‘It’s not easy to grasp the meaning of what’s going on when you’re in the midst of it,’ he said. ‘Humans, however, have a remarkable ability to get through even the worst of times, and move forward. However difficult that may seem right now, that’s what we have to do as well. As a society. As a school. As a friend. We have to look after one another now. Help each other. The holes that Mari and Johannes have left behind will be impossible to fill, and we are not going to try to do that. We’re not going to forget. We are not going to pretend that this never happened, because it did. We’re going to talk about them, and remember them, for as long as we can breathe.’

He then gave the floor to a psychotherapist who basically just repeated what Mr Brakstad had said about talking about our beloved, departed friends. Her voice was dull and soft, so I faded out a bit. Soon Mr Brakstad was back at the microphone.

‘I would like to finish this short memorial with a song that I know many of you like or maybe even love. I believe it’s quite fitting for an occasion like this. In so many ways.’

I was afraid that Mr Brakstad had gone online to find a song about loss and sorrow that was popular in the charts. I should have guessed, though, which song our janitor would put on the PA system.

It was the one Imo had written for the school show. The song Johannes had performed. The show-stopper, the ballad that allowed Johannes to demonstrate the full range of his voice; that made everyone think what talent he had, what potential. It was a song about Fredheim, about how much he loved the place where we lived, how happy he was whenever he came back, how much he’d missed it when he was gone. As soon as I heard the first notes – the chords I had played on my guitar, the ones we had practised as a band – I couldn’t help myself. I started to cry. And when I listened to the lyrics Imo had written, it was as if they were meant for Mari and Johannes instead.

35

35

Just like the day before, it was Cecilie Lindgren’s sister who answered the door when Yngve rang the bell.

‘Is Frode here?’ he asked.

‘Um, no,’ Kari-Mette Bjerkaas said.

‘Where is he?’

‘I don’t know.’

That made Yngve frown. ‘Did he spend the night here?

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘OK, so … your sister, is she around?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I need to speak with her.’

Bjerkaas hesitated for a beat, before opening the door and letting him in.

‘Stay here, let me go upstairs and get her for you.’