I Will Miss You Tomorrow Read online

  I WILL MISS YOU TOMORROW

  CONTENTS

  Seven Minutes

  Wednesday Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Thursday Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Friday Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Saturday Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Sunday Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Monday Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Tuesday Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Wednesday Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Thursday Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Note on the Author

  Note on the Translator

  There are days when you don’t see that the mountains are still standing.

  Hours come where everything is litter at high-water mark,

  all along the black shores.

  Times that you don’t recognise anyone.

  – Herbjørg Wassmo

  SEVEN MINUTES

  At three minutes past five, regret hits me: a tidal wave rushing through my body as I wheeze and gasp in panic. I tremble and shudder and thrash my legs to break free, but it’s futile.

  Two minutes later and my lungs’ convulsions finally stop. I notice I no longer need oxygen as I just hang there on the rope, feeling my system shut down, one body part at a time.

  Eight minutes past, and I can hear the water drumming against the floor tiles beneath me. A rasping noise leaks out from my throat as steam and tears slide down my cheeks, sluicing what is left of me down into the drains on the floor. I’m freezing.

  Then she is standing there, right in front of me, as grey as the rest of the room. I feel an impulse to laugh, to shout for joy at seeing her again. I try to open my mouth to tell her this, to say that I’m as happy as anyone could ever be. Instead I hear a crack and the very next moment I’m lying on the floor. The water from the prison showers is washing over my face as the minute hand on the wall clock jerks forward another notch.

  Ten past five.

  WEDNESDAY

  CHAPTER 1

  Stavanger is the city covered in dog shits. They stick up like small mushrooms and, in a grim way, colour the place in a palette of browns.

  Stepping over yet another, I hurry along Pedersgata towards the city centre. Originally, Aetat, the job centre, was based in a ground-floor, open-plan office overlooking Klubbgata and the Breiavatnet Lake. Its large windows meant passers-by could look in and look down on the poor souls in there, those desperately trying to hide themselves from anyone they knew behind plastic potted plants, room dividers and lampshades, while explaining why they were no longer employed. Since I was last in the city, this stage-set for societal failures has changed its name and address and moved into more traditionally furnished premises nearby.

  I pull a queue ticket from an automatic dispenser and sit down on a red sofa in a room with no windows or oxygen, the odour of perspiration, sweaty feet and general stink of losers oozing from the clientele filling your nostrils the moment you cross the threshold. Despite all the people thronging around me, there’s hardly a sound to be heard. Only a buzzing fly and sporadic keystrokes break the silence.

  ‘Thirty-eight?’

  A female adviser pops her head out of an open door to scan the waiting room and beckons me to approach. As soon as I’m close enough she gives me a limp handshake.

  ‘I’m Iljana,’ she says, her eastern European accent unmistakable as she settles into her office chair. ‘Please take a seat.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I reply, and do as she asks.

  Iljana’s wispy, dark brown hair is pinned up at the back. She’s wearing a grey suit with big black buttons, the kind used for eyes on ancient teddy bears. ‘May I take your date of birth and personal ID number?’

  Once I have given them, Iljana turns away and types.

  ‘Thorkild Aske?’ she asks.

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘How can I help you, then? Have you registered as a job-seeker before?’

  ‘No.’

  I hand her the letter I’ve brought from the social worker at Stavanger Prison.

  Iljana leans forward to the desk and computer screen while she reads. Once finished, she gives a vague smile. She has small teeth, unnaturally so, almost like a child’s, and her eyes are as grey as her suit.

  ‘Well then, Thorkild.’ She folds her hands on her lap. ‘The prison social worker writes that you have agreed to take part in an interdisciplinary project to facilitate your return to society after serving your sentence. And that’s good, of course.’ She emphasises the word good and smiles again.

  I nod.

  ‘I’ve attended a meeting with Correctional Services who found me somewhere to live, allocated me a psychiatrist and GP and talked to various assessment units. They’ve all helped me form a support team enabling me to discuss the past and plan the future in order for me to break away from my criminal career. If you ask me, I’d say I’m close to a hundred per cent rehabilitated.’

  Unable to see the humour in what I’m saying, she returns to the computer screen. ‘You trained as a policeman.’

  She scrolls down the screen as she talks. ‘Sergeant, Inspector, Chief Inspector, assigned to Internal Affairs and subsequently employed there on a permanent basis.’ Hesitating, she runs the tip of her tongue along those tiny teeth before turning to face me once again.

  I beat her to it. ‘Police officers who go after police officers.’

  ‘I see.’ She nods. ‘Then it would be logical for us to look for a job in the police when you’re ready, don’t you think?’

  I return her smile. ‘Dismissed from the service,’ I say, aware that the pains in my cheek and diaphragm are surfacing again. At the same time, my mouth is so dry it’s difficult to speak.

  ‘Sorry?’

  Unscrewing the cap from the bottle of water I’ve brought with me, I drink, hoping the water will make everything better. ‘I was also sentenced to loss of my police career.’

  ‘For how long?’

  ‘For the rest of my life,’ I answer, replacing the cap and setting the bottle down on the floor beside the chair. The tingling inside my face is changing into a pulsating, aching throb. ‘And a bit longer.’

  ‘So what were you thinking of doing now, then?’

  ‘That’s what I was hoping yo
u could tell me.’ I retrieve the bottle of water and hug it between my hands. The pain, the smell, the light, the shortage of oxygen in the air and the obligation to sit here talking to a stranger, yet another official, makes me restless. I long to be alone in a room with no reflective surfaces. Yet I know that I have to endure this to emerge on the other side. Ulf says there’s no way round it.

  Iljana glances down at the letter again before returning to the screen. ‘It says here that you wish to apply for work-assessment allowance while you are receiving medical treatment?’

  I nod. ‘There’s still some disagreement about what degree of fitness I have for work following my’ – I draw quote marks in the air – ‘accident at work. But my contact officer, my prison social worker, the hospital staff, the prison chaplain, my GP, psychologist and psychiatrist and I have all reached the conclusion that I should make a dignified effort to get back to work when I can.’

  ‘Accident at work?’

  ‘Doesn’t it say that as well?’ I point to the letter. ‘This individual – Thorkild Aske – tried to hang himself from a pipe in the communal showers several months into his prison sentence. In the middle of the February half-term holiday, into the bargain.’

  ‘What happened?’ she croaks.

  ‘The rope snapped.’

  Iljana stares at me as if she’s scared that any minute now I’ll attack her with one of the plastic bananas in the fruit bowl on her desk. ‘Well,’ she ventures tentatively, taking a deep breath and clearing her throat. ‘Are you thinking of retraining for something else?’

  ‘For what, though?’ I squeeze the sides of the bottle so tightly that water drips over my fingers and down on to the floor. ‘A forty-four-year-old brain-damaged petroleum engineer? Stockbroker? Dental assistant?’

  Iljana steals a glimpse at the clock in the right-hand corner of the screen before announcing with fresh resolution: ‘I suggest we await the outcome of your application for work-assessment allowance. In the meantime, we’ll explore possible avenues for returning to the world of work, outside the police force.’ She types on the keyboard again, scrolling down and typing some more until, finally satisfied, she turns to face me. ‘What do you think about working in a call centre?’

  CHAPTER 2

  In an effort to banish the pains in my cheek and belly, I decide to eat. I buy a sandwich in a café close by the Work and Welfare Office, and afterwards set off up Hospitalgata and walk on through Pedersgata in the direction of the bedsit that I’ve been allocated by Correctional Services.

  In the mailbox I find a furniture catalogue and a letter addressed to me. I know what’s inside the envelope. They’re always the same; the only thing that changes is the children’s ages. They grow up, even though the faces are never the same. When I received the first one, they were pictures of babies taken from magazines and catalogues. In the beginning, she also sent cuttings of cots, rattles, feeding bottles and breast pumps.

  Bringing the letter and the catalogue with me, I go up and let myself into the bedsit. I put the post on the table between the sofa and the TV table minus a TV, before crossing to the kitchenette and taking down my medicine dispenser from the cabinet above the hotplate. I open the Wednesday compartment, tip the contents of the middle space into my palm and wash them down with a mouthful of water. I switch on the coffee machine and then settle down on the sofa with the letter.

  This time there are two cuttings inside the envelope. One is of a boy of about seven or eight with wavy brown hair, wearing a colourful T-shirt with a printed design of a fish in a cap and snorkel swimming around a reef. The text underneath reads: Find clothes made for fun and games – jeans, trousers, T-shirts, jackets and lots more. Our colourful, hard-wearing clothes suit all children.

  The next cutting is a girl of the same age. According to the text below, she is dressed in a powder-pink jacket with a detachable fake fur collar, tight denims and a matching T-shirt. We have everyday jeans, practical clothing for playtime, party favourites and everything in between …

  I tuck the cuttings carefully into the envelope and shove it to the furthest end of the table with the furniture catalogue, before reclining on the sofa and closing my eyes.

  Then the phone rings.

  ‘Well?’ asks a gruff male voice with a distinct Bergen accent, drawing on a cigarette with a greed that’s close to intimacy. Ulf Solstad is a psychiatrist by profession and leader of my newly established support team. ‘How did the meeting go?’

  I made Ulf’s acquaintance during my stretch in Stavanger Prison, where he was serving a sentence of eight months for extortion, though that does not appear to be deterring his clientele now. In fact, he is even more sought after by city suits with money and problems than before his stint inside.

  ‘Superb,’ I answer sourly. ‘A promising career is predicted for me in the call-centre sector.’

  ‘Take it easy.’ Ulf prolongs his vowels to an abnormal degree, even for someone from Bergen. ‘Just persevere and follow the rat runs through the maze. The bureaucrats set them up precisely for people like you, to sift out the ones who aren’t strong enough. I promise, as soon as we’ve got you over the hurdle of the work-assessment allowance, it won’t be long until you’re permanently assigned to the ranks of the unemployable. And in the meantime, wait for your benefit cheque.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Listen,’ Ulf breaks in as I struggle up from the clutches of the sofa in search of my water bottle. ‘I’m honoured that you want to have me as a member of your support team, and promise to do my best to ensure you achieve the life you desire for yourself, Thorkild.’ I can hear him puff out cigarette smoke.

  ‘I need more Sobril.’ I snatch the bottle that has fallen on the floor and rolled partway under the two-seater. ‘I’ll soon have none left. Besides, we’ll have to increase the dose of OxyContin.’

  ‘Has the pain got worse?’

  ‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘And I’ve started getting cramps in my legs when I walk.’

  ‘Maybe we should look at the dose of Neurontin instead?’

  ‘No!’ I snap, pressing my index finger into the damaged tissue on my cheek. Soon my whole face will be on fire with pain. ‘It gives me a headache. And so does Risperdal. I can’t tolerate them.’

  ‘Thorkild, we’ve talked about this before. Neurontin is specifically for nerve pain, and you’ll probably have to take that for the rest of your life. Risperdal is an antipsychotic that you absolutely do still need. It’s always the benzodiazepines people think they need more of, because they reduce anxiety, those and the Oxys. That’s always the case, but they’re addictive, as you well know. If we’re going to reduce the doses, we’ll start with them, and then we can eventually weigh up whether you’ve found your feet now that you’re out of prison. What do you think?’

  ‘I can’t sleep,’ I grumble, using my heel to push the mail over the edge of the table. I know he’s right, and it pisses me off.

  ‘Yes you can,’ Ulf answers, unruffled. ‘That’s why I’ve given you Sarotex.’ He coughs violently before continuing: ‘You are still taking them all, aren’t you?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Your medicines? You’re taking them?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The Risperdal as well?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You know you need them, Thorkild.’

  ‘Yes, I know that,’ I answer, far too quickly.

  ‘Get a grip!’ Ulf interrupts me. ‘I’m not your damned hunched-up chaplain trying to fill his quota for heaven.’ He’s breathing heavily again. I’ve upset his smoking ritual and he’s going to have to light another one as soon as this one’s sucked all the way down to the filter.

  ‘He said I was a bee with no flowers.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The prison chaplain.’

  ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘No.’

  I hear the flick of the lighter as Ulf starts his next cigarette. ‘Tell me the story, Thorkild. Can you do
that for me?’

  I resolve to make this smoke a good one and relate the story. ‘I’m a bee in a world without flowers, and it’s up to me to decide how I want to spend my time until winter comes.’

  ‘Winter?’ Ulf exhales with gratified ease. I can hear him through the receiver, the pleasure as he puffs in and out.

  ‘Winter touches all of our lives, sooner or later,’ I plough on, feeling my muscles tense. I sink back into the sofa, letting it suck me down into the cushions. The effect of the powerful pills causes the pains to disperse and vanish.

  ‘You’re kidding me, aren’t you? Tell me you’re pulling my leg, Thorkild!’

  ‘No. I’m not kidding. It’s like waves breaking against rocks.’

  ‘That’s the worst thing I’ve ever heard.’ He pauses. ‘Can I use it?’

  ‘Be my guest!’

  ‘Thorkild,’ Ulf says, abruptly, decisively, as I’m about to hang up. ‘There’s someone who wants to talk to you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Someone you know. From before.’

  He hesitates, as if he still hasn’t quite made up his mind whether this is something he really ought to tell me before the support team in its entirety has had a chance to analyse the matter.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Frei’s uncle,’ Ulf finally says before adding, ‘and his ex-wife, Anniken Moritzen.’

  ‘Arne Villmyr?’ I feel the anxiety come creeping back. All at once my mouth is dry as dust and the sunlight slanting round the blanket stretched over the window is hurting my eyes. ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s not to do with Frei,’ Ulf answers in a strained voice, as if still not entirely sure about what he’s doing. ‘Arne and his ex-wife, they have a son—’

  ‘Arne’s gay,’ I break in. I’m not keen on the direction this conversation is taking, and at the same time I feel a mounting disquiet inside me and yearn to just hang up and shut it all out.

  ‘All the same,’ Ulf says calmly, giving me no excuse to disconnect, ‘he has an ex-wife and a son—’