Taking a human life does something to you.
It would soon be two months since the late February evening when I despatched a man called Harry Hopland to whence he had come, yet still his final gaze was seared in my memory. He had cursed me as he plunged from the edge of the half-finished concrete building. His curse had echoed through every single hour of the sleepless nights I had endured since.
The woman in my life for the last eight years – my old friend in the national registry, Karin Bjørge – had tried to console me as far as she could:
‘It wasn’t your fault, Varg. It was self-defence. It was him or you.’
‘But I could’ve saved him,’ I had reasoned. ‘I could’ve had him arrested.’
‘And what then, eh? He would’ve probably come out of prison wit