Game: A Thriller (41 page)

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 around for a moment, almost as if they were saying good-bye, 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, jet-lagged, 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, goddamn 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 Mange 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 . . . poof, he was gone!

♦  ♦  ♦

Badboy.128 says:
Are you there Farook?

Farook says:
Salaam alaikum 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 savior . . .

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. Two new messages, one each to the tip-off email addresses of the evening tabloids.

Both from the address [email protected], and sent just a minute or so before.

He skimmed through the identical messages.

Dear evening paper,

About four weeks ago I found a cell phone on a commuter train. A shiny one in brushed steel, with a glass touch
screen. 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’a salama, 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 cell phone. A shiny one in brushed steel.

At one end a little red light was flashing.