‘My name is Even Tollefsen,’ I whisper.

‘Please speak up’, the judge says.

I move closer to the microphone and cough slightly before repeating myself. I try to give the two other judges an apologetic smile. I don’t get one in return. I tell them our address – Granholtveien 4 – and that we live in Fredheim.

‘It’s about an hour’s drive from Oslo.’

I don’t know why I said that. They know where Fredheim is. After what happened in October, everybody does.

‘How old are you, Even?’ the prosecutor continues.

‘I’m seventeen.’

I can’t keep my voice steady, so I try to take a deep breath. My chest hurts.

Now the prosecutor wants me to talk about my family. I catch a glimpse of my mother again. She’s slumped down in her seat. It looks as if she’s trying to hide.

‘My father died in a car crash when I was seven.’ I say, my mouth feeling dry. ‘So I was basically brought up by my uncle Imo.’

‘Imo?’

‘Sorry. Ivar Morten,’ I say. ‘Everyone in Fredheim calls him Imo.’

There is a slight chuckle in the room. It relaxes me a little.

‘But you lived with your mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘And your brother Tobias.’

‘Correct.’

‘OK. Would you say that you had a happy childhood?’

I look at my mother again, before staring at the table in front of me for a few seconds. ‘Like I told you, my father died when I was very young. So no, I wouldn’t necessarily say that I was a happy kid. Depends on how you look at it, I guess.’

‘Are there other ways to look at it?’ the prosecutor wants to know. I move about in my chair.

‘Obviously, I missed my father,’ I say. ‘And we moved a couple of times, back and forth, and my mother … she wasn’t doing very well, to be honest, but I managed to make a lot of friends. So I guess in some ways I was a happy kid. It helped that I played football.’

‘Alright, Even,’ Ms Håkonsen says. ‘Do you mind if I call you Even?’

‘Not at all.’

‘OK. Thank you. Let’s move on a little bit.’

She gets up and starts to walk up and down in front of me, as if she’s thinking deeply about something. Suddenly she stops and says, ‘Mari Lindgren.’

Ms Håkonsen stares at me for a few seconds. ‘Could you please tell the court what kind of relationship you had with her?’

Just hearing her name makes my whole body ache. I take a deep breath again. ‘Mari Lindgren was my girlfriend,’ I say, my voice tiny and sad.

‘For how long?’

‘About five months.’

The courtroom is so silent even the slightest of movements can be heard.

‘But she wasn’t your girlfriend on Monday the 17th of October last year, was she?’