It had been such a wonderful evening. Just Vetle and Arne, Mum and Dad. Their relatives had all gone home. The apartment was still conventionally decorated, with a glittering tree, a Bethlehem star in the living room window, and elves, angels and candles everywhere. The family huddled around the little kitchen table and ate leftovers as their father teased their mother so mercilessly that Arne even blushed. Vetle himself just felt warm and happy and even managed to persuade everyone to play a board game, The Missing Diamond, once they were replete. In fact, Vetle was the one who found the sought-after cardboard disk, the one with the biggest diamond of all, before he won by flying straight to Cairo on the third night of the best Christmas he had ever experienced.

Bloody, shitty brother.

Vetle hadn’t seen him for ten minutes at least. Almost unnoticed, Arne had picked up speed as they approached the residential area and the car park where they would unfasten their skis and walk the last four hundred metres or so home to their apartment. Mum had promised that they would have cheese toasties with ham and Dole pineapple. Dad had said they would be allowed to watch a movie, Tante Pose, on TV. The film was ancient and boring, but Mum laughed so uproariously every time they watched it that even Arne would bring his supper with him and sit on the floor in front of the TV to watch.

Vetle’s feet were too cold for him to keep up when Arne increased his speed. He had tried, but had to fall back just where the ski run turned a bend that was long enough for Arne to have vanished completely when Vetle finally skied all the way around.

It must be at least seven o’clock by now. Maybe later. There were hardly any people on the ski trails and the cold had begun to eat its way from his tight ski boots up towards his calves and thighs. His mittens were damp with perspiration that eventually turned to ice. His fingers were tingling. He had started to totter, he noticed, and he was gasping for breath as he struggled to ski properly. The way Dad had taught him. The way Arne did. Swaying, swinging, with effective diagonal movements so rhythmic that it wasn’t even particularly strenuous. He wanted to ski like his hero, Ivar Formo, but he couldn’t manage to do it.

What’s more, he could hear something.