Tore Renberg - See You Tomorrow

The girls look at one another. Shaun grins, making his brown teeth gleam like dirty diamonds.

‘No,’ Sandra whispers. ‘I haven’t.’

‘Heh heh.’ Shaun gazes at Tiril, admiration in his moist eyes. ‘It’s called leverage in America. Dad always says it when he smacks us around. Leverage, he says.’

‘Your dad is a dick and he should be in Åna,’ Tiril says, ‘but now we’ll gain the upper hand. Over all of them. Over Kenny. Over Bunny. Veronika. And Daniel, the liar. And we’ll psych them the hell out. They’re going to be sitting there thinking they’ve won. And then they’ll start sweating. And then they’ll get nervous and start looking over their shoulders. And that’s when we take our revenge. Understand?’

They nod. Even Malene nods.

‘We don’t need any doctors, we don’t need any teachers, we don’t need the police or parents interfering here. A bicycle accident. The two of you collided on the way to school.’

‘The two of us?’

‘Yeah. You and Shaun.’

‘Awesome.’

‘We found you. Malene and I. We’ll get a plaster for that cut.’

‘But what if I have concussion?’ Sandra says in a meek voice. She performs a few tentative movements with her jaw then massages her temples carefully with her fingers. ‘What if I’ve broken something?’

Tiril shakes her head. ‘You haven’t. Come on, let’s go put in an appearance at school.’

The four teenagers move off and head down along the low-rises. Two young women with buggies stand smoking outside Coop Prix supermarket. They pass by them, then by Jan Petersens Gate, and on by Anton Brøggers Gate. The sun is warm on their faces, Tiril can see that Sandra is limping, that Shaun is beginning to come down.

She slips her arm around his waist.

‘Hey, you got any chewing gum?’

He delves his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and nods.

‘I learnt that from Mum,’ Tiril says.

Malene looks at her. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Domination,’ says Tiril. ‘That bitch didn’t give a shit when people were in pain. And that just made it more painful.’

‘You’re not like that,’ says Malene.

‘Oh yes, I am,’ replies Tiril.

The sun is high above the fjord, above the roof of the school, over the church spire and they turn off, in the direction of the schoolyard.

That hurt. A king who’s no longer a king.

Loneliness. A lot of horror movies centre around loneliness.

Is that to be my life?

Jan Inge glances across at Rudi, sitting beside him in the Hiace.

Tommy Pogo hasn’t shown up yet. Jan Inge had expected to see him relatively early. The police love to turn up in the morning. Disrupt the atmosphere. But he still hasn’t come. Maybe that’s his whole plan, to delay his visit in order to keep them sweating as long as possible?

Loneliness. Rudi and Chessi moving out. Getting themselves a garden. Making a life for themselves.

Jan Inge in a little flat. In a block of flats. Sitting in the wheelchair. Day in. Day out. Listening to the postman come. The echo out in the hall. An old woman in the neighbouring flat.

It’s slipping through my fingers, thinks Jan Inge, and I’m not able to do anything about it. Nothing other than be myself.

He lifts his head slightly and takes in his surroundings, as if to assure himself that he’s on his guard. Strømsbrua Bridge. A normal Thursday in September. Cars moving to and fro between the different parts of the city. A view of the neighbourhoods of Paradis to the east and Våland to the west. The sun strong in the sky. A black man pushes a punctured bicycle along the pavement. His dark skin in sharp contrast to the pale blue sky. That’s probably what poets call poetry. In the distance: a siren. In the distance: the mountains. In the distance: Asia, Africa, Australia. In the distance: a god, watching over us all. In the distance: our dead, monstrous mother. In the distance: our living, cackling mysterious father. In the distance: one’s own demise?

TO BE MYSELF.

That’s the solution.

BUT WHO AM I?

‘Rudi,’ says Jan Inge, as amiably as he’s able, ‘listen, I was a bit sour this morn—’

‘Fuck! Sour as an old snatch!’

‘Yeah. Well, you know. This thing with Tommy. And. Well. I shou—’

Rudi gives him a soft thump on the shoulder with his fist. ‘Jesus, Jani.’ He shakes his head. ‘You think Rudi harbours ill will all day?’ He raises his eyebrows and gesticulates: ‘Christ, you’re talking to the man who’s going out with Chessi here! I know everything about bad humour. It drags you down into the shit, but it blows over. All you need to do is look the other way. You need a bed to piss in? Be my guest! Pogo? Let him come. But yeah, you were in a lousy mood, I’ll give you that. Speed! Just the thought of pepper makes me feel like we’ve already done a line. Do you know if Stegas is home by the way?’

Jan Inge laughs. ‘Stegas is always home.’

‘Heh heh. Mr Kush! Isn’t his name actually Steffen? Fredriksen?’

Jan Inge shrugs. ‘No one knows what his name is.’

‘If there’s one person you can count on in this oil village,’ says Rudi, taking a deep breath, as though drawing ganja into his lungs, ‘it’s Stegas. This is where it’s at, Jani. Scoring speed. You and me.’

Jan Inge feels his pulse rate begin to even out. The lines on his forehead fade away. That’s all you need to do. Face unpleasantness with heartiness. Make those around you realise what they’ve got. Appreciate that it’s precious and irreplaceable.

THE IRREPLACEABLE

A Study of Horror Films

By Jan Inge Haraldsen

He should keep the surname. Now that he thinks about it. There’s something conceited about changing your name. You are who you are.

‘And just think, brother,’ he hears from the seat beside him, ‘just think that Stegas still lives in the same place. Eh? Der Meister of Weeds. Been selling his spices there for twenty years now. Right next door to the school. You’ve got to respect that.’

‘Don’t want you becoming a junkie now,’ Jan Inge says, feeling obliged to offer a gentle reprimand. ‘Remember, our fundamental principles. We’re against drugs. It’s the main reason we make out as well as we do. Tommy Pogo is also aware of that. And he knows that’s why they’re never going to nail us, because we don’t let drugs get the better of us.’

‘ Aber klar !’ says Rudi. ‘If I see another dude selling Asfalt I’ll break his kneecaps and grind them into sand. I only meant to point out how cunning Stegas is. What a shrewd businessman he is.’

They park a few blocks away from the dealer’s house. Jan Inge slips the car keys into the roomy pocket of his jogging bottoms and feels them tickle his thigh. They slow their pace as they reach Nedstrandsgata. Keep a lookout for parked cars that don’t look like they belong there. Surveillance vehicles. Hold a careful watch for people who don’t look like they should be walking there. Plain-clothes policemen. They cross the street, smile as they see the children in the schoolyard next to the house, as though they were old pals, walk up to the front door and ring the bell. After a few moments the door opens a crack and Stegas’ flaky scalp and head, or half of it rather, appears.

‘Jesus,’ he says. ‘The Dalton Brothers.’

Stegas looks just like he always has. Bumming around in a white string vest, an old pair of 501s and some worn-out felt slippers, which he got from his mother when he left home and is never going to get rid of. His prominent Adam’s apple is just as pointy as it was in puberty and his characteristic concave temples are just as evident. Nobody is quite sure how old Stegas is, seeing as he looks the same as he always has, is involved in the same thing as he’s always been, speaks the same way he’s always spoken and lives in the same place he’s always lived; people have lost count. Stegas is a natural phenomenon of sorts.