The Game Trilogy (13 page)

‘Thank God!’

Both his body language and tone of voice told her he really meant it.

The question was: who was he most relieved for? She was pretty sure it wasn’t Kruse.

‘Okay, now we’ve got the pleasantries out of the way, maybe you’d like to explain to me what the hell happened yesterday? I called three different custody units for your sake and pretty much got laughed at each time.’

He looked down at once.

‘Nothing,’ he muttered.

‘Nothing?’ she repeated as sharply as she could.

‘Just a drunken prank, I’d had a few beers at Kvarnen and then had a smoke round at a friend’s. I saw it all on the news and heard it was you. When the others found out my sister was a cop they got me to call you and say I was the one who threw the stone and all that … They probably didn’t think I’d actually do it. And I shouldn’t have done.

‘Sorry!’ he added, looking up with a silly smile. ‘It was really stupid and immature, I know.’

He threw his arms out in a disarming gesture.

She didn’t answer, just looked at him for several seconds.

Henke had always been good at stretching the truth, making things up, telling white lies, or just lying through his teeth. First to their parents when they were little, mostly to Dad, of course:
No, Daddy, I’ve got no idea where you left your wallet.
Then to his teachers at school, and eventually to the rest of the world, with one exception. It wasn’t until after everything had happened and he had got out of prison that he started lying to her as well, which probably wasn’t that strange if you thought about it. Most of the time he was very good at it, so good that it usually took her a few days to work out that she’d fallen for one of his lies again. But not today.

Today there was something missing.

To start with, this lie lacked the right details and was far too easy to demolish with a few facts, such as the fact that the Security Police would never release her name to the media, so he couldn’t have known she was involved if he had seen anything about the crash on television. And she seriously doubted that a load of dope-heads would be sitting watching the news …

Oddly, his pathetic story only made her more annoyed. As if he were trying to blow her off and declare her an idiot at the same time. But then she realized that the details were of only secondary importance.

The main thing that was missing was his usual convincing smile and the glint in his eye that always made her believe him. His little brother look, she called it. Henke was nowhere near as self-confident as he usually was, she could see that clearly. That wasn’t just morning tiredness visible in his face. He also had a black-eye and a plaster over his nose that she had seen but not really picked up on until she started looking at him properly.

He’s been beaten up, her police instincts told her, but the big sister in her hoped that he’d just fallen down some stairs. But whatever the cause was, Henke looked worn out, shaken, almost as if he was seriously worried about something, which was unusual for him, to put it mildly. If she didn’t know better, she’d almost say he was … frightened?

‘Don’t lie to me, Henrik,’ she said calmly, trying to catch his wandering gaze.

‘What d’you mean, I’m not lying!’ He held up his hands and ran through his usual routine. But it wasn’t anywhere near as convincing as it usually was.

He could hear how unbelievable it all sounded. But what the fuck was he supposed to do? Tell the truth?

He’d broken rule number one once already, and twice in twenty-four hours would definitely not be a good idea.

Besides, what were the odds on her believing him?

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 towards 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 dope was he 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 realized 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!
Cold-hearted 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 Mum’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 round 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 round his head like they were in that huge tumble-dryer down in the laundry-room.

Slowly tumbling round and round.

The Game, the assignments, the list, the money, the business at Lindhagensplan, the pretend cops, his sister, then the drum 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 apes 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 bloody
good job of that … Christ, what a monumental fucking stitch-up he’d fallen for!

The really sick thing was that even though he understood that he’d been royally fucked up the arse, 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 he had been in the Twilight Zone corridor and he had almost pissed himself, part of him had still refused to accept that it was finished, that he’d fucked up big-time. Presumably that was why he hadn’t left the mobile there.

Because he still had it, didn’t he?

He had to get up and check.

Yes, the silver-coloured 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 non-person.

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 tumble-dryer 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 letterbox.

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 tumble-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 letterbox.

Either he was getting a lot of bills or else the new Ikea catalogue 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, 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 round the corner.

The shabby plastic mat that he had found himself lying on a few hours earlier was completely alight and the metre-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, dialling one-one-two is easy to do, just get out!

But he was paralysed by the flames that were growing bigger and bigger as they took hold of the parquet flooring.

Even if he realized 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 deep down he 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 mobile 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 7, one person trapped inside,’ he managed to say before the call was cut off.

He was about to redial, when the LED light started to flash.

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

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

Then he remembered where he was and tossed the mobile 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 litres 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 laboured, but he wasn’t about to give up now.