See You Tomorrow (22 page)

I used to rule the world?

Rudi stops the CD. Presses the back button. He listens one more time.

I used to rule the world.

And then?

Seas would rise when I…

What is it he’s singing? Rudi rewinds.

Seas would rise when I … gave the word.

Now in the morning I sleep alone.

Rudi opens his eyes wide. He tightens his grip on the wheel. Cecilie. All this skincare. The thing she said about his cock. The puking. Something’s up. Something’s fucking wrong.

‘God,’ he whispers, a thickening feeling in his throat, ‘is my girl sick? Is there something wrong with her?’

The first time she saw him, Veronika thought he looked like a wolf.

They'd talked about it a lot. It was important to Mum that she was happy enough to take it on too. It's not something I want to push on you. No, of course not, said Veronika. It might be a nice experience, don't you think? Yeah, sure, said Veronika. Like having a big brother? Yeah, said Veronika. He knows that you're deaf. Okay. He says it doesn't bother him. Right. It's nice to be able to help someone out, isn't it? Of course, Mum. But, thought Veronika, there's no doubt you could use the money. You work for the health services, Mum. We live in a block of flats. She googled it. Idealism is nice and all but you don't say no to 13,000 a month.

Child Welfare's response was positive. It wasn't a big drawback, then, that Inger was a single mother? No, on the contrary, it might be advantageous, they believed. Foster children have often had such bad experiences with parental relations that it can actually be a good thing for them to have fewer adults to deal with. With regard to the boy in question, they were sure it wouldn't be anything other than good for him. It was no easy matter finding a suitable home for a sixteen-year-old, and it was only made more difficult by the fact that the boy could admittedly be a hard nut. He was intelligent. He was talented. But he had been through some things. He had what they referred to as baggage. They made no secret of the fact that this would be the third – assuming they said yes, of course – the third foster home Daniel William Moi had had in under two years.

Mum listened to the Child Welfare Officer. She attended meetings, she took walks with her best friend and talked about what was on her mind. After a while she was able to meet the
boy concerned. Mum came home, sat down in the kitchen with Veronika and painted a picture of a boy who was strong, had lots of wonderful qualities, a boy who could at times be unpredictable but who was vulnerable, sensitive and intelligent. A boy who'd been through a lot and was in need of a place to stay until he turned eighteen. A stable environment. Preferably with someone who has experience of looking after others. Mum didn't say what she or Child Welfare meant by that, but Veronika picks up on those kinds of formulations. She knew they were comparing her to Daniel. As though the facts that she was deaf and he was a foster home kid had something to do with one another.

‘He's a fine boy,' said Mum, on the day last of autumn when they were on their way to meet him. And then she shot her that teasing smile of hers, the one which always draws people in, before she said: ‘And he's very handsome,
very
.'

Veronika shook the case worker's hand and looked at the guy in the chair across from her. He was really tall, probably one ninety. He was wearing black clothes and sitting with his arms folded. This isn't going to work, she thought. He didn't even acknowledge me. He's not saying a word to anyone. Veronika saw Mum and the case worker smile at one another. She read their lips and understood how in agreement they were, but the one who really mattered, Daniel William Moi, just sat there looking like a wolf.

He'd obviously made his mind up beforehand not to say a word and not to look at anyone. But Veronika didn't think he ought to get off so easy. ‘That's a funny name you've got,' she fired in when there was a short pause in the conversation between Mum and the man.

She knew how taken aback people could be when they heard her voice for the first time, so hollow and strange. But in that meeting it was as though that stupid voice gave her an advantage. ‘William,' she continued, snickering. ‘Did you add it on yourself? To sound like a prince?'

Mum shot her an angry look.

‘It's a cunty name,' Daniel said, finally piping up.

‘I'm practically deaf,' said Veronika, ‘I can hardly hear a thing. But I'm good at lip-reading, so if you want me to understand what
you're saying you need to look at me, and if you're bothered to, you could learn sign language.'

Veronika felt her lips tingle as she spoke. He was terribly, terribly beautiful. His eyes narrowed, took on a yellowish tinge; he opened his mouth and enunciating each letter slowly said:

‘I-t-s-a-c-u-n-t-y-n-a-m-e.'

Mum shifted uneasily in her chair. The case worker smiled, in an accustomed manner, and said: ‘Veronika is no shrinking violet, I see. That probably suits you, Daniel.'

‘I need a smoke,' said Daniel, his eyes still on Veronika; she felt he was going to devour her. ‘Are we done here, or what? C-a-n-I-m-o-v-e-i-n?'

Veronika kept her gaze fixed on him and said slowly: ‘W-h-a-ti-s-w-r-o-n-g-w-i-t-h-y-o-u-r-v-o-i-c-e-d-o-y-o-u-h-a-v-e-s-o-m-e-so-r-t-o-f-s-p-e-e-c-h-i-m-p-e-d-i-m-e-n-t?'

A few days later Daniel William Moi was standing at their door. He arrived with four large bags, a drum kit and a moped. Inger had signed the contracts, she'd also been informed by the social worker that she needed to exercise caution where his past was concerned – he didn't like people bringing it up. Advice she also impressed upon Veronika. Inger welcomed him, tried to make him feel at home as best she could and Daniel appeared to like her manner; in any case the situations that Child Services had warned them about never actually arose. Veronika's and Daniel's interactions continued being confrontational in style, their exchanges cheeky and in your face. She ventured closer and closer every day and before long she took his chin between her finger and thumb, turned his head to face her and said: ‘I need to see your mouth when you're speaking to me.'

She noticed him looking at her. At her copper-red hair. At her dimples. At her long legs and at her tits.

After a few days, Veronika said to herself: I'm in love. I want him.

Soon she'll have waited a year. She's sat on the floor of his room with her legs crossed when he plays the drums. They've lain on the sofa together watching TV, their bodies just barely touching. I'll look after you, he says, my little sister. There's been more and more
of that kind of talk and Veronika doesn't like it. A car? Do you want a car? Daniel will sort it out.

Little sister.

That's not what she wants to be.

It's the wolf she wants. She wants him to place his paws on her stomach. She wants him to sink his teeth into her neck. She wants him to lick her with that red tongue of his.

It was last week when she realised something was up. Daniel had begun to stand in front of the mirror fixing his hair, was coming and going at funny times, and went straight to his room when he did come home, avoiding eye contact with Mum when she asked where he was off to. She should have realised sooner, but she didn't cop on until he asked her if she knew a girl called Sandra.

‘Sandra? Who's that?'

‘Nah. Nobody.'

‘
Nobody?
'

‘Just a girl a few streets over. Lives someplace near the church.'

‘And what about her?'

‘Nothing, just wondering if you knew her is all.'

In the space of those few seconds her fantasy world came crashing down and Veronika felt her skin begin to burn. She was so jealous she could have gone for him, torn strips off him, pushed him through the living room, out on to the balcony, tipped him over the railings and watched him fall to the ground and smash his skull on the tarmac twelve floors down.

What do you take me for? Do you think you can get as much as I've given you without it costing you? Do you think you can head off to some cuntbucket of a Christian girl –
I know who she is
– without your fur catching fire, when I've been waiting a year for you?

Veronika pretended she'd something in her eye and ran off to the bathroom. She locked the door, turned on the tap, switched on the hairdryer and sank her nails as deep into her cheeks as she could.

She cried it all out.

Then she sat down to think.

What is it I've done wrong? Veronika has made good use of her self-control the last week. If there's one thing being handicapped has instilled in her, it's patience. An existence as a deaf person has provided her with ample opportunities to be exposed to inertia; sluggishness from public services, from school. She's had to wait. For all the goodwill, which is overwhelming on paper, but which always comes slowly.

She has self-control. But she's made an error. What boy is really attracted to a girl he's mates with?

She's made herself too trivial. She's lain beside him on the sofa, eaten breakfast with him without thinking about how she looks, she's done all the things adults do when they've been together ten years and are tired of one another. She hasn't been attentive. She hasn't sold tickets.

Veronika took great care with herself when she went to the bathroom this morning. She told her mum she didn't have classes before second period and wanted to wash her hair. Then waited for her to get ready for work and go out the door. She took a long shower. She scrubbed thoroughly. She shaved her legs. Her crotch. She breathed in calmly and then breathed out just as calmly. She got out of the shower, went over to the mirror. She looked at herself. The strength in her eyes. Her hair. Her ass. Her legs. Her tits.

You won't be able to resist this, she thought, and smiled as she wrapped one towel around her hair and another around her body. She tucked it in above her breasts. She left the room and walked down the hall, in the direction of Daniel's room. She felt a faint pounding in her stomach: He's sitting at the drum kit.

She had turned the door handle and gone in. She had lifted her coccyx. She had hiked the towel up her thighs. She had felt his breath on the back of her neck. She had felt his body against hers. She had pulled off his T-shirt, pressed her tits against his skin:
I've got you now.

Now Veronika is lying in the bath. She's crying through closed eyes. Her right hand resting on the side of the tub, between her fingers a razor blade.

She's not pretty. She's not beautiful. She's not sexy. She's not smart. She's deaf and she's dumb and she's ugly and no wolf wants to put his paws on her.

Daniel puts his visor down, closing out the white light. He turns the ignition.

If that’s how things are going to be, then all you can do is ride. If one girl is going to attack you and the other can’t keep her mouth shut, then he can’t deal with it. Every man has the right to turn around and leave. Who the hell is going to look after you if you don’t look after yourself? Girls are dangerous. You couldn’t trust them and they can get you to do anything at all. Heroin? Acts of terror? Heroin and terrorism are nothing compared to girls. Girls control the entire world and they’re all too fucking well aware of it. They’re always the ones in the driving seat.

Your job: look after yourself.

Your job: go.

Your job: get out of here.

You’ve only got one shitty life. It might well be that it’s supposed to smell of sulphur, might well be that every day is supposed to be like sailing on a lake of burning silver. But it’s yours.

Daniel zips his jacket right up under his chin, puts his foot on the gas and leans slightly forward. He sees Sandra in his wing mirror. Her arms are hanging limply by her sides, she’s crying and he can see that she’s unable to move. He can almost feel her despair and that’s the way he wants it. He wants her to be in pain.

Is there a hole opening up in the ground beneath you?

Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk, talk.

Am I torturing you, bitch?

Daniel rides.

He can explain it. And he can’t explain it. How things turn inside out within him.

He wants to be that way and he doesn’t want to be that way. He wants to be the hardest metal and doesn’t want to be the hardest metal. Once he feels things begin to twist inside, he can no longer do anything about it. Then he needs to leave, he needs to ride. It’s as though a fuse has been lit in his head and as it starts to sparkle and crackle, there’s no other option but to shut out all the light: go, ride, get away.

I have my limits and you crossed the line.

Daniel feels the air press against him. He rides down to Hafrsfjord, past Liapynten and whizzing along the seashore at Møllebukta, sees the sculpture of the three swords, dark against the clear horizon, and thinks how they look like they’re going to take off and rocket into the sky. He rides past Madlaleiren barracks, sees the soldiers lining up, sees people walking and cycling and cars cruising on the tarmac. He shuts his thoughts out. The mobile phone in his inside pocket vibrates but he doesn’t take it. He rides further on, out to the junction at Madlakrossen, takes a left, passes the golf course, on up towards the church at Revheim, out towards Sunde. Daniel leans into the onrushing air, letting nothing inside. Before Hafrsfjord Bridge he swings off towards Kvernevik, takes the turn off to the sea, in the direction of the finger of land at Smiodden and thinks about how out there in the blue of the ocean peace is to be found. When he reaches the ribbon of road that is Kvernevikveien his phone begins to vibrate again and he hunches over the handlebars a little more. Where’s he going? Nowhere. Just far away. He heads over to Randaberg and rides through the small village centre. He’s aware of people, both old and young but he doesn’t see them. He simply rides, all the way out to Tungenes, passing farms, fields, cows and sheep.

Daniel doesn’t stop before he’s rounded the headland and is on his way back towards the city. He turns off at Stokka and brings the moped to a halt beside Stokkavannet Lake. He removes his helmet. Walks along the lakeshore. After a few minutes he sits down on a bench. He throws a few stones out into the water before taking out his phone.

Two messages. The first is from Sandra.

Dear Daniel, what have I done wrong?

The other is from Veronika.

You’re a wolf, Daniel. I’ll never forgive you.

He takes a breath. Writes back to Sandra.

You talk too much.

A few seconds pass before she replies:

Yes, I know. Sorry! I’ll do anything you say!

He closes his eyes. Takes a deep breath from far down in his stomach. It feels right. That she should apologise outright.

He sends her another text:

OK. Fine.

A few moments later:

Will I see you tonight? Usual time?

He answers:

OK.

Then a few seconds after that:

Thank you, I love you. Yours forever.

He goes back to the text from Veronika. He looks at it as though it were a photo.
You’re a wolf, Daniel. I’ll never forgive you.

He places the phone on a rock, squints out over the calm water. He takes out a cigarette and lights it. I’m in love with you, Sandra, he thinks. I’m not in love with you, Veronika, he thinks. But I like you better than Sandra.

He grabs the mobile, types in:

Sorry Veronika. I didn’t mean to hurt u

Then he takes out a well-used notebook and pencil stub he has in his pocket. He writes. A few lines.

That’s where it ends. He likes the rhythm of it. He likes the dirty humour. It’s from something he read on some blog a while back: a girl was asked what she liked least about sex and she said, ‘When the guy applies pressure to the back of my head as I’m blowing him so it’s not me who decides when I’ll go deep.’ But he can’t think of any more lyrics to add. And he doesn’t know if ‘slicing dark’ actually works. Is it good enough English? He can easily picture it, how the darkness could be a knife. It might be dead good. It might be shite. Sometimes the stuff he writes is like that, wavering between genius and crap and it’s impossible to say where it actually falls.

Daniel closes the notebook and puts it back in his pocket along with the pencil. Zips up his jacket. He’s starting to get into this writing thing. When he manages to put it down on paper he feels the pressure in his head ease. At first they come cascading, the words, the sentences, and a lot of the time he doesn’t have any idea where they’re coming from or where they’re going to, but it makes for a raging torrent in his head, and then, when the words flow on to the paper, bringing other words with them – it’s a kick. He feels a tingling in his fingertips, just like when you push yourself to the limit lifting weights.

Daniel makes his way back to the bike. He puts the helmet on, sits down and starts to ride.

A wolf? He thinks, watching the needle of the speedometer rise.

A few minutes later he dismounts outside the block of flats.

In the lift he feels the upward motion tug at his stomach.

Not long after that he walks in the front door.

He stops, looks around the hall. Everything is the same as it was this morning. The lights are on. Her clothes are there. Her schoolbag is there. He kicks off his shoes, hangs up his jacket and tosses his helmet on to the hall bureau. He walks into the living room.

‘Veronika,’ he calls out, as though she could hear him.

Daniel feels his pulse rate rise. He sticks his head into the kitchen, the sight of the fridge door ajar gives rise to a feeling of faint unease. He shuts it. He makes his way back through the living room and out into the hall. He walks towards her room.

‘Veronika?’ he calls out again, as though she really could hear him, and opens the door. There’s nobody in there. Just a half-made bed, her books, her posters, the computer and her clothes.

He returns to the hall.

He glances at the bathroom door.

He takes a few steps then halts outside. He puts his ear to the door, listens.

Daniel takes hold of the handle, presses down. The door is locked.