*
The juniors are picked up from the rink by their parents. They go home in silent cars to silent houses where the only lighting comes from an assortment of screens. Before dawn, Lyt goes over to Bobo’s. They don’t talk much, just share the feeling that they have to do something. Have to act. They walk through the town, picking up more juniors outside their homes. Like a black swarm they move between gardens, fists clenched under the dark sky, wild eyes staring out across empty streets. Hour after hour, until the sun goes up. They feel threatened, feel that they’re under attack. They want to shout out to each other what this team means to them—loyalty and love—and how much they love their team captain. But they don’t have the words, so they try to find other ways to show it instead. They walk side by side, like a menacing army. They would dearly like to rescue something. Damage something. Destroy. They’re on the hunt for an enemy, any will do.
*
Amat gets home and goes straight to bed. Fatima sits quietly in the other room. The next morning they take the bus to the rink. No one says a word there either. Amat puts his skates on, picks up his stick, and skates furiously across the ice, hurting himself by crashing into the boards at the other end. He doesn’t allow himself to cry until he’s sweating so much that no one can see.
*
In a house a mom and a dad are sitting at a kitchen table.
“I’m just saying . . . what if . . .?. . .?” the mother says.
“Do you believe that of our SON!? What sort of mother are you if you can seriously BELIEVE THAT OF OUR CHILD!” the father roars.
She shakes her head in despair, staring down at the floor. He’s right, of course. What sort of mother is she? She whispers, “Of course not,” of course she doesn’t believe that of their son. She tries to explain that everything’s just so mixed up, no one’s thinking rationally right now, we just need to try to get some sleep.
“I’m not going to sleep as long as Kevin’s being held by the police, you can be very fucking clear on that point!” the father declares.
She nods. She doesn’t know if she’s ever going to sleep again.
“I know, darling. I know.”
*
In another house, another mom and another dad are sitting at another kitchen table. Ten years ago they left Canada and moved to Beartown, because it was the safest, most secure place they could think of. Because they so desperately needed somewhere in the world where it felt as if nothing bad could happen.
They’re not talking now. They don’t say a word all night long. Each of them knows what the other is thinking anyway. “We can’t protect our children.”
*
We can’t protect our children we can’t protect our children we can’t protect our children.
35
Hate can be a deeply stimulating emotion. The world becomes much easier to understand and much less terrifying if you divide everything and everyone into friends and enemies, we and they, good and evil. The easiest way to unite a group isn’t through love, because love is hard. It makes demands. Hate is simple.
So the first thing that happens in a conflict is that we choose a side, because that’s easier than trying to hold two thoughts in our heads at the same time. The second thing that happens is that we seek out facts that confirm what we want to believe—comforting facts, ones that permit life to go on as normal. The third is that we dehumanize our enemy. There are many ways of doing that, but none is easier than taking her name away from her.
So when night comes and the truths spread, no one types “Maya” on their cell phone or computer in Beartown, they type “M.” Or “the young woman.” Or “the slut.” No one talks about “the rape,” they all talk about “the allegation.” Or “the lie.” It starts with “nothing happened,” moves on to “and if anything did happen, it was voluntary,” escalates to “and if it wasn’t voluntary, she only has herself to blame; what did she think was going to happen if she got drunk and went into his room with him?” It starts with “she wanted it” and ends with “she deserved it.”
It doesn’t take long to persuade each other to stop seeing a person as a person. And when enough people are quiet for long enough, a handful of voices can give the impression that everyone is screaming.
*
Maya does everything she has to do, everything everyone asks her to do. She answers all the questions from the police, goes for all the tests at the hospital, spends several hours travelling in the car to see a therapist who keeps wanting her to remember, over and over again, the things she just wants to forget. Wanting her to feel what she wants to suppress, cry when she wants to scream, talk when she wants to die. Ana calls her, but Maya’s switched off her phone. It’s full of anonymous text messages. People were so quick to decide what the truth was that they bought pay-as-you-go phones just to be able to tell her what she is without her knowing who they are.
She gets home and her jacket slips off onto the hall floor, as if she has shrunk out of it. She becomes smaller and smaller, her organs deserting her one by one. Lungs, kidneys, liver, heart. In the end there is only poison left.
*
Leo is sitting at his computer when he hears her stop in the doorway of his bedroom. She hasn’t been in here since they were little.
“What are you doing?” she asks, barely above a whisper.
“Playing a game,” Leo replies.
He’s disconnected his computer from the Internet. His phone is lying at the bottom of his backpack. His big sister is standing a couple of yards away with her arms clasped tight around her, looking at the bare walls where there were jerseys and posters hanging yesterday.
“Can I play?” she whispers.
He fetches an extra chair from the kitchen. They play without talking for hours.
*
Kira is at the office. Sitting in meeting after meeting with other lawyers. Fighting. Peter is at home cleaning every square inch of it, scrubbing the sink until he can feel the lactic acid, washing all the bedclothes and all the towels, washing every glass they have by hand.