You would light the match, even if the room smelled of gas
Only a few degrees separate rain from snow
All houses are built up but burn down
You have shown me things I fear more than death
So I am prepared to burn in here if I can do it with you
* * *
When the sun returns to Beartown, the beach once more fills with teenagers pretending not to stare at each other’s bodies. At first everything is cheerful and noisy, but soon a frightened silence creeps along the shoreline. Two youths climb into a tree and hang up new Hed Hockey flags. William Lyt is prowling between the towels, and he stops at every junior school kid and holds out a cigarette. “Have you got a light?”
No one looks him in the eye. He grabs hold of each boy’s arm and looks for scratch marks. It’s possible that Lyt himself doesn’t really know what he’s hoping to find, because who would dare to confess anything to him here? But he wants him to be afraid, if nothing else. So that he doesn’t challenge his team again. With each teenager who shakes his head as he stares down at the sand, William’s heart feels a bit lighter, he feels a bit bigger.
Then he hears a scraping sound. First once, then once again, immediately afterward, and a slight hiss as the flame ignites. A thin voice behind William says, “I’ve got a lighter!”
* * *
Leo’s fingers aren’t trembling. His sleeve slides up. The scars on his arm stand out vividly.
* * *
“What . . . what do you mean, you know a lot of things about me?” Peter managed to say the previous evening. Richard Theo replied in a carefree, almost cheery way, “I know that Beartown Ice Hockey is at most just three months away from bankruptcy, even if your friend Tails sells another of his supermarkets. And I know that your A-team coach, Sune, is ill.”
Peter just gawped at him. At the start of the summer Sune had started to have trouble with his heart: Adri Ovich had found him on the floor of his row house when he had failed to show up at the newly formed girls’ team’s skating class. Adri had called Peter from the hospital, but Sune had asked the pair of them not to tell anyone else. It was just a “little murmur,” and he didn’t want to be “some damn martyr.”
Naturally they kept quiet, but if Peter were honest, that was much for his own selfish reasons as for Sune’s sake: he couldn’t recruit a new coach without sponsors or money, he couldn’t persuade the team’s players to sign new contracts without a coach, and without players there was no way he could attract either sponsors or a new coach.
“As I said,” Richard Theo said quietly, “it’s my job to know things. I have friends at the hospital. I’d like to be your friend, too.” Then, very calmly and methodically, he went through his offer to Peter: the new owners of the factory would require political investment in order to rebuild the factory.
Theo could arrange that. But the owners also recognized that they “needed to have the support of local residents,” so he had persuaded them that “the quickest way to these people’s hearts is through hockey.”
Peter squirmed and did his best to hold his voice steady as he replied, “From what I’ve heard, the other parties don’t want to work with you. What reason do I have to believe that you can actually achieve all this?”
Theo replied serenely, “Yesterday the ice rink had a large, unpaid electricity bill, Peter. If you’d care to phone and check, you’ll find that it’s been paid. It that enough proof?”
Peter felt very uneasy. “Why our club? Why not approach Hed Hockey instead?” The politician smiled again. “Beartown is famous for being hardworking. And what you achieved twenty years ago, when the whole town lined up behind the club, there’s a lot of symbolic power in that. What was it you used to say? ‘Beartown against everyone else’?”
Peter grunted defensively. “I didn’t think you liked hockey.” Theo adjusted his cufflinks and replied, “My political stance will always be that taxpayers’ money should go to health care and jobs, Peter, rather than sports.”
Peter scratched his head and did his best not to look impressed when he said, “So you’ll let taxpayers’ money go to the factory instead, in return for the new owners’ sponsoring the hockey club? And that way you get to be the politician who saved both jobs and hockey in Beartown. As well as appearing to save taxpayers’ money . . . which can be spent on health care services instead . . . bloody hell. You’d win the next election on the back of that.”
Theo put his hands into his pockets, but without radiating any sense of smugness. “You know, we have a lot in common, Peter. We just play different games. And in order for me to play mine, I need to win the next election. In order for you to play yours, you need a club.”
* * *
William is eighteen years old and probably weighs twice as much as the twelve-year-old boy standing in front of him. But Leo isn’t backing down. He meets William’s gaze with eyes that seem to think they have nothing left to lose.
The whole beach is watching, and even if William hadn’t wanted to beat up a boy six years younger than him, there’s no way he can back down now. His hand grabs Leo by the neck to hold the little bastard’s head steady, but something happens to the twelve-year-old then: the strangulation prompts panic, his mouth opens instinctively as William’s fingernails dig into the flesh beneath his chin. Leo starts to retch, and tears spring to his eyes. There are only two natural responses: desperately clutch at his attacker’s hands or hit out furiously as hard as he can, directly upward.
Leo’s first blow finds nothing but air, but he takes another wild swing and hits William’s ear. No one tells you before the first time you get into a fight, but being hit on the ear is bloody painful. William’s grip loosens for a fraction of a second, and Leo seizes his chance. He strikes out as hard as he can, hitting William under his chin, and hears the eighteen-year-old’s teeth crunch together hard. William must have bit his tongue, because when he throws himself at Leo, blood is pouring from his mouth, and then it’s all over. William is too big for the twelve-year-old to stand a chance.
* * *
Peter shook his head again at Richard Theo, but not as defiantly this time. “You and I have nothing in common. You’re only interested in power.” The politician laughed at that, for the first time in the conversation. “Do you really think you’re any less political than me, Peter? This spring, when your daughter accused Kevin Erdahl of rape and the sponsors tried to get you dismissed as general manager, you won that vote of confidence because this . . . ‘Pack’ . . . took your side. That’s right, isn’t it?”
Tiny, cold drops of sweat let go of the hairs on the back of Peter’s head and made their way down his spine. “That wasn’t . . . I had no influence . . . I never asked . . . ,” he stammered, but Theo dismissed his objections: “Everything is political. Everyone needs allies.”
Peter’s pulse was ringing in his ears when he asked, “What do you want from me?” The politician replied frankly, “When everything becomes official, you take part in a press conference. Just smile for the cameras and shake hands with the new owners. In return, you’ll get an injection of capital and complete control over the club. No one will interfere with your job. You’ll get the chance to build a winning team. All I want is your . . . friendship. That’s not too much to ask, is it?”
He smiled again, and before Peter could answer, the politician moved on to his most important point: “And one last thing: the new owners obviously don’t want to be associated with any form of violence. So when you stand at that press conference, you have to distance yourself from the Pack. And say that you’re going to get rid of the standing areas in the rink.”
Peter couldn’t bring himself to say anything. Theo seemed to have expected that. He helpfully clarified a few more things, and after he left, Peter just stood there, he didn’t know for how long.
When Peter eventually got back into his car and drove off into the night, one thought kept drumming through his head: Control of the club? With a decent b
udget? He had often been accused of seeing himself as slightly “morally superior,” and perhaps there’s been some justification for that. He considers a hockey club to be more than just sports: it should be an incorruptible force that is never governed by money or politics.
But how many of his ideals is he prepared to sacrifice? What enemies is he prepared to leave himself with? If he gets the power. If he gets to win.
* * *
He’s on his way to finding out the answers.
* * *
Richard Theo got into his car and drove all night, all the way to a small airport where a friend had just landed. Theo shook hands with his friend, who said irritably, “This better be worth my time.”
Theo offered his apologies. “Some things are best not discussed over the phone.”
“Well, then,” his friend nodded.
Theo went on, “I can guarantee our friends in London all the political investment in the land and factory that they require. But I need a number of things in return. There’s a violent gang of hooligans that’s spoiling the club. One councillor can’t do much to stop them, but a big new sponsor could . . . well, you understand. Exert a degree of influence.”
His friend nodded. “The hockey club again? Why is that so important to you?”
Theo smiled. “It’s symbolic.”
“So what do you want?” his friend asked.
“The new owners need to set a precondition for their sponsorship agreement: that the general manager of Beartown Ice Hockey speaks out publicly and distances himself from violent fans, and that he gets rid of the standing areas in the rink.”
“That doesn’t sound like a big deal.”
“It isn’t. But it’s important that it comes directly from the owners, not from me.”
His friend gave him his word. They shook hands. The friend got on board a plane.
* * *
Richard Theo got into his car and all the way back thought that only someone who had never set foot in Beartown could say that what they had just discussed wasn’t “a big deal.” That’s why Theo was always one step ahead of everyone else. Nobody bothered to do any research anymore.
* * *
“William! William!” one of the guys on the team hisses somewhere. Leo is too dizzy to hear where the voice is coming from; he’s lying on his back and can’t see anything through the punches raining down on him.
William raises his arm one last time, but another teammate grabs hold of him and repeats, “William!”
From the corner of his eye William sees his friend nod toward the road behind the beach. A car has stopped there. Two men in black jackets have gotten out. They’re not walking toward the beach; they don’t have to. The Pack has never gotten involved in the activities of the town’s teenagers: there’s always been a dividing line between the seriousness of A-team hockey and the games of the junior team. But William is no longer a junior, and this is no longer just hockey.
William lets go of Leo. Gets up hesitantly. The men in black jackets don’t move. William spits blood, and red saliva dribbles onto his T-shirt. “That’s enough,” he mutters quietly, so that no one will hear his voice shaking.
He turns and walks away. His teammates follow him. The men in black jackets stand on the road until one of William’s friends gets the hint, climbs up into the tree, and takes down the Hed Hockey flags. The men in black jackets disappear without a word, but the point has been made. No more Hed Hockey on Beartown territory.
Leo sits down on his blanket, without bothering to wipe William’s blood from his face. His throat is so sore that he’s sure something is broken. One of his friends pats him on the shoulder; another one gives him a cigarette. Leo has never smoked in his life, but he can’t not start now. It hurts horribly and is incredibly good.
He didn’t back down in the face of William Lyt, and no more red flags are hung from the trees this summer. Perhaps Leo could have made do with that, but his twelve-year-old heart is beating to a different frequency now, because he’s discovered something. Adrenaline. Violence. It’s like an infatuation. So tomorrow morning William Lyt’s mother will open the mailbox outside their house and discover that it is full to the brim with cigarette lighters.
People like William Lyt can’t ignore that sort of provocation. And people like Leo Andersson count on that.
13
So They Gave Him an Army
“Everything has its price, everyone will pay something!” Those were the most frequent words from Ramona’s husband’s mouth when he was alive. The first thing he asked anyone who had bought anything, regardless of whether it was a new car or a secondhand toaster, was “What did you pay?” And whatever they replied, he would grunt, “They saw you coming! I’d have gotten it for half that!” Ramona had been so sick of hearing it, but what she would have given to hear it one more time. He loved her, and he loved hockey and used to say that the center circle of Beartown’s rink was their wedding ring, so he didn’t need one on his finger. When life was tough, he never said, “It’ll be okay,” he just said, “Soon time for hockey.” If anyone said “It’s summer,” he would correct them and say, “This is preseason.” He rearranged the pages of every calendar so that the year started in September, because that’s when his year started, when Beartown played its first game.
Eleven seasons have passed since he left Ramona. Today a telemarketer is sitting somewhere and dialing a number without really caring whose number it is. “Is that Holger? How are you doing today, Holger?” he says loudly when the call is answered.
“Holger’s been dead eleven years. And he wasn’t feeling particularly brilliant before that, either. What do you want, boy?” Ramona replies, standing at the bar with her second breakfast in her hand.
The caller taps anxiously at his keyboard. “Is that the Bearskin pub?”
“Yes,” Ramona says.
“I see . . . sorry, but Holger is still listed as one of the owners on our files . . .”
“It’s still our pub. It’s just that I’m the one doing all the work these days.”
“Ah, what does it say here . . . ? Is that . . . ‘Ramona’?”
“It is.”
The salesman takes a deep breath and starts again. “Great! How are you doing today, Ramona?”
“Boy, these days there’s technology that can help people like me find out where people like you live.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry?”
“You heard me.”
A short silence follows. Then eventually the salesman clears his throat and for slightly unclear reasons summons up the courage to recite, a little too quickly, “I’m selling subscriptions to our skin care products! Every month you receive eight different products through the post, but you only keep the ones you want and send the others back free of charge . . .”
“Eight?” Ramona wonders after two large gulps of breakfast.
“Yes!”
“And I’m supposed to have an opinion about that? Tell me, boy, do you honestly think a person has that much skin?”
The salesman doesn’t have a scripted reply to that, so instead he tries, “Right now we have a very attractive off—”
Ramona’s voice is simultaneously apologetic and irritated, as if she’s about to tell him that his cat has been run over but that it was actually something of a nuisance for her because the little bugger jumped out of the way the first two times she tried.
“Boy, the people you call probably have their hands full trying to hold their lives together. Eight different skin care products? People just want to make it through the day.”
The salesman replies in a voice scratchy with cough drops and despair, “Me, too.”
“Have you had breakfast, boy? That’s the most important beer of the day. Probably good for the skin, too, full of vitamins.”
“I’ll give it a try,” the salesman promises.
“You know what, boy? If you’re ever passing Beartown, you can have one on the house.”
“ ‘Beartown
’? I didn’t even know there was a place called that.”
Ramona hangs up. “Everything has its price,” Holger said before he left her, and when he was buried the priest said the same thing: “Grief is the price we pay for love, Ramona. A broken heart in exchange for a whole one.” He was a bit drunk at the time, of course, that damn priest. But that didn’t stop him being right. Everyone pays something, people and communities alike.
* * *
There was once a time when every telemarketer had heard of Beartown. “Beartown? You’re the ones with the hockey team, right?”
* * *
In the yard below the apartment blocks in the Hollow some children are playing hockey, using a wall as the goal and soda bottles as posts. Amat is standing at the window of his room watching them. He used to play with his best friends, Zacharias and Lifa. It was an easy game back then. A stick each, a tennis ball, two teams.
But they’re sixteen now, almost men. The Hollow has gotten worse, unless they’ve just gotten big enough to see the truth about their surroundings. If you want to understand the Hollow, you need to know that everyone who lives here regards the rest of Beartown the way the rest of Beartown regards the big cities: “We only exist for them in the form of negative newspaper headlines.”
Lifa once said to Amat: “They love you if you’re good at hockey, but they’ll only say you’re from Beartown when you win. When you lose, they’ll say you come from the Hollow.” Lifa hasn’t played hockey for years now; he’s changed, become harder. He hangs out with his brother’s gang now, does deliveries on his moped carrying a backpack whose contents Amat doesn’t know anything about. They see even less of each other now.
Zacharias spends his nights at home playing computer games and sleeps all day. His parents are spending the summer with relatives, and Zacharias might as well be living in a different country because he lives his whole life online now. At the start of the summer Amat would stop at his apartment each day and asked if he wanted to join him for a run, but Zacharias just tried to lure him in to play games and eat toasted sandwiches, so Amat stopped going over to avoid the temptation of spending the summer doing nothing. Nothing leads to nothing, he knows that much.
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