Later, in the factory, I sat on the mezzanine bent over two small jam jars and tried to occupy myself with local species of spiders and insects. In one jar I had trapped a little white spider I had found on the windowsill, and in the other a reddish-brown earwig picked out of a shrivelled Bloody Ploughman in the compost. The earwig pushed against the glass wall with its scissorarms, cut the air and rocked backwards, only to try again another place. The spider didn’t move.

The wind outside pushed hard against the walls of the factory with a constant pressure, making the joists creak and complain. Behind me I heard Carral leave the bathroom, unbutton the suit she wore at the office and pull her sweater over her head. I looked around and saw her face disappear into the black fabric. Underneath she wore a short vest that nearly reached her tights, and between them her belly showed, like a porcelain enamel plate. I turned back to my jam jars.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Looking at insects,’ I mumbled in reply.

Softer fibres sounded against skin. When she came up on the mezzanine she was wearing tight white tracksuit bottoms and holding a paper bag in her hand.

‘We’re going out with work tonight. Come with if you like. They’re nice people. Some are pretty young too.’

‘But isn’t that just for your workmates?’

‘No no, it’s totally casual. And I’ve told them about you. They’d love to meet the young Norwegian.’

I could feel her eyes on me and concentrated on not looking up from the earwig’s jar.

‘I hope you told them nice things.’

Carral sniggered. ‘Just that you’re Norwegian and good with rotten fruit. Come on, join us. You’ll have to get out and get to know people sometime.’ She pulled out her novel and noticed my jars. ‘You’re doing homework?’

‘I’m preparing a lab session, yeah.’

‘Are they from the house?’

‘I found one in the window and the other in the compost.’

‘And how is the compost?’

Her shoulders shuddered slightly.

‘The apples are still there.’

Carral nodded and opened Moon Lips, put her hand in the paper bag.

‘Do you want some muff?’ she asked and fished out a chocolate muffin. Without waiting for a reply she broke it in half and gave me a piece.

‘Muff?’ I asked. ‘No thank you. It’s muffin though, isn’t it?’

‘Sure. But we call it muff. Have some, come on, I can’t sit and munch cake on my own.’

I took a bit of cake. Carral’s fingers had left deep hollows on both sides.

‘Do you know what muff means by the way?’ She giggled while chewing the other piece. I shook my head, and she continued:

‘It’s slang for vulva. I don’t know why. Maybe some people think they look like labia …’