Brage and Geir Kåre played in the midfield, while Viljar made an impressive forward. He ran fast and scored the most goals. Once, late at night after a long party, he and Simon argued about who was actually fastest, and they decided to race each other across the kilometre length of the Tromsø Bridge. Ready, steady, go! They ran, but admitted defeat after a few hundred metres. The effects of the party won out in the end.
They were happy to live not knowing who was fastest, and now Viljar had a hat-trick to celebrate – three goals in the same match.
Gunnar Linaker reigned supreme in goal. The Troms county secretary was a big, burly type who weighed over a hundred kilos but he threw himself around in all directions. He was so muddy after the match that Mari had to hose him down. He had also strained his groin, and rang a medical student friend in Tromsø. ‘You’ll have to lie down and rest until it stops hurting,’ the friend advised. Not a chance. Troms had won all its matches so far and was the first team to qualify for the semi-finals. He would be playing in spite of the pain. They were going to win the tournament this year!
Anders Kristiansen was nowhere to be seen during the matches, not even as a spectator and cheerleader. They could have done with his enthusiasm and loud voice, but he had other duties to perform and was busy preparing the political programme. The eighteen-year-old had arrived at the island a few days before the others to attend a training course for the election campaign that was to start after the holidays. Anders was on the Labour Party list for the local council elections in Bardu and was hoping to win a seat in September. From late summer he was going to travel round to schools all over Troms to take part in election debates and it was important to polish up his arguments and his style. Debating was what he most enjoyed. He had recordings of several parliamentary debates that had been shown on TV, including those on the data storage directive and the postal services directive, and he made a careful study of how the various representatives put over their points, what worked and what did not, how you could defeat your opponent, ridicule him, render him harmless or undermine his credibility. How he was looking forward to the election campaign!
After the football match there were political seminars. They could choose between such topics as ‘My dear brother in dark blue – the experience of Conservative government in Sweden’ or ‘Violence against women and children’ or an update on climate negotiations.
Mari and Simon opted for something they knew nothing about, ‘Western Sahara – Africa’s last colony’. They learned about the Sahrawis’ fight against the Moroccan occupation of their land while they were exiled to the most inhospitable desert areas, cut off by a wall over two thousand kilometres in length, in a place where over a million landmines maimed people and cattle every year. Freedom of expression was limited and there were disappearances and arbitrary imprisonments.
‘We’ve got to get to work on this,’ Mari whispered to Simon.
As the seminar was drawing to a close, disquiet spread through the room. Conversations were conducted in loud whispers while the human rights activist from Western Sahara carried on speaking. A boy stood up and interrupted the Sahrawi to say that there had been a big explosion in Oslo. He referred to his iPhone and what he had read on the internet. Many were frightened; a number of the camp participants from the Oslo area had parents who worked in or near the government quarter.
The seminar was abruptly ended by a boy who came to summon everyone to a meeting. It was to be held in the main hall, where they were now, so Mari and Simon stayed in their places. At the meeting, AUF leader Eskil Pedersen gave them the latest information on the explosion. But it was nothing more than they could read for themselves on their iPhones.
Monica Bøsei, a slight woman in her mid-forties, came onto the stage. ‘Those who want to ring their parents can do so. Anyone who wants to talk can come and see us, we’re here for you,’ she said. Monica had been running the island on a day-to-day basis for twenty years, promoting the ideas of the labour movement and adding a few of her own. She had handled its finances, put down mousetraps and seen to the upkeep of the buildings. When she had been working there for a few years, they advertised for a caretaker. Jon Olsen, an AUF member her own age, got the job. And Monica. They fell in love, moved in together and had two daughters. When the AUF bought the MS Thorbjørn to use as a ferry, Jon became its captain.
This was due to be Monica’s last summer on the island. Mother Utøya, as she was known, had got a job as director of the Maritime Museum and wanted to hand the baton over to somebody else. But for now she was here to take care of anxious young people. ‘This evening we’ll light all the barbecues and you can have as many sausages as you want,’ she proposed, telling them Utøya was a long way from Oslo and that it was the safest place for them rightnow.
Out of respect for the victims in the government quarter, the Friday disco was cancelled, and because of the rain the football tournament was postponed. There was no pitch left to play on. Monica recommended that the leaders of the county delegations gathered up their groups to talk through what had happened.
Simon and Mari went out together and headed for the tents.
‘We’re not safe here,’ said Simon.
‘What?’ exclaimed Mari.
‘Well, if this is an attack on the Labour Party…’ he said.
‘Now you just shut up!’ Mari declared.
‘I’m only saying that it’s no coincidence they went for the government quarter. That means this is an attack on the Labour Party, and we’re part of the Labour Party…’
They came across Viljar. And Simon did not shut up.
‘If this is political, Viljar, and against the government, we’re not safe here either.’
Viljar had just been talking to his mother and was wondering what to tell his younger brother Torje. During Gro’s talk the fourteen-year-old had collapsed from lack of sleep after his all-night session followed by the football tournament. Now he and Johannes were asleep in their tent. Viljar and his mother had agreed it was best not to wake him until after the meeting, and then to give him a toned-down version. It must be time to get him up now.
Up in the Troms camp, Mari was delegating tasks. She set some of the activists to buttering bread and making up fruit squash. She went round pouring the sweet drink into plastic cups. When you’ve had bad news, your blood sugar levels fall, she reasoned. So it was important for them to have a bite to eat now.
It was wet, grey and mucky. The whole campsite had turned into a huge pool of mud. But soon they were all sitting round on whatever they could find in the way of dry camping stools, boxes and tree stumps.
‘Take big breaths, stay calm,’ Mari told herself. But it was beyond her.
Anders Behring Breivik was now driving through Nordre Buskerud, the police district to which Utøya belonged. In Hønefoss police station no one had yet received any instructions to look out for a silver-grey delivery van with a particular number plate.
He drove along the winding road from Sollihøgda, looking down at the Tyrifjord. There was an arrow pointing down the narrow road to the left. The sign said Utøya. Not that the driver needed the sign; the car’s GPS had already told him this was the place to turn. Just before half past four, the van left the highway.