Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

‘Isn’t that right, baby,’ she whispers as she comes out on to the flat expanse of Opstadsletta. ‘Isn’t that right? You don’t give a shit, do you, who your father is?’ Cecilie presses her foot down on the pedal and feels the old Volvo accelerate. ‘We’ll take the strongest of them, won’t we? Deary me, you don’t like Mummy smoking, do you, hm? Sorry, promise I’ll cut down, baby. But Van Halen, you like them, hm?’

A few minutes later, Cecilie slows down and takes the turn up the avenue to Åna. She’s a couple of minutes late and is well aware Tong doesn’t like that. It pisses him off when people aren’t punctual. She remembers him nearly choking Donald to death that time he showed up twenty minutes late. A jewellers. Out in Sola. One of their best heists ever. Drove the van right through the window, smash-and-grab. Serious money. If Donald had arrived five minutes later they would have been busted. Tong took such a hold round his neck he puked in the car. She was the one who had to clean it up of course. Jittery fucker, Donald. Couldn’t control his habit, impossible to trust.

Someone said he’d died.

That they found him in the back of a bus to Randaberg.

Kind of strange to think about. Donald was only thirteen when she had him. Pretty sweet actually. He had one of those cleft chins. One of the first she had. Really shy. Tripping up as he took his trousers off. Yeah, yeah, sighs Cecilie. I’ve probably screwed just about everyone who’s died from heroin in this city. I was the one who had them first. And heroin had them last.

If Rudi didn’t kill Donald, that is. He never could handle the fact that he had to work with someone who’d banged her so many times. He might well have done. Not inconceivable that Rudi sent Donald to meet his maker and said it was a heroin overdose on the back of the bus to Randaberg.

Cecilie stops by the intercom, identifies herself, drives up and parks. She gets out of the car and makes her way towards the main building. She feels a light breeze on her face. Always like that out here. No matter how little wind there is, it’s blowing out in Åna.

There he is. Outside the main entrance.

He doesn’t look like a person.

He looks like an iron man. A sculpture. Cecilie suddenly feels slightly afraid. The figure standing over there doesn’t appear human at all. Everything seems a little scary — what has she got herself into? Cecilie draws closer. Tong isn’t wearing prison-issue clothes and it’s unpleasant to see him like this, in his old jeans, with his shiny leather jacket, the blue veins bulging out of his neck.

His features are impassive. Is this the guy she’s been wondering if she’s in love with; is this the guy she’s put on lipstick for?

‘Deary me,’ she whispers, her lips barely moving, ‘looks like Mummy’s a little nervy.’

She halts in front of Tong. He doesn’t move.

‘Hi, Tong.’

They begin to make their way towards the car. Cecilie has no clue what to say. Is this playing house? She feels she should relate some news, tell him something, say anything, but she has no idea what. She needs a cinnamon bun; she needs a fag. Cecilie gives Tong a brief glance, but looks away again quickly. His eyes are like scorched stone. How’s it possible to be so intense and so withdrawn. Is there a person in there?

She opens the driver’s side. Lets out an exaggerated breath. Peeks up at the sky as if to say: Look, lovely out. She opens the passenger’s side. Tong throws his bag in the back seat, gets in.

‘Maybe you want to drive?’

Her voice is thin and feeble.

Tong shakes his head.

‘Right, just thought you might like to, seeing as it’s been a while since you’ve driven a car. Anyway.’

She should stop talking. Tong has never liked small talk and he seems to like it even less now.

Cecilie starts the car. Drives down the avenue.

‘Nice day, though.’

Why did she say that?

‘But,’ she tries to laugh it off, ‘doesn’t really matter. If it’s nice or not. The weather, I mean. Makes no difference, I suppose. Now. I’ll just get them to raise the barrier here. Hello, yeah. Cecilie Haraldsen, going out.’

He just sits there. To look at him you’d never know it was his first day of freedom in years.

‘So, good to be out?’ she says, after they’ve driven a while.

No reaction. Black, charred eyes.

‘Yeah,’ she hastens to add. ‘Of course it’s good.’

‘Can you just shut up?’

She gives a start, swallows and nods.

Tong takes a hold of Cecilie’s hand. Tightens his grip around it, the blood vessels above his knuckles appearing in front of her eyes, her hand feeling like it’s about to be crushed. He brings her hand to his crotch, slides down further in the seat, spreads his legs and rubs it against the bulge in his trousers.

Okay, she thinks. Of course. Same old same old.

She leans into him. Her arms around his waist. Presses her cheek against his back. She doesn’t want to be anywhere else but here, leaving everything behind, just the two of them. She couldn’t help it, but the sight of Sandra doing a somersault in front of the moped, the sight of the girl hitting the tarmac, filled her with a burning happiness. That’s justice: It all came too easy to you — you don’t deserve him. You would never have understood him, you’ve met your match, bitch, and it’s me.

The moped heads towards Madlakrossen, taking off to the left at the roundabout, out towards the golf course, following the road as it begins to climb towards Revheims Church. The land around them begins to open into fields, two horses run alongside a stone wall, a tractor disappearing in the distance.

Sandra could be seriously injured; if the worst comes to the worst she might lose her life. But Veronika feels only that pull, helping her see things clearly, giving her that feeling of elation; she’s not afraid. She clings even closer to his back, wrapping her arms more tightly around his body. His heart is pounding under her hands. She loves his fear, loves his despair. She knows he needs her, because she has longer eyelashes than him, she’s softer and slyer than him.

The landscape stretches out further as they ride uphill towards Sunde, the vast Stavanger sky parading above their heads. Daniel slows down, turns his face half towards her and she sees how wildly agitated his eyes look behind the visor, but it doesn’t frighten her, because she knows it’s her he needs to turn to now.

Daniel veers off to the left, down a steep incline into a small estate of seventies-looking houses facing the sea. He steers the moped towards a colossal grey, grafittied concrete building. An old bomb shelter. He brakes, brings the moped to a halt and they dismount. His breathing is fast; he looks about nervously as he searches through his pockets. After a little while he finds the key ring. He sets it between his teeth as he quickly pushes the moped over to the large entrance door. He mumbles something or other, but she can’t see what it is.

‘What did you say?’

He doesn’t reply. Removes the key from his mouth, opens the door and, pulling it wide, wheels the moped into a windowless concrete corridor.

Of course. The rehearsal room. Is he mumbling again? She hurries after him, he leans the moped against the wall and she closes the door behind her while he chooses another key from the bunch and walks in total darkness towards the next door. He fumbles with the lock, tries to locate the keyhole.

Veronika walks over the hard floor, feeling her way to Daniel, places her hands over his and notices he’s trembling. She clasps them until they steady. She says: ‘It wasn’t your fault. She ran into the middle of the road. She wanted it to happen.’