The Game Trilogy
Page 31
Rebecca knew that the detectives from the Security Police hadn’t got much further. It would be another few days before the diggers had cleared enough of the rubble from the crater for an investigation of the crime-scene to get going seriously, but the forensics team didn’t sound particularly optimistic.
The same uncertainty applied, in spite of the media’s unshakable confidence, to the identity of the perpetrator. A vague description of a Swedish man in his thirties was all they had to go on, and there were very few other leads.
No-one had thought to doubt her own half-true story. That she had seen 1710 earlier that evening and for some reason had thought something wasn’t quite right. And that she had called to check with Mulle and had been reassured by his explanation about it being in for repairs, but then reacted when she saw the van on the slip-road and sounded the alarm.
It had meant a personal meeting with the National Chief of Police, Runeberg and the Secret Service’s European boss. Handshakes, praise and gratitude, all the things she usually had trouble accepting. But this time it had proved surprisingly easy to handle the praise.
At work she was now met with respectful glances from her colleagues, even Dejan. It was an unfamiliar experience, but actually very pleasant.
She had proved to the world that she had what it took – but, far more importantly, she had proved it to herself.
That realization was what made the praise and the medal considerably easier to swallow.
She hadn’t said anything to Micke, not yet, anyway. But he seemed to have noticed anyhow.
‘You seem different somehow,’ he had said when they met up in the days after the incident. ‘I don’t know what it is, but I like it,’ he had added, giving her hand an extra squeeze.
And for a little while everything had felt good, as if it was all going to be all right and that she actually deserved to be happy.
But then she started thinking about Henke and she knew that happy endings weren’t meant for people like her.
No sign of life from Henke.
Until now. The package.
Even so, she had never really doubted that he was okay. People like Henke were always okay. Whoever had been driving that van, it wasn’t him, she was sure of that. Henke was a lot of things, but he was no terrorist.
The question now was whether or not she wanted to know what was in the parcel?
She let it sit there for a few minutes, then she couldn’t help taking a closer look. It was postmarked Frankfurt, and there was obviously no sender’s address. When she shook it she could hear a faint rattle.
She made a decision, took a deep breath, then tore the parcel open in a single movement, so hard that its contents spilled onto the kitchen floor with a metallic clatter.
For a few seconds she just stared down at the objects. Let her brain absorb what they were, and, more gradually, what they meant.
And once she had done that she fell to her knees, stretched out her hands and, with tears running down her cheeks, gathered them together and clutched them to her chest.
Six bolts.
Six rust-brown bolts that had once been attached to a balcony railing in a suburb south of Stockholm.
In spite of the years that had passed, you could still make out tool-marks on their heads. As if the person who had removed them hadn’t had quite the right tool, or had been forced to work at an uncomfortable angle.
It must have taken determination to get them out. A hell of a lot of determination, anger, maybe even burning hatred, before they came loose.
But for some reason she was still convinced that the power that had finally persuaded the concrete to let go was … love.
She sat on the black and white tiled floor for a long time, just crying.
Her tears were heart-wrenching, liberating and unhurried.
Then, quite suddenly, she stopped.
She got up slowly, opened the bin and carefully dropped the bolts in. Then she wiped her eyes, rinsed her face over the sink and went towards the bedroom. On the way she stopped in the hall, pulled the wire out of the answer machine and watched as the little red light slowly faded.
No more messages, she thought with a wry smile as she carried on into the bedroom.
In the middle of the desk lay a red pen and alongside it, right next to it so as to be close at hand, a block of white post-it notes with the police force logo on them.
The ink had gone through the paper and you could make out parts of the words that had been written on the sheets above.
Familiar handwriting, with round, almost childish lettering.
Deserve it, she could just make out, and she took that as a sign.
She picked them up and opened the bedroom window, filled her lungs with air and then threw them as far away as she could.
The pen disappeared into the darkness at once, but the notes came apart from each other, splitting up and turning into little white sails against the night sky. They swirled round for a moment, almost as if they were saying goodbye, then blew off in the wind.
Free.
That was exactly how he felt.
Free.
Even though there were loads of people around him, cars, exhaust fumes, and a cacophony of different sounds, he felt liberated. As if some unknown burden had been removed, lifted from his shoulders so he could suddenly stand up straight.
An absolutely incredible feeling!
He’d done it. He’d shown those bastards, once and for all.
Henrik HP Pettersson had saved them all. Not just Becca and all those cops or the American big cheese. Fuck, he’d basically managed to save the whole world and live to tell the tale.
Ditched the dark side, told the evil emperor to go fuck himself, and then blew the Death Star to pieces!
And even though his heroic efforts weren’t generally known and admired, it didn’t really matter at all. Comments and scores were completely unnecessary.
He knew who he was, and that was more than enough!
The Game Master had actually been right about one thing. His life would always be split into two parts. Before and After the Game.
If you don’t change, then what’s the point of anything happening to you?
Shit, he couldn’t have said it better himself!
Even though he was battered and bruised, jetlagged, and his hearing still hadn’t come back properly after the explosion, the change was pretty remarkable.
He was actually a totally new person!
A genuine, real life, god damn superhero, and the feeling was beyond words. And, just like all the proper superheroes, he was planning to hold on tight to his secret identity from now on. Bruce Wayne, Peter Parker, Clark Kent and Henrik HP Pettersson.
Not a bad posse!
Life was good.
Life was fucking bloody extraordinary!
He was planning to hang about here for another couple of days, basking in the afterglow, until he got his passport. Then a quick trip to Thailand in his new role as Nick Orton, Canadian backpacker. Lottery-winning Jesus would welcome him with open arms, they went way back. He could think about how to support himself later.
It still rankled that he hadn’t managed to get any money for himself like he’d hoped, but what the hell …
It would have been extra sweet not just to blow the Game to kingdom come, but to nick their money as well. He could have paid his sister back and given that poor cop who’d been half killed at Lindhagens a little something to ease the pain. But some things were just not meant to be …
He still had the laptop Manga had given him, but this was going to be its last mission. From now on he was going to be low-tech only. Keep his head below the radar and lie low for a few years. Then he’d see …
He turned off into a side-street and picked one of the ten or so different internet cafés along it at random. A few minutes later he was online.
A little farewell greeting and a couple of emails to the evening papers, then Henrik Pettersson would be a ghost-rider, a myth, a
spook, a story told by other people.
And with that … pouff, he was gone!
Badboy.128 says: Are you there Farouk?
Farouk says: Salaam-Aleikum brother HP all well?
Badboy.128 says: All good thanks, had to get out of Dodge for a while, as you can probably understand …
Farook says: Yes, got that. A little demolition party out in Kista, eh?
Badboy.128 says: Something like that!
Farook says: I knew it!!!! Shit, you really gave the bastards a kick in the balls!
Farook says: way 2 go! ;-) !!
Badboy.128 says: no comment! ;-)
Badboy.128 says: Just wanted to let you know everything’s okay, you won’t hear from me for a while. Planning to lie low and low-tech for a while with our mutual friend the saviour …
Farook says: Ok, understood. My lips are sealed! :-x
Badboy.128 says: Cheers!
Badboy.128 says: Thanks for all the help, man, you’re a true friend, a BFF!
Farook says: YW, de nada!
Badboy.128 says: No I really mean it!!! Big fucking thanks! Without you … All this, well, it’s made me look at things differently, somehow.
Badboy.128 says: That I have to get my shit together, yeah??? you really have helped me!
Farook says: I get you, good 4 U bro!
Badboy.128 says: Anyhow that’s it for me, g2g, take care, bfn!
Farook says: Take it easy, HP!
Badboy.128 says: U2 bro!
Farook says: btw one last thing
Badboy.128 says: Shoot, Mr Pathfinder!
Farook says: Saw Rehyman in mosque the other day.
Badboy.128: Shit, how’s my main man?
Farook says: Good, he gave me a message 4 U, made me write it down so I got it right.
Badboy.128 says: Okay …??
Farook says: Bit weird but he said you’d know what he meant.
Badboy.128 says: The tension’s killing me }:-s … what’s my man say?
Farook says: That the numbers you couldn’t remember were 397 461 212 035.
Farook says: U still there????
Farook says: HP??
Badboy.128 says: WTF :-0 :-0 !!
Farook says: Good thought I’d lost you. No idea what Rehyman meant, but you seem to get it … promised not to pry. There was one more thing he told me to say.
Badboy.128 says: ??
Farook says: That he’s telling you even though you didn’t ask!
The screen filled with bouncing smileys.
Farook shook his head before he bent forward and restarted the computer. A two-tone bleep from the machine alongside indicated that it had just received an email.
He changed places, woke up the dormant screen and opened the inbox. A whole bunch of new messages, one each to the tip-off email addresses of the evening tabloids, TV-stations and a number of blogs.
All from the address badboy.128@hotmail.com, and sent just a minute or so before.
He skimmed through the identical messages.
‘Dear evening paper/TV-station/blogger,
About four weeks ago I found a mobile phone on a commuter train. A shiny one in brushed steel, with a glass touchscreen. It dragged me into a chain of events that reached its climax in Torshamnsgatan a few days ago, and I’d like to share it with you now …’
Farook had set up HP’s laptop so that no matter what address he emailed, it would route all outgoing mail to one of his own anonymous email accounts. A smart insurance policy, as it turned out.
He highlighted both emails, then pressed shift, delete.
‘Are you sure you want to delete these messages?’ the computer asked.
He clicked Yes.
Then he closed the program, picked up his jacket and got ready to go home.
Betul would have dinner ready, and he knew better than to be late.
This evening they had something to celebrate. The path God had shown him had been far from straightforward. But now his penance was over and his debt finally repaid.
Ma’assalama, brother HP, you’ve definitely earned your Reward, he thought with a smile as he switched off the lights in the shop.
Just before he left the darkened premises, he picked up his mobile phone. A shiny one in brushed steel.
At one end a little red light was flashing.
Credits
Cover design: Greg Tabor
Author photo © Jörgen Ringstrand
Copyright
Game
Copyright © 2013 by Anders de la Motte.
Translation copyright © 2013 by Neil Smith.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
EPub Edition © NOVEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9781443417389
Published by HarperCollins Publishers Ltd, by agreement with the Salomonsson Agency.
FIRST CANADIAN EDITION
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.
HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication information is available upon request
ISBN 978-1-44341-736-5
RRD 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
BUZZ
Dedication
for Anette
Epigraph
My warmest thanks to all the Ants out there, without whose advice and achievements the Game could never have become a reality.
The Author
Table of Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
1: Neverlands
2: Flashback
3: Foreplay
4: Bad luck charm
5: Bad things
6: Double dealing
7: Boardgames
8: Redrum?
9: Fata Morgana
10: Hide and seek
11: Homecoming
12: Roleplay
13: Raising the stakes
14: Death by Powerpoint
15: Bee handlers
16: Whispers, rumours and reports
17: The hive
18: Oh what a tangled web we weave …
19: Buzzy bees
20: I now inform you that you are too far from reality
21: The PR of E
22: In for a penny
23: Trust is good
24: MUD
25: RAT
26: Ashes to ashes …
27: Three can play that game
28: Joe Blown
29: I’m out!
30: Homecoming
31: … control is better
32: Do not feed the Troll!
33: Mirage
34: Cut, clip and remove
35: The rabbit hole
36: Out of the hole and down the slope
37: Blamegames
38: Online games
39: Battle for control
40: Let the games begin
41: Capture the flag
42: Head to head
43: All Your Bases Belong To Us
44: The game is up
45: Call!
46: ORLY?
; 47: Aftermath
Credits
Copyright
Buzz [b^z]
To leave, to get away from your current situation
Something that creates excitement, hype or a thrill!
A rush or feeling of energy, excitement, stimulation or slight intoxication
The verb used when posting something (mainly on Google buzz)
To clip, to cut, to shave, to remove, to mow
A method of obtaining immediate attention
Being overly and unnecessarily aggressive
A continuous noise, as of bees; a confused murmur, as of a general conversation in low tone
A whisper; a rumour or report spread secretly or cautiously
Making a call
www.wiktionary.org
www.dictionary.com
www.urbandictionary.com
‘The speed of communication is wondrous to behold. It is also true that speed can multiply the distribution of information that we know to be untrue.’
Edward R. Morrow
‘Nothing travels faster than light, with the possible exception of bad news, which follows its own rules.’
Douglas Adams
From: Mail Delivery Service
To: Badboy.128@hotmail.com
Subject: Delivery Status Notification
Date: 26 July, 23:44
Failed; 6.2.12.12 (rerouted)
Original message
From: badboy.128@hotmail.com
To: undisclosed recipients
Subject: the Game
Date: 26 July, 23.43
Dear newsdesk/TV station/blog
About four weeks ago I found a mobile phone on the train. A nice, shiny one – brushed steel with a glass touch-screen. It pulled me into a chain of events that came to an end out in Torshamnsgatan a few days ago, and I’d like to tell you about it.
My name is Henrik Pettersson, HP to my friends, and I’m 31 years old. (I don’t really see what my age has got to do with anything, but you lot seem obsessed with how old people are, so there you go.)
By now the mention of Torshamnsgatan should have set a few alarm-bells ringing, seeing as that was where the bomb went off. The bomb that was actually intended for someone else entirely. (I’m not going to write their name, you know who I mean and you never know what sort of surveillance filter might pick up this email …)