Her breath smells of stale coffee and old cigarettes. I nod again.

‘Hell of a case,’ she says with a sigh. It seems like she’s talking to herself now.

I think about the hours ahead of me. Everything I need to relive and remember. Everything I will be asked, everything I need to talk about, in front of everybody. I remind myself to stick to my story. There are details the court and the judges – and the whole of Norway – don’t need to hear.

The door in front of me opens. A man in uniform gestures for me to get up and follow him. I take a deep breath and stand up. I look at the male officer and wonder for a brief second what he thinks of the case, what he thinks of me. For months the newspapers and the TV stations have been reporting on what happened in Fredheim last October. But I can’t tell one way or the other what he thinks. His look is just dead serious.

I straighten my trouser legs, button my jacket and pull down my slightly too-short shirt sleeves. I wonder whether anyone is going to believe me. They have to, I tell myself. They simply have to.

The uniformed man leads me through a wide door into a big room. Just like on TV, a sea of faces turns towards me. There’s a sudden silence, then it gives way to whispering. I try to focus on the stand ahead of me, grateful that I still have about twenty feet to walk before I get there. The sound of my own footsteps gives me something to concentrate on.

My mother is here. I can see from her face that she’s having a hard time. I wonder how much she’s had to drink and if she’s brought a flask with her.

When I reach the witness box, I turn and look at the crowd of people in front of me. I don’t really see anyone in particular, just heads. Every seat in the room seems to be taken. People are even standing at the back. As I begin to focus, I see reporters, laptop screens. Familiar faces from Fredheim. Some of my friends, schoolmates – if I can even call them that anymore. Police Chief Inspector Yngve Mork is here, as is Mari’s mother. I can’t see her dad, though, nor any of Johannes’ parents.

The lawyer for the prosecution is a slim, small lady. She looks slightly masculine in her tight dark-blue suit. I don’t really know anything about her, except that her name is Håkonsen. She takes a sip of water from the glass in front of her and looks at me with inquisitive eyes. As if she’s wondering whether she will be able to break me, or something.

She wishes me a good morning, before politely asking me to state my name and address – for the record.