See You Tomorrow (28 page)

Dark clothes, of course. No need to attract attention. Casual attire, obviously. Just a couple of blokes taking the bus. Just two guys doing their bit for the environment.

Rudi and Jan Inge have changed, they’ve followed the timetable Ulrike from Hannover gave them, taken the bus into town and hopped on a number 7 by Breiavannet at 21:15. But Rudi’s not in good humour. The cheerful mood he’d been in after beating up Hansi evaporated after dinnertime. They’d listened to Motörhead and then settled down to watch
Driller Killer
while they digested their food, but Rudi couldn’t get into it. He twisted and turned in his seat and talked about what a deprivation of liberty it was being packed on to a bloody bus. And Rudi in bad humour is a pain. But what is a leader going to do about it? When the employees are in a bad mood?

Jan Inge sometimes feels this is his lot in life. Cecilie is in rotten humour so often that he’s firefighting day in, day out. And she hasn’t been the only one. He’s had many grumpy people in the organisation over the years. At times he’s felt like he’s been running a kennel for sick dogs. It’s a common flaw amongst so many of the criminal element, such a large number of them are angry and obstinate. They lack stability in their lives. Positive surroundings.

And what can you do about that? What, for example, would my kindred spirit David Toska do about it? What sort of steps would a big shot like Toska take in order to reinvigorate and reenergise tired troops? Would a seminar be a good idea, the kind of thing where you rent a place and book some speakers, possibly out at Sola Strand Hotel or in the basement of Atlantic Hotel,
have some food on the table, get in a motivational speaker, maybe a Pia Tjelta or a Kristian Valen, or a guy with a guitar? Tjødaen, he played in that band before, what were they called … Hundvåg Racers? And Dabben, that boy can talk, more than one person’s remarked on that, and if only he wasn’t so ill-suited for ordinary working life he could have been a stand-up comedian or a politician. Might be an idea. Rent out part of Sola Strand Hotel. Get Dabben in to tell a few jokes and pep up the team. Have Tjødaen play a few songs. A Cash number for Jani, something by Aerosmith for Cecilie and a Metallica ballad for Rudi.

These are good thoughts. Positive thoughts.

Shouldn’t the criminal element, in general, work a little harder at raising awareness at the need for a good atmosphere in the workplace?

In any case, Rudi has always been useful with regard to that. Sure he can be a hassle, going on and on, but he’s rarely in bad humour.

But now the atmosphere here is really going downhill. Of course he’s got a point about being robbed of his freedom, that public transport is out to suppress the individual, everybody knows that. All the same. There’s something else.

All this couldn’t possibly just be about the bus.

‘I’ll grant them one thing, the people who work with this,’ Rudi says, as they’re tipped sideways in their seats at the roundabout by the theatre, ‘they know their fucking systems. Look, Jani,’ he continues, ‘now we’re coming out on to Madlaveien, and I’m nauseous, being on a bus always makes me nauseous – but let’s not talk about me, let’s talk about the guy driving. You can be sure that that fucker sitting up there holding the steering wheel between his knees, he is drilled in this. System, system, system. Do you think bus drivers get heavy balls, my friend? The amount of time they spend sitting? I do. In a lot of ways, you could say he’s a German, couldn’t you? A brother of Ulrike.
Ordnung. Ordnung. Ordnung
. Now this busfuck knows that we’re going to stop outside the bicycle shop at such and such a time. Andsoonandsoforth. And he’s one thousand per cent set on it. Jesus, I feel sick! Anyway, I’ll give them that, the people involved in this; they’ve made a plan and they’ve gone for it.’

‘Well—’ Jan Inge reckons he can agree with those sentiments, that it’s something positive, that in many ways it’s similar to what he himself is busy doing in their own firm, making plans and going for them. But Rudi has no time to listen.

‘But,’ Rudi says angrily, ‘what does it do to a person, being squeezed into these seats, breathing this stuffy air and having their insides bounced around like they were in a bloody tumble dryer, and constantly stopping then driving then stopping then driving again. Eh? Jesus, I’m nauseous. Brother of cunt! I ask you that, Jani, on top of it being a fundamental infringement of our rights when two working men like you me have been robbed of the symbol of our freedom. The Volvo. Eh? You can bet that creates tension. I’m pretty certain that if you take a look at the statistics for people with muscular aches and ailments and compare the ones who have their own car with those who take public transport, then you’ll see that amongst those who travel by bus there’ll be a lot more instances of people suffering from fibromyalgia, wear and tear, migraines and even long-term sick leave.’

Jan was thinking of saying that Rudi may possibly be right, but that on the other hand it is conceivable that these bumpy trips, with all the stops along the way, may have a relaxing effect on some people, but he’s gets slightly confused, so he asks: ‘Yeah … but … are you talking about bus drivers now?’

‘Aren’t you listening to me, brother of fuck?’

‘Yeah, I—’

‘It’s the passengers I’m thinking off, in this tunnel of nausea we’re inside. And I’ve been thinking about it a hell of a lot today,’ Rudi says, as they near the stop on Holbergsgaten. ‘A hell of a lot, Jani. And what I’m getting at is that we need to sort out the vehicular situation.’

‘The vehicular sit—’

‘Don’t go interrupting me, Jani, not yet, brother of impatience! What we need is a new vehicle, which both you and I can have the use of. We can hand over the Volvo to Chessi and then we get our own van. No matter how good it felt laying into Hansi, giving him a working-over for old times’ sake, we can’t do that whenever we need a van.’

‘But we—’

‘I don’t want to hear it, Jani, I don’t want to hear any protests. Those are my final words on the matter. I feel really nauseous now. But I’m hanging in there. Can you see that? I’m hanging in.’

Jesus, this is a bit much, Jan Inge thinks. He places his clammy hands in his lap and looks out the window.

‘I can’t talk any more now, brother,’ Rudi says, ‘because I feel so sick at this stage that I actually just really need a little time to myself. I need to look straight ahead. In both senses of the word. Straight ahead at the road. Straight ahead at the future.’

The bus passes Mosvannet lake, then the junction at Tjenvollkrysset, continues up Madlakrossen, driving past the ice rink in Siddishallen, past the gymnastics hall, out to Madlakrossen before turning into Molkeholen and heading towards Madla and Gosen.

Nausea? This can’t just be about being on a bus and feeling sick. Jan Inge feels he’s displaying poor leadership qualities at the moment. What would David Toska have done?

The bus pulls in at a stop not far from Madlamark School. Two teenagers hop off, a woman in her thirties gets on.

‘Rudi?’ Jan Inge turns to his friend. ‘How you feeling?’

‘I’m concentrating. I’m looking straight ahead.’

‘Okay, good.’ Jan Inge speaks in as calm a tone as he’s able. ‘I promise you. Next week, there will be a new car standing outside the house. And a van. We’ll have to find somewhere else to park the van though – it’ll draw too much attention if we make such striking changes simultaneously, and nobody’s going to go near the moving van. But I promise you that, Rudi. And listen, Rudi. No one, no one, is going to leave you.’

Rudi’s long, narrow head sways gently as they drive up towards Gosen Woods and their final stop. He doesn’t open his mouth to speak.

When the bus pulls in they step off, out into the chilly evening.

Rudi breathes in the fresh air and says, ‘I conquered myself there, brother, conquered myself, my own body and my own fear. Look at me. Am I throwing up? Am I alive?’

Jan Inge smiles: ‘A mighty display, Rudi,’ he says. ‘Mighty.’

‘Yep,’ Rudi clicks his tongue on the roof of his mouth and checks the time. ‘I looked straight ahead. Jan Inge? You can say a lot about bus people in general and that bus in particular. But take a look,’ he says, tapping the face of his wristwatch, ‘ten minutes this bus trip was supposed to take, according to Ulrike, and that’s exactly how long it took. But they felt like long minutes, didn’t they? For you and for me? Long, my friend. I went through a lot. You went through a lot. You don’t get any deeper than that.
Mano a mano.
Sink or swim. The feeling of making it to the last bus stop, so to speak. And that thing you said, about nobody leaving Rudi – I can tell you, right from the fuckin’ heart, that helped solve a problem that’s had me tied up in knots all day.’

Rudi takes hold of Jan Inge’s head, bends over kisses him on the forehead.

‘You should have been a shrink,’ he says. ‘Nausea? Who knows where that so-called nausea comes from. The internet? Come on, lets head up to Gosen Kindergarten, meet a man with a problem and offer a solution.’

LEADERSHIP ABILITIES.

How many marriages could be saved if families had only one person in charge, man or woman, with leadership ability, instead of a woman who’s a lush and a lardass and a man who’s a roughneck and a coward, neither of whom, let’s be honest, should ever have been allowed to bring kids into the world.

‘Shit, maestro,’ Rudi says, ‘I really need a piss. Is it all right if I just nip into the woods here and whip out the schlong out for a sec, or would that attract a bit too much attention, do you think?’

‘Yeah, just wait to piss until we’re a little out of plain view.’

‘I hear you, boss,’ Rudi says. ‘Fantastic night. Imagine. Uncle Autumn is here, but he looks like Aunt Summer. And before we know it we’ll be up to our knees in Grandfather Snow, and then it all begins all over again.’

Jan Inge looks at him in admiration. ‘Lyrical, brother. If you weren’t working for me, you’d probably be a poet.’

‘A poet?’ Rudi says, slowing his pace, nodding to himself. ‘Yeah. Yeah. Maybe so. I am sensitive, you know. Getting more and more sensitive the older I get.’ He stops, grabs Jan Inge by the
lapels and looks at him gravely. ‘Where’s the eleven-year-old who smashed the windows of Hafrsfjord School in 1981 and made off with his first stereo, a Philips with double cassette decks? Where’s the twelve-year-old who took 1,450 kroner from Mathiessen’s banana wholesalers on Løkkeveien in 1982? Where’s the Rudi who beat the shit out of a thirty-year-old at Tjensvoll Shopping Centre in 1983?’

‘You know,’ says Jan Inge, ‘back then you were a diamond in the rough. Now you’re mature and rich with experience.’

The friends continue walking. The night envelops them, the woods seem warm.

‘Yeah, I feel more mature and all,’ Rudi sighs. ‘They were great times. Out at the weekends. Gathering in the light beneath the lampposts. Hanging around and messing about, waiting to see what would come our way. Took my first car when I was twelve, have I told you that?’

‘Yeah.’

Rudi’s cheeks take on a hearty glow. ‘Out in Bryne. At Rieber-Thorsen Auto Dealership. An Opel. Could just about see over the windscreen wiper. Frax and me parked it out near the airport. Sniffed lighter fuel and listened to late-night radio. Fell asleep in the back seat. Great times. Free and easy.

‘To your grandmother’s great disappointment. And your brother—’

Rudi exhales heavily. ‘Jani. Please. It’s still painful for me to think about that there.’

‘Right, I didn’t mean to…’

Rudi nods and waves his hand as if to brush it away. ‘Not like I’m proud of everything either. Fucked if I know what went on in our heads half the time … Did I ever tell you about that one night we knocked over twenty-nine gravestones in Tjensvoll cemetery? Ungodly. If somebody tipped over Granny’s headstone. I’d fucking brain them.’

‘That’s just how boys are,’ Jan Inge says. ‘You shouldn’t take it so seriously.’

‘You’re right. I’ve become so soft. Tip over a gravestone. So what. Put it back up again, Mr Grave Minder! Get over it. Let
boys be boys. You’re right. Where will it end? Do you think I’ll be floating beneath the ceiling someday, crying twentyfourseven?’

Jan Inge laughs. ‘Who knows?’ He stops and looks at Rudi. ‘Okay. Quiz. Blood! Blood!’

‘Ha ha. Easy. Not only blood! Fulci, 1981.
House by the Cemetery
.’

‘Correct. And what does Fulci teach us? That one day it’ll all be too late. Before you even know it. And what lesson should we take from that? That we…’

‘…must always nurture love,’ they say in unison.

‘Justaboutright, brother of wisdom!’

‘Heh heh.’

And in this buoyant mood, filled with memories and musings, they trudge on uphill towards the substation, where they are to meet Pål in just under half an hour.

The Volvo drives slowly through the small centre of Nærbø village. Street light after street light, not many people. Two cars, an old Kadett and a rusty Carina, are parked beside each other outside Statoil, their windows rolled down. Two boys sit behind the wheel of both, chatting to one another. A girl sits in the passenger seat of the Opel, twiddling her boyfriend’s long hair between her fingers while blowing a chewing-gum bubble. A tattoo on her forearm:
Salve I love you you nutcase
. There’s a man in a boiler suit from the farmers’ co-op in front of one of the houses; he’s smoking and teasing a dog with a stick. Two motorcyclists tear past her car, the harsh engine sounds piercing the darkness. What do people do in such a small place? Work at a plant nursery? At a newsagents? Maybe it’s a good place to bring up a child?

The headlights stream ahead, dissecting the night as Cecilie drives out on to the flat expanse of Opstadsletta. It’s deserted here. A deep darkness extending towards endless open country.

They did a job out here once. It was while they were working together with The Shabby Ones. That was a mistake. Some
loan-shark
shit that took place in a barn, something to do with a kid and drugs. Rudi nearly killed the guy, kicked him in the head and beat him with big logs of wood.

Cecilie can’t be bothered listening to music right now. She just wants quiet. She told them she’s going to Åna to arrange things with Tong, fill him in on the job tomorrow. But what is it she actually wants to do?

She closes her eyes. Drives blindly for a few seconds.

Say it like it is?

Tong, I have something to tell you.

And what’s he going to say then?

She opens her eyes again.

Jesus. I’d do anything for you.

Did he mean it?

Or is he like all the other boys, who only love you before they come? Because that’s what they want, frigging boys, their eruptions. That’s when they’re weak, that’s when they’re strong, that’s when they’ll wait on you hand and foot, the world over, when they’re tensed, when you have them inside you, when you have them in your mouth, when you have them in your hands. Then they’ll do anything for you, then everything they own is yours. She once screwed a biker with a tic from Hommersåk – the guy that carried out all the motorcycle robberies in the early nineties, held up places all over Rogaland, made off with millions. What was his name, Bjørn Roger Kydland? While she was riding him, he said:
I’ll give you two hundred thousand if you promise to fuck me every week for the rest of my life.
And the Fokkt Brothers? Cecilie remembers them well, Poster and Sorry, Pål Stephen Vogt and Stein Eskil Vogt. Poster and Sorry were from Eiganes and they always came together – like, they always
came
together. There was no end to their prattle before they did either,
Cecilie, fuck you’re gorgeous.
But afterwards? Neither of them would wait on her hand and foot. She’d just lie there, fourteen years old, jizz in her hair from one and jizz in her face from the other. They were sick in the head. They first worked as bouncers at
New York.
Then they were fitness instructors at S.A.T.S Training. After that they started a hairdressers in Kvadrat Shopping Centre. Then they disappeared. But hey, they still exist. Just google them. Put in Brothers of Porn and you’ll find a webpage. Sorry and Porno have done well in the brother porn business.
Brothers in Arms, O Brother Where Art Thou, He Ain’t Heavy He’s My Brother, Big Brother, The Grimm Brothers, Brother Oh Brother.
Did the mother not kill herself when she heard what her boys were actually up to in Hungary; thought they were running an IT company, and later she saw a scene from
Brother Beyond
with Poster dressed in a tennis outfit, ramming a racket up Sorry’s ass? Yeah, that’s right, she did.

Both Cecilie and the Fokkt Brothers’ mum have learnt by experience. You can’t rely on boys.

Apart from Rudi. Cecilie can depend on him.

He’s an awful idiot, she thinks. But he’ll never leave me.

He’d die before he’d leave me.

Cecilie sees the silhouette of Åna rise up in the darkness. She slows down and indicates, sees the long, impressive driveway come into view. If you didn’t know what this place was and you happened to drive up in a dim light you could easily believe it was the avenue to a castle

Wendy, darling, light of my life, I’m not going to hurt you…

The telephone rings.

…you didn’t let me finish my sentence, I said, I’m not gonna hurt you…

She needs to change that blasted ringtone.

…I’m just gonna bash your brains, I’m gonna bash ’em right the fuck in…

It’s not funny any more, no matter how much she loves both Jack Nicholson and
The Shining
. Cecilie leans over to the passenger side, turning on to the approach road while fumbling for the phone with her right hand.

Wendy, darling, light of my life … I’m not going to hurt you, you didn’t let me finish my sentence, I said…

She gets hold of the phone, looks at the display.

Dad calling.

Cecilie puts her foot on the brake, stops the car halfway up the driveway to Åna.

…I’m not gonna hurt you…

She kills the engine. It grows darker in the car. Only the glow from the mobile remains, casting a blue light on her hands and making them appear dead.

Dad calling.

Cecilie turns off the phone. She opens the door and gets out of the car. Stands there looking at the prison rising up out of the darkness. She takes out her lighter and a cigarette. She tenses the muscles at the back of her mouth, like she did when she was small, right behind her tongue, in order to empty her head of air. Then
she lights the cigarette, sucks in the smoke and feels her body relax. She rubs her hands over her stomach to warm up the child.

‘That was Granddad,’ she whispers. ‘He’d probably be happy to find out that you exist.’

Another drag of the cigarette.

‘But we don’t have time to talk to Granddad right now. We’re going in to say hello to the guy who might be your father. And then we’ll have to see what we do. Would you like to live out here, hm? In a little place like this? With Tong and me? Maybe Mummy could get a job at a newsagents. Mummy is good with people. Or would you like to live in the city, with Rudi and me and Uncle Jani? Or would it be for the best if we died, baby?’

The telephone beeps. Answerphone.

A weak and solitary breeze hits her, the first hint of wind in days.

Cecilie rings up her voice messages. She hears her father’s crisp voice:

‘Hey, girl! It’s Pop! Houston calling, and nope, we ain’t got no problem! Great you called, honey, great to hear everything’s going well. Okay, gotta run, busy, you know, say hello to Jan Inge, always thinking of you guys, great to hear everything’s good. Sure we took walks down by the silos, of course we did, allthetime. I’ll stick a bit of money in the account one day soon. Hugs and kisses! Tits and asses! Nah, justajoke, honey.’

She begins to cry.