Maya looks at the fifteen-year-olds and is amazed at how much older than them she feels, how much life has passed by. She can see from self-confident grins that their coach has already taught them how valuable that is, but she wonders if they know that that only applies as long as they’re winning, if they’ve understood that they’re commodities that can be discarded in an instant by agents and bigger clubs if they get injured or play badly or just stick out a bit from the group. If they’re different. If they aren’t machines.

  She wonders if they still love the game the way they did when they were children, playing on the lake or on their driveways. If they still throw themselves against the Plexiglas in the ice rink in delight when they score a goal. Ana used to imitate them so well, she always swore that all hockey guys look exactly the same when they cum in bed as they do when they score a goal on the ice. Once when just she and Maya were on their own in the changing room at school after PE, she pressed herself against the wall of the shower and muttered desperately with her face contorted: “See me! Validate me! Tell me I’m a real man now, Daddy!” Maya remembers how much she laughed, they were children then, nothing was deadly serious yet.

  The fifteen-year-olds on the train laugh, and she wonders what they’re finding so funny. Which photographs they’re looking at. If they use girls’ names when they talk about them or if they use other words. She wonders if the best of those guys dare speak out when the worst cross the line. Because she can see a Benji and a Bobo and an Amat in this gang, she wonders if there’s a Kevin among them as well. If there is, she hopes these boys know who he is, because the more other people can’t see the difference between them as a group, the more important it is that they can see the difference in each other.

  She looks out of the window and realizes that she recognizes where they are. The kids from the south would only see forest, but she knows exactly how close to home she is now. She shuts her eyes and all the things she can’t forget grow clearer with each mile: the details of his room. The layout of the furniture. Every sound. All the breathing. The rape never ends, not for her. She wonders if he feels the same about the rifle and the jogging track. If he remembers how he wet himself, if he closes his eyes and can still feel the cold metal against his skin as she pressed the gun to his forehead. If the click when she pulled the trigger still echoes in his head. She wonders where he is now, and if he’s still so frightened that he has to sleep with the light on.

  She hopes so. Dear God, she hopes so.

  30 Butterflies

  Matteo’s big sister had a butterfly tattoo on her shoulder, in secret, obviously, her parents would have gone mad. She chose it after reading that a butterfly flapping its wings can cause a storm on the other side of the planet. She felt so powerless that this was the most powerful thing she could dream of being: an insect.

  It’s visible on the photograph of her that Matteo keeps behind another picture on his wall, so that his parents won’t see it if they come into his room. They would probably have hated the tattoo more than the drugs and alcohol, defiling your body was the Devil’s work, so many things on earth are the Devil’s work that when Matteo’s sister really wanted to hurt her mother she would exclaim: “So, when does GOD actually do anything?” The only reason she wasn’t even more unkind was that Matteo would also get sad when his mother was sad, and his sister never wanted to upset him. That was his only weapon, he defended his whole family from each other by using his heart as a shield. When his sister left Beartown she was smart, telling her parents that she was going to a church, she had even contacted the parish and talked her way into being allowed to stay there. They had taken “children with problems” before. Her parents thought their daughter had finally found the truth, her mother cried, and by the time the church phoned to say she had never arrived she had already left the country. That was two and a half years ago.

  When the next call came, very recently, in the middle of the night, and a police officer pronounced her name in broken English, it was as if her parents couldn’t even cry for her because they had already mourned her loss long before then. “The Devil took her” was all Matteo’s mother whispered, and Matteo couldn’t bear to hurt her by asking: “So why didn’t God save her? Wasn’t she worth fighting for?”

  Now his parents are on their way home with her ashes, and Matteo is staring at the black screen of his computer. Where you are born and who you become is a cruel lottery. He wonders exactly what it was that divided him and his sister from happiness, and if it is even possible to measure all the “if only”s and “if that hadn’t”s, because when it comes down to it, that’s really all life is.

  If only Beartown and Hed hadn’t been such shitholes. If only people hadn’t been so awful. If only their parents had believed the words their daughter said as much as they believed the word of God. If only Matteo and his sister had been born somewhere else where they were worth something. If they had been born into the Andersson family instead. If Matteo had been Leo and his sister had been Maya. If their mother had been a lawyer and their dad had been general manager of the hockey club.

  * * *

  Then someone would have fought for her too.

  31 Dishwashers

  One day back in the spring a lone man suddenly appeared in the stands at the ice rink during training. He was short and overweight, had thinning hair, and wore a heavy gold chain over a thick polo-neck sweater beneath a thin leather jacket. “Who’s the taxi driver?” a few of the recent arrivals joked, but when none of the players who grew up there laughed, they quickly fell silent. The man in the stands kept his eyes on Amat for the whole of the training session, didn’t say a word to anyone afterward, then came back again for the next session. And the next, and the next. Eventually one of the newer players asked again: “Seriously? Who’s the old guy?” Amat pretended he didn’t know, as did most of the others. But one of the players who grew up in the Heights, and who was therefore convinced of his own immortality, sniggered: “That’s Lev! One of the trash bandits from over near Hed! Haven’t you heard about those tramps?” He wasn’t so tough out on the ice, Amat noted, but the locker room always feels like a safe place for small men. Naturally, Amat had heard all the rumors about Lev as well, but his mother taught him at an early age not to talk crap about anyone, seeing as they may well turn out to be not just anyone.

  His teammate, on the other hand, was now happily explaining all about the trash bandits, so called because they had taken over the old scrapyard below the hill outside Hed a few years ago. No one really knew where they came from, at first there was just Lev and a few others, but now twenty or more people were said to be living in the trailers there. Some said that they sold stolen cars, some said they sold drugs, some said they did far worse things. The atmosphere in the locker room gradually became more jovial, because all muscles relax there, especially tongues. So one of the recent arrivals tried his taxi driver joke again, and this time a lot of them laughed. Encouraged by this, the first player told a joke about how things got a bit messy when the trash bandits took over the scrapyard because they didn’t understand how they were supposed to have space for their camels under the car hoods, fewer of them laughed at that, but he had built up a head of steam and carried on: “All that scrap is probably the biggest family business in the area now, because all those monkeys must be related to each other, right?” Suddenly everyone fell silent and glanced anxiously at Amat, as if he might get annoyed. The other player’s face turned bright red, and that probably said a lot about the sort of jokes he used to make when Amat wasn’t in the room, but of course it also said even more about the other players seeing as they just sat there in silence. So Amat pretended he hadn’t heard anything, packed his things, and went home, telling himself that he had more important things to worry about than crap like that.

  Lev came back for the next training session, and the next, he never spoke to anyone and he kept his eyes on just one player. No one made any jokes about him anymore, at least not in front of Amat, but a sense of silent unease was growing in the building. The old guys who used to watch every training session moved farther away and the players glanced at the stands more often. No one said anything to Amat, presumably they were waiting for him to say something himself, as if he ought to apologize to the whole team for the sort of people he attracted to the rink. He was usually very good at that, apologizing for things, but for some reason he didn’t on this occasion. Perhaps he’d just had enough of the jokes, perhaps he’d just had enough of feeling responsible for everything.

  So it went on for almost two more weeks, until one evening Amat met the girl in the Hollow to get pills and she shook her head. “Sorry, I’m not allowed to sell to you anymore.” Amat exclaimed in surprise: “Says who?” Her reply was blunt: “Lev.” Amat asked: “Is he the guy you get them from, then?” When she shook her head he snapped: “So what’s he got to do with it, then?” She just shrugged her shoulders: “Does it matter? Do you think I want to commit suicide or something? If Lev says no, no it is. I’m not going to fall out with the trash bandits. You’ll have to talk to him yourself.”

  So the next day after training, to his teammates’ great surprise, Amat marched up into the stands, stared at Lev, and roared: “DO YOU THINK YOU’RE MY DAD LIKE EVERYONE ELSE IN THIS TOWN, THEN?”

  Lev was leaning back in his seat, he looked Amat straight in the eye and shook his head, adjusted his gold chain, and let Amat stand there long enough for him to hear his own pulse in his ears.

  “I’m no one’s dad. You don’t need a dad. And you’re your own man, yes? You don’t need a dad,” he eventually said. Amat said nothing for a long time, then asked, considerably more cautiously: “So what are you doing here, then?” Lev replied: “I want to help you, yes?” His grammar made it unclear if this was a question or not, so Amat muttered: “So does every other old guy in this town…” Lev’s face cracked into a broad smile: “Do I look like all the other old guys in this town?” He said this in Amat’s mother’s language, even though he didn’t look like he came from the same country as her. “Where are you from?” Amat asked in his mother’s language, embarrassed at how badly he pronounced the words because she was the only person he ever spoke them to. “I am from nowhere, I know many languages, you feel like this sometimes, yes? As if you come from nowhere?” Lev smiled.

  It was a tentative relationship at first. Lev offered Amat a lift home from training, Amat hesitated for a long time before he said yes, mostly out of curiosity. “You’re not to use those crap pills you can buy in the Hollow. If you’re in pain, I’ll sort out proper medication, yes?” Lev said seriously. Amat nodded. Lev looked him in the eye and asked: “So you’re in pain?” Amat nodded again. This was the first time he had admitted it to anyone. Lev said no more about it, he started asking other questions instead, not about hockey like everyone else, but about Amat and his mother and what it was like to grow up in Beartown. Amat gave curt replies at first, but they gradually became longer monologues. He talked about how Hed and Beartown hated each other, and Lev replied that it was only hatred for people with money. “The difference between the inhabitants isn’t the difference between Hed and Beartown. Just the difference between rich and poor, my friend. I live in Hed, yes? But aren’t you more like me than a man from the Heights? Because we’re the same in his eyes, you and I. We’re poor. We’re his slaves. Men like him demand that you feel grateful now, don’t they, Amat? But grateful for what? Do you think those rich men would have cared about you if you weren’t good at hockey? They’re not like us, Amat. We’ll never be part of their town.”

  That was the first time in a long time that Amat felt anyone understood him.

  * * *

  “Look out for that tree,” Peter exclaims, pointing at one that’s blocking half the road.

  They’re everywhere, a gigantic game of Pick-up Sticks, Teemu keeps having to slow down and comes close to driving into the ditch several times. His phone buzzes in his pocket again.

  “Hold the wheel,” Teemu says, then lets go of it, forcing Peter to lunge across the seats.

  Teemu starts to reply to the text message as Peter tries to steer through the debris.

  “Are you… can’t you… TEEMU!” Peter eventually yells, and Teemu brakes at the last moment before they crash into what looks like half a fence and a bathtub that have escaped down someone’s driveway.

  Teemu stops the car, but carries on tapping his phone.

  “People seem to be doing a lot of talking today,” Peter mutters.

  “They’ve changed the match schedule. Guess who we’re playing in the first round? Hed!” Teemu snaps back.

  “Oh,” Peter says, for want of a better word.

  “Hell of a lot of rumors right now, I need to…,” Teemu goes on, then seems to change his mind.

  “Rumors about what?” Peter asks, even though he doesn’t really want to know.

  Teemu glances at him, apparently weighing up what he should say and what he shouldn’t, then sighs and explains:

  “The council had a meeting this morning with your friend, Tails. Hed’s ice rink collapsed in the storm, so all their teams are going to be training in our rink.”

  Peter says nothing for a long time. The windows are closed but he still imagines he can feel the wind off the lake, from beyond the ice rink where the flags are flying at half-mast, his clothes feel too thin.

  “I’m sure it’s just a temporary measure, Teemu, you and your guys mustn’t…”

  “The council will use this as an excuse to try to merge the clubs, you know that!” Teemu interrupts.

  Peter nods, hesitates, and shudders.

  “They’ve tried to merge the clubs before, Teemu. I’ve sat in those meetings myself. It will never…”

  “It’s different this time.”

  “How?”

  Teemu lowers his eyebrows.

  “Because this time it’s Beartown that’s got the money. People like Tails have something to gain from a merger now.”

  As soon as the following words pass his lips, Peter regrets saying something so ridiculous:

  “Would that really be so bad? All the council’s resources devoted to one and the same club, maybe that would…”

  Teemu’s reply isn’t aggressive, which somehow makes it worse:

  “This club doesn’t belong to Tails, it belongs to us. If they want to merge our club with those red bastards, it’s going to happen over my dead body.”

  Peter looks down at his lap and nods, unable to reply because he knows that isn’t true. It will happen over other people’s dead bodies, anyone who happens to be standing in the way. That’s what Teemu means by “it belongs to us,” because either you are part of “us” or you aren’t, and Peter knows all too well from experience that the most dangerous place in this forest is between men and power. They say no more until the car pulls up outside Peter’s house. He thanks Teemu for the lift and Teemu merely nods, and Peter says without making eye contact:

  “Teemu, I know this won’t mean anything to you because I’m the one saying it, but there’s been peace between your guys and the guys in Hed for a long time, hasn’t there? Your guys follow you, whatever you do, so you can choose to… well… you can be a tool for the town now, or a weapon. That’s going to make all the difference.”

  Teemu smiles, revealing all his teeth.

  “You really do sound like her.”

  “Thanks,” Peter says quietly.

  “But you’re wrong. There’s never been peace. Only a truce,” Teemu adds, almost sadly.

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Truces are temporary.”

  He holds out his hand, Peter takes it. Then Teemu says something very unusual for him:

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Peter mumbles.

  “I mean it. Thanks for everything today,” Teemu says, looking at the steering wheel.

  Peter doesn’t move as the young man drives off, ashamed of how happy he feels. When he and Kira moved here from Canada all those years ago, he promised her that relationships in the town would feel less complicated with time. The opposite happened. Everything and everyone are even more tightly connected now, until finally people can hardly move at all.

  * * *

  One evening when Lev was driving him home, he asked Amat what he was planning to buy when he turned professional. “A Mercedes and a house for Mom,” the boy replied. Lev smiled. “Is that what she wants?” Amat laughed and shook his head. “No, she just wants a dishwasher.” Lev laughed so hard that his stomach bounced. “I promise, I’ll help you get an NHL contract so you can employ staff for her. She’ll never have to do the dishes again, okay?” He handed Amat a small box of prescription tablets for the pain in his wrist. Amat hesitated, then handed him his cell phone. Every time an agent called from then on, Lev took the call.

  The next time they were sitting in the car he said: “They say hockey is a contact sport, yes? They say it’s because of the violence on the ice. Rubbish! It’s off the ice that it’s violent! A contact sport? The entire sport is made up of contacts! How many NHL players look like you, Amat? Hardly any! Why? Because none of the coaches look like you. Because these wealthy men only want to give the jobs to each other. They stick together, yes? That’s why they win. That’s how they keep people like us away from power and money.” Amat nodded. Lev has continued to attend every training session, and they had the same discussion time after time as they drove home to the Hollow afterward. The days grew longer, the daylight more generous, summer was on its way. From his balcony one night Amat saw a group of people lighting candles up on the hill. The next day he found out that the brother of the girl he bought drink from had been in another town and got into a fight, and ended up getting stabbed. He was in intensive care. The following day Beartown had an away game and at the back of the bus on the way to the game Amat’s teammates, who had never set foot in the Hollow, were talking about it: “It was drugs,” one said. “How do you know?” another wondered. “Do you think it was just a coincidence he got stabbed, or what? I mean, you know where he’s from, you know what it’s like there…” Amat said nothing, but heard everything.