The Game Trilogy (5 page)

He clicked on ‘Ready’.

The reply came at once.

At first he just stared uncomprehendingly at the screen, then after a couple of seconds the penny dropped.

Of course! A bit cheesy, maybe, but still pretty cool! Whoever it was who designed the assignments, at least they seemed to have a sense of humour …

Grinning, he started searching the bookcases, running his fingers along the books until he found the one he was looking for.
Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland
, the reference bible for all film-buffs. He pulled out the book and leafed through the pages. In his excitement when he made his discovery he almost dropped the white plastic card on the floor. ‘Floor 5, 18:55’ was written on it in ink, but otherwise the card was blank.

HP frowned. He knew the department store inside out, it was unbeatable for distracted tourists, or if you just wanted to kill a couple of hours people-watching. He was one hundred per cent sure there were only four floors. A quick glance at the Casio told him he had three minutes to solve the mystery.

The staircase was opposite the lifts, and once again he kept clear of the eye in the sky, just in case. Marble and brass, smart as anything. Trip trap, trip trap. ‘Clever billy goat Gruff, trip-trapping over the troll’s bridge …’ he giggled.

Yes, he was right. The fourth floor was the top one, at least for mere mortals.

The sign made that very clear. But behind a locked door the stairs carried on at least one more floor up.

He fumbled with the plastic card, pressed it against the card-reader beside the door and heard a bleep. But the door remained locked. Then he saw the little sticker.

‘Card + code’ it said, and his mood fell like a stone.

What fucking code?

After a couple of moments thought he tried tapping 1855 into the keypad, but it protested instantly with an angry double bleep. He glanced anxiously around but
everything was okay. The floor seemed completely deserted.

So what now?

He released the mobile from his belt, but the screen was blank. No help from the phone, then.

Unless … It had to be worth a try.

He pressed the card to the reader once more and tapped in the number 128, then added a zero after a moment’s hesitation.

A simple single bleep, then the lock clicked.

With his heart pounding he opened the door and carried on up to the fifth floor.

A metal door and another card-reader confronted him there.

A quick glance over his shoulder, a bleep from the reader and then he was in. His senses were on high alert, he could taste the adrenalin in his mouth. All that was missing were some dramatic strings, otherwise it was perfect!

A narrow corridor with a sloping ceiling, flickering lights and a series of more metal doors along one side. Much less stylish than on the floors below. So what happened next?

Just as he finished the thought the mobile started flashing again – almost as if it were reading his mind. Kind of spooky!

He pulled the mobile free from his belt and was about to read the message when a voice made him jump and he dropped the phone on the concrete floor.

Christ, it startled him! He must have been standing right under one of the loudspeakers. Almost time to change his underwear.

Muttering, he picked up the mobile and checked the message.

The white rabbit worked for the third time and suddenly he was standing in a bare concrete room full of humming boxes, cable runs and other equipment. There was a smell of electricity and warm metal.

There were loads of boxes, but as luck would have it there was only one black one. An old thing made of Bakelite that stuck out badly among all the other anonymous grey metal boxes. Two plastic-covered buttons on the front, one blue, one red.

He pressed Ready.

He clicked Yes.

The message vanished and was replaced by a countdown.

This was utterly fucking super-cool! Talk about his cup of tea! So which should he choose, the blue button or the red one?

Evidently they were both right, but it looked like only one of them would have any sort of real effect?

He could feel his heartbeat in his temples.

Play it safe or go all in?

Obviously there was only one answer.

Adventure without risk was fucking Disneyland! Time to find out exactly how deep this rabbit-hole really goes!

He pressed the red button.

The box clicked, then there was a faint rumble. The lights in the ceiling flickered.

HP held his breath.

When she had finished her report she took a stroll round the Crime Unit to see if any of her former colleagues were on duty. Her role in the personal protection unit was only a secondment, so she still had her basic post. But the corridor was empty, which wasn’t so surprising seeing as it was almost seven o’clock in the evening. The few poor bastards who weren’t off on holiday would at least have had the sense to finish work on time.

After her interview with Anderberg she had been driven home in a patrol car, leaving her bicycle down in the garage of the police station. The quickest way to reach it was through the lift in the custody section, so she took
the stairs down to ‘the beige kilometre’, as some bright spark had christened the long corridor.

Down there everything was in full swing, as usual on a Friday evening. All the holding cells were already full and a couple of tired detectives were dashing between the numerous rooms where various patrols were giving their reports. One particularly troublesome drunk, escorted by two sturdy uniformed officers, took up most of the available space in front of the duty-officer’s glass cubicle.

Friday nights, all the drinking and fighting, had doubtless been useful experience, but she didn’t exactly miss it …

One of the uniformed officers nodded in acknowledgement as she passed and she returned the greeting. On the way out to the lift she could hear his police-radio crackle into life:

Nothing happened. Not that he knew exactly what he’d been expecting, but still? Surely there should have been some sort of response. After the dramatic build-up, surely some flashing warning lights or wailing sirens was the least he could expect? People running along the corridor, maybe some angry banging on the door.

But this …? A whole load of nothing.

Disappointed, big time.

He waited another minute or so, then left the room dejectedly, slouching down the stairs, and it wasn’t until he crossed the street and made it as far as the trees in Kungsträdgården that he slowly began to get it.

‘… just stopped,’ someone was saying in surprise to another passerby, pointing up at the building that HP had just come out of.

‘Isn’t it usually lit up as well?’ he heard a couple of voices ask.

Then he saw people holding up their mobiles, and soon there was a mass of people taking pictures. He looked up in the same direction, high up above the copper roof, to see what had caught their interest, and instantly his disappointment was blown away and replaced by an entirely new, indescribable feeling that he had never come anywhere close to before.

His heart was doing backward double somersaults inside his chest. His feet almost left the ground and he felt his jeans tighten over his crotch.

This was so totally fucking brilliant! Talk about mission accomplished!

The huge, illuminated NK clock, which had rotated high above the city for fifty years almost without interruption, was dark and still.

The hands of the shadowy clock-face were pointing at seven o’clock precisely. And he understood the Game Master’s words: ‘the clock will stop on your old life’. A new age had just begun!

Sometimes, usually when she was dreaming, she could still see his face in front of her, the way it looked the very last time their eyes met. First the fury, then surprise, and finally the terror in his eyes when he realized what was happening – that he was about to die.

She always relived the moment as a film running in ever slower slow motion. The way he hung there almost weightless between heaven and earth, between life and death, while his arms moved slowly in circles, flailing, initially to regain his balance, then to grab at salvation. But for a short while physics seemed to have made an exception and allowed him to balance on the edge even though he ought to have fallen already. As if the law of gravity had suspended itself long enough for Rebecca to have time to see the terror and accusation in his eyes. She on the floor, just a metre or so from his feet, close enough to be able to reach, to stretch out a hand to rescue him.

Like so many times before the sequence of events slowed until at last everything was entirely still, almost like someone had pressed a pause button. And for a single intense moment it was actually there, for real, the chance for her
to reach out her hand and try to undo what had been done. Save him. If she wanted to.

But even though she tried to convince herself that she loved him, that she regretted it and certainly didn’t wish him any harm, it didn’t help. Because deep down inside her, in a place that reason couldn’t reach, either awake or dreaming, she still wanted – even though more than thirteen years had passed since that night – nothing more than for him to fall. That his face should be smashed beyond recognition, that his arms and legs be broken like match-sticks, and his hands, the soft hands that she had loved and feared more than anything else in the whole world, crushed to bloody fragments against the solid ground far below.

And at the moment when the hatred once again broke free inside her, someone pressed play and her wishes came true.

Often that was when she woke up, at the moment when he disappeared from sight, and she avoided having to hear the sound of his body hitting the ground five floors below.

But not always.

Not today.

The muffled, soft sound was still echoing in her ears as she gulped down a quick breakfast by the kitchen sink. It was almost drowned out by the sound of traffic as she cycled fast along Rålambsvägen, but was still echoing weakly at the back of her mind as she made the mountain bike jump the curb on Drottningholmsvägen, and still hadn’t vanished completely by the time she pulled up breathless beside the guard’s box by the cellar entrance at Fridhemsplan.

She stopped at the barrier, showed her police badge to the guard inside the box, who waved her past absent-mindedly, evidently more interested in the mobile phone he was fiddling with instead of concentrating on his job.

Yet another incompetent idiot, she thought angrily before she rolled down through the tunnel beneath the Kronoberg complex, its cool darkness effectively shutting off the outside world and all of its sounds.

‘Come on, put a bit of effort in, for God’s sake! This isn’t a housewives’ exercise-class!’

Sweat was pouring from the six bodyguards. Five men, one woman. Down on the floor, ten push-ups, quickly up on your feet again, ready, kick, punch, punch. Then down again. Twenty sit-ups and back up into position again. Ten reps in total, then switch with your partner. A firm grip round the waist, kick, punch, punch.

Her sparring partner was strong and his blows almost penetrated the padded shield in Rebecca’s arms.

Bang, bang, bang.

Three more, then change again.

The self-defence instructor was living up to his name today. Peter Pain hadn’t got his nickname simply because he was British.

The first training class for the rookies in the Alpha group. Evidently Vahtola had requested a serious session to challenge the newcomers to her group. Rebecca could see their boss watching them from the glass passageway above the self-defence room.

Approximately forty-five minutes had passed and the tempo had been relentless so far. Even though they were all in good shape, more than one of them was starting to flag.

‘Okay, stop, gather round.’

Peter Pain beckoned them all over. There was a collective sigh of relief and Rebecca noticed to her delight that several of her male colleagues had to rest their hands on their knees to catch their breath. She was tired, but not as tired as the biggest of the men.

‘That’s the advantage of having a bit less muscle, boys, it takes less oxygen to keep it going,’ she smirked silently before Pain’s new orders interrupted her.

‘Restraint and release, groups of three, two holding, one trying to get loose. Questions? Okay, get going, and I want to see some speed! Go, go, go!’

She ended up with two big blokes that she knew slightly already. Stefan and Dejan, the former a muscle-bound bloke about one metre ninety tall, the latter only a bit smaller.

‘I’ll start,’ Dejan said and gestured to Rebecca to grab him from behind while Stefan took up position to lock Dejan’s arms from the front.

‘Ungh …!’ Dejan twisted loose easily with some sort of advanced martial arts technique as he let out a loud roar.

‘Nice, Savic, but drop the Karate Kid bullshit!’ their instructor said from the side of the mat.

Rebecca glanced up at the glass passageway. Vahtola was still watching, and it looked like the head of the unit was focusing particularly on her trio.

‘Ungh!’ Dejan was free again, this time even more easily.

Shit, she’d lost her concentration and Pain wasn’t the sort to let it pass.

‘Get a grip, Normén! If you want to belong to the elite you need to step it up!’

The third attempt, and now she knew pretty much how his tactics worked. Dejan took a quick step to the side before twisting free, so what would happen if she kneed him at the back of his knee in the middle of the step?

The answer proved to be that he fell backwards into her arms, and that she and Stefan could easily spin him round and lay him out on the mat.

‘Good, Normén, that’s how it’s supposed to look!’ Pain
clapped his hands and Rebecca couldn’t help throwing a smug glance up at the glass passageway. Vahtola’s expression hadn’t changed.

‘Let’s switch!’ Dejan said tersely. He was red in the face and clearly not happy about being bundled over in front of their new boss.

‘I’ll take the back.’

Before Rebecca had time to react he’d taken up position behind her and got her in some sort of headlock. Both arms round her neck, his right arm over her throat locked onto the other arm, his left hand clasping the back of her neck.

It felt like she was in a vice.

She quickly tried to get at the arm across her throat, but Stefan, standing in front of her, caught her wrists and held her arms tight. She struggled and jerked, trying to get free, but Dejan evidently wasn’t about to let that happen.

It was payback time, and instead of loosening his grip to give her a chance, he tightened it. Her feet were almost off the ground.

‘Come on, Normén,’ he snarled in her ear. ‘Show us what you can do!’

Rebecca could feel her eyes starting to flutter. His grip was so tight that both her airway and blood-supply were being cut off. She tried to get free again, this time more frenetically, but Stefan was still holding her wrists tight, not appearing to notice that everything was on the point of spiralling out of control.

Her field of vision was shrinking and she could feel herself on the verge of panic. She was stuck, she couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move; she was immobile and in another person’s power, someone who wished her harm. Exposed. Helpless. And all of a sudden she was no longer in a gym
in Kronoberg but in a flat in one of the southern suburbs and the man holding her was no longer a colleague whose pride had been wounded.

‘I’m going to kill you, you little bitch,’ the man snarled in her ear, and she could tell from the tone of voice, the one that terrified her so, that he meant every word. This time she would die for sure!

The panic she usually kept such a firm grip on welled up and filled her head, pumping adrenalin into her fading muscles and taking command of her body. And suddenly she felt a new burst of life.

She let herself fall towards the floor like a sack, and when the grip on her neck relaxed a couple of millimetres she launched up with both feet and thrust backwards and upwards with such force that they all three almost toppled over.

Rebecca felt the back of her head hit something hard, felt something break, and when she kicked out in front to strike a different target, the force of the kick altered their centre of gravity and then they collapsed onto the mat.

For a moment everything went black, but her sight gradually came back.

She was sitting on the floor with her back against the flattened Dejan with his legs on either side of her. A few metres in front of her Stefan was curled up, clutching his stomach. In a flash she was up on her feet, turning towards Dejan who was still lying down. His hands were over his face, but to judge by the trickles running between his fingers, more than that was needed to stem the flow of blood.

‘What the fuck, you crazy or what, Normén?’ he squeaked as he stared at her, sounding simultaneously suspicious and accusing.

She didn’t quite know what to say.

‘I …’ she began uncertainly, but Peter Pain interrupted her.

‘Damn fine work, Normén, that’s the way to bring them down! Savic, you were asking for that so you’d better take yourself off to the nurse to get yourself patched up. Wikström, do you need to go too?’

Stefan waved his hands dismissively as he got heavily to his feet.

‘Just lost my breath, nice hit, Normén.’ He nodded towards her.

Rebecca blushed, feeling simultaneously guilty and pleased. Maybe Dejan’s nose was a bit unfortunate, but on the other hand he had been asking for it with his stupid macho posturing.

She’d done her job, managed to get free on her own. She hadn’t been some helpless victim.

Not like then.

Absolutely not like then!

She was different now, stronger, better, braver. A completely different person.

When she eventually dared to glance up at Vahtola, she saw a faint smile on the other woman’s face.

It wasn’t exactly a difficult instruction, but this time he had at least prepared himself better. In spite of the heat he had dug out an old army jacket that someone, he couldn’t remember who, had left in his flat after a party ages ago. The jacket had loads of pockets which he stuffed with various useful things, and it had straps on the front which would be perfect for holding the phone.

The clip of number twenty-seven had finally made him realize where the camera ought to be to get the best pictures. No more rubbish bouncing at waist-height like on the train or at NK, from now on nothing but head-shots.

The viewers, or fans as he was calling them more and more often, had been impressed with the NK stunt.

Even if he didn’t know who they were, he felt increasingly sure that they were his kind of people, solid guys that he’d be happy to share a chilled beer with if the opportunity arose.

He’d actually tried to find a way to get into the community. He’d tried to find an entrance portal where you could sign up as a member and then play, watch and maybe even chat to the fans. Find out a bit more about who they were and why they liked him in particular.

But he’d failed. The search terms he had used didn’t come up with any links that worked, so membership seemed to be by invitation only. Which was a bit crap, because seeing other players’ clips would have been fucking cool, not to mention the direct contact with the fans, but there wasn’t a lot he could do about it.

The Game was more impartial this way, he reluctantly accepted that.

After his second task he had strolled intentionally slowly along the quayside of Skeppsbron, walking backwards at least half the way so he could enjoy his handiwork as long as possible. By the time he got home to Maria Trappgränd the Game had already put up a professional montage. First his own shaky footage from the inside interspersed with external shots of the clock. Then a split screen with the countdown in the middle. His hand and the buttons on one side, the rotating clock on the other. Three, two, one, click, and time stopped above the centre of Stockholm.

Five hundred lovely points, a personal message of congratulation from the Game Master and a load of new comments, as well as clambering a few notches up the high score list.

To say it was cool didn’t even come close! He’d been forced to wank not once but twice before he could get to sleep.

Up out of the underground at St Eriksplan, into Tomtebogatan and then right at the corner. As he approached the address he could feel his pulse rate go up. He decided to cross over Birkagatan to be able to observe his target in peace and quiet from a doorway almost opposite, and to have a well-deserved fag.

There wasn’t anything odd about the address.

A perfectly ordinary residential building built sometime in the early twentieth century or so, at a guess. Four rows of windows plus the skylights on the roof gave five floors in total. From the look of it, the ground floor seemed to be mostly shops and offices, and presumably the top floor was some sort of luxurious loft apartment.

So what now?

He pulled the phone from the strap on the left shoulder where, after much deliberation, he had decided to attach it, and swept it across the building, zooming in on the front doorway, then out to give the big picture again. When he was finished he noticed the little red light start to flash.

was all it said, and HP frowned unhappily as a minute or so later he fished out a plastic bag that had been stuffed behind the grey telecom engineers’ box on the other side of the street.

Had he come all the way out to Birkastan to pick up a lousy package?

What sort of shit assignment was this?

But before he had time to look in the bag the light flashed again and when he had read through the third message of the evening he felt his heart starting to race with excitement again.