скачать книгу бесплатно
So how could he make it up to her?
Sadly there was no good answer to that question.
Becca was furious with him, and for good reason. He’d crossed the line the other day, seriously marched over it. But he hadn’t actually had any choice. She mustn’t get caught up in this, at least not any more than she already was.
But it already looked like it was too late. They must have been watching him somehow. And saw her visiting him and thought he was spilling the beans again. Somewhere a mobile phone had flashed and a player, maybe even some fucking rookie, had been given the task of teaching the grass a lesson, the same way he had done with the door over in Birkastan.
A little home delivery, à la Game Master.
According to the cops, his wasn’t the first call to the emergency services. Someone had rung a few minutes earlier, probably around the time that they started the fire, so they presumably didn’t want to kill him. Not this time, anyway.
Which led him back to his original question. What was he going to do now? Did they really expect him just to forget everything, keep his mouth shut and never think about the Game again? Could he do that even if he wanted to?
Apart from the business with the stone and his sister, he had been run over, beaten up, given the third degree, had the shit scared out of him and then his flat set fire to.
So in other words, he had plenty of reasons to be pissed off.
But the sickest thing in this whole mess was that in spite of everything they’d done to him, he was still dreaming about getting back in, being forgiven and allowed to carry on playing.
Step back out onto the track to the applause of the spectators.
He could see it was wrong, that it was completely insane, in fact, but he still couldn’t shake the thought.
What if he could get in touch with someone, the Game Master himself perhaps? Say he was sorry and maybe get another chance? The question was just how to go about it? There was no contact list, sadly, and he had a fair idea that he wouldn’t have any luck with the Yellow Pages or Google.
Okay, he still had the mobile phone, but that had been dead since the fire. The battery must be exhausted by now. But all those hours on the sofa had at least given him one idea. Every modern mobile was a sort of little computer. They had at least two different types of memory where it ought to be possible to dig out something useful, if you only knew what you were doing.
Luckily he had the right man for the job. Straight out of One Thousand and One Nights: his own reluctant host, the world’s most browbeaten husband, the artist formerly known as … Manga!
‘I know you’re keen to have a look at this, Mangalito,’ he said an hour or so later, tossing the mobile on the shop counter. ‘It’s all yours. All I need to know is who’s been sending me messages and how I can turn the tables and contact them.’
Manga looked at him lazily over a copy of that day’s Metro without moving a finger, but he couldn’t fool HP. HP could see the corner of one of his friend’s eyes literally start to twitch. And, just like when they were playing poker, all you had to do was sit it out.
Easy peasy!
‘On one condition,’ Manga said after a few seconds of trying to look uninterested.
‘Whatever …!’
As long as it doesn’t break rule number one, HP thought to himself.
Manga grinned.
‘That from now on you call me Farook!’
‘Deal!’ HP said in relief, before he realized what he’d agreed to.
Oh well, if it would make the towel-head happy …
It had been a nice meal. Very good food, and a decent atmosphere. Thai, but without being kitsch the way Asian restaurants often were. There had been no trace of ‘Love Me Tender’ in Thai, or concertina lanterns with selected words of Buddhist wisdom. No, it had all been really good, in fact.
They’d done just the right amount of talking, had kept quiet while they were eating, and he hadn’t even raised an eyebrow when she declined the wine, just as he hadn’t questioned her explanation of a minor traffic accident to cover her injuries. Afterwards they’d exchanged a quick kiss, then they had each gone back home on their own.
She realized that it was the first time that had happened.
So what did that mean? Were they on their way to a proper relationship?
Absolutely not, she decided, firmly interrupting that line of thinking.
They had simply had a nice meal, talked about all manner of things, nothing of any great significance. He had talked about his parents’ farm in Södermanland, and how he had moved to the city to study instead of taking over the farm, and how he had been trying to stay out of the way as best he could.
‘Guilty conscience,’ he had said with a wry smile. Not being able to live up to expectations.
She understood perfectly what he meant. She had listened with interest and occasionally made a comment, though without volunteering the same level of confidence herself. But he had worked that out fairly quickly and hadn’t pushed her in that direction at all.
He was actually a nice guy. Better than she deserved.
‘I’ll call you later in the week,’ he had said, and she hadn’t protested.
She realized that she was looking forward to him calling, in fact.
‘Like some story in a bloody women’s magazine,’ she snorted.
She wondered how Henke was getting on?
But, then again, why should she care?
HP was impressed. After a bit of fiddling about, Manga – no, Farook – had managed to open a compartment on the phone that HP had never even noticed, and had plugged a USB cable into the little socket hidden inside. Obviously he should have known that there had to be a way into it, but he’d been so absorbed by what was happening on the screen that he hadn’t given any thought to the basics, such as how you charged the thing when the battery was exhausted.
As soon as Manga plugged the cable into one of the computers at the back of the shop a little charging light went on, so evidently it would work with any USB power-source.
A bit of nifty typing, then a load of symbols started rolling on one of the computer screens.
HP was by no means a novice when it came to computers, but this was out of his league, no question. Manga was a wiz at computers and maybe he’d be able to find out something useful.
‘This is going to take a while,’ he muttered, and HP agreed without protest to run a few errands in the city. In a fit of generosity, he even brought paper cups of latte back to the shop so they wouldn’t have to drink the bitter brewed coffee from the hotplate.
But when he got back something had changed. Manga seemed to have been practically waiting for him just inside the door. He grabbed HP’s arm and dragged him into the shop, almost spilling the lattes.
‘What the fuck are you doing, calm down!’
But Manga wasn’t listening. Instead he shut the door, locked it and changed the sign to ‘Closed’.
Without a word he pulled HP over to the corner where the computer was.
The three screens were showing a series of film-clips.
HP unscrewing the wheel nuts of a Ferrari.
HP blowing up the Horse-Guards in Kungsträdgården.
HP dropping a stone over a railing at Lindhagensplan and then a car with flashing blue lights rolling over and over until it came to rest with smoke rising from the engine …
His stomach clenched tight.
‘What the fuck are you really up to?’ Manga hissed, giving him an accusing stare.
So much for rule number one, then …
His third transgression in twenty-four hours, this was seriously not good.
Fucking mega not good!
‘Can that thing hear us?’ he said anxiously, pointing at the mobile.
‘What? No, of course it can’t!’ Manga snarled. ‘What the fuck is this about, HP?’
HP gave the phone another quick glance and, just to be sure, pulled Manga with him into the little cubbyhole behind the counter. He licked his lips nervously while he tried to gather his thoughts.
Purely technically, he had only broken the rules once. He hadn’t actually blabbed to his sister, even if the Game seemed to think he had and had punished him accordingly. So really he’d been punished for something he hadn’t done, which meant they owed him one. Besides, he needed Manga, sorry, Farook. Without him he wouldn’t be able to contact the Game.
So you could say that everyone gained from the violation of the rules that he was contemplating. He hadn’t expected Manga to be able to get any pictures out of it. An IP-address, maybe a server host somewhere, that was all he needed to get going. But when it came to technology his old friend was far too smart for his own good. So how could he get Manga to go along with his plan?
‘Okay, it’s like this … Farook,’ he said, tasting the unfamiliar name cautiously.
He had to play this on Manga’s terms …
‘Like I told you, I found the mobile on the train from Märsta the other week, but what I didn’t tell you is that it invited me to play a game. A rather special game, actually …’
In retrospect she realized that she already knew it was going to be there. She’d had an uneasy feeling ever since she entered the changing room and when she opened her locker she realized why.
Another official white post-it note with red writing, neatly stuck to the edge of the shelf, just like the one before.
And just like the last one, she realized the note was right. It should have been her. It would have been fairer somehow if it was her body instead of Kruse’s that got smashed up in the car. An eye for an eye, you could almost say. Then she would have been able to move on at last. Put it all behind her. Maybe, anyway.
But it couldn’t go on like this.
First there were the notes, which were appearing more and more often, then Henke going crazy, and then Micke, who had suddenly broken their usual pattern without warning. She had to get a grip on things, regain control over her own life. She couldn’t put it off any longer, she had to do it now. And she had to start with Nilla.
HP had actually stuck to the truth. Almost, anyway. The only thing he left out was the small fact that his sister had been in the cop-car that he hit over at Lindhagens. But otherwise it had pretty much been nothing but the truth … Possibly with one or two minor exceptions. Manga would never buy the fact that he wanted to carry on playing. Which wasn’t so strange. He could hardly believe it himself, that he was even considering anything like that. And Manga was no longer the gambling type. Apart from the occasional World of Warcraft session, where he kept on going with his tired old Paladin character, nowadays he played it safe. Wife and child, flat in the suburbs and all that.
He’d forgotten the kick you got from gaming, the rush from the adrenalin coursing through your body, and, even more important: Manga had no idea what it was like to feel chosen, appreciated, and to get loads of cred from an entire fucking world!
So he ended up covering his motives with a little white lie …
He said he wanted to find out who was behind the Game, maybe give an anonymous tip-off to one of the evening papers, or Crimewatch or something like that? A bit of payback for all the shit he’d had to take. Manga bought it without question, and why not? It could very easily have been true.
He was able to dig out a server address more or less instantly, but after that things ground to a complete halt. HP got a bit down-hearted but Manga wasn’t the sort to give up just like that. From what they could work out, the server appeared to be in Sweden, and if it was, then that meant that somewhere in cyberspace there was someone who had sold, installed and configured it. The odds that such a person would be somewhere in Manga’s network of contacts were pretty good.
He’d put out a few tentative feelers and they’d have to wait to see if there was any response. That wasn’t quite the scenario HP had been hoping for. Patience and waiting were definitely not his bag, but on the other hand he didn’t really have much choice.
He’d just have to grin and bear it.
A GroupWise message was really all it took to get going. She soon found Nilla’s email address on the internal contact list, even though she had a different surname, but it had been thirteen years and she had almost counted on Nilla being married by now.
So what was the best way to put it?
It took Rebecca over an hour to compose the email, and in the end she realized that if she was ever going to send it, she would have to keep it short.
But when she moved the cursor to the send button, she suddenly felt hesitant. Her index finger was left hanging in the air above the mouse button. Was this really such a good idea?
What sort of answer was she expecting? Sure, I’d love to talk to you, Rebecca. Let’s meet for coffee and chat about old times. Maybe you could tell me what happened the night my brother was murdered?
She moved the mouse away. She’d have to leave it for another day when she’d had time to think it through more thoroughly. Thirteen years had passed already, so a few more days wouldn’t make any difference.
When the telephone rang HP sat up with a jerk. It took him a few seconds to work out where he was, and what the stupid tune resounding through the flat actually meant.
Manga, correction, Farook’s flat, with him on the sofa, the room still dark. He blinked a few times to see the clock on the television. Who the hell was calling the Al-Hassan residence at 02:10 at night?
The ringing stopped, they must have answered in the bedroom. Then the baby started to scream. A couple of minutes later a bleary-eyed Manga appeared in the living room, wearing one of those full-length white nightshirts that he seemed to wear all the time these days.
‘The burglar alarm has gone off in the shop, you can come with me into the city,’ he slurred as he buttoned his harem trousers.
‘The security company and the cops are already there, so it’s kind of urgent. Get your clothes on while I go to the toilet …’
HP crawled off the sofa and pulled on his jeans and trainers without protest.
Just before they set off, Betul the witch stuck her head out of the nursery and gave him the evil eye, but that wasn’t the reason HP felt an uneasy lump in his stomach.
‘Has this happened before?’ he asked with feigned nonchalance while Manga beat the crap out of his little Polo as they crossed the Liljeholmen Bridge.
‘A couple of times over the years,’ he muttered through his teeth as he swerved through a red light. ‘But not since we put bars on the windows and installed a camera inside. According to the security company the thieves didn’t get in, but apparently the cops want me there straightaway. Wonder why?’
HP kept quiet and clung on to the handle above the door. The lump in his stomach was growing exponentially.
Four minutes later Manga pulled up sharply outside the shop. The security firm’s car and two cop-cars were parked outside, and a bit further away stood a fire-engine.
To HP’s relief, the shop seemed to be undamaged.
‘Hello,’ one of the policemen said as they arrived. ‘Selini, Södermalm Police.’ He pulled a notepad from his trouser pocket and nodded to HP. ‘Are you the owner?’
‘No, I am, Farook Al-Hassan.’
The policeman gave Manga and his middle-eastern appearance a long look, but said nothing.
‘Okay, we’ll need a few personal details and so on in a bit, but I’d like to show you this first.’
He led them towards the entrance. The door of the shop was open and the cop explained that the security guards had opened it up, as well as the roller blind, to check for damage inside.
