Game: A Thriller (16 page)

I’ve been playing a reality game; they tested me and I lost. Sorry you got in the way, my bad!

As if!

It was fucking bad luck that he happened to hit her. Of all the cop cars in the city, he had to go and hit his sister’s. What were the odds of that?

Actually . . .

Shit, he was stupid! What a complete fucking moron for not realizing . . . ! Luck had nothing to do with it!

He flew up from his chair, grabbed her arm, and tried to drag her toward the door.

“You have to go!” he muttered firmly, while she pulled against him.

“Let go, Henke, what are you on about now?”

“Please!” he begged when he realized she was far too strong and he’d never manage to get her out by force.

“Please, Becca, you have to go. Right now!”

She shook free of his grasp quite easily. What the hell was he up to now? He suddenly seemed to have gone mad. How much was he actually smoking these days, unless he’d moved on to something heavier?

“Please, Becca, I’m begging you. You have to leave. I’m in a bit of trouble but it’ll get sorted, I promise. But if you don’t go . . . they’ve got people . . . You have to leave, right away!”

He could hear how frightened he sounded, but made no effort to do anything about it. He really was terrified. They’d used her to test him. Manipulated him into hurting his own sister, the only person that he . . . well . . . cared about.

And just for fun!

The more he thought about it, the more obvious it seemed. Yesterday everything had been far too hazy, but now he’d had time to sleep on it, he understood what it was all about. What he really was. A pawn in the Game, no more, no less. A fucking pawn!

And there he was, imagining he was some sort of superstar, when he was just one of the crowd. A pathetic little pawn that could easily be sacrificed so the Game could move on. And that was exactly what they had done. The footage of him spilling his guts to Bolin the pretend cop were probably already out there.

We got this idiot to almost kill his sister, then confess everything to the boys in blue!
Coldhearted bastards.

So what wouldn’t they be capable of if he carried on breaking the rules? If, in spite of the warning, he didn’t stick to rule number one?

“Please, Becca, please! You’ve got to go, right now!” he yelled.

♦  ♦  ♦

Okay, at least he was being honest now, she could see that. And he was utterly terrified, but the question was: Why? Who was he in trouble with? She opened her mouth to ask, but he got there before her.

♦  ♦  ♦

“You owe me, Becca,” he said, more composed now, suddenly staring straight at her.

“You know why,” he added, his heart sinking like a stone over the boundary he had crossed.

A few seconds later he heard the front door slam shut. For the first time in years he was close to . . .

♦  ♦  ♦

Tears! That’s what it felt like, as if she was close to tears. She hadn’t cried since Mom’s funeral.

Fucking bloody Henke!

Even back when it was all happening, she hadn’t shed a single tear, but now she could feel them burning behind her eyes and she blinked hard to compose herself. She wasn’t about to start crying now, that much was certain!

They had never properly talked through everything that happened out in Bagarmossen, the pair of them always tiptoeing around the subject, but now, out of nowhere, he had suddenly thrown it back in her face. Reminding her that her debt was in no way forgotten and that thirteen years was nowhere near long enough for things to have settled.

How could she have been stupid enough to think any different?

He was right, of course; it had been her fault but he had
taken the consequences. She was in his debt, and always would be.

Because she was a “
murdering little whore
.”

♦  ♦  ♦

Although it was ten o’clock, HP went back to bed and put his head between the pillows. He was tired, run-down, utterly exhausted, but he still couldn’t get back to sleep.

Thoughts were rolling around his head like they were in that huge dryer down in the laundry room.

Slowly tumbling around and around.

The Game, the assignments, the list, the money, the whole business at Lindhagensplan, the pretend cops, his sister; then the dryer completed its cycle and he was back where he had started.

The Game.

They’d tricked him, made him think he was someone, only to pull the rug from under him. Bolin and the gorillas were probably just hired actors who had been following a script. Or, even worse: other players who had been given the job of breaking him! And they’d done a damn good job of that . . . Christ, what a monumental fucking setup he’d fallen for!

The really sick thing was that even though he recognized that he’d been royally fucked up the ass, that he was the Game’s very own little prison bitch, he still couldn’t help toying with the thought . . .

What if it could all be put right? Say sorry, make amends, and reinstate number 128?

Get back in the Game.

Even when the lights had gone out up there in the office and he had almost pissed himself, part of him had still refused
to realize that it was finished, that he’d fucked up big-time. Presumably that was why he hadn’t left the cell there.

Because he still had it, didn’t he?

He had to get up and check.

Yes, the silver-colored little rectangle was still on the hall table where he had left it. The LED light was dark, which was only to be expected. He was now a nonperson.

Fredo-fucking-Corleone.

He hunted irritably through various jacket pockets and finally dug out a crumpled packet of Marlboros.

Sitting at the kitchen table he smoked three, one after the other, while the drying machine in his head carried on tumbling.

So what the hell was he going to do now?

♦  ♦  ♦

He was woken up by a clatter from the letter box.

What the hell was the time?

The clock radio on the bedside table said 15:36. He’d been asleep most of the day.

The dryer had finally slowed down enough for him to go back to bed and get a few more hours of much-needed sleep.

A rustling noise was still coming from the letter box.

Either he was getting a lot of bills or else the new Ikea catalog wouldn’t quite fit.

He rolled over and pulled the pillow over his head. The rustling went on for a few more seconds, then everything went silent.

He wondered about getting up, but couldn’t think of a good reason why he should. His head and arm were still aching after their treatment the day before, he had no money, and
seeing as the Game was over now, there was no reason at all for crawling out of bed.

What a wonderful life!

It was all pretty tragic really . . .

Then he noticed the smell. A faint but unmistakable smell of burning. Something’s boiled dry, he thought. Had he left the ring on when he boiled the water for the coffee? It wouldn’t be the first time.

Okay, mothafucker, you wanted a reason to get up, and now you’ve got one!

He rolled reluctantly out of bed, scratched his stubble and a couple of other strategic places before stumbling out to the kitchen. The stove was empty, and none of the rings was on.

He frowned.

The smell was getting stronger, so what the hell was burning?

A couple of moments later the synapses in his brain made the right connection and he dashed out into the hall.

Thick, acrid smoke hit him when he spun around the corner.

The shabby plastic mat that he had found himself lying on a few hours earlier was completely alight and the meter-high flames were already licking the walls and the inside of the front door. His eyes were stinging and he instinctively took a few steps back.

Get out!
his brain was screaming at him.

The flat’s on fire, for fuck’s sake, get out, dialing one-one-two is easy to do, just get out!

But he was paralyzed by the flames, which were growing bigger and bigger as they took hold of the parquet flooring.

Even if he recognized the danger, there was something
beautiful, almost enchanting, about it. The orange flames, the black smoke, and the crackling sound of fire catching hold of his possessions felt almost liberating.

As if he actually desired this destruction . . .

Suddenly there was the sound of banging on the door.

“Fire!” he heard someone shout from out on the landing. “Can you hear me? Your flat’s on fire, for God’s sake!”

The spell was broken instantly and his brain and body were once again in sync.

Get to safety, sound the alarm, put it out,
a childlike voice echoed through his head.

Okay, getting to safety was already buggered, there was nowhere to go if he didn’t feel like jumping out of a second-floor window onto the street.

Next!

Running through the flames was out of the question, and anyway, the door was locked and he’d be fried before he could get it open.

Next!

Sound the alarm?

Hopeless, seeing as he didn’t have a phone.

Unless . . .

He ran back into the kitchen, picked up the cell, and touched the screen.

It came to life at once.

“Emergency calls only,”
the display said.

“Ain’t that the truth?” he snarled through gritted teeth as he made the call.

“Emergency services, what’s the nature of the emergency?”

“My flat’s on fire, Maria Trappgränd seven, one person trapped inside,” he managed to say before the call was cut off.

He turned the phone around to redial, and saw that the LED light had started to flash.

With a trembling finger he touched the display and the screen came to life again.

Remember rule number one, HP!

The Game Master

He stared at the phone for a few seconds, as if he were having trouble taking in what was happening.

Then he suddenly tossed the cell aside, grabbed the washing-up bowl with both hands, and, with a couple of long strides, was back in the hall, where he emptied it in the direction of the fire.

Put it out, put it out, put it out
, the cheerful little voice in his head sang, and with a crash a week’s worth of well-soaked washing up and a few liters of dirty water landed on the hall floor.

The fire hissed and spat out a cloud of white smoke, but HP didn’t see that.

He was already back in the kitchen, desperately filling the empty bowl with more water.

Then emptying it, then again, and again, and now he could clearly see the fire getting smaller.

His eyes were stinging, his lungs were burning, and his breathing was getting more labored, but he wasn’t about to give up now.

When he was on his fifth bowlful the front door was wrenched open with a crash and a moment later a cloud of foam and white smoke overwhelmed him, making him put his hands over his face.

Coughing madly, he staggered back toward the kitchen and blinked away the tears enough to get a window open before collapsing on the floor. He was gasping desperately for breath, but his throat had shrunk to the size of a drinking straw.

Everything was starting to go black.

From down in the street there was the sound of sirens and people shouting orders.

Dialing one-one-two is easy to do,
the child’s voice inside his head chanted just before he lost consciousness.

♦  ♦  ♦

“You were lucky, Henrik,” the doctor said, unaware that she was echoing what her colleague in St. Göran’s had said the night before.

“You inhaled a bit of smoke, and you have a minor burn on your left hand, but that’s more or less it.”

He nodded mutely from the gurney. It was considerably easier to breathe now, presumably thanks to the oxygen mask.

“We’re going to rinse your eyes once more; you got covered in a fair bit of foam, but there’s no real danger. Your vision might be a bit fuzzy for a couple of days, but it’ll pass.”

He nodded again.

There was no point trying to talk with the mask on, and besides, what would he say?

“Well, then,” the doctor said as she got up. “If you haven’t got any questions, I need to get going. Even if you feel fine, keep the mask on until the nurse has rinsed your eyes. You need to breathe pure oxygen to drive out the carbon monoxide you’ve inhaled. Look after yourself, Henrik!”

He nodded a third time, in both confirmation and farewell.

Then he was finally alone.

The clothes dryer got going again, this time on an advanced setting. But before he had time to concentrate on it there was a knock on the door and two uniformed police officers stepped in. Perfect, just what he needed right now!

King of the Royal Mounted, Cling and Clang are here to ruin your day. Shit!

They turned out to be called Paulsson and Wöhl, and once he’d asked to see their badges and carefully examined them, even though they were in full uniform, they had a few questions for him.

Did he happen to have any enemies? No, Officer, he didn’t.

Could he think of any other reason why someone would want to pour paraffin through his letter box and set fire to his hall?

Yes, he could certainly think of a reason, but he had no intention of sharing it with a couple of flat-footed cops, or anyone else come to that. He didn’t need any more reminders of the rules, thanks very fucking much!

“No, Officer, I’m afraid not,” he replied instead with his head tilted to one side and his honest look on his face. Neither of them seemed to buy it, but what the hell!

Apart from what he had told them about the outbreak of the fire, was there anything else he could tell them that could be relevant to their investigation?

Same answer again, for the third time: No, not a thing!

The cops exchanged a knowing glance over their notepads, and after a few final pearls of wisdom they finally gave up.

“The case will be investigated by the Södermalm police.” Great, thanks very much!

He already knew what the result would be. Absolutely zilch.