Game: A Thriller
Page 12
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Whoever was ringing on his doorbell was a stubborn bastard. He’d tried pulling the pillow over his head, pretending he wasn’t home so the fucker would go away. But oh no. The idiot out there was worse that any Jehovah’s Witness. He or she was pressing the bell at painful, almost tortuous intervals, and had been doing so for at least ten minutes already. HP had had plenty of time to keep track.
First ten seconds of insistent ringing, rrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiinnnnnnnnggggggg!
Then ten seconds’ pause.
Then once more, rrrrrrriiiiiiiinnnnnnnngggggggg!
It was driving him mad. In the end he had no choice but to go and open up.
Red-faced and wearing just a pair of jogging pants that he fished up from a chair on the way, he angrily opened the door to give the bastard a piece of his mind. And a moment later, without him quite understanding what had happened, he was lying flat on his back on the hall rug.
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Anderberg had bought her new defensive tactic, hook, line, and sinker . . . There was nothing that worked better with shrinks than a bit of tragic childhood. The psychiatrist had been overjoyed at the unexpected turn the conversation had taken. He had praised her honesty, called her a strong person, and agreed to let her return to duty the following week. A few days of rest would suit her fine, it would give her time to get a few little things sorted out . . .
It took her almost ten minutes to get him out of bed. It had been enough to open the letter box slightly and listen to the sounds in the flat to know that he was at home. Even if the bedroom was at the far end of the flat, the distance wasn’t far enough for anyone to mistake the sound of snoring.
She’d used the tried-and-tested police tactic with the doorbell: ten seconds ringing, ten silence, then more ringing.
No one could put up with that for long.
She heard him come padding out into the hall and moved to the side to escape the peephole. As she had guessed, he was planning to throw the door open, and seeing as she was already holding the handle on the outside, it didn’t take much to let him start to open it, then give it a serious tug from her side and send him lurching into the stairwell. Then, while he was still shocked and trying to regain his balance, all she had to do was shove him gently in the chest to send him flying back onto the hall rug.
A quick stride in and she could pull the door closed behind her.
Basic police tactics, exercise 1A.
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“What the hell are you doing, Becca?” he whined when he had got to his feet and worked out who the intruder was.
“I could ask you the same thing,” she said curtly and gestured toward the kitchen.
“Have you got any coffee in the flat, or do you spend all your money on other plant products?”
She’d already picked up the sweet smell of hash from the flat through the letter box.
He didn’t answer, just walked out into the kitchen ahead of her and started rattling about in the sink.
“Will Nescafé do?” he muttered, waving a brown glass jar.
“Not really, but okay,” she replied, shoving a pile of old Metros off one of the kitchen chairs.
She saw that the flat was a complete mess. Clothes and all sorts of other stuff piled up all over the place. Old newspapers, full ashtrays, and dirty glasses practically everywhere she looked. The walls and ceiling were yellow and greasy with cigarette smoke, and the overflowing plastic washing-up bowl in the sink told her it was at least a week since any dishes had been done. This was actually a couple of degrees worse than Mom’s final days. It looked like a junkie’s squat, with the possible exception of the flat screen television and the computer she had glimpsed in the living room.
How the hell could he live in this sort of filth?
“So . . . how are you, sis?” he asked feebly and considerably less grouchily as he served them instant coffee in mismatched mugs a few minutes later.
“Depends what you mean,” she replied abruptly. “Life in general or my current state of health?”
“Er . . . you know.” He nodded toward the Band-Aids on her head. “After the crash, I mean.”
She sighed.
“Oh, I’m okay, thanks for asking. A bit of a headache, some minor bruising, and a few days off sick, but that’s pretty much it.”
“And your partner?”
Her eyes narrowed, but she couldn’t miss the embarrassed tone of his question. He certainly seemed concerned, almost for real.
“A bit better, actually, I called this morning and he’s making progress. Looks like he’s going to make it.”
“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 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 dopeheads 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 Band-Aid over his nose that she had seen but not really picked up on until she started looking at him properly.
He’d been beaten up, her police instincts told her, though 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 still just wasn’t anywhere near as convincing as it usually was.
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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 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.
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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.
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“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 . . .
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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.”
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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?
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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 tha
t 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