The slosh, slosh echoed in Oslo’s ears. Slosh, slosh. Do you blame the wife of the torturer, the killer? Slosh. Rain fell on his head. At first, there was an instinctual effort to protect one’s head, however ineffectually, by putting a hand over it, palm up. Eventually, this became too tiring, and the hand was slowly dropped. Slosh, slosh.

The thighs pushing together projected the body through space.