He broke off and squinted at Adrian.

‘Are you two together?’ he asked sceptically.

‘In a way,’ I said. ‘For the time being.’

‘I think we’ve got space for you in one of the closest rooms. There are already two people in there, but with a mattress on the floor your pal here will also be able to -’

‘Let’s make a start then,’ shouted the man wearing the Brann scarf, beckoning to a group of youngsters who were sitting at the table eating what I thought was stew, but which I later found out was hot soup. ‘We’re gathering down here, everybody! We’ve organized coffee and biscuits too!’

The response obviously hadn’t matched up to his expectations. The priest eagerly grabbed the arm of a woman passing by, but let go immediately when what he presumably thought was a proper mountain ski hood turned out to be a hijab.

The teenagers continued eating in silence. They were in no hurry. Quite the reverse, in fact; without even looking at the man, they casually helped themselves to more soup. Somebody started humming an incredibly irritating nursery rhyme. One of the girls giggled and blushed.

‘Can’t somebody put a bullet in that fucking priest’s head,’ mumbled Adrian, before raising his voice: ‘And I’m not fucking sleeping in the same room as other people. I’m just not.’

He ambled over to the table and threw himself down on a chair as far from the others as possible.

Geir Rugholmen scratched the dense, blue-black stubble on his chin. ‘Quite the little hard man, your pal.’

He moved to help me up.

‘No,’ I said. ‘I can manage. He’s not my pal.’

‘Good job.’

‘Don’t worry about him.’

‘I’ll do my best. Wouldn’t you like me to -’

‘No!’

My tone was sharper than necessary. As it often is. As it almost always is, if I’m perfectly honest.

‘OK, OK! Take it easy! God. I only wanted to -’