Free Encircling by Carl Frode Tiller Page A

forgotten everything, as if it doesn’t matter.
    “I’ll have a word with one of the lads and get him to run over with a box of fillets and a box of whole fish at the weekend,” Eskil says. “That should keep you going for a while.”
    “Oh, what would I do without you,” Mum says.
    “Starve to death!” Eskil declares bluntly and laughs that big, booming laugh of his again, opening his mouth wide and glancing around as he laughs. And Mum hoots with laughter.
    “You’re unbelievable,” she says, shaking her head.
    Two seconds.
    Then Eskil turns to me.
    “Oh, by the way, we’re looking for another driver,” he says, lifting his sunglasses off his brow and pausing fora moment, nodding at me. “You wouldn’t be interested, would you?”
    I look at him, don’t answer straight away. You wouldn’t be interested, would you? he asks, asks as if I were looking for work. I’ve told him again and again that my plan is to concentrate on my music, but it seems to have gone in one ear and out the other, either that or he simply can’t imagine that such a thing would ever be possible, it’s so arrogant, so fucking patronizing. And I feel my annoyance growing, I turn and look at Mum, and Mum sits there eyeing me expectantly. And then it strikes me: they’ve been discussing this while I was down at the beach; I picture Mum playing the long-suffering mother, acting all weary and dejected because I’m never going to amount to anything, and Eskil assuming the role of father figure, the big brother who has to sort out the family problems. As if – him, the least responsible of us all, drunk or stoned all through his teens and early twenties and then he does a complete about-turn and suddenly he’s oh-so-fucking-responsible, even goes into politics, and starts ranting on about stiffer sentences and law and order, him, after all those years of stealing from Mum to finance his drug habit, and now he sits there, expecting to be regarded as the responsible, trustworthy member of the family, it’s un-fucking-believable, the man has no fucking shame.
    “The pay’s not bad, either,” Eskil says.
    “How much are we talking about?” Mum asks.
    “About two hundred and ninety thou, I think.”
    “That much?” Mum says.
    “Yes, or it might have been more,” Eskil says.
    I just sit here looking at them. They know I don’t want to be a driver, but they pretend not to know. Talk in a waythat makes it hard for me to say no, trying to press me to say yes, do they think I don’t see that. They turn to me, look at me. One beat, then I force a wry grin, give a faint shake of my head. Another beat, then Mum twists her lips into a rueful smile. She looks at Eskil and sighs, playing the despairing mother again, like she’s at her wits’ end.
    “Ah,” Eskil says, smiling at me, “but you may have plans with the band,” he says, saying it without a trace of irony, acting all sincere suddenly, wanting to look as if he, at least, respects me, knowing that it makes him stand even taller in Mum’s eyes.
    “Oh, that … band!” Mum snorts, making it sound as if she’s talking about a venereal disease.
    “Well, you can think about it,” Eskil says, looking at me – he’s acting all innocent, but I know he’s enjoying this, he’s making me look like an ungrateful sod and himself like the magnanimous, considerate big brother, and he’s enjoying every minute of it. I look at him, feel a wave of loathing wash over me.
    “There’s nothing to think about,” I say. “I’m not interested.”
    Mum gives a little sniff as I say this.
    “It’s not good enough for you, is that it?” she asks peevishly.
    I look at her and a loud bark of laughter escapes me: that she can bring herself to say something so stupid, that she can spout such an unadulterated cliché, in all seriousness. Jesus Christ, it’s fucking unbelievable, she’s like something out of a bloody film by Ken Loach or Mike Leigh, it’s a fucking farce.
    “No,