doesn’t mean anything by it. We’re going to get up now, you and me, get some coffee. Your granddad, the one who lives in America, he needs his coffee first thing in the morning too. Says he goes nuts otherwise. Once he gets his coffee he’s a funfair for the rest of the day. Did you know he runs his own company, your granddad? That’s right, baby, he does. Southern Oil. He’s the president, yessir, Thor, president of Southern Oil. Yeah, yeah, but don’t spare him a thought, he’s a spineless shit. Now, we’re going to have our coffee, baby, take a quick shower and then get out of this house of horrors, because we have to go pick up the man who may be your father.

Rudi turns, half-asleep.

‘Mmmmm, Chessi…’ he mumbles, ‘who are you talking to … lying there yakking away … Southern Oil … Granddad?’

Breathe in. And breathe out.

Cecilie leans over to Rudi. She places her hand on his forehead. Then brings it slowly down over his eyes, his already quivering eyelids, straining to open at the approaching day. She kisses him, even though he stinks.

‘Rudi,’ she says, in a low voice.

‘Oh yeah,’ he murmurs, ‘just talk away to it, then I’ll impale you, just say the word and I’ll be ready…’

‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ she says softly, ‘you just sleep. I’m getting up to go get Tong. Sleep some more, Rudi needs it. You’re so tall, you know, you need a lot of sleep.’

‘It’s my cock takes up all the blood…’

‘Yeah, I know,’ Cecilie whispers, ‘go to sleep now. It’s early, even Jani isn’t up yet. Go back to sleep now.’

Rudi focuses his gaze on her, his eyes are gleaming. ‘Like being in a nursing home, this is,’ he says, in a raspy, morning voice. ‘Care. A care home. That’s what you should’ve been, Chessi, a nurse. You’re one awesome lady, you know that?’

Rudi raises his head. Keeps his eyes fixed on her.

It’s hard to hate a man who loves you much.

But not impossible, she thinks, sending him a kiss with pouted lips before picking up her jeans and bra and making towards the bathroom.

‘Just watch out,’ she hears from behind. ‘After that job tonight there’s going to be cock in your house. He’s going to be hunting through your halls tonight! Jesus! There’s a mad dog here! Holy shit, he’s got the biggest cock in the world! Heh heh. You’re one awesome lady. We should get a place of our own soon, eh, Chessi? Tonight, Lady Gaga! Tonight!’

‘Go to sleep now,’ she says. ‘If you want some pussy after work then you need your sleep.’

‘Ooops! Surethingboss.’

Cecilie shuffles along the carpet in the hall. It’s hard and dirty. It needs to be changed. She yawns, the nausea is heavy and constant. She doesn’t need to throw up, but it feels as if everything would be better if she did. So, when she’s moving around, is the baby staying still, is that how it is? Or has it already begun to move around itself? It soon will. If it’s not already dead. Dead baby. Soon start moving. Tiny fish. Soon stretch out its tiny fingers and tiny toes, its little head will turn around, its little eyes will try to figure out what’s going on. But the baby’s asleep right now. It’s following Mummy’s movements. Just as though it’s holding its breath. What is Mummy up to? Where are we off to?