‘I can’t afford to lose too much blood,’ said Breivik. ‘And I’ve lost half a litre already.’He claimed that the blood loss could make him pass out.
Sticking plasters were procured.
While the plasters were being applied, Breivik wondered why he was bleeding. He remembered something hitting his finger when he shot a victim in the head at close range. Something had flown into his finger and then popped out again. It must have been a bit of skull, he told the officers in the room.
The cut was logged as five millimetres long. The interrogation could continue.
‘In return for my explanation, I want a PC with Word in prison. I want…’
He stumbled, stammering a little as if he suddenly did not know what to ask for. ‘I have to have a more formal setting before I can put forth my demands. It has to be done in the proper way.’
Eventually, he decided he had three lists of demands. A simple one with requests that could easily be met; a second that they might also agree to – and that would actually be very attractive to the police; and then a third list that they probably would not accept.
‘Out with it then. Start with the simple one!’
‘My cell has fifteen thousand sympathisers in Norway, many of them inside the police. No one could possibly defend such bestial acts as those I have committed today, yet Islam is more brutal than my organisation! We are martyrs, we can be monsters, that’s fine by us. Marxist youth, they’re—’
A police officer came in and interrupted. ‘The police are outside 18 Hoffsveien. Is your mother at home, and what does it say on the door?’
‘It says Wenche Behring Breivik.’
Wenche had been at home when the bomb went off, and had neither heard it nor felt the pressure wave.
Earlier in the day, she’d taken a coffee break with her friends at the café and gone into the Coop to buy some mince. When she’d got home about two, Anders was back from the computer store. By half past two he was off again; there was something he had forgotten to buy.
‘I’ll have dinner ready when you get back!’ she called after him.
She chopped onion, fried it with the mince, mixed in the tomato sauce and set the table. She wanted it all ready when her son got home. She would wait to put the water on for the spaghetti until she saw him at the door. She set the sauce to one side and started peeling the prawns they would have in the evening. She put the shells in the rubbish, tied up the bag and put it by the front door. Then she sat down and waited.
She was ravenous. Would he be back soon?
Two hours after he had gone out, she rang him. His phone was switched off. That was odd, he didn’t usually turn off his phone.
Strange that he wasn’t back yet. He’d only popped out to the computer store. Could he have dropped round to a friend’s?
At five o’clock she rang him again. No answer.
Just after that, one of her friends rang and told her to switch on the TV. It was dreadful! She sat there watching the news and then went to put on the water for the pasta because she was so hungry. She ate a little.
At seven she rang Anders again. Where could he be? Could he have had a car accident?
It was a long time since she had had Anders at home. Since his move to the farm he had only spent one night there, well, apart from this night. She had asked him if he had found himself a nice milkmaid up there in the valley. Straight from the cowshed!
She was glued to the TV. Imagine Anders not being there with her, when these frightful things were happening.
First the bomb. And now: ten people killed on the island.
Between eight and nine she rang his phone several times. She was starting to get seriously worried. What could have happened? Could he have been hit by the bomb?
At 21.40, there was a call to her landline. She hurried to pick up the phone.
‘This is the police. We request that you come out.’
‘Oh no! Has something happened to Anders?’
She ran out of the flat.
Outside, she was met by flashing blue lights. There were several police cars in front of the entrance. Armed men with black jackets and visors had their weapons trained on her.
She had to hand over her keys, and was taken to a car. A policewoman took her by the arm.
‘Your son has been arrested in connection with a serious criminal offence. You are wanted at the police station to make a witness statement.’
Wenche stared at her. This was insane.
‘Does your son have access to firearms?’ asked the policewoman.
‘He’s taken his hunting-licence test and belongs to a pistol club. He’s got a Glock and a shotgun,’ Wenche said, and added: ‘The shotgun’s in the wardrobe in his bedroom.’
The car sped through empty streets.
‘Does your son have any mental health problems?’
‘What’s he accused of?’ blurted Wenche. ‘Him of all people. He’s so kind and considerate, and…’
The car drove into the garage at the main police station.
The assault force was still outside 18 Hoffsveien.
People were gaping from the windows of their flats. The whole neighbourhood was soon at the windows, phones in hand. They were all ringing each other: ‘Look outside! Look outside!’ On the television, which they all had on in the background, they would shortly see their own block live on the screen, and hear that the perpetrator was Norwegian, and thirty-two years of age.
Good God, it must be Wenche’s Anders!
The flying squad was awaiting notification from Utøya before storming the flat.
‘Are there explosives there?’ Wenche’s son was asked.
‘No,’ he replied. ‘There’s a PC in the fart room.’
That was how he put it. It was the first room they would come to, he said, and the only one of any interest. He had removed all his things from the loft and basement.
‘There is one thing you have to be clear about,’ he said abruptly. ‘This has been the worst day of my life. Unfortunately, it was necessary. Hopefully the Labour Party will learn its lesson from this and stop the mass import of Muslims.’
‘Will anyone else die today?’
‘I don’t want to comment on that. And I do need some more comfort in order to formulate my list of demands.’
‘I find it rather strange that you didn’t prepare your list in advance,’ observed the lead interviewer.
‘I’m in a lot of pain now, and I can’t focus. I think a better location would help me.’
Breivik was informed that it was not currently possible to change location.
‘You all see me as a monster, don’t you?’
‘We see you as a human being.’
‘You’re going to execute me. And all my family.’
‘We are prepared to give your family protection if need be. For us, a life is a life. You will be treated exactly the same as everybody else.’
He said he had to go for a pee, and some officers accompanied him out.
‘Now I’ve got my list of demands ready. Are you making a note of this?’ he asked when he got back.
They assured him they were.
‘I want to send and receive letters in prison.’
‘You will, as soon as there is no longer any reason to block your correspondence and visits.’
‘How long is correspondence normally blocked for?’
‘That depends on the investigation, and it is hard to say in a murder case.’
‘Murder case? This wasn’t murder, it was political executions!’ Breivik burst out. ‘Knights Templar Europe has given me permission to execute category A, B and C traitors. For me – that is, for us – the Knights Templar is the highest political authority in Norway.’