Breivik was killing an average of one person a minute.
He was standing by a low red building known as the schoolhouse. No doubt lots of them were hiding in there, he thought. He fired through the door and heard girls’ screams. He tugged at the door, but on the other side was a man from Norwegian People’s Aid, keeping the handle firmly in place. The room was full of people. Breivik gave up on the schoolhouse. The risk of trying to fight his way in was too great. In the Pelican case he had a can of diesel, which he had planned to pour round buildings and set light to them, so he could shoot people as they came out.
But he had no lighter on him, so he went back up to the café building to look for one.
He had now shot and killed forty people on the island. It was time to give himself up; that would increase his chances of surviving the operation. But he had left his mobile in the van with the bomb.
He did not find a lighter, but he found a mobile phone. He rang the emergency number, 112, and was put on hold. After several attempts he got an answer from the operation centre at Hønefoss. It was 18.01.
‘Police emergency line.’
‘Yes, good afternoon, my name is Commander Anders Behring Breivik of the Norwegian Anti-communist Resistance Movement.’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m on Utøya at the moment. I want to give myself up.’
‘Okay, what number are you calling from?’
‘I’m calling on a mobile.’
‘You’re calling from your mobile?’
‘Well, it’s not my mobile, another one…’ replied the man on Utøya, and the call cut out.
‘Another one, what’s your name? Hello… hello…!’
It was a mobile with no SIM card that Breivik had found, so the number did not come up on the screen at the local police station, and he was never called back.
He had better carry on, then. Along the path he met a dog that was running around crazily. He had not seen anyone to kill for a long time; where were they all?
He went along by the water. At the point they had named Stoltenberget he came across a few youngsters and shot and killed three. At the bathing area known as Bolsjevika he found another group, and killed five. The water’s edge gradually became more inaccessible. He went inland again.
One little gang, lying flat in the tall grass, heard his footsteps. But they could not run, they could not get away, because they were holding a life in their hands.
Ina’s life.
After Breivik had left the café building, Ina crawled from behind the piano. She managed to drag herself out of the hall, holding her jaw in place. When she got to the campsite she collapsed. Somebody lifted her over to the skateboard ramp just alongside.
‘She’s not going to make it,’ Ina heard them whisper. Then one girl took the lead.
‘We’ll take a wound each,’ she commanded. That was how they were sitting around her now, as they heard Breivik approaching, each pressing a stone to one of Ina’s wounds. A woman from Norwegian People’s Aid was lying on the ground with the injured girl resting on top of her, keeping her warm. But Ina was steadily losing blood.
One of the kids pressing stones to Ina’s wounds had wanted to run and look for his sister, but was told: ‘We need you here.’ That’s when they had seen the man in uniform behind the tall stems of grass. ‘All lie bloody still,’ said the girl who had taken charge.
He was going down Lovers’ Path.
If he looked right, he would see them.
But he looked straight ahead.
He stopped at a little grey hut he thought must be an outside toilet. He balanced his way down the side of the hut carefully, because it was steep on both sides. He saw one person, then another, then more, a big group of them sitting there, pressed right up against the wall of the little pumping station. Breivik was still a short distance from them.
‘Have you seen him?’ he asked.
Nobody answered.
‘Do you know where the last shots came from?’ he asked.
Nobody moved.
‘We haven’t caught the gunman yet, but there’s a boat down by the water ready to evacuate you. Can you gather together? You’ve got to come right away!’
A couple of girls got up hesitantly. They approached him tentatively. He looked at their faces; some looked relieved, others more sceptical.
‘You’ve got to hurry up, before the terrorist comes. We haven’t got him yet.’
A couple more young people stood up and came towards him.
‘Have you got ID? Can you prove you’re a real policeman?’ one of them asked.
A seventeen-year-old from the Oslo suburbs was one of those making her way towards him. She saw him suddenly give way to irritation, as if frustrated that they were not coming fast enough. He fired a shot. Andrine threw herself into the water. From there, she saw that the girl who had been standing beside her was lying on the ground. Then she saw her best friend Thomas shot. First in the neck, then in the head.
A girl cried, ‘Help, please!’
Breivik blasted her down. Then he mowed down those running up the steep slope.
Andrine felt sudden pressure against her chest. Her neck, her throat, her mouth were filling with blood. A bullet had entered her breast and stopped a few millimetres short of her spine; her lung was punctured. She lay in the shallow water, unable to breathe. She was drowning in blood. Her eyes were wide open. If I close them I shall die, she thought, fighting for air. She saw the man shoot everyone who had stayed by the pumping station. He went over to every single one of them and held his pistol a few centimetres from their heads. And fired and fired and fired.
Then the killer stopped. He looked round. Surveyed the prone bodies, turned and went up the slope. Then suddenly he swung back round. He stopped, smiled and raised his weapon again.
He aimed at her. He looked right at her. The shot went through her wellington boot and her foot. Bullets splashed into the water and ricocheted off the rocks all about her, sending chips of stone flying into her face.
He took aim at her again. Now I’m going to die, she thought. It’s over.
Breivik pressed the trigger.
A boy leapt up.
Andrine thought she was dead when she saw the boy jump forward. He took one bullet – two bullets – three bullets that were meant for her. The first hit him in the hip. The next went into his back and out through his chest. The third crushed his head. He slumped down; he was dead.
He was Henrik Rasmussen from Hadsel in Nordland. Andrine did not know him. But he had been crouched on the slope, hiding, and had seen her hit repeatedly. So he jumped out in front of her.
Henrik had turned eighteen that February. The last thing he did before setting off to Utøya was to lead an anti-racism event in his home district.
‘Hoho!’ cheered Breivik.
Then he went. Andrine looked round her. They were all dead. Some were lying face down in the water, others curled into the foetal position. One skull had been cleft in two. The brain lay exposed.
Andrine waited to die. She waited for all the blood to run out of her. She wanted a white casket at her funeral, completely white. But how could she let people know?
She could not die. If she did, the sacrifice of the boy she did not know would have been in vain.
Lara had thrown herself into the cold water and started to swim when she heard the first shots from the pumping station. It was about quarter past six.
As she swam, she could hear shots and screams. Someone begged for their life. ‘Please, don’t shoot! I want to live!’
On this side of the island, the water had worn cavities into the limestone. She swam along to one of them but it was already full. She swam on, and was able to get into the next one. In there, she was hidden from all angles.