– Don’t go in there.
Jo jerks, trying to free himself, but it’s an adult that’s holding him, a stranger. At first he thought it was the man his mother was making out with, but it’s someone else.
– Someone’s in there with your mother. You don’t have to look after her.
Something or other makes Jo let go of the handle on the toilet door. Maybe it’s because the voice seems familiar. He glances up at the stranger. A man about Arne’s age. Unshaven, with sunglasses pushed up on the top of his head, even though it’s evening.
– No need for you to care, barks Jo, but he isn’t angry.
– No, there isn’t, the man replies.
But then he acts exactly as though he does care. – Come with me, he says. – I’ll treat you to a Coke.
He heads out towards the terrace without turning round. He’s wearing khaki shorts and a short-sleeved black shirt. His hair is quite long and combed straight back and hangs over the collar of his shirt. Jo doesn’t hear his mother screaming any more. He stands there, hesitating. Then he slips out after the man.
They sit at a table at the end of the terrace. Far below them the waves are breaking. Louder now, it seems, and Jo still thinks about what it would be like to go down there and throw himself in. The water should still be warm. The night colours it black.
The stranger is drinking a Coke as well. Jo realises why the voice seemed familiar. He’s heard it on TV. And not long ago this man was on the front page of Aftenposten.
– Seen you in the paper, he says. – And on TV.
– You’re probably right there.
– Do lots of people recognise you?
– Quite a few. They stare and seem to find it hard to believe that someone who has been on TV is made of flesh and blood and eats dinner and goes to the toilet. The stranger smiles. – But Norwegians are polite. Once they’ve finished staring, they’ll generally leave you in peace. Actually everyone’s shy and scared of making a fool of themselves, same as you and me.
Jo drinks his Coke, glances towards the restaurant. – Not Mother. She makes a fool of herself all the time.
The grown-up leans back. – She is drunk, he agrees. – Everyone changes when they drink.
Jo tries to find something else to talk about. – Don’t you drink? He points to the Coke. – I mean, like wine and spirits and stuff?
– Only when I have to. Your name’s Jo, isn’t it?
– How do you know that?
– Heard your father calling you as we were getting off the plane.
– Arne isn’t my father.
– I understand. You don’t know my name?
– Heard it lots of times. Don’t remember.
The grown-up pats his shirt pockets and takes a squashed cigarette packet out of one of them.
– You can call me Jacket.
– Jacket? That ain’t a name.
The grown-up lights his cigarette. – Got it when I was about your age. How old are you? Thirteen? Fourteen?
– Twelve, Jo answers, with a touch of pride.
– Some of my old friends still use that name when we meet up, the grown-up tells him.
– Did you like it? Jo grins. – Being called Jacket?
Jacket runs a hand across his unshaven chin. – Where I come from, everyone had a nickname. Often we got names from the jobs our fathers did. My dad ran a clothes shop, or gents’ outfitters as they used to call them back then, and Jacket was an okay name. Actually, I like it even better now. Better anyway than Staples, or Laces, or Scissors. Not to mention Condom.
He laughs, and Jo has to laugh too.
– Jo isn’t my name either, only the beginning of it.
– Really?
– But no one dares use the whole of that stupid name. Or I’ll kill them.
– Cripes. Then I guess I’d better stick to Jo too.
– I’m not kidding. Some kids at school tried to give me a nickname. They’re sorry for it now.
The grown-up takes a drag on his cigarette. – Agree with you there, Jo. You gotta make people respect you.
Arne’s up. He’s in a foul mood, and that’s good, because he doesn’t say much when he’s like that and Jo gets left in peace. And he won’t have to see Mother for a while, maybe not for the whole day. He can hear her whimpering as he sneaks past the bedroom door. There’s a bad smell all the way out to the kitchen.
Outside, the sun glows white. The stones burn beneath your feet. Go back and fetch sandals? Then he’d have to knock. He carries on walking, keeping to the narrow strip of shadow along the walls of the houses. It must look stupid. People who see him probably think he’s trailing someone. Or that he’s a thief. He runs the last bit, past the bar, up the steps to the pool. Most of the sun loungers are already taken. He feels the people staring at him from the beds. Almost as though he can hear them whisper as he approaches: There’s the son of that woman who…
Two girls at the edge of the pool. Jo noticed one of them on board the plane. She was waiting to use the toilet right after him. She has a thin, pointed nose and brown hair hanging wet down her back. Could be older than him. She has tits. Bigger than some of the girls in his class. Her bikini is white with dark red hearts on it. He looks in the other direction as he walks past. Without taking off his yellow T-shirt, he suddenly dives in from the edge even though there’s a sign saying it’s forbidden. He’s a good diver. He once dived in from the top board.
He swims up and down a few lengths. Then he dives and glides underwater past the two girls. He’s better at this than any other boy in school, swimming underwater. He can feel their eyes on him, watching him. They’re wondering when he’s going to surface. Is it possible? He doesn’t have to surface, not until his hand touches the wall at the end of the pool.
He pulls himself up on to the edge and sits there dripping some distance away from the two girls. Doesn’t look in their direction, looks everywhere else. At least twice he feels certain that one of them turns and sneaks a look at him; not the short, slightly tubby one, but the dark one, the one with the tits. The heat is suffocating. The sun makes a heavy pounding inside his head, and if he goes on sitting there, that pounding is going to get louder and louder and something will happen, though he’s not sure what. He jumps to his feet. The soles of his feet hurt, as though they’re covered in blisters. He walks on tiptoe past the two girls, who have maybe noticed something’s happening to him; quickly round the corner and down the steps. Once out of sight, he starts to run. Doesn’t stop until he reaches the little children’s playground with the swing and the slide. His breathing tears at his throat, and still there’s this heavy thudding inside him, as if someone’s standing in the dark and beating away with a sledgehammer. He slumps down on the swing. Cats all around him. Counts them. Six of them, in and out of the bushes. Counts them again. He’s never liked cats. They sneak around and pop up without a sound; you never know where you are with them.
One of the smallest, a young one, has lost an eye. He noticed it when they arrived the day before. It was sitting in front of their apartment door and meowing. Grey-brown and skinny as a worm. Where the eye had been, a thin rag of eyelid hangs over the empty space. Now it follows him out of the gate when he opens it and walks after him back to the apartment. Must be because the people who lived there before used to give it food. According to Arne. There must be millions of cats in the world. This skinny creature with just the one eye wouldn’t have survived for long unless someone looked after it. Does every kind of creature have a right to live? Jo turns abruptly and makes a sharp whistling noise along the outside of his teeth. The animal gives a start and dives under a bush.